by Jodi Taylor
She clutched my arm. ‘Could you?’
‘Yes, I can. Forget ... what I said earlier. I’ll help you get away. If that’s ... what you really want to do.’
It was as if she suddenly saw light at the end of the tunnel. All right, four hundred pounds wasn’t ten thousand, but if you’re desperate, it’s enough to get you quite a long way away. And I would say she was desperate.
‘Just promise me you won’t go back, Julia. Promise me you’ll just drive off to somewhere and never look back.’
‘I will. Oh God, I will. I’ll never come back, I promise. I’ll never see either of them again. Just help me get away, Jenny, I beg you.’
There could be no doubt her fear was genuine and that was when I made my mistake. I disengaged her clutching hands and rummaged through the pile of stuff on the table for my cheque book. I wrote her a personal cheque, tore it from the book and handed it to her.
Her hands shook as she folded it and slipped it into her handbag.
‘Aunt Julia, what’s ... going on?’
She looked around again and said in a whisper, ‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me, but do be careful, Jenny. Promise me you’ll be careful.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘But ... I’m well protected.’
She looked around, her glance passing over Kevin and Mrs Crisp as if they weren’t there. ‘You’re here alone. You shouldn’t be alone.’
I sighed. She hadn’t changed that much. I had Mrs Crisp and Kevin, but they weren’t Real People, according to Aunt Julia. I remembered I’d never liked her. And sometimes I’d hated her. The brief sympathy I had felt for her was beginning to evaporate. Her terror wasn’t for me – it was for herself. Her self-interest was boundless. I should have followed my original intentions and made her leave with nothing, but seeing her huddled against the cushions, a sad remnant of her former self, what else could I have done?
I said, ‘Are you all right to drive?’ and she nodded.
Clutching her bag, she struggled to her feet.
I tried again. I said quietly, ‘Aunt Julia, is there anything else ... you want to ... tell me.’
I hoped she had more to say, but she had what she’d come for. Her old dislike of me was returning, and I hadn’t had the sense to withhold the cheque until she’d told me what I wanted to know. Not that I thought she knew much. Now that she had the money, however, she couldn’t get away quickly enough. If only she had just said, ‘Actually, Jenny, yes,’ and sat back down again and talked to me – actually talked to me – but she remained Aunt Julia right to the very end.
She drew herself up and in something like her old manner, said, ‘You probably wouldn’t understand and I can’t spare the time.’
Once, I might have been hurt, but those days were long gone. I nodded at Kevin, who held the door open for her, saying, ‘Your car is waiting, Mrs Kingdom.’
She took the hint, sweeping from the room without saying another word.
I followed her out and waited by the back door. Two chickens – I couldn’t see which from here – were sitting on the warm bonnet. They took one look at Aunt Julia, however, and wisely flapped away.
‘Look at her face,’ said Thomas.
I was looking. Once there had been Aunt Julia – member of the Townswomen’s Guild, former chair of the WI, member of the Conservative Association, fundraiser and social climber. Now there was Aunt Julia, tight-faced and anxious. So anxious she never realised that she’d trapped a fold of her coat in the car door.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thomas, I think I might have made a big mistake.’
She drove jerkily out of the yard, crashing the gears as she turned into the lane, and disappeared. Slowly, the sound of her engine died away and we were left in peace. And I was right. I’d just made a big mistake.
Chapter Ten
‘Now what?’ said Thomas, after a couple of restorative cups of tea.
I’d been thinking.
‘I think,’ I said, slowly and with great reluctance, ‘that I have to talk to Francesca. Perhaps she knows something.’
‘Unlikely, but I agree we should try.’ Thomas lowered his head towards me. ‘Are you all right, Jenny?’
I smiled bitterly. ‘I’ve been living in a bubble, Thomas. A golden bubble. I’ve been blind and stupid, while all around me, bad things are gathering.’
He didn’t deny it, saying only, ‘You will talk to Russell, won’t you?’
‘Oh yes. As soon as he gets back. But first, I need to see Franny.’
*
Francesca, in case everyone has forgotten, is my other cousin: Christopher’s sister. She’s tall and wonderfully beautiful. She doesn’t have hair – she has HAIR – a great red-gold cloud of it framing her face and setting off her brilliant green eyes. In addition to being breathtakingly beautiful, Francesca is also breathtakingly stupid. Stupid enough to dump Russell, anyway.
I absolve her of deliberate cruelty – she’s too dim for the mental effort required – but she’s staggeringly self-centred. She is, she thinks, not only the centre of her own universe, but everyone else’s as well. I don’t think she ever considered the effect on Russell when she so casually dumped him in favour of Daniel Palmer. Being with Russell Checkland, that up and coming young artist, had taken her so far, but Daniel was a TV producer who could take her career in the direction she wanted to go. I still get angry just thinking about it.
Russell fell apart. She was his life and – worse – she was his inspiration. He stopped painting, put down his brushes and picked up a bottle instead, destroying all his work in one drunken, heart-breaking afternoon.
He pulled himself together eventually. Before the damage to his career was irreparable anyway, but it’s been a long road back for him.
Francesca now lived with Daniel and they had a very pretty house on the other side of Rushford. Despite his appalling taste in girlfriends, I quite liked Daniel. He was a kind man and, best of all, he took no nonsense from Francesca. I wasn’t sure whether to hope he was in or not. He had no time at all for my aunt and uncle and had frequently expressed a commendable desire to punch Christopher’s lights out. Although he’d have to wait behind Russell for that particular pleasure. If he was at home today he might be able to offer a helpful perspective. On the other hand, he might just order Franny to go abroad out of the way and pick up the phone for the police. Despite his TV background, Daniel is a very respectable man. You’d never catch him stealing a donkey or banging on about Patagonian Attack Chickens.
Kevin drove me over, declining to get out when we arrived. He pulled out a battered exercise book.
‘I’ll just wait out here, if you don’t mind, Mrs Checkland. I’m working on a layout for Mrs Crosby’s herb garden.’
I’d spent the short journey turning over various approaches in my mind and rejecting them all.
‘What are you going to say?’ asked Thomas, as we climbed the shallow steps to the front door.
‘Not sure.’
Daniel’s house basked in the afternoon sunshine. His gardens were much neater than ours, but then he had staff. And the money to pay them.
Francesca opened the door to us herself.
‘Oh. Jenny. I thought it was Russell at last.’
‘No,’ I said gravely, ‘it’s me.’
She threw a look over my shoulder, just in case I’d failed to recognise my own husband materialising behind me, and stood back to let us in.
Thomas paused in the hall, looking around him. Daniel had a wonderful art collection and Thomas loved his art.
‘Go,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll be all right. I’m only going to talk to her for a moment. She’s not likely to do me any harm in her own house, is she?’
‘Actually, it was her safety I was thinking of. I’d better come with you.’
‘Come into my private sitting room,’ she said.
Who has a private sitting room? At Frogmorton we had only one sitting room and, far from being private, it was frequently overrun with cats, bab
ies, erratic husbands, Andrew, and the occasional chicken still seeking to return to the land of her golden youth.
It was certainly a lovely room. Daniel had decorated it especially for her and it was done out in shades of cream and gold. Without asking me to sit down, she sprawled on a sofa and picked up a glossy magazine. It seemed she’d been passing the time looking at pictures of herself. She looked relaxed and comfortable. Time to put a stop to that.
There’s no point in being subtle with Francesca. I stood in the doorway, and announced dramatically, ‘Francesca – I know everything.’
She dropped her magazine and shot bolt upright, her eyes big with alarm.
‘Oh my God. Russell told you. But he swore he wouldn’t.’
The shock jolted me from head to toe. I’d only said it to wind her up but now ... Was it possible I’d completely misjudged the situation? I know I’m not balanced about Francesca, but now my world stopped turning. What had Russell sworn he wouldn’t tell me? Christopher, Aunt Julia, everything went straight out of my head. All I could think was – all those telephone calls. The ones where I heard the hello and goodbye, and never the bit in between. The important bit.
Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – a stutter is a huge advantage. I was too shocked and surprised to say anything and, judging from his silence, so was Thomas, and that was the upside. People don’t like silence. Especially people with a guilty conscience. People always like to get their story in first. Presumably mistaking my silence not for the paralysing shock it was, but as silent denunciation, she raced to get her story out.
‘Believe it or not, Jenny, I’m the innocent party here. I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages but Russell kept saying no, not just yet, and now you’ve found out and I can see it’s come as a shock, but blame Russell. If he wasn’t so protective of you, we could have sorted everything out long ago.’
‘Breathe,’ said Thomas, who had obviously pulled himself together much more quickly than I had. ‘Don’t try to speak. Just wait for her to tell you what’s going on, but do bear in mind that it’s Francesca talking. There’s a chair here. Sit down.’
I walked slowly to the armchair, sat, smoothed my jeans, clasped my hands and waited for whatever bombshell she was about to drop on me.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘where to begin?’
She turned her head and stared out of the window. I wasn’t sure whether she was seeking inspiration or offering me the chance to admire her profile, because it is admirable. Naturally since she’s a model. She’s not a top model, but since Daniel began advising her she’s been prepared to take a wider range of jobs and has won herself more publicity. In her defence, she’s not a completely worthless human being – she does a lot of work raising funds for the local donkey sanctuary. She’s always being snapped with hugely photogenic baby donkeys and the public loves her. She’s also very big in Spain and jets over regularly to pout on a Spanish beach, wearing the latest swimwear, huge sunglasses, and a bronzed young man.
A magazine once ran an article on her, extolling her Renaissance colouring and beauty and now she’s famous for only ever wearing black, white or green. Colours which set off her red – sorry, deep auburn – hair and milky white skin.
Today was obviously an inside day because she was wearing white: a top which draped beautifully, form-fitting white jeans, and her bare toes were painted blood red. Her long hair was pulled back in a casual plait that on lesser women would just look scruffy but which on her was effortlessly elegant.
I began to wish I had at least stopped to wash my face and brush my hair. I told myself that the faint aroma of farmyard belonged to Thomas and was in no way connected with me.
‘You wish,’ said Thomas, amused.
Either deciding I’d had enough of a good thing profile-wise or, more likely, having thought of two or three simple sentences to string together, she turned to face me and began.
‘About six months ago...’
I bounced in my seat. Joy was eight months old so I’d just given birth at the time. How could he? I remembered what I thought of at the time as his obsessive care of me. He’d insisted I rest for two hours every afternoon and – oh my God – he’d walked me upstairs, settled me on the bed, covered me with a blanket and calmly left the house – to visit Francesca. Love in the afternoon...
And then, thank goodness, common sense kicked in.
‘And about time, too. Really, Jenny, have a little faith.’
She was hurrying on. ‘...Anyway, he wasn’t keen at first. I have to say I did keep on and on at him, and eventually he said yes. I’m a little annoyed with him because he kept insisting we wait a while, at least until Joy was older, but time is ticking on and now he’s putting me off with tales of being worried about you and, frankly, I’m rather annoyed with him. He keeps promising, but somehow the moment is never quite right.’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘I’m a little annoyed with you, too, Jenny. You look perfectly healthy to me. Perhaps if you could have a word with him. Tell him there’s no problem and you’re happy to take him.’
‘I should be ... delighted,’ I said, finding a voice at last, ‘if I had any idea ... what you’re ... talking about.’
She sighed in exasperation. She’s a lot nicer than she used to be, but sometimes the old Francesca bubbles to the surface like one of those lethal gas pockets that sinks ships in the Bermuda Triangle.
‘Oh Jenny, do try to concentrate. I can’t make things much simpler for you. Jack, of course.’
‘Jack?’
‘Jack?’
‘Jack.’
Bearing in mind my audience, I kept things simple. ‘Who’s Jack?’
‘Jack the donkey, of course.’
I turned to Thomas, thus giving her the chance to admire my profile and check out my effortlessly scruffy ponytail.
‘No. Sorry. Not a clue here, either.’
I said carefully, ‘I think, Franny, that it would be best to assume I know nothing. Perhaps you could start at the beginning.’
‘You didn’t ask her to keep things simple for you.’
‘I shall rely on you to translate when she becomes un-understandable, so concentrate.’
‘Well,’ she said, settling herself, ‘about a year ago, the donkey sanctuary took in a stray. You know, like they do. Because they’re a sanc-tu-ary.’ She enunciated the last word carefully for my benefit.
I once collaborated with her husband on a TV programme that was nominated for an award – it didn’t win, but that’s not the point – and still she treats me like a refugee from a remedial class.
‘Don’t kill her now. It’ll interrupt her flow and you know how difficult it is to keep her to the point. She’ll start on the latest reality show or nail polish or something and we’ll never find out about Jack.’
‘Or Christopher.’
‘Or Christopher.’
‘Anyway, he didn’t settle. He pined and he wouldn’t eat. They said he’d been someone’s pet and that person had died and he needed lots of attention and it would be better if he could be a pet again and who did I know, and I said Russell. Because that’s what he does, isn’t it? Collects waifs and strays and gives them a home.’
‘Am I permitted to slap her?’
‘Of course – but not yet. Our purpose today is to extract information – not gratify your primitive urges.’
‘So I asked Russell and he said don’t talk to me now my wife’s pregnant. So I said what about afterwards, and he said after what, and I said after the baby’s born, of course, and he said maybe. And then you had the baby, and I said what about now, and he said – well, he was quite rude, actually, but I don’t think his picture was going well – so I waited nearly a whole week and then mentioned it again, and he said for God’s sake, all right, I’ll go and look at him, and he did, and I think he felt sorry for him, all alone and sad, and he said yes but not now because of Jenny – that’s you – and I agreed, although I think he coddles you a little sometimes, Jenny. You mustn’t be
selfish, you know. And then, just as he was going to mention it to you, something else apparently came up, and I said, oh Russell, and he was actually quite rude again. So I said I’d mention it to you if he was too busy, and he said no for God’s sake don’t do that, so I didn’t.’
She beamed at me.
Thomas had retired to the other end of the room and was examining the view from the window. The occasional snort drifted my way. Sometimes, he’s not a lot of help.
‘And while Russell’s messing about, time is slipping by and I’m off to Spain next month, so if we don’t get the photo shoot organised soon then we’ll be into winter and I particularly wanted an outdoor shoot, with grass and trees and...’ She paused for more outdoor words to catch up.
I was bewildered. ‘What outdoor shoot?’
She sighed heavily. ‘For the publicity, of course. They want to do a short film of me saving the donkey.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘From what?’
‘Well, from ... you know...’ She stopped to collect her thoughts.
‘Wolves,’ said a voice, helpfully. ‘Pirates. Earthquakes. Dinosaurs.’
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but how are you saving the donkey?’
She waved that aside as irrelevant. I gathered that while the time and effort and expense would be Russell’s, the credit would be hers.
Amongst the many, many instructions heaped upon me as a child was the exhortation always to be a Good Girl. Never to cause a fuss. To be quiet and well behaved and unobtrusive. Always. And I’d done as I was told. In fact, I’d been so unobtrusive that I’d very nearly disappeared from the world altogether.
I’d been the very epitome of a Good Girl. Although it would be fair to say I’ve never really had the opportunity to be anything else. If there is a living, shining example of a Good Girl, then it’s me. I dislike conflict and confrontation. She who fights and runs away may well live to fight another day, but she who never fights in the first place leads a quiet life. I’m not Russell, happily flinging the most provocative remarks into any conversation in which he’s involved. I like peace and quiet, with everyone getting on with everyone else. So I really don’t know what made me say it.
