by Dawn Harris
‘Do shut the door, Trish,’ she urged as she greased a cake tin.
Slamming the door shut, I burst out, ‘Mum, I’ve met him!’
‘Met who, love?’ she inquired absently, as she weighed out the flour.
‘Your future son-in-law, of course.’
Her eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly hit the ceiling. Well, I was thirty-two years old, and she’d had a long wait.
My stepfather, hearing the noise, came in to greet me. ‘Hello, freckle face,’ he said affectionately, giving me a great big hug. ’So you’ve finally got yourself a man, eh? What did you use? Handcuffs?’
I laughed, but Mum leapt to my defence. ‘Don’t be so cruel, David. You know how difficult it is for women like us.’
By “women like us” Mum meant six foot tall freckle-faced redheads. Believe me, men do not fall in love with that kind of woman on sight. Just getting a date takes time, patience and cunning. Particularly cunning. It took Mum three months of careful scheming before my father discovered he couldn’t live without her. And after she was widowed, David held out for a whole year. ‘You see, I was older then,’ Mum explained, a touch of irony in her voice.
But I didn’t have three months, let alone a year. I’d known Murray exactly two hours. And I had, perhaps, two or three weekends, if I played my cards right. I didn’t have a moment to lose. I told them the little I knew about Murray, what I wanted to borrow, and why. ‘You scheming little hussy,’ David spluttered.
Mum laughed, but she understood better than anyone why I needed to use a little subterfuge. All right, so I was going to lie. I would have preferred not to, but it was the only way. ‘Must fly,’ I said. ‘Wish me luck!’
Murray, a drop-dead gorgeous blond giant from Australia, had walked into our cake shop shortly before closing time. In fact, just as Felix, my business partner, was about to start knocking down a wall so that we could enlarge our highly successful venture. This weekend was the perfect time to get it done as Mrs. Young, who rented the flat above the shop, would be away tonight, returning tomorrow evening.
Felix was the one who made the scrumptious cakes, while I looked after the business side and did my bit serving the customers too. I liked meeting people.
Murray bought a coffee and walnut cake, and asked for some information. The moment I looked at him I could almost hear the wedding bells, but experience had taught me it wouldn’t be the same for him. Somehow I had to find a way to stop him walking straight out of the shop and out of my life forever. David was right to call me a scheming little hussy. Well, it was the only way.
I gave Murray his change and asked what information he wanted, praying it wasn’t just directions. Smiling, he explained, ‘My family came from this town originally, and my great-aunt wants me to trace any relatives still living here.’ Grinning at me across the counter, he spread his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Only I haven’t a clue where to start.’
‘Well, actually,’ I murmured, hardly able to believe my luck, ‘I’m keen on family history myself.’
Felix, who was standing beside me, studying the plans for the extension, naturally heard every word. But I ignored his strangled choke, which came as a result of him having watched me bin a leaflet from the local family history society only the previous day, with the words, ‘Trace my dead relatives? They must be joking. The live ones give me more than enough trouble!’
‘Who are you looking for exactly?’ I asked Murray.
‘Well, the family name is Vestor----‘
I blinked in surprise. Felix opened his mouth to speak, but I fixed him by skewering his foot to the floor with my stiletto heel. An action luckily hidden by the shop counter. I didn’t want him blowing my chances of keeping Murray here. And while Felix was temporarily speechless, I took Murray over the road for a glass of wine, where we could talk in peace.
‘I’m working in London at the moment,’ Murray explained. ‘My plan was to look up the Vestors in the phone book, pay them a visit, take photos, and send everything to my great-aunt. Get it all over and done with in one weekend.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Only there are no Vestors listed in the phone book.’
‘Ah,’ I murmured, feverishly wondering how to prevent him finding the answers he wanted, until he showed some sign of succumbing to my charms. I twisted my wine glass in my fingers. ‘What do you actually know about the Vestors?’
‘Only that when my great-grandfather emigrated to Australia at the start of the 20th century, his brother Jeremiah went to America. Jeremiah’s plan was to make enough money to come home, buy a farm and marry his childhood sweetheart.’ He thrust a hand through his gorgeous thick hair. ‘My great-aunt doesn’t know if he made it back, and I promised to find out.’
‘In that case we’ll start our search first thing tomorrow.’
‘That’s real kind of you, Trish.’ He glanced out the window at the abbey, a magnificent Norman edifice, which was the usual reason tourists visited our small town. ‘Where do we start? At the abbey?’
‘No. You won’t find anything in there,’ I lied hurriedly. ‘Better to look at the gravestones.’ They wouldn’t help him one bit.
‘OK.’ And he smiled at me, turning my knees to jelly. ‘You’re the boss.’
I hesitated. ‘I was wondering --- would you like to come to a party tonight? I was going with Felix, only there’ll be dancing, and he’s – um – hurt his foot.’ Felix hadn’t wanted to go anyway.
‘Sounds great.’ His gorgeous grin made my heart turn right over. ‘It beats sitting alone in my hotel room.’
Most things would. Ah well, it was a start. I left him then to make that hurried visit to Mum’s, to borrow what I needed. After which I changed, collected Murray, and as we set off for the party, he told me, ‘I managed a quick look in the abbey churchyard before I went back to the hotel.’
Forcing myself to stay calm, I asked, ‘Did you go inside the abbey itself?’
Raising a surprised eyebrow, he protested, ‘You said there was no point.’
‘There isn’t,’ I stated in relief. ‘Did you ---er --- find any interesting gravestones?’
He shook his head. ‘But I did speak to a very nice lady. She was most helpful.’
‘Oh yes? What did she say?’
‘That there were a lot of other churchyards I could try.’
Later, dancing to Lady in Red, I asked Murray, ‘How tall are you exactly?’
‘Six foot, six and a half inches.’
I sighed. ‘It’s wonderful not to be looking over the top of a man’s head.’
Chuckling, he said, ‘It’s great for me too. Most women don’t even reach my shoulder.’ And he rested his cheek cosily against mine.
Mum popped in early the following morning for a progress report, and casually remarked, ‘Did you know a Vestor once owned Hill Farm?’
‘But that’s derelict now, isn’t it?’
‘True, but Murray doesn’t know that,’ she pointed out conspiratorially. ‘It’s in a glorious spot. Isolated too.’ And she rolled her eyes at me.’ Well, you can’t afford to waste time, can you?’
So I drove Murray high into the hills. He accepted the derelict state of the Vestor farmhouse quite philosophically, commenting, ‘It certainly suggests that Jeremiah came back from America. Now all we have to do is find his descendants.’
While he took a closer look at the farmhouse, I quickly disconnected the battery leads. Well, there was no point spending the day looking for his long-lost relatives. I knew where they were. And once Murray had that information, he’d made it perfectly clear he intended to leave town, never to return.
When the car refused to start, he eyed me roguishly. ‘Have we run out of petrol?’
‘Of course not,’ I laughed innocently. ‘Um --- do you know anything about cars?’
‘Not a thing,’ he responded cheerfully. ‘Do you?’
I could strip down an engine faster than most, but I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’
He leaned back in hi
s seat, perfectly relaxed, hands behind his head. ‘I suppose we’d better phone a garage.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ I searched my bag for my mobile, but it wasn’t there because I’d deliberately left it at home. ‘It’s not here,’ I said, pretending to be exasperated.
‘And mine’s back at the hotel.’
That was fortunate. ‘Never mind. There’s a garage at the next village. It’s only five miles over the hills.’ I glanced at him and he smiled, an unreadable expression in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, it’s easy walking.’
The sun shone from a clear blue sky, and we walked along chatting with the ease of old friends, with nothing to distract us from the beauty of the hills and patchwork of stone walls, except for the occasional sounds of birds and sheep. The longer I spent with Murray, the more convinced I was that this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
At about half way we stopped to rest a while, and when I stretched out in the sun, he actually leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips. Now that’s what I call progress!
We arranged for the garage to pick up my car, had a late, leisurely lunch in a cosy pub, and wandered around the gardens of a local manor house, before picking up the car again.
‘A lead had come adrift,’ I told Murray casually. Driving back to town, I suggested, ‘Let’s see if Felix has knocked down that wall yet, shall we?’ In truth, I intended to give him some encouragement on the Vestor front, but I offered him a very different explanation.
‘Mrs. Young, who rents the flat above the shop, was away overnight, and Felix wanted to finish the wall before she got back.’
When we arrived, Felix was covered in dust, and still working. ‘How’s your foot?’ Murray asked him.
‘Badly bruised,’ he replied, casting an injured look in my direction. ‘Dropping a brick on it didn’t help.’
I started to giggle, but Murray’s interest was centred on a small niche in what was left of the wall. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ He reached into the niche and as he pulled out a dust-covered tin box, the lid fell off, spilling the contents on the floor. ‘Letters,’ Murray exclaimed. Picking them up, he dusted them off, and gave a gasp. ‘You’ll never believe who they’re from.’ He showed me the name and address of the sender written on the back of the envelopes, which I read in wonder, just as if I’d never seen it before.
‘Jeremiah Vestor. Wow!’ I said, turning the envelopes over one by one. ‘Look, Murray, they’re all addressed to a Treasure May Crofton. Jeremiah’s sweetheart! She must have lived in this very house before it became a shop.’
Murray whistled. ‘That sure is some coincidence.’
‘Life’s full of ‘em,’ muttered Felix, heavy on the irony.
‘Ignore him. He’s just an old cynic,’ I teased. ‘In 1900 this was a very small town and Treasure had to live somewhere.’
I took Murray into the shop’s small kitchen, while Felix got on with the wall, and as he sat reading the letters he became extremely excited. ‘Jeremiah did return, Trish. His last letter states he was leaving for home on 16th May, 1902.’
‘That’s great. They probably married soon after. I’ll check the records now I have a date to go on,’ I waffled, like the expert he thought I was. ‘I’ll get it done by next Saturday. You will come back then, won’t you?’
‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away,’ he declared. For a moment he stood gazing out the window at the town. ‘You know, Trish, perhaps I will take a look inside the abbey, after all.’
‘You can’t,’ I blurted out. Not now things were going so well.
Swinging round, he looked deep into my eyes. ‘Why ever not?’
‘I meant, not this very minute. There’s a service at this time.’ Mum would have been proud of me. Women like us need to be quick thinkers.
‘Another day then.’
I smiled shakily, thinking of the prominent plaque inside the abbey. The one dedicated to the memory of Treasure May Vestor, beloved wife of Jeremiah. Died, aged seventy-seven years.
Still, the information I’d carefully planted in the shop had intrigued him enough to make him want to return. And that’s what mattered. Everything was going according to plan. Even the wall was finished by the time Murray was ready to leave for London. And as Felix and I stood at the door of the shop, saying goodbye to him, Mrs. Young arrived home from her overnight stay away. She looked at Murray and smiled, ‘Hello. You found Trish all right then.’
‘Mmm. As you see.’
‘Did you find the plaque in the abbey?’
‘Yes, I did.’
I felt my mouth drop open and he turned to me, his eyes alight with devilment. ‘This is the lady I told you about. The one I met in the abbey churchyard, when I was looking at the gravestones. You’d rushed off to see your mother, if you remember.’
‘I told him you were the best person to ask about the Vestors, Trish,’ Mrs. Young said.
I choked and spluttered, ‘That ---- that was kind of you.’
‘Invaluable, I would say,’ Murray agreed, chuckling, enjoying my obvious discomfort hugely.
Mrs. Young went up to her flat and Murray turned to us, saying quietly, ‘I think someone owes me an explanation, don’t you?’
‘My cue to leave,’ Felix muttered, grabbing his car keys. ‘All I did was plant the letters like Trish asked.’
Murray shut the door after him and stood leaning against it, watching me intently. ‘Who do the letters belong to, Trish?’
‘My stepfather. His mother was a Vestor. The male line died out.’ Then I exploded, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d met Mrs. Young in the churchyard?’
He roared with laughter. ‘What, and miss all the fun? I couldn’t wait to see what you’d come up with next.’
He was far too intelligent not to guess the reason behind my subterfuge, and I saw no point in pretending otherwise. ‘It’s all very well for you. You’re a man. If you fancy someone you can just----‘ His eyes were brimming with amusement, and I burst out, ‘You have no idea what it’s like for women like us.’
‘Women like what?’
‘Tall women with freckles, of course.’
‘But, Trish,’ he murmured softly, pulling me into his arms. ‘I adore tall women with freckles. Why else would I have let you lead me on that crazy wild-goose chase?’
Oh honestly ---- isn’t that just like a man!
Crime and the Councillor
Julian heard about the £10,000 through his voluntary work. He was involved in a new scheme, weaning disadvantaged teenagers away from vandalism and petty crime; teaching them a positive approach to life, a philosophy in which he whole-heartedly believed. He was also a local councillor, and being of use to the community was something he enjoyed.
Most of the kids he saw were rebellious rather than bad. They saw how other people lived, and were envious. And Julian, who had been out of a paid job for nearly a year, was shocked to find how much he identified with them. Redundancy had hit him harder than he’d realised.
As he told Sheila, his wife, ‘If I was 30 years younger, I would be one of those kids.’
‘No,’ she insisted firmly. ‘Not you.’
‘How do you know? If I’d been brought up on a grotty, run-down estate, with no chance of a job.....’
She shook her head. ‘You’re far too intelligent.’
‘Some of those lads are bright too, Sheila. They just don’t know any other way of life.’ He put his arms round her. ‘They don’t live in a lovely home in a pleasant, tree-lined avenue, as I do.’ He nuzzled her hair. ‘Nor do any of them have such a wonderful wife.’
‘I’ve achieved something then,’ Sheila teased, ‘if I’ve kept you away from a life of crime!’
And it was true. Turning to crime wasn’t an option for Julian. Or so he thought, until he overheard two of the boys discussing how to get their hands on this £10,000.
They were sitting side by side at a table, heads together, a tabloid newspaper open in front of them. Julian sto
od a few feet behind the boys, pinning an information sheet on the notice board. Only they were too engrossed in conversation to notice he was there.
‘Look,’ muttered the skinhead. ‘It’s easy, I tell you. There’s this money left in Fielding’s office safe over the weekend, see. Oh, come on, Brains, it’s ten thousand quid. Just think what we could do with that! And all we have to do is find a way of pinching it.’
‘Forget it.’ Brains was adamant. ‘What’s the point? I don’t know nothing about safes.’
The boys soon sauntered off to the snooker room, leaving Julian in a state of shock. Brains might not know anything about safes, but he did. He’d spent the last 25 years installing them. Happy years, in a job he’d loved.
With his inside knowledge, he knew exactly how to rob a safe – a fact he’d never given a thought to before. But he was thinking about it now all right. He sat down at the table where the boys had sat, his eyes on the newspaper, but his mind was on the £10,000. And how much he wanted it.
He even found himself considering how the robbery could be done. Of course, the whole enterprise would need careful preparation. But was he up to it? The first thing, he decided, was to make detailed drawings of the premises, the position of the safe, and the alarm systems. Success would depend on his ingenuity. No weapons, of course. He didn’t agree with violence. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he could do it.
Naturally he thought about his family too. Sheila was a bank manager, their grown-up son had just joined the police force, and he, himself, was a councillor, a highly respected figure in the community, who got things done. Well, if he hadn’t been made redundant he’d never have given crime a moment’s thought.
If he went for it, there’d be no more aimless killing of time, no more applying for jobs to companies who often didn’t even have the courtesy to reply; no more putting on a cheerful front, pretending he didn’t mind being out of work. This would be a test. If he pulled it off, he could carve a whole new career out of crime.
