by Ruth Hogan
The ladybird opened her wings.
“It’s not truth.” The girl spoke slowly as though she were reciting a poem that she was struggling to remember. “It’s only a made-up singsong.”
The ladybird flew off anyway. It was hot; September. The girl sat swinging her legs on the wooden bench that faced Padua from the small green. She had watched as the shiny black cars had arrived outside the house. The first one had big windows in the side and she could see a box for dead people inside with flowers growing out of its lid. A sad lady and an old man but not the man who lived there came out of the house. The girl didn’t know who the old man was, but she had seen the lady lots of times before she was sad. The man in the black chimney-pot hat put them in the second car. Then he went to the front of the car with the box in and started walking. He had a stick, but not a limp. But he was walking slowly, so perhaps he had a bad leg after all. She wondered who was in the box. Thinking was something she did slowly. She was quicker at feeling. She could feel happy or sad, or angry or excited in a wrinkling of the eye. And she could feel other things too, which were more difficult to explain. But thinking took longer. Thoughts had to be put in the right order in your head and looked at properly so that your brain could do the thinking. Eventually she decided that it must be the man who lived in the house who was in the box, and she was sad. He had always been nice to her. And not everyone was. After a long time (she had a nice watch, but she hadn’t quite worked out the time please Mr. Wolf yet) the sad lady came back on her own. The girl scratched the back of her hand where the ladybird’s feet had tickled. Now that the man was dead, the lady would need a new friend.
Laura closed the front door behind her and slipped out of her black court shoes. The cold tiles of the hall floor kissed her aching feet, and once again, the peace of the house enveloped her. She padded through to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine from the fridge. Her fridge. Her kitchen. Her house. She still couldn’t quite believe it. The day after Anthony had died she had telephoned his solicitor, hoping he would know if there was anyone she should contact; a distant cousin that she didn’t know about, or a designated next of kin. He sounded as though he had been expecting her call. He told her that Anthony had instructed him to inform Laura immediately after his death that she was his sole heir; everything he had owned was now hers. There was a will, and a letter for her, the details of which would be revealed after the funeral. But Anthony’s first concern had been that she shouldn’t worry. Padua would remain her home. His kindness made his death all the more unbearable. She had been unable to continue the telephone conversation, her words choked by tears. It was no longer grief alone that overwhelmed her, but relief for herself chased by guilt that she could feel such a thing at such a time.
She took her wine through to the study and sat down at the table. She felt a strange solace surrounded by Anthony’s treasures. She was now their guardian and they gave her a sense of purpose, even though she was as yet unsure as to what that might be. Perhaps Anthony’s letter would explain, and then she might find a way to deserve his extraordinary generosity toward her. The funeral had been a revelation. Laura had expected there to be only a handful of people, including herself and Anthony’s solicitor, but the church was almost full. There were people from the publishing world who had known Anthony as a writer and others who had only known him to say “good morning” to, but it seemed as though he touched the lives of everyone he met and left an indelible mark. And then, of course, there were the busybodies; stalwart members of the local residents’ association, Woman’s Institute, Amateur Dramatic Society, and general purveyors of the moral high ground, led by Marjory Wadscallop and her faithful deputy, Winnie Cripp. Their “heartfelt condolences”—offered a little too enthusiastically as Laura left the church—had been accompanied by sad, well-practiced smiles and unwelcome hugs that left Laura smelling of damp dog and hair spray.
The large, blue button that Laura had taken from the drawer on her first visit to the study was still on the table, resting on its label.
LARGE BLUE BUTTON, FROM WOMAN’S COAT?—
Found, on the pavement of Graydown Street, 11th November . . .
Margaret was wearing her dangerous new knickers. “Ruby silk with sumptuous cream lace” was how the saleswoman had described them, clearly wondering what business Margaret had buying them. They were not even distant cousins of her usual Marks & Spencer utility wear. Downstairs her husband waited expectantly. Twenty-six years they had been married, and he had done his best to let Margaret know how much he loved her for every one of those years. He loved her with his fists and his feet. His love was the color of bruises. The sound of breaking bones. The taste of blood. Of course, no one else knew. No one at the bank where he was assistant manager, no one at the golf club where he was treasurer, and certainly no one at the church, where, in the first year of their marriage, he had been born again a Baptist bedlamite. Beating the crap out of her was God’s will. Apparently. But no one else knew; just him, God, and Margaret. His respectability was like a neatly pressed suit; a uniform he wore to fool the outside world. But at home, in mufti, the monster reappeared. They never had any children. It was probably for the best. He might have loved them too. So why had she stayed? Love, at first. She had truly loved him. Then fear, weakness, desolation? All of the above. Body and spirit crushed by God and Gordon.
“Where the fuck’s my dinner!” a voice bawled from the sitting room. She could picture him, fleshy-faced and florid; rolls of fat seeping over the belt of his trousers, watching the rugby on the television and drinking his tea. Tea that Margaret had made; milk and two sugars. And six Tramadol. Not enough to kill him; not quite. God knows, she had enough. The last time she “tripped” and broke her wrist, that kind doctor in Accident & Emergency had given her a whole box. Not that she wasn’t tempted. Manslaughter with diminished responsibility thrown in seemed like a fair trade. But Margaret wanted him to know. Her left eye was almost swollen shut and the color of the Valpolicella Gordon was expecting to swill with his dinner. Touching it, she winced, but then she felt the whisper of soft silk brushing against her skin and smiled. Downstairs, Gordon wasn’t feeling quite himself. For the first time in years she looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m leaving you.”
She waited to make sure that he understood. The rage in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed.
“Get back here, you stupid bitch!”
He tried to haul himself from his chair, but Margaret had already left the room. She heard him crash to the floor. She picked up the suitcase in the hall, closed the door behind her, and walked down the drive without looking back. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care as long as it was away. The bitter November wind stung her bruised face. Margaret put down her suitcase for a moment to fasten the top button of her old, blue coat. The worn-out thread snapped and the button spun through her fingers and onto the pavement. Margaret picked up her suitcase and left the button where it was.
Sod it, she thought. I’ll buy a new coat. Happy birthday, Margaret.
Laura awoke to the sound of knocking. She had fallen asleep slumped over the table, and her cheek now bore the imprint of the blue button it had been resting on. Still befuddled with sleep, she slowly realized that the knocking was coming from the front door. In the hall she passed her suitcase still waiting to be unpacked. She had decided that tonight would be the first night that she would stay at Padua. It had somehow felt right to wait until after the funeral. The knocking began again; insistent but not urgent. Patient. As though the person would wait for as long as it took for someone to answer. Laura opened the door to a young girl with a serious and beautiful moon face, set with almond-shaped eyes the color of chestnuts. She had seen her many times before, sitting on the bench across the green, but never this close. The girl drew herself up to her full height of five feet and one and a quarter inches and then she spoke.
“My name is Sunshine and I can be your new friend.”
; CHAPTER 15
“When the sitter comes, shall I make the lovely cup of tea?”
Laura smiled. “Do you know how?”
“No.”
It had been two weeks since Anthony’s funeral and Sunshine had called every day apart from on Sundays when her mum had stopped her.
“Give the poor woman a day off, Sunshine. I’m sure she doesn’t want you pestering her peace and quiet all the time.”
Sunshine was unfazed. “I’m not a pester. I’m her new friend.”
“Hmm . . . Whether she likes it or not,” her mum muttered as she peeled the potatoes ready for Sunday lunch. Her mum worked long hours as a carer for the elderly and was rarely at home during the day, and her dad worked on the trains. Sunshine’s older brother was supposed to keep an eye on her, but he rarely noticed anything that didn’t take place in high definition on a screen the size of a kitchen table that obscured most of his bedroom wall. Besides, she was nineteen. They couldn’t keep her locked up like a child. To be honest, she was pleased that Sunshine had found something to do other than sit on a bench all day. But she was always anxious about the response of strangers to her daughter’s sudden and enthusiastic attachments. Sunshine was fearless and trusting, but her courage and good nature made her vulnerable. Her virtues were often her most serious handicap. Her mum had popped round to see the woman—Laura, she was called—who owned the big house, to check whether or not she minded Sunshine’s visits. She also wanted to satisfy herself that Sunshine wouldn’t come to any harm. The woman seemed nice enough, if a little standoffish, and said that Sunshine was very welcome. But it was the house itself that reassured her the most. It was very beautiful, but more than that, it had a lovely feeling about it that she struggled to describe to her husband, Bert. “It just feels ‘safe,’” was the best she could do to explain why she was happy to approve her daughter visiting Padua.
For Sunshine, it was the highlight of her day, and now she sat at the kitchen table waiting patiently for Laura’s answer. Laura paused, kettle in hand, and looked into Sunshine’s serious face.
“I suppose I could show you how.”
Some days she found Sunshine an unwelcome intruder into her new and as-yet-uncertain life; a determined gate-crasher. Of course, she would never have admitted it. She had even told Sunshine’s mum that she was very welcome. But some days Laura pretended not to be in, leaving Sunshine on the doorstep, patiently but persistently ringing the bell. Once, she had even hidden in the garden behind the shed. But Sunshine had eventually found her and her beaming smile of delight had made Laura feel like a prizewinning idiot and a coldhearted bitch.
Anthony’s solicitor was coming today with the will and the letter. Laura had explained this to Sunshine, but could never be sure exactly how much she understood. She was watching Laura intently now as she set the kettle on the hob and took a fresh tray cloth from the drawer. Mr. Quinlan was due at 2:30 P.M. Before that, Sunshine managed to squeeze in five practice runs, including the washing-up, and Laura, as Mr. Quinlan’s stand-in, had been forced to tip the last three cups into the aspidistra for the sake of her bladder.
Mr. Quinlan arrived on time. Sunshine recognized him as the old man who had come out of the house with Laura on the day of Anthony’s funeral. He was wearing a charcoal-gray pinstripe suit and a pale pink shirt, and a gold watch chain could just be seen disappearing into his waistcoat pocket. He looked important. Uncertain how to greet a person of such standing, Sunshine bobbed a little curtsy and offered him a high five.
“I’m delighted to meet you, young lady. I’m Robert Quinlan and who are you?”
“I’m Sunshine, the new friend for Laura. People sometimes call me Sunny for short.”
He smiled. “Which do you prefer?”
“Sunshine. Do people ever call you Robber?”
“It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
Laura led them through to the garden room and Sunshine made sure that the sitter had the best chair. She looked at Laura meaningfully.
“Shall I go and make the lovely cup of tea now?”
“That would be very helpful,” Laura replied, secretly wishing that she had nipped to the loo just one more time before Mr. Quinlan had arrived.
Mr. Quinlan read the contents of the will to Laura while Sunshine was in the kitchen. It was clear and simple. Anthony thanked Laura for her work and friendship, but most particularly for her loving care of the house and everything in it. He wanted Laura to inherit all that he owned on the condition that she lived in the house and kept the rose garden exactly as it was. He knew that Laura loved the house almost as much as he had, and he had died content in the knowledge that she would continue to care for it and “make the best possible advantage of all the happiness and peace it had to offer.”
“And so my dear, it’s all yours.” Mr. Quinlan peered at her over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles and smiled.
“Here’s the lovely cup of tea.”
Sunshine barged the door open with her elbow and inched her way into the room like a tightrope walker. Her knuckles were white from the weight of the tray she was carrying, and the tip of her tongue poked out of her tiny rosebud mouth in agonized concentration. Mr. Quinlan leaped to his feet and relieved her of her burden. He set the tray down on a side table.
“Shall I be mother?” he asked.
Sunshine shook her head.
“I’ve got a mum. She’s at the work.”
“Quite right, young lady. I meant shall I pour the tea?”
Sunshine considered carefully for a moment.
“Do you know how?”
He smiled.
“Perhaps you’d better show me.”
Three expertly poured cups of tea and two custard creams later, all consumed under Sunshine’s unswerving observation, Mr. Quinlan’s visit was drawing to a close.
“Just one more thing,” he said to Laura. “The third condition of the will.”
He handed Laura a sealed white envelope bearing her name in Anthony’s handwriting.
“I believe this explains it in greater detail, but it was Anthony’s wish that you should endeavor to return as many of the things in his study to their rightful owners as you possibly can.”
Laura recalled the groaning shelves and packed draws and balked at the enormity of the task.
“But how?”
“I can’t begin to imagine. But Anthony clearly had faith in you, so perhaps all you need is a little faith in yourself. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Laura was less sure than hopeful. But then hope went well with faith, didn’t it?
“She had wonderful red hair, you know.”
Mr. Quinlan had picked up the photograph of Therese.
“Did you ever meet her?” Laura asked.
He traced the outline of the face in the photograph wistfully with his finger.
“Several times. She was a magnificent woman. Oh, she had a wild streak and a fiery temper when roused. Still, I think every man who met her fell just a little bit under her spell.”
With some reluctance to let her go, he put the photograph back on the table.
“But Anthony was the only chap for her. He was my friend as well as a client for many years and I never saw a man more in love. When she died it crushed his soul. It was the saddest thing . . .”
Sunshine sat quietly, listening to every word and gathering them all in so that she could try to sort them into the proper story later.
“Let me guess,” said Mr. Quinlan, getting up and going over to the gramophone.
“‘The Very Thought of You,’ Al Bowlly?”
Laura smiled. “It was their song.”
“Of course. Anthony told me the story.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Since Anthony’s death, Laura had been increasingly saddened by the realization that she knew so little about him, and in particular his past. Their relationship had been firmly fixed in the present, forged by daily routines and events and not by shari
ng the past or planning for the future. So now Laura was keen to find out anything she could. She wanted to better know the man who had trusted her and treated her with such kindness and generosity. Mr. Quinlan returned to his seat in the best chair.
“One of Anthony’s earliest and most precious memories was when he was a little boy dancing to that tune. It was during the Second World War and his father was home on leave. He was an officer in the RAF. That evening his parents were going to a dance. It was a special occasion and his father’s last night, so his mother had borrowed a beautiful blue evening gown from a friend. It was a Schiaparelli, I believe . . . There was a photograph Anthony had . . . Anyway, they were having cocktails together in the drawing room when Anthony came in to say good night. They were dancing to that Al Bowlly song—his dashing father and elegant mother—and they gathered him up into their arms and danced with him between them. He said he could still remember the smell of his mother’s perfume and the serge of his father’s uniform. It was the last time they were together, and the last time he saw his father. He returned to his air base early the next morning before Anthony was awake. Three months later he was captured behind enemy lines and was killed attempting to escape from Stalag Luft Three. Many years later, not long after they met, Anthony and Therese were having lunch in a wine bar in Convent Garden that favored Deco over Donny Osmond and David Cassidy. The pair of them always did seem to belong to another age. The Al Bowlly song started playing and Anthony told Therese the story. She took his hand and stood up and danced with him then and there, as though they were the only ones in the room.”
Laura was starting to understand.
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
Mr. Quinlan’s reply was heartfelt. “Indeed she was.”
He began packing his paperwork into his briefcase. The silent Sunshine stirred.
“Would you like the lovely cup of tea again?”
He smiled gratefully but shook his head.
“I’m afraid I must go or else I shall miss my train.”
