Every Woman for Herself

by Trisha Ashley

  With my meagre wages from the nursery I’d purchased an economy-sized can of one-coat pale yellow emulsion and was obliterating flowered wallpaper in my kitchen/diner/bedroom.

  ‘I’ve got you another job,’ Em said casually.

  ‘What do you mean? What sort of job?’

  ‘Caitlin’s nanny. Mace took her away from the Rainbow Nursery because she didn’t like it, and now he’s finding it hard to concentrate on writing his play, so he needs someone to look after her in the mornings while he works.’

  ‘But he doesn’t like me!’

  ‘I don’t know why you think that – and anyway, Caitlin likes you; she said she wanted you. It’ll be fine. You can bring her to the Parsonage, and take her for walks and things. You’re starting at nine-thirty tomorrow, and he’s going to pay you London wages.’

  ‘But Em, he saw me bashing melons the other day – he can’t want someone he thinks is loopy. And he can’t know about Greg either! You must have forced him to offer me the job.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t force him. I just suggested it when I popped in with some melon and ginger jam,’ she said, slightly selfconsciously. ‘He probably thinks you have to bash the melons as part of the process or something. He didn’t mention it, anyway. And I don’t think anyone round here other than the family know about Dead Greg. It only made your local paper, after all, thanks to that earthquake and the lurid sex-murder trial.’

  ‘Jessica knows.’

  ‘Yes, but I told her if word got out we’d know it was her, and we’d kill her and put the body down the old well, so that’s okay.’

  The image of a tiny Jessica looking up from the bottom of a well sort of twitched my painting nerve.

  ‘Did you take the vicar any jam?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘Not yet … but I might,’ she said, smiling in an unusually Mona Lisa way. ‘And one of my advance copies of Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort.’

  When Em and Frost had gone up the Parsonage stairs I assembled my melon-bashing equipment in the garden. (Ripe ones are so messy.)

  First, the stand Walter made, Greg-high and spiked to hold the melon still. Then I positioned the fatal kitchen steps and climbed up holding the pan …

  This time I checked there was no one on the track before I took the first swing.

  The blow connected solidly, but the sound was too soggy.

  The second landed fair and square too, and it almost sounded right …

  I set the last one up, climbed back up on the steps, and lifted the pan high, as if it was hanging on the hook. Then I shifted to a two-handed tennis racquet grip to swing it down and—

  ‘What are you doing?’ enquired the vicar curiously, his head bobbing up right next to me.

  The pan had begun its inexorable swing, missing Chris by a hair’s breadth and connecting with that oh-so-familiar-from-my-nightmares meaty ‘thunk!’.

  The melon bounced off its spike rather gruesomely and rolled away.

  ‘That was the sound!’ I said, amazed. ‘That was it! And I couldn’t stop the pan, even though I was afraid I was going to hit you.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you couldn’t, not from that height and holding it like that,’ he agreed. ‘Once it started to swing down, that would be it. Did you mean to hit the melon?’

  He sounded interested rather than surprised, so after he’d helped me take everything into the cottage I made some coffee and prepared to Confess All, which I suppose vicars are quite used to.

  ‘I expect people tell you this sort of thing all the time,’ I finished.

  ‘Not really,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘Still, I hope you are now truly satisfied that you didn’t mean to kill this Greg?’

  ‘I am now … and even the noise was right. It felt – cathartic.’

  ‘Good. Accept that what happened really wasn’t your fault, and although it will be hard to live with the memory of it, it was just an accident brought on by his own actions.’

  ‘I only hope his wife, Angie, accepts that too – she was feeling very bitter and vindictive towards me after the inquest, and she’s sent me poison-pen type letters threatening to come here and tell everyone about me.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ he said charitably. ‘If she does, I will speak to her and offer her comfort.’

  She might be interested, at that, but I do not think they will both define ‘comfort’ in the same way.

  I sat back in the old wooden rocking chair and everything suddenly looked subtly different, as if it had all shifted in space slightly and become brighter. I felt reborn: a slightly dazed new phoenix Charlie arising from the ashes of her old nest.

  ‘Do you know, Chris, I think I could paint again? I’m going to paint Jessica down the old well.’

  ‘Oh? I understood from Em you only painted the jungle.’

  ‘I do, but Jessica’s going to be at the heart of the next one, far, far down a well, looking up.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘I expect there’s something deeply Freudian about that, but we won’t pursue it. I’m glad you’re feeling better.’

  ‘Yes, and once I’m painting I won’t need another job. Em’s got me a temporary one, looking after Mace North’s little girl in the mornings while he writes, but I expect the cottage is just a whim. A famous star won’t want to hang about in Yorkshire for very long, will he?’

  ‘I rather selfishly hope not,’ he confessed, looking glum. ‘She – Em – likes him, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She does find him interesting,’ I admitted, ‘but he’s frightened of her. I expect that’s how she got me the job.’

  ‘Frightened of her? How can anyone be frightened of her?’

  I looked at him with dawning respect. ‘Yes, but she’s a witch.’

  ‘She certainly is,’ he agreed enthusiastically. ‘She’s put a spell on me. Did you give her my message?’

  ‘Yes, it’s taken her by surprise.’

  As long as she doesn’t take the actor by surprise … although I suppose he would be more suitable for Em’s purposes than a vicar, even if I don’t particularly like him.

  Poor Chris! He’s obviously seeing her through the eyes of love – and he’s really rather attractive. And I never was keen on the idea of Em embracing the Black Arts – she’s so very thorough.

  But could an alliance between Wicca and Church work? I must speak to Gloria and see what she thinks.

  And I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to tell Mace about Dead Greg before he finds out from someone else. If he doesn’t want me to take care of Caitlin after that, it’s fine by me.

  Tips for Southern Visitors, no. 4:

  In some parts of Northeast England, a man would rather kill himself overtaking on a blind bend at seventy miles an hour than drive a hundred yards behind a woman.

  When I went up to his cottage next morning there was a sleek, sporty red car pulled up outside it which hadn’t been there before. The actor’s car is some low, dark thing.

  Caitlin opened the door, her fingers to her lips: ‘Ssh! Come into the kitchen – Mummy’s here, and she and Daddy are having a talk in the living room.’

  Indeed, even as she drew me into the kitchen I heard a husky voice drawl: ‘… buried out here in the cultural desert!’

  But there she was quite wrong, for there are lots of blue-blooded Russian émigrés in Huddersfield, all enjoying soirées, the dance, theatre, ballet. A stray Tartar would be quite at home.

  ‘Perhaps I should go away and come back la—’

  ‘There you are,’ snapped Mace North from the doorway, as if I was hours late. ‘Caitlin, go and put your things on and Charlie can take you for a nice walk.’

  ‘It’s brass-monkey cold out there,’ I said. ‘I’ll take her down to the Parsonage.’

  ‘Wherever,’ he said abstractedly.

  ‘Is that the nanny you mentioned?’ said the low, slightly husky voice, and Mace’s ex-wife, the actress Kathleen Lovell, peered around him. She looked me up and down critically with huge brown eyes in a ga
untly pretty face.

  Up to that moment I’d felt quite good in my jumble-sale denim trousers and dark green suede jacket, but now I felt like the hired help. Come to that, I was the hired help.

  ‘You’re tiny, aren’t you? And not so very young – I expect you’re glad of the job. Would you like to come to America with us after the wedding?’

  As job interviews go, it was a bit sketchy.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m staying here.’

  ‘And so is Caitlin,’ said Mace with a steely note in his voice.

  ‘Of course – for now,’ she agreed. ‘I’m just back from Morocco,’ she said to me. ‘I’ve been filming The Return of the Sheik – you must see it, it’s too scary for words! The Sheik is a ghost, drawn back by my golden-haired, voluptuous beauty, but ours is a love that can never be.’

  ‘No, I can imagine,’ I agreed.

  ‘That’s the last fat part I’m going to play,’ she added firmly. ‘I’m going to lose a stone for the wedding, and then I’ll be thin enough for roles in America – you have to be skinny to get anywhere over there. My fiancée, Rod – Rod Steigland, you know, the actor? – is going to insist I’m the female lead in his next film.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got a stone to lose,’ I said, amazed, for she looked even more of a collection of bird bones than Jessica. ‘Or even an ounce!’

  ‘Sweet of you,’ she drawled. ‘But thin is the new fat – it simply isn’t good enough. Are you sure you don’t want to be our nanny and come to America?’

  ‘I wonder if you’d excuse us, Charlie?’ Mace interrupted. ‘Kathleen and I have got a lot to discuss before she has to leave. Caitlin will be down in a minute.’

  ‘But—’ I began, because surely Kathleen would want to see something of her little girl before she went off again? But the door to the living room closed firmly behind them. And then, as is the way with old doors, quietly clicked open again, just a hairline.

  A better person might have gone to round up Caitlin, or waited outside. I edged a little nearer to the door, and listened, fascinated. It was like hearing a play on radio with an exceptional cast: the enunciation was superb.

  ‘I’d like to have Caitlin make her main home here in England with me, Kathy,’ Mace said quietly. ‘If you remember, I didn’t go for custody because we agreed that we’d share time with her and do whatever was best for Caitlin.’

  ‘Well, we have, haven’t we? And you can still see her. I mean, Rod’s got a flat in London, you’ve got a house there, and you come over to the USA sometimes to make films.’

  ‘Not so often – my ambitions have changed in the two years we’ve been apart, Kathleen. I see my future now mainly play-writing and maybe the odd cameo role.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s right for you. Go while you’ve still got what it takes.’

  ‘Yes, but it means I’m the one with the stable home, while you’re jetting about from one place to the next leaving Caitlin with a series of nannies. It would make more sense if she lived with me and came to you for holidays.’

  ‘You’re just jealous of Rod, because Caitlin likes him! You can’t bear the idea of another man being her daddy!’ said Kathleen, her voice rising. ‘You only married me because I was pregnant!’

  ‘I’m glad she likes Rod – I like Rod too, the poor harmless mutt. But I’m still her father, and I don’t want her living on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Well, I’m her mother, and you will just have to put up with it!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.

  ‘Not if I apply for custody. I know one or two things about you, Kathleen, that a judge might be interested in!’ he said, his voice hard.

  ‘Well here’s something you didn’t know,’ Kathleen said with deadly venom. ‘Caitlin isn’t yours!’

  At this interesting moment Caitlin galloped back into the kitchen, wearing her teddy suit and with her wellies on the wrong feet, so I quickly ushered her out of the cottage.

  Behind me it had gone ominously silent, until I heard Mace say, in a quiet but carrying voice that brought goose bumps up on the back of my neck:

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Then I regretfully had to close the front door.

  I began to feel sorry I’d never seen him act in anything.

  * * *

  Em was in the kitchen, and so, to my surprise, were the twins, perched on chairs with their arms up to the elbows in mixing bowls.

  Frost and Flossie were in hopeful attendance, lightly dusted with flour.

  ‘What are you making?’ demanded Caitlin excitedly, bouncing up and down in her little flowered wellies.

  ‘I’m making rock cakes, and Febe is making gingerbread,’ Clo said importantly. ‘Do you want to join in?’

  I divested Caitlin of her teddy suit and wellies, wrapped her in a pinafore and stood her on a chair.

  ‘You can make chocolate slab,’ Em said, tossing digestive biscuits into another bowl. ‘Here, take this rolling pin and bash these biscuits to pieces.’

  ‘Where’s everyone?’ I asked Em as the girls beat the ingredients to death, squealing.

  ‘Father’s working. His agent’s taken to calling him on an hourly basis, so he’s finally shaken off the tart and got on with it. The said tart’s gone off in a huff, shopping, but the girls didn’t want to go.’

  ‘I thought they liked shopping?’

  ‘Seem to have gone off it – and they wouldn’t put dresses on this morning, only jeans. She didn’t like that, either.’

  ‘Well, they’re only children. You can’t have much fun if you’re trying to keep expensive clothes clean.’

  ‘Anne’s gone for her treatment, but she says she’ll tell them some more stories later – and she’s bringing them an effing present.’

  We exchanged slightly incredulous stares.

  ‘Bran’s in his room, working – he’s nearly fit to go back, I think. It’s not long before he’ll be home again for Christmas, anyway. Walter’s watching the TV, and Gloria’s in there too, with the ironing.’

  How cosy it all sounded … and soon it will be Christmas – at home – without Matt!

  ‘Mace was having an argument with his ex-wife when I came out,’ I told her. ‘She’s beautiful, but even skinnier than Jess.’

  ‘Gloria says Mace’s reputation with women is terrible,’ Em said.

  ‘Does she? How does she know?’

  ‘Surprise! magazine. She gets it every week. She doesn’t like you going down there to look after Caitlin so she’s going to read your tea leaves, to see if you’re safe.’

  ‘Of course I’m safe! I hardly think he’s even registered that I’m a woman – just a useful version of the village idiot,’ I assured her.

  * * *

  When I took Caitlin home, tired, grubby and with a cake tin of edible goodies for Daddy, there was no sign of the sports car or its glamorous occupant.

  In its place was a battered motorbike, and the vicar and Mace were in earnest discussion in the kitchen.

  It seemed a bit early for whisky.

  It was certainly no time to explain about Dead Greg either, which was a pity, for in my brief absence someone had scrawled ‘Murderess!’ on the verandah windows in harpy-red lipstick.

  Looked like Angie’d arrived.

  Chapter 14

  In Combat

  Tips for Southern Visitors, no. 5:

  People will be quite kind to you when they realise you are from the South, because you can’t help it.

  My painting of Jessica Down the Well is coming along nicely, and I have a little row of tiny primed white canvases awaiting my attention.

  Jessie was not at her best this morning: first she kicked up a fuss because the washing she left in the machine last night had been decanted onto the floor, although she should have known from past experience that getting up early to take it out herself was her best option.

  Then she made a bit of a scene at breakfast, when the twins showed her the presents Anne had brought them back from tow
n, although they were only new outfits for their Barbies.

  The girls’ dolls were now fetchingly attired in army fatigues à la Action Man.

  ‘They don’t do Action Woman yet,’ explained Febe earnestly, ‘or Anne would have got those, but these fit okay. Anne usually buys men’s clothes anyway, especially waistcoats, because you need loose, practical clothes in a war zone. See – my Barbie’s wearing a flak jacket.’

  ‘And mine’s got army boots on, and when we get home from school, Anne’s going to help us to camouflage their helmets with grass and twigs!’ said Clo eagerly.

  ‘But Barbies aren’t soldiers,’ Jessica said earnestly. ‘And Action Man is for little boys!’

  ‘But I’ve just explained – these are Action Women,’ said Febe impatiently. ‘Really, Mummy!’

  ‘But Mummy’s always taught you that war is wrong!’

  ‘Yes, but if it happens, someone’s got to report it, haven’t they?’ Febe said sensibly. ‘Anne goes on the TV. When she’s better she’s going back, and then we can see her on the news!’

  ‘Mummy,’ wheedled Clo. ‘Could I have a Movie Director Barbie?’

  Thrown off balance, Jessica said, with relief: ‘Of course, darling! That will be much more fun, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes – then my Barbie can be the camerawoman recording Febe’s Barbie for TV,’ Clo agreed.

  ‘Call your sister Phoebe, Chloe. I don’t like these abbreviations.’

  ‘Clo, Mummy. And Phoebe’s always going to be Febe now: we’ve decided.’

  That was the final straw and Jessica forbade them to have anything more to do with Anne, a condition impossible to impose in the circumstances.

  Father had had enough by then, and said he was glad to discover the twins were not just the brainless, giggling little imbeciles he’d thought them, and then Jessica turned on him and tried to have a row.

  Father doesn’t like rows, so he scowled and went off into his study, locking the door; so at least he will get some work done today.

  ‘Em, can we have treacle tart and cream tonight?’ wheedled Clo. ‘It’s my favouritest pudding in all the world.’

  ‘And mine,’ agreed Febe. ‘Mummy, Em calls you the Treacle Tart – is that because you’re scrumptious, too?’