‘Yes.’ Libby sighed and looked up. ‘Pete and Harry say he’s uptight because of the family situation, but Pete’s got more cause for that even than Ben, hasn’t he? And he’s not uptight.’
‘I know, but he’s got a solid relationship with Harry. And by the way, what about Pete’s mother? And James?’
‘James is back in his flat, and his mother’s back up at Steeple Farm with a paid companion. I think Pete and James are paying for her between them, but there’s talk of selling the farm and putting her in somewhere like the place Uncle Lenny was in.’
‘Not like The Laurels, then.’
‘Well, no, that sounds more like a nursing home. I saw Uncle Lenny’s, remember. It was like a luxury hotel.’
‘And is he still down here living with Mrs Carpenter?’
Libby grinned. ‘Yes, happy as a couple of newly-weds, they are, bless them.’
‘Well, that’s good. And after all, when the trial’s over, everything’ll be forgotten and you can go back to normal.’
‘Whatever normal is,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t forget, I didn’t really get to know Ben until TheHop Pickerswas in rehearsal, and things weren’t really normal then, were they?’
‘As I didn’t know you until then, either, how do I know?’
Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well, I’ve probably blown it, anyway. At one time I thought I had a chance. But, as we’ve both discovered, being over forty reduces your chances of romantic entanglement by about ninety-five per cent.’
‘It’s being over fifty, dear, and an upholstered rugby ball or, like me, a bolster on legs.’ Fran smiled sadly. ‘The older men get the more they want to mate with young female perfection. It’s something to do with perpetuating the genes. It isn’t their fault.’
‘Then we don’t stand a chance.’
‘Not unless we find men whose intelligence over-rides their survival instinct.’
‘It couldn’t possibly be that men are taken in by a pretty face and figure and find it flattering to be with a younger woman?’
Fran shook her head. ‘It pains me to say it, but no. Look at how many men whom no one would believe would leave their wives or have affairs suddenly fall head over heels with a girl young enough to be their daughter? It happened to Mr Denver – whatever his name was. It happened to my husband.’
Libby snorted. ‘Old Robert Denver didn’t fall in love with Barbara. He just wanted a quick bonk.’
‘Shame she got caught, then. His first wife could have put up with a quick bonk. It’s the falling in love that you can’t forgive.’
‘I know. And it still bloody hurts, doesn’t it?’
Fran sighed. ‘Even if you know why it happened, it still hurts.’
‘Hey, you’re not saying your break-up was your fault, surely?’ Libby looked indignant.
‘I couldn’t cope with real life, Libby. I was a hopeless wife and mother. I don’t really blame him.’ Fran stood up. ‘Anyway, that’s enough of that. What time are we going to The Pink Geranium? Have I got time to have a bath?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Libby. ‘They won’t be busy tonight, so we can tip up at any time.’
Peter, who had been slightly suspicious of Fran when Ben had brought her down to help during what Harry referred to as “The Troubles”, was surprisingly pleased to see her.
‘She was worried about coming,’ warned Libby, ‘so be nice.’
‘I’m always nice.’ Peter looked down his patrician nose at her and tossed back the lock of fair hair that fell rather limply across his brow.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Harry, in chef’s whites, appeared behind them. ‘I could tell them a thing or two.’ He grinned down at Libby. ‘Where is she, then?’
‘Over there on the sofa looking scared,’ said Libby.
Harry surged across the restaurant and took Fran in an enthusiastic bear hug. Peter followed, to give Fran an affectionate peck on the cheek as Harry released her.
‘Lovely to see you,’ he said, settling her on the sofa in the window.
‘Donna! Bottle of red wine over here,’ called Harry. ‘On the house,’ he added to Libby, who raised her eyebrows at him.
‘So, just down for a visit?’ Peter sat on the arm next to Fran, while Libby wriggled backwards into the other end of the sofa.
‘My aunt just died. She lived near Nethergate,’ explained Fran, accepting a glass of red wine from Donna, Harry’s uncomplaining assistant.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Peter, patting her shoulder.
‘No, I didn’t really know her. Hadn’t seen her for years.’ Fran looked uncomfortable, a familiar look to Libby, associated with their adventures during the production of Peter’s play The Hop Pickers. With a stab of guilt, she realised she hadn’t really told Fran anything during their conversation that afternoon. Perhaps she should have made things a bit clearer, if only to prevent Fran putting her foot in it. After all, Peter’s mother Millie was almost bound to come up in conversation –
‘How’s your mother, Peter?’ asked Fran, right on cue.
‘As well as can be expected,’ said Peter, smoothly, ‘back at Steeple Farm. I’m sure Libby told you. And now, would you like to order?’
When Harry and Peter had left them alone with two large menus, Fran gave Libby an apologetic glance.
‘Sorry. Did I upset the atmosphere?’
‘Not at all. You were bound to ask him, it was only good manners. I’d give Susan a miss, though, if I were you.’
‘You mean, don’t ask about her?’
‘Yes. Poor woman. It isn’t her fault, but it tends to be a bit of a thorn in the flesh, if you see what I mean.’
Fran did see. Ben’s sister Susan would be a reminder of the events stirred up by The Hop Pickers that had led to murder a few months previously.
‘Steer clear of all of it, then,’ said Fran, peering at the menu. ‘Can’t remember, what was Hongo Quesadillas?’
It hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected, she thought later, as she took a last look at the view from Libby’s spare room window. Much to Fran’s relief, the conversation stayed away from family and murder, and Peter, deep in writing a brand new pantomime for the Oast House Theatre, merely asked a few technical questions regarding length and timing, which caused Libby to go off into paroxysms of lewd laughter. There was no mention of Aunt Eleanor or Barbara and Paul Denver and Fran’s uncomfortable mental investigator had been lulled into somnolence with red onion tart, accompanied by an excellent Sancerre spirited from an unnamed source by the heavenly Harry.
Unfortunately, the Sancerre had worn off a bit and the mental investigator had woken up. A loop tape in her head repeatedly played the dream, but what made Fran sit down suddenly on the bed with a gasp was the addition of two more faces, as clear as if they stood before her, neither of which had she seen before. As her breathing slowed to normal and her heartbeat stopped sending messages to outlying parts, she realised that it must be her overactive imagination supplying pictures of Barbara and Paul Denver. After all, it could just as easily have thrown up the faces of Nurse Warner, Nurse Redding or Marion Headlam, but she had actually seen them in the flesh. Barbara and Paul were so far still, if not figments, existing only in her imagination.
Suppressing an almost irresistible desire to go downstairs and top up the Sancerre with a large slug of whisky, Fran climbed into bed and put her head under the pillow.
Chapter Five 1964
MARGARET TURNED FROM THE mirror and took a deep breath.
‘Fran, are you ready?’
Fran appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Let’s have a look at you, then.’ Margaret pulled her daughter further into the room.
‘Socks, Fran? I thought you wanted to wear your new stockings?’
‘The suspenders are uncomfortable, Mum.’ Fran pulled a face. Couldn’t I have a roll-on like yours?’
‘You’re only twelve, darling! I’ve given in on stockings, but that’s as far as it goes.’
Fran pull
ed a face. ‘Socks, then. Anyway, they look better with my sandals, don’t they?’
Margaret looked down at the maroon sandals. Frank had bought them. She looked up hastily, smoothing down her cotton skirt.
‘Of course they do. And you look very nice in that dress, too. Green suits you.’
Fran stroked the satiny finish of the dress. ‘I like it. Thanks, Mum.’ She reached up and kissed Margaret’s cheek. ‘You’re really clever.’
‘Come on, then. We’ll be late if we’re not careful.’ Margaret picked up her handbag and gloves from the kitchen table and led the way out of the flat. It was high summer in Mountville Road, and the huge lime trees were dusty and lifeless. She turned right and began the long walk towards the High Street, where they were to catch the bus.
‘Why couldn’t we go in the car with Uncle Frank?’ asked Fran, trailing along behind her mother.
‘Because he’s the bridegroom. You can’t go in the car with the bridegroom. There wouldn’t have been room, anyway. Mr Wallace was with him.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have liked to squash up against Mr Wallace.’ Fran wrinkled her nose. ‘I really, really don’t like him.’
Margaret sighed. ‘And you certainly let it show,’ she said. ‘Try and be more polite when you meet him today.’
‘I don’t know why he had to be Uncle Frank’s best man. You’d have thought he could have had anybody. Why couldn’t he have had you?’
‘Because they don’t have “best women”, Fran. You know that perfectly well.’
‘But you’re his best friend. At least, I thought you were, till he met the Elephant.’
‘Stop calling her that, Fran. One of these days you’re going to say it to her face.’
‘Serve her right for marrying Uncle Frank.’ Fran looked warily at her mother’s set face, wondering if she’d gone too far.
‘It’s hardly appropriate, anyway. She’s tiny. And you mind your manners. I don’t want everyone thinking how badly I’ve brought you up.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ Fran slipped her hand into her mother’s. ‘And you’ve done a brilliant job of bringing me up. So’s Uncle Frank.’
‘Uncle Frank hasn’t actually brought you up,’ said Margaret, her smile wry as she looked into her daughter’s eager face.
‘He helped, though. Living upstairs.’
‘Of course he did.’ Margaret gave Fran’s hand a little squeeze. ‘So we’d better not be late for his wedding, had we? Come on, or we’ll miss the bus.’
It wasn’t the fairy-tale wedding Fran would have liked. For a start, the bride was wearing a little suit not unlike the one her mother was wearing, although Margaret had made her own and Eleanor’s was obviously shop bought and much more expensive. They both had little boxy jackets with enlarged peter-pan collars, though Margaret’s skirt was full and feminine, whereas Eleanor’s was straight and sophisticated. Eleanor wore a little pill-box hat with a bit of blue veil matching her suit, and carried a prayer-book and a small sheaf of lilies. There were two bridesmaids, one a girl of about her own age with long, straight, mousey hair and another younger girl with bright red curly hair and a scowl. They wore plain pink cotton dresses and white lace gloves. Fran had hoped she might be asked to be a bridesmaid, but seeing these two in their plain, uninspired outfits, she was glad she hadn’t.
The reception was held in the church hall next door, and, as it was such a hot day, they were allowed to spill out into what Fran was told was the “garth” behind. The garth was just a large enclosed, grassy area, where someone had set up a wallpaper table with a variety of bottles and glasses.
‘Bar’s open, folks,’ shouted Uncle Frank, as he appeared with his bride on his arm. ‘On me.’
Fran found her mother a seat, then looked up to see a good-looking boy of about fourteen offering a tray.
‘Wine or fruit cup?’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Margaret. ‘We’ll have fruit cup.’
Fran would have liked to try the wine, but smiled at the boy anyway, and took two glasses of fruit cup.
‘I’m Charles, Aunt Eleanor’s nephew,’ he said.
‘I’m Margaret Bridges,’ said Margaret, ‘Frank’s sister-in-law, and this is his niece, Frances.’
Charles politely offered his hand to them both. ‘I hope I see you later, then,’ he said, and moved away with his tray.
‘Nice boy,’ said Margaret, peering after him.
‘Bit of a square,’ said Fran.
‘Because he has nice manners?’ Margaret raised her eyebrows.
Fran shrugged. ‘And his clothes.’
‘I expect he’s dressed in a suit because it’s a wedding. Wasn’t he one of the ushers?’
‘Was he? I didn’t notice,’ said Fran, sipping her punch, which, predictably, was warm.
And then Uncle Frank was there, pushing his bride in front of him, smiling at both of them.
‘My three favourite girls,’ he said, trying to sound hearty, but Fran knew him too well, and knew he was as uncomfortable as she and her mother were.
Eleanor, small, pale and fragile-looking, smiled tremulously. Fran saw her mother smile back and tried to do the same.
‘I’m so pleased to have a sister,’ said Eleanor, in a breathy little voice. ‘And a new niece, of course.’
‘Sister-in-law, actually,’ said Frank. ‘Margaret was married to Herbert.’
‘Oh, I know, darling, but at least Frances is your real niece, isn’t she?’
Frank winked at Fran. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Enjoying yourself, Franny?’
‘Yes, thank you, Uncle.’
‘Good, good,’ he said, and taking her elbow, turned Eleanor away. ‘Must circulate, you know.’
But he looked back at them as he walked away, and Fran saw his face. She looked at her mother, whose own face was as closed as she had ever seen it.
‘We don’t like Eleanor, do we?’ she whispered.
Margaret looked as if she’d come back from a long way away. ‘Not much. But we mustn’t be rude.’
‘No, you’ve said that already,’ said Fran. ‘But I’m going to hate having her in the house.’
‘She won’t be with us. She’ll be with Uncle Frank in the upstairs flat. We’ll hardly see her.’
‘Does that mean we’ll hardly see Uncle Frank, either?’
‘Well, not as much. We can’t expect to, can we? Not now he’s got a new family.’
‘Family?’ Fran was horrified. ‘He’s not going to have children, is he?’
‘I don’t know. Eleanor’s older than me, but she’s still able to have children, I’m sure. And most women want babies.’ Margaret looked across at the happy couple, now the centre of a group whom she took to be Eleanor’s family. She saw the boy Charles look across at Fran.
‘Oh, Mum, I can’t bear it.’ Fran sank down on the grass at her mother’s feet. ‘Not babies. Uncle Frank’s always had me.’
‘He still will have,’ said Margaret, patting her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. Things are bound to change, but we’ll cope.’
‘Christmas won’t be the same,’ mourned Fran. ‘He won’t be with us, will he?’
Margaret sighed. ‘No, darling, he won’t.’
Fran looked across at the group of Eleanor’s family. ‘I hate them,’ she said, ‘and I hate it here, too. Can’t we go home, now?’
‘After the speeches,’ said Margaret, who didn’t look too happy herself.
‘Why don’t we know anyone here?’ asked Fran, after a moment. ‘Where are all Uncle Frank’s friends?’
‘Coming later, perhaps,’ said Margaret, with another sigh.
Sure enough, a little later, Uncle Frank’s friends from the Conservative Club and the golf club appeared, looking as uncomfortable as Margaret and Fran. They formed a circle round them and Fran felt more secure. Why Uncle Frank couldn’t have chosen one of these nice men she’d known nearly all her life as a best man instead of that awful Wallace person, she couldn’t think.
At
last, Eleanor’s father made a speech, Mr Wallace made a worse one and finally Uncle Frank said a few, a very few, words. Then they were free to go.
‘Come on littl’un,’ said Joe, the secretary of the Conservative Club. ‘I’ll give you and your mum a lift home. All right, Mrs Bridges?’
‘Thanks, Joe,’ said Margaret, smiling gratefully. ‘Have you got room? I wasn’t looking forward to the bus.’
‘Got the Humber, haven’t I? Plenty of room for me and the missus and you two. Come on then. Let’s get cracking.’
‘Shouldn’t we have said goodbye to Uncle Frank?’ whispered Fran, as they made their way through the church hall, where a quartet of ageing musicians were desperately trying to play a Cliff and The Shadows medley.
‘Better to just slip out,’ whispered back Margaret. ‘We’ll see him when he comes back from honeymoon, won’t we?’
Fran felt undignified tears behind her eyes and a horrible lump in her throat. She nodded, unable to speak, and followed her mother out of the hall.
Chapter Six
‘CHARLES? IT’S FRAN. I’VE just got back from The Laurels.’
Fran eased off one shoe holding the receiver under her chin.
‘Oh. Right.’
‘And I’m sure I’m right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s something wrong.’
Fran heard Charles sigh. ‘Look, Fran, I was there, I told you. It was a perfectly normal death.’
‘I know. But apparently there was somebody else there as well?’
‘Yes, Barbara and Paul Denver. My cousin and her son. I told you.’
‘Did you always go together?’ Fran finally kicked off the other shoe with a sigh of relief.
‘No – it was because it was Eleanor’s birthday.’
‘Did you take her a present?’
‘Yes, I took flowers. I don’t know what Barbara took. Why?’
Fran thought for a moment. ‘Just wondered. I don’t really know much about Eleanor, do I?’
Charles laughed. ‘Or me, come to that. I could have been anybody, phoning the other day.’
‘Oh, no. I knew who you were.’ Fran had been quite certain as soon as she heard his voice. ‘And we had met before, after all.’
Murder at the Laurels Page 4
