A Place to Lie

by Rebecca Griffiths

  How did he find out, Joanna wonders, did he read it in the papers too? ‘Is Gordon here?’ is all she asks, spinning to look for him.

  ‘No. He couldn’t make it. He sends his condolences.’

  Joanna dips her head, thinks again how little Mrs Hooper has aged; aside from her snow-white hair she’s exactly the same.

  ‘He sent flowers.’

  ‘Yes, it was a big surprise to see them. Please thank him for us.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d love to see you,’ Mrs Hooper says. ‘He’s quite the devoted fan. You won’t know it, Jo, but he’s been following your career from the off. Buys all your CDs.’

  ‘That’s so sweet.’ Joanna blushes without knowing why. ‘How is he, is he still in Italy?’

  ‘Oh, no. He retired. Couple of years ago. He lives in London now. Not that it means I get to see him any more frequently.’

  ‘Has he got a family, kids?’ Mike asks.

  ‘No, dear. There was someone special once. A lifetime ago. But she was already married. I’m not entirely sure he ever got over her,’ Mrs Hooper says forlornly. Then, eyes brightening, an idea forming, ‘Why don’t you bring your boys to Witchwood? Gordon might actually come and visit me if he knew you were going to be there. You could stay at Pillowell – it’s yours now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Joanna shifts her gaze to her husband.

  ‘Yeah, the cottage must be in a hell of a state by now.’ Mike, keen to put obstacles in the way, is fully aware of his wife’s reluctance to return to Witchwood, and the nightmares she still suffers from because of what she experienced there. ‘Jo said it was a bit of a wreck back then and I doubt Carrie’s bothered with it.’

  ‘No, I don’t think she did. Dora was silly; it would have made much more sense for her to leave the cottage to you two after Carrie’d been given the London flat. Anyway, don’t let that put you off, I don’t think it’s too bad. Tilly Petley keeps an eye, puts the heating on, that sort of thing, and Frank does the garden, any urgent maintenance – Dora fixed it up with them years back. They’re still being paid out of her estate so far as I know, along with any utility bills. You remember the Petleys, Jo? They ran the shop. Still do.’ Joanna nods that she does. ‘With a bit of love, Pillowell would make a wonderful retreat. To be honest, it’s all Witchwood is these days – holiday homes for those rich enough. Place is dead come winter. The heart’s been sucked right out of it. Although –’ Mrs Hooper stares off into the middle distance – ‘we all know any heart that village had was snuffed out the summer you and Carrie came to stay with Dora.’

  They fall into a reflective silence, their contemplations oscillating through the surprising birdsong.

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’ Mike, touching Joanna’s hand, is the first to speak. ‘I didn’t realise how late it was.’ He consults his wristwatch. ‘I’d better get back to work, we’ve got the Geneva lot coming in this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, yes, your presentation. You get off,’ Joanna assures him. ‘Good luck with it all. I’ll see you at home later.’

  ‘Lovely to see you, I hope we can get together again soon.’ With another kiss for Mrs Hooper and a quick embrace with his wife, Mike strides away.

  ‘You’ve got a good man there.’

  ‘I have.’ Joanna smiles. ‘He’s a darling, and such a great father. I’m really very lucky.’

  ‘It was a lovely service, you know,’ Mrs Hooper says automatically.

  ‘You think? Dire organist.’

  Mrs Hooper agrees and they titter into their necks like a pair of schoolgirls, forgetting for a moment why they are here, who it is they are missing.

  ‘Shame you couldn’t have played?’ Joanna says.

  ‘Me? Oh no, dear. With these?’ Mrs Hooper splays her hands to show the nobbled knuckles of arthritis. ‘It’s only for my own entertainment nowadays.’

  ‘A shocking thing.’ A pink-faced man in a button-popping cardigan of black and white diamonds zooms into their conversation. ‘You have my deepest condolences.’

  ‘Oh.’ Joanna flings her head to him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hi. I’m Jeffrey … Jeffrey Morris.’ The man dressed as Punchinello extends a hand. ‘I worked with Miss Jameson … Caroline … at the Animal Rescue Centre. Your sister was one of our volunteers.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Joanna shakes the slightly damp palm. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’ve been following the story in the papers.’ Punchinello looks at her through lowered lids. ‘I heard they arrested the man that did it.’

  ‘And promptly released him again,’ Joanna explains tersely, her civility wearing ghost-thin. ‘The shop had CCTV and there were witnesses – the guy did nothing wrong.’

  ‘Nothing wrong ?’ Jeffrey pulls a preposterous spotted handkerchief from his pocket. ‘But he killed her.’

  ‘No. Really. That’s not what happened … not what happened at all. The poor guy was just defending himself. It was Carrie who attacked him, and in doing so she somehow stabbed herself.’ Joanna turns away to hide her tears.

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Punchinello, embarrassed, buries his nose in his handkerchief. ‘I’m ever so sorry, it really is a terrible thing, but please,’ he adds, before shuffling away, ‘do come and see us. We’re just off Birdcage Walk, St James’s. Your sister was a hugely valued member of the team, and … and, of course, there’s things she left in her locker you might like to have.’

  ‘There, there.’ Mrs Hooper rubs Joanna’s arm when Jeffrey Morris ambles away.

  ‘What the hell was she doing carrying a knife?’ Joanna sobs. ‘None of it makes sense and the police haven’t got any answers. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this.’ Her expression determined. ‘Mike’s not keen but I’m going to Bayswater next week to sort out the flat – thought I could do some digging around then.’

  ‘Digging around ,’ Mrs Hooper echoes. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Because I want to find out what was going on,’ Joanna tells her. ‘Carrie was obviously frightened of something … someone . Why else would she have armed herself?’

  ‘Promise me you’ll be careful,’ Mrs Hooper warns, passing Joanna another Kleenex.

  ‘You’re as bad as Mike.’ Joanna blows her nose.

  ‘I’m serious, Jo.’ And Mrs Hooper looks it. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. You’ve no idea what Carrie was mixed up in.’ She puts an arm around Joanna’s middle to stop her teeth from chattering. ‘Fancy getting a cup of tea somewhere? Get warmed up?’

  Joanna, at the end of her reserves, sways her response.

  ‘Come on, then, I know a nice little place just a short taxi ride away.’

  Summer 1990

  At the Boar’s Head, it was Caroline’s job to empty ashtrays, clear glasses and wipe tables. Irrespective of her rather odd appearance: the penetrating stare, the slight adolescent frame bulked out in bewildering layers despite the unrelenting heatwave, Liz and Ian Fry liked having her around. Kicked off by a suggestion of Dean’s, it wasn’t long before she was trusted to serve ploughman’s lunches and butterfly-chicken to the hot-faced cyclists and hikers who followed the six-mile footpath from Slinghill.

  It was lunchtime and the bar was heaving. Another fine day had attracted a steady stream of people. Thrilled to have yet another opportunity to spend time with Dean, Caroline stood at the bar to watch him. Pink from the shower, his damp curls stamped to the back of his neck, he reached for a shot of Jack Daniel’s from the bank of optics and inadvertently furnished her with a glimpse of his toned midriff. Dora said she shouldn’t be working here, that it was an unsuitable environment for a budding young woman, but Caroline knew her great-aunt wouldn’t object too loudly about the drink-sticky floor and tables ringed from years of glasses because with Joanna learning the piano at Mrs Hooper’s and Caroline here, Dora was free to please herself.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ Dean, stretching up for a second shot, gave Caroline a wink that made her insides cartwheel. ‘You wanna cut a fringe
in that hair of yours. Trust me, it would really suit you.’

  His unexpected interest in her appearance was nearly enough for Caroline to drop the pile of plates she was carrying.

  ‘Whoa.’ Dean gulped back his drink. ‘You can’t manage all them.’ And darting forward, he helped to transfer the dirty crockery into the kitchen.

  ‘I like that song on the jukebox,’ she said, loading the dishwasher the way Ian showed her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘“Hey You”. Pink Floyd.’ Dean passed her a fork she’d missed and smiled; handsome and casual, he ran a suntanned hand over his head. ‘Want me to put it on again?’

  Nodding vigorously enough to make her Alice band shift, she saw him lean into the bar to feed coins into the jukebox.

  ‘Me dad’s saw ’em live at Earl’s Court.’ His voice competing with Dave Gilmour’s guitar and a melody she was coming to know. ‘Bloody awesome.’

  A holler went up from a ring of drinkers. Dean, on to it, dried his hands on the seat of his Levi’s and swung into action.

  ‘Right, you’ve asked for it, Danny Matthews.’ Caroline heard his call before the kitchen door swung shut.

  Reluctant to miss any action she quickly switched on the dishwasher, but something by the sink caught her eye. A gold ring with a bold blue stone that had been left behind in the soap dish. She picked it up. Decided to take it. And with a sharp look over her shoulder, slipped it into the pocket of her dungarees before heading back into the bar.

  ‘Watch this.’ Dean winked again as he retrieved something from beneath the till. Pointing the lens and pressing the button, there was a whirring sound and the machine spat out a small square of shiny black card. ‘Magic.’ Dean projected the word above the music and the roar of protest from the table of rabble-rousers. And it was, because right before her eyes, it revealed the scene she’d just witnessed.

  A boisterous punter took a swing at Dean, but a little worse for wear, he fell forward on all fours. Ian leapt from behind the bar like a WWF wrestler and picked the bloke up by the scruff of the neck. ‘Any more of that,’ he shook him, pushed him down on a chair, ‘and you’re barred.’ Then stepping back, he crossed his muscled arms to watch his son snap out Polaroids. ‘Acting the goat, you know the rules,’ he informed the room. ‘And they’re Liz’s rules ,’ he stressed. ‘Any rowdy behaviour and we take a picture, and you’re on the Wall of Shame. For eternity.’

  ‘There you go.’ Dean returned the camera to its home on a fresh stash of tea towels and handed Caroline a pile of Polaroids. ‘Find room for them with that lot.’ He jabbed a thumb at a wall plastered with photographs of drinkers captured mid-slurp, mid-stagger, many of them faded to a strange sunset pink at their edges.

  ‘Is that Drake’s Pike?’ Caroline pointed to ones of Witchwood in the snow.

  ‘Yeah. The winter before we came.’ Dean was close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. To see the unusual flecks of green in his hazel eyes. ‘Awesome to think that, ain’t it? Snowed in for weeks, apparently. The lake was frozen solid, people was skating on it.’

  ‘Lethal. A youngster from Cinderglade skidded under the ice. They never found him.’ Ian dropped the chilling nugget into their conversation.

  ‘Oi, take that damn thing down,’ a red-faced drinker shouted.

  ‘No way.’ Ian rubbed his broad hands together. ‘These are for posterity. You shouldn’t piss about if you don’t want your picture up here.’

  ‘Yeah, Danny,’ Dean joined in. ‘It’s about time you lot learnt to behave.’

  ‘Have you finished with this one for the day, Liz?’ Ian asked his wife when the door at the side of the bar opened.

  ‘I have – Carrie’s worked hard, haven’t you, love?’ Liz hugged Caroline. ‘You paid her?’ She looked at Ian, who gave the thumbs up. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ve got something else for you.’ And she reached into the kitchen. ‘Here,’ she said, and passed her a carton of hen’s eggs. ‘Get that auntie of yours to cook them up for breakfast.’

  ‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘Dora’s got enough – I’m going to give these to Mrs Hooper. She hasn’t got anything.’

  Liz stole a sidelong glance at her husband, smiled her big, warm smile that made the corners of her eyes crease up. ‘What a sensitive young lady you are,’ she congratulated her. ‘That’s a lovely thing to do.’

  Present Day

  ‘Look, forget the tea – why don’t we go and get a bite to eat, have a drink?’ Mrs Hooper suggests on their walk to the taxi rank. ‘You say your train isn’t for an hour or so, and my sister’s not expecting me anytime soon.’

  Joanna barely responds.

  ‘It’ll give us the chance for a proper catch up, what d’you say?’

  The interior of the taxicab they choose smells of pear drops, and the driver’s seat has great chunks ripped out of its lining. Must be his stress toy, Joanna thinks, watching Mrs Hooper lean forward to ask if they can be dropped outside Manor Park station.

  ‘Here all right for you, love?’ The cabbie draws back his security screen a fraction, and Mrs Hooper confirms it is before handing him a twenty-pound note and waiting for the change.

  Despite the overall drabness of this part of town, Joanna notices there are a surprising number of smart-looking bars and bistros.

  ‘That place looks nice. Fancy giving it a try?’ Mrs Hooper waves her stick at a pub on the other side of the road.

  They opt for a table in the bay window, although, looking around, they have the choice of any; the place is virtually empty. And after the rigmarole of removing coats, gloves and scarves, they sit staring out on the December street prettified with fairy lights.

  ‘I used to come in here with my husband. He worked nearby when we were first married.’ Lillian Hooper makes a quick scan of the laminated menu wedged between the cruet. ‘Course, it’s rather smarter nowadays.’ She smiles. ‘Back then it was what you’d call a real London boozer – bit like my Derek,’ she volunteers, once the jaded-looking waitress has taken their order. ‘We were happy once.’ She twists the thin gold wedding ring, loose behind the knuckle, rhythmically, hypnotically; as if to summon the ghost of him to her. ‘Before Ursula died and Derek sent Gordon away to that horrible school … and we came to Witchwood. Because if Derek had been better with money we’d never have needed to move there.’

  ‘I thought you liked Witchwood,’ Joanna queries.

  ‘No, not really.’ A wry smile. ‘The glories of the great outdoors are wasted on me, I prefer the noise and bustle of city streets.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Why would you? The place must have been like an adventure playground to you little ones,’ Mrs Hooper says kindly. ‘But what I’m trying to say, in my roundabout way, is that I know all about loss.’

  Anchored to the spot by the weight of her words, they watch a scattering of pigeons drop down on the rooftops opposite.

  ‘You’ve had a rotten time of things.’ Joanna fiddles with the lid of the vinegar bottle. ‘It’s why you’re so easy to talk to.’

  ‘Well, talk then,’ Mrs Hooper urges.

  Joanna sips the wine that’s been poured for her. Watches shoppers dip in and out of the smattering of shops, their windows decorated with fake snow and glitter to tempt Christmas. ‘I’m feeling really guilty about Carrie,’ she says eventually. ‘We never made it up after that awful row at Dora’s funeral. I said some horrible things.’ She wipes away fresh tears with a tissue. ‘But Carrie was so difficult, so immovable – always pushing me away.’

  ‘She was jealous of you,’ Mrs Hooper says matter-of-factly. ‘It wasn’t necessarily her fault, but it wasn’t yours either.’

  ‘Funny.’ A weak smile. ‘That’s what I accused her of the last time we spoke. But I should have gone to see her … it’s … too late now.’

  As Joanna talks, her memories of the past and all that’s been lost dissolve with each mouthful of Merlot.

  ‘Carrie predicted this, you know,’ she continues.
‘As a teenager, she was convinced she was going to die a violent death. Horrible, isn’t it? Why would you think such a thing, let alone say it?’ Joanna, serious, fixes Mrs Hooper with the flat of her eye. ‘All I could think sitting at the front of that crematorium was: is this all her life amounted to? Next to no friends, no partner – apart from that Jeffrey bloke, the few that bothered to come didn’t seem to even know her.’

  ‘Rubberneckers,’ Mrs Hooper says bluntly. ‘Your sister’s probably become a bit of a celebrity in death.’

  ‘D’you think? What a farce that is. What d’you reckon she’d have made of it?’

  ‘She’d have probably laughed; Carrie had quite a sense of humour when it suited her.’

  ‘Did she?’ Joanna struggles to conjure a time when this lighter side of her sister’s character was shown to her. ‘I suppose we had some fun when we were kids,’ she concedes. ‘The two of us were great friends once.’

  ‘I know you were – try to hold on to that,’ Mrs Hooper says.

  ‘It was after that summer in Witchwood when everything started to go wrong between us. Uch , it’s such a waste. All this … ’ Joanna flings out an arm. ‘I let it happen. Too wrapped up in my own family, my career – I’ve been so selfish.’

  ‘You didn’t let it happen, you said yourself she pushed you away. Jo,’ Mrs Hooper reasons. ‘Carrie was pretty challenging, even as a child.’

  ‘I know, but she was still my sister. I should’ve made allowances for her.’

  ‘You can’t keep blaming yourself,’ Mrs Hooper soothes. ‘You’ve got to let it go.’

  ‘That’s what Mike tells me.’ Joanna squashes her tissue into a ball. ‘Hang on … you said you wanted to see a photo of the boys … I’ve got a … in here somewhere,’ her voice disappearing into the caverns of her bag. ‘Yes. Here we go. Us holidaying in Spain last summer.’ She retrieves her purse, tugs out a photograph of her sons. ‘Sorry it’s a bit dog-eared,’ she apologises, handing it over. ‘Mike was ever so kind to Carrie, you know? He really tried in the early years.’ She talks while Mrs Hooper stares into the faces of the children she has yet to meet. Freddie, as Joanna points out, was only two at Dora’s funeral, and Ethan had yet to be born.