Oh rose of my heart, what is this new threat? Where have you gone? She was overwhelmed by the distress she saw on that harrowed face. “Perhaps, with more time you will remember?” she suggested, wanting to see that happy disposition return. Nigella only nodded in mute agreement. Already she had slipped away to a private place, her hand pressed once more against the base of her neck.
* * *
Mal dropped Nigella at the unit and returned the car, just within the time limit and caught the bus. She found her curled up on top of the bed, but she swung her legs over when she came in, the lounging skirt falling open to reveal her favourite panda slippers on her feet.
“This has been a lovely weekend Mal. You’re very good to me.”
“Don’t get up Jellie, stay resting, I’ll stretch out too.” Side by side they let their bodies relax as they re-lived the busy last two days.
“Jellie …?” Mal had just had a thought.
“Mm…m …”
“How about I get your box from the crate in community storage and we have a proper look through for that letter?”
“What now?” She was not sure she felt up to going there, not after all this.
“Is there any point in putting it off? You might as well know what it’s all about, sooner than later, don’t you reckon?” She sat up and looked at her questioningly. “I know where Deszree keeps the key,” she added persuasively.
Nigella sat up too. “I guess … if you think …” she agreed reluctantly, but the shakes had set in, affecting her hands and making her legs unstable. This time Mal was on a mission and did not notice.
“Won’t be a tick. We can spread everything out on the bed in a good light.” She wanted to get to the bottom of this and was not one to wait. The box in question had been used by the hospital to store the patient’s belongings. Upon discharge, they would be re-packed in their own suitcase, but of course this had not happened, so Nigella still had her ‘hospital’ box. With the move, it had gone straight into storage with Mal’s stuff. All tenants had the right of use of these wire bins and the system worked well.
Their crate had the same number as the unit so it was at the far end. She found the box easily amongst all the other things – heavy-duty, brown cardboard. For closure, its lid was held down with red twine, bound around two paper buttons in a figure of eight. About the size of a square suitcase, it could not hold much.
She placed it down next to Nigella who reluctantly undid the string and slowly lifted the lid. Inside everything was packed in separate plastic bags. One by one she took them out, then proceeded to go back to examine each in turn. Basically, they consisted of the clothes she had been found in: her blouse and good walking serge skirt, the small-brimmed hat and its sprightly feather, the Russian cardigan, her button boots and woollen stockings. She took a moment, hesitating to go further. As she began sorting through, twisting each garment between trembling hands, her eyes filled with tears. Recognition washed over her, almost more than she could bear. The reality of her egocentric self was overwhelming and at the same time confronting, taking her to a scary place. Her mad plan – that daring escape in the night – that erratic drive with its disastrous consequences….
Mal had set a controlled expression on her face, but with the release of each article, her management slipped. She willed herself not to break down and for all that she wanted answers, she would not trample on the consuming emotions this unsettling process might be laying bare. It was too traumatic; harder than she could ever have imagined. No letter came to light. Nothing!
“Your coat isn’t here,” she observed suspiciously. “Where is it? You might have put it in the pocket.”
She took a deep breath in an effort to pull herself together. “I wasn’t wearing it in the Runabout,” she whispered: “You put our things behind the bench seat.”
Of course, only what we were wearing would have travelled with us.
“It was probably packed away in the portmanteau, unless there were pockets in your skirt?”
“No … o, no pocket in my skirt, but there is one in the cardigan.” Even to her eyes the jacket looked very old fashioned. She reached inside and felt around, hoping this would be it. No letter, but her fingers curled onto a hard object in a small plastic bag. By degrees, she brought it out and they stared in wonder at the contents: a delicate key on a fine, gold chain.
Mal lifted her eyes. “What is it for?”
Nigella’s gaze never left the key as she slowly explained: “It’s the key to the letter.”
This sounded too cryptic. Whatever is going on with her? Poor Jellie! “I don’t understand.” She shot her a look of concern. “You’re not making sense, Jellie.” Apprehension welled up on her tongue like a bitter taste. Has she finally tipped over the edge?
She turned to her with a sharp twist of her neck and held her with an inflexible stare. “It’s a long story. I won’t go into details, but … this key will unlock the safe where the letter lies.
Oh better! She is all right. Now I get it. “Fancy, all this time you’d forgotten you had it.” Nigella inclined her head, her face unreadable as gradually she withdrew the key and chain. “So where’s the safe?”
This time before answering, she slid the key back and forth along the chain through whitened fingers. In an unsteady voice she pronounced: “At Patchford House.” Now she directed her eyes full toward Mal, the hopelessness of the situation writ large on her troubled face.
Patchford House of course. “Bloody hell, out of reach.” Mal gave a shrug of frustration as her hands bunched to knots. This sucks! The girl’s concern was reflected twofold in her own eyes. “Oh screw this,” she cried out in thwarted impatience: “How can we ever get it back?”
“I guess it’s lost to us now,” she observed, discouraged. “There can be no way of finding such a small thing …” she said softly, “… as a letter.” Mal stretched out her hand for Nigella to take, but instead she collapsed into her arms. “I remember too much.” Sobs shook her body in slow, heaving spasms as a myriad of unexpected memories propelled the air from her lungs.
Mal held on tight. “Can you tell me?” she asked gently.”
Still trembling she articulated: “I can’t. No … I can’t, not ever.” Disgust was draining through her body leaving it feeling sick, as the turmoil from that day hit her once again even more forcefully. Lacking understanding, unworthiness still held her in its possession, the grip merciless.
“It’s all right Jellie. When the time is right, that’s OK.” She continued to give support with a close hold, as she had done so many times before; donating her strength to get her through. Nigella was too distraught to grasp the portent of the letter, but she knew it was significant, a form of telescopic lens to the past. However her mind could not stretch far enough; she had to let it go.
The working week was a busy one for Mal, but lurking in the back of her mind, no matter what the current problem, was the conundrum of the mystery letter. Could it still be in its original hiding place? She was in the know about the safe, hidden behind the picture. If the new owners had taken over everything, including the contents, they might have retained some of the original decor. A lot would depend on how extensive the remodelling had been.
Wednesday evening they were relaxing after dinner, only the two of them tonight. TV was on in the background. Mal hit the mute button, and caught Nigella’s attention.
“Jellie, I’ve given a lot of thought to your letter.”
“It’s no good. I’ve put it behind me.” She closed her eyes then looked at Mal. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s gone … literally, long gone.”
She held up her hand. “Not so fast Jellie, hear me out.” Her perceptive eyes scanned the sweet face, no longer full of innocence. She had not been herself since they had opened that box. Somehow its impact had been more far-reaching than either had ever expected. Her wandering attention snagged on a problematical thought: Has it turned out to be one of Pandora’s? Nigella had not referred to
it again, but she felt impelled to get it sorted. This letter obviously represented something momentous. Apart from its contents, it was a direct link with her mother, so important right now. Well at any time really, forever and ever … amen.
“Jellie, what do you say to our going back to the Park, on the weekend?” Nigella furrowed her brow and gave a slow, trembling exhalation, trying to control the feelings of dismay the suggestion had aroused.
“Mal, what are you saying?” she asked, her voice rising with incredulity as her mind brimmed over with some distinctly unpleasant possibilities. Knock on that big front door and ask permission to look around? Worse still … be shooed off at the point of a gun?
Mal responded with a watery smile: “It’d be all right. We’d wait ’til dark then see if we can slip in and find the safe.” She knew it was hair-brained, but she was sure it was do-able. Nigella forced down a wave of panic; to re-tread those corridors, to find Mama’s dressing-room? Opening up old memories like wounds too recently healed, the scar tissue still too fragile. Her spirits took an abrupt scroll back.
“No Mal, I can’t do it. I’m not that brave.” From the other perspective however, to contemplate disappointment was also hurtful. Everything was so muddling; she was in a twilight state of existence; the process of transfiguration not yet complete.
Mal could see she was asking a lot. Was it too much? But I can’t do it alone. I need her knowledge. She would be my guide. “We won’t go if you really feel you can’t, but if I go alone, searching will take me that much longer.” She fastened her hyacinth-blue eyes on her and with a cajoling voice continued: “I need your help Jellie. You know the house and the terrain like the back of your hand. It’s you who could get us in and out. You know what we’re looking for.”
She pictured the gravel walkway, the door to the basement solid and unyielding. She heard the cry in the night accusing, uncompromising; the pursuing foot-falls unrelenting. “No Mal, it’s too risky. What if we were discovered? I remember Papa saying he would have trespassers shot.” Her body chilled at the thought and her face paled, a look of horror filling her dark eyes. Inwardly Mal acknowledged her fear, but was of no doubt the venture should go forward; there must be a resolution to this. The only approach she could see was head-on. She leaned closer and stretched out a reassuring hand.
“Jellie, Jellie, it won’t be that bad. We know the place will be empty at night. It’s a business now not a residence. The only thing, we must be alert to their security. All we have to do is get inside and get upstairs. We won’t go anywhere near the manufacturing section.” She was filling the air with the excitement of suppressed energy, the effect refreshing and re-vitalising. Nigella did want this letter, more than anything and the possibility that it might still be there had to be explored. Hope sprang into her heart as the blood running through her veins, coursed with renewed vigour.
Mal was continuing: “We just have to find out if they use the upper levels for their private offices and pray they haven’t changed them.” Lifting her voice she declared, on a more positive note: “Executives like their quarters to look opulent, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility, they’ve retained some of the original furnishings.” She took Nigella’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “We can do this thing … we wait, we watch. When we’re sure it’s clear … we make our move … what do you think?” The earnest eyes sought confirmation. The soft hands squeezed back.
“I would like to do it … I’m not sure if I have the courage … to carry it off.” She turned a dark, beseeching gaze on Mal, the nagging fear still lingering.
“We’d be systematic. We’ll plan it out together. Make sure all our bases are covered.”
“What do you mean, ‘bases covered’?” her black, arched brows rose like wings about to take flight from her pallid face, her reservations not yet allayed.
“Oh sorry Pumpkin, it’s just an expression to say we’d be really, really careful.” She got up to get them a cold drink. “You know, I wouldn’t let any harm come to you, or me for that matter. We can take our time and plan it down to the last detail.” She returned with two cans and popping the tops explained as though there had been no interruption: “It will have to be late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. We know they don’t do any processing weekends, there were so few cars.”
Accepting the drink she laughed. “I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet,” but the flush to her rounded, ivory cheeks betrayed the excitement this prospect had awakened in her.
CHAPTER SIX
The night had arrived for what they thought of as their raid on the Park. There was a bright, gibbous moon, but the sky was dotted with scudding clouds. They had to hope they would come to their aid in time of need. At least it was not blowing a gale or worse, raining.
Two weeks had passed since the idea had first been mooted and now there were no more reasons to procrastinate. Last weekend Mal had gone on her own to survey the offices. She knew some of the staff worked Saturdays, but she had wanted to confirm that Sunday was everybody’s day off. It had been worth the trip just for this. She had also driven around to get the lie of the land again. Subsequent to that she had collected their kit for a ‘break-in’. She had made Jellie try it on, even down to the gloves and balaclava to avoid any last minute change of heart.
Jellie had spent her time in drawing up scaled floor plans and they had poured over them, highlighting their route to the bed chamber. She knew exactly how they should go. There was a secret way of escape too, should there be some unforeseen crisis. Will it still be as I remember? We’ve gotten this far … now it’s a case of ‘nothing ventured nothing gained’, as Kipling would say.
The hire car was packed with the necessary gear. Mal had tried to think of every eventuality, but the prospect of needing a return visit had been discussed. If things did not go their way, they would have to cut their losses and try again some other time. She had to hope Jellie would be able to hold her nerve. However, they had been over everything so many times, she really seemed quite self-possessed, but who knew what the actual confrontation might produce?
Not long now. Am I as prepared as I should be? Mal was pulling into the road that led to the main gates. She wanted to do one last ‘recce’ before launching their assault. She parked some distance away and told Jellie to stay put. All was quiet. No cars in the driveway, but they would still have to check the east wing. There was a flashing surveillance camera mounted on one of the tall side posts. Armed and ready, she thought. Slipping back to the car she reported her find then drove round to the lane that would take them to the grassy paddock they had to cross to reach the stable yard. By now the moon had risen high; clear of the clouds. Mal noticed how the surface of the Park’s ornamental pool was skimmed with opalescent ripples. With moonlight illustrious all over the place and stars scattering the heavens with silver dust, the night had become more appropriate for a lovers’ tryst than a ‘break and enter’.
They were wearing black and pulled on the last of their camouflage for the final offensive. Jellie would carry the flash-light; Mal was in charge of the grip with the gear. They got out and approached the perimeter, Jellie keeping the light trained low. At the chain-link fence they dropped to the ground and waited. When Mal was confident there were no personnel or dog patrols, they crept along its length to inspect for electrical wiring: so far, so good. “Which direction should we head in to get as close as possible?”
“This way,” she whispered back. They were not even inside and already her heart was pounding in her ears and her tongue felt dry in her mouth. I don’t think I’m ready for this.
They proceeded in the crouch position to the back of the stables. Here Jellie went first, scanning the ground. There was a wooden door buried in the earth which led to a passageway that would take them to the cellar. All she knew about this passage was that it had been constructed in historic times to provide a means of escape when the Roundheads threatened. As children they had loved bolting to it; hiding from Nanny or Mrs.
Aldred. She would tag along and Patchy was always their leader. Well, the wine is probably gone, but the cellar itself should be intact, she told herself bolstering her spirits. Otherwise all this will be for naught. She checked how far along they had come and then stopped. “It should be about here.” If her memory served her right the opening would be below this window.
“All right Jells, you keep a lookout while I set to.” Moonlight filtered through spasmodically, enough to work by, but not so bright to track them. Still, Jellie stood on awfully shaky legs. Mal extracted bolt cutters from the grip and proceeded to make a small hole at ground level. Once inside they approached the stable wall, then she took out a short-handled garden tool: flat bladed one side, a three-pronged fork on the other. She began tapping into the grassy earth damp from the night air and easy to penetrate, moving in sweeping arcs. “Jells, I think this is it,” she hissed. She returned from her surveillance post and checked the stable landmark again. “Yes, this looks right.”
Til Morning Comes Page 40
