by Jo Verity
There was a new car parked in the yard and, when they came closer, they could see a pair of legs poking from beneath it. Mark (recognisable by his cavalry twills) was engaged in doing what he most enjoyed – car maintenance. He jumped up, eager to regale them with a blow-by-blow account of his purchase, from the moment he saw it in ‘The Advertiser’ to the moment he clinched the deal. ‘One careful little-old-lady owner. Just the job.’
Anna found car-talk as tedious as golf-talk, and slipped away. Through the kitchen window of Number Two she spotted Celia and Judith and they beckoned her to join them. They were sitting at the table sorting through a pile of photographs, all of which showed Judith at various stages of growing up. Celia gathered them together, shoved them rather furtively into a brown envelope and placed it in the drawer.
As a child, Judith’s features had been boyish and too large for her face. Now she was a striking young woman. Handsome, not beautiful, she was dark with a strong nose and full lips. Her hair was thick and jet-black. It had crossed Anna’s mind, more than once, that one of her birth parents might be Indian or South American. When her own children were small, people constantly remarked on their resemblance to her and Tom. Celia, with her see-through skin and pale eyes, would never have received such comments.
‘Maddy’s very excited abut the baby,’ said Judith. ‘She’s told me all about her new home. And the little boy. Arthur, is it?’
It sounded as if Judith were better informed than she was about Maddy’s life and plans for the future. She wanted to cross-question her but pride prevented it. ‘Yes, Arthur is delightful. He sends me beautiful drawings.’ Was that enough to give the impression that she was au fait with her daughter’s new life?
‘Now Dad’s found me this car, maybe I can go and visit them. D’you get there often? It can’t be far from here.’
Mark saved her from the shameful admission that they had never visited. He stuck his head round the door, telling them that he and Tom were going to check the grass in the fields. ‘We have to make a decision about it. Apparently it’s growing.’
‘You might ask Bill to go with you,’ suggested Celia.
Suddenly Anna longed for her daughters. When the girls first left, this desolation had swept over her several times a day, making her physically ill. As time went by it, happened less frequently but it was just as intense and now, overwhelmed by it, she made her farewells and went home.
She checked the machine but there were no messages. Maddy had given her a phone number, making it clear that it was only to be used in emergencies. This surge of loneliness and loss certainly felt like an emergency and she debated whether she could invent a reason for phoning. She had no idea what the set-up was in the Leighton household. What if Charles Leighton answered? It made her cross to admit that she was intimidated by his celebrity status.
She tried Flora’s number but there was no reply. Then she rang Steven. Nothing. When her father didn’t answer either, she panicked. It was six-thirty on a Saturday evening. He rarely went out after tea, which he ate at about five o’clock. Of course his routine might have changed since Dorothy Holton – no, she was Dorothy Hill now – took up residence. Where were they all? They must all be out, having a lovely time, while she was on her own. Before she knew it she was sobbing and then, because she’d started crying, she could find no reason to stop.
Arms enclosed her and she turned, clinging to Tom. The smell and the voice were wrong and she pulled away but Bill held her tight, stroking her hair and making soothing noises. ‘There, there. Deep breaths.’ He leaned his cheek on the top of her head, crushing her face into his shirt. ‘My poor Anna. My poor love.’
‘Stop it.’ She jerked her head back, catching the side of his nose, and he released her, putting his hands up to his face. His nose was bleeding, the blood trickling through his fingers, running down from wrist to elbow, where it soaked into his rolled shirt-sleeve. It kept coming, dripping in dark splats onto the stone floor. He put his head back and staggered towards the sink.
Shaking, she ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom. All that crying had exhausted her. Her face was blotchy, her eyelids swollen. The mottled rash which flared up whenever she was agitated was spreading down her neck. She pulled her clothes off and stepped into the shower, scrubbing herself from head to toe. When she had finished she started at the top and did it again, until finally she stood motionless, letting the scalding stream run over her.
She was drying herself when there was a soft knock at the door. It was Tom. ‘You OK?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘There’s something on the floor in the kitchen. It looks like blood. I thought you might have cut yourself.’
‘It is. Blood, I mean. From the meat. The beef. For tomorrow.’
‘Well, it needs mopping up.’
She listened to his footsteps, retreating down the stairs, and she was alone again.
18
Anna flipped the calendar over. The picture for June was a crop circle near Marlborough. She pencilled in the birthdays for the coming month, without reference to her birthday book. Tom watched her for a while, then accused her of wasting brain capacity. ‘What should I be using my brain for, then?’ she asked.
‘Original thought. Logic. Creative things. Not storing stuff that can be written in a book, that’s for sure.’
It would be a pity to sulk on such a beautiful morning. ‘Anything you want to do today?’ She was determined to enthuse about whatever he might suggest.
‘If everyone’s around, we ought to make a final decision about the grass. We need to call a house-meeting.’
‘But what about Bill?’
‘He can’t hide forever. He’s got to come out of there, sooner or later.’
‘You could try writing him a note. Tell him you need his opinion. Make him feel important.’
‘Good idea.’
Tom hurried off to contact the others and to compose a note to Bill.
She took a cup of tea across to her studio. The shelves in the alcove were full of pieces she’d made for her project but Sally’s departure had put paid to all that. There was a chance that she could sell the pottery in one of the local craft shops. ‘Paradise’ was a satisfying word and it was conceivable that it might apply to someone’s life.
She was pounding clay when she heard a voice. ‘Hello there. Hello.’ She wiped her hands on her smock and went to see who it was. An angel stood in the yard with a rucksack on his back, where his wings should be. He was holding an armful of wild flowers. The tangle of his auburn hair glowed in the sunshine like a fiery halo. His smile revealed the whitest teeth. ‘Hi. You must be Anna. There’s no mistaking you. I’m Brendan.’ He squeezed her hand and she was happy to leave it in his while he explained, ‘I’m a friend of Maddy’s. I was with the Travellers until just before Christmas. Since then I’ve been in Ireland. I need to go back there, now and again.’
‘You have family there?’
‘I have family everywhere.’
They walked towards the house and he told her that on his return to England, he’d discovered that Maddy had moved on. He’d spent the last few days searching for her. ‘She talked about you a great deal. It wasn’t too difficult to track you down.’ He handed her the wild flowers: yarrow, campion, scabious and honeysuckle. She took one of her tall vases and filled it with water. ‘Maddy told me you make wonderful pots.’ She placed the flowers in water, wondering how this young man knew so much about her, when she’d never heard his name mentioned. They drank tea and she took a closer look at him.
He was a little older than he first appeared. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with the freckled skin of the redhead, wild hair down to his shoulders and silver rings through his ears and one eyebrow. Not a handsome face but soft and open. His grey-green eyes were fringed with dark lashes. Was he wearing a touch of mascara? But it was his voice that did it. She could never resist the Irish lilt.
He asked about Maddy but something told her to hold back
, and she was vague about her daughter’s whereabouts. She said nothing about the baby but asked Brendan if he knew Taliesin, adding, ‘He was the only one of her traveller friends that we met.’
‘I never liked the man myself. Far too gloomy and sensible. I shouldn’t think he’s Maddy’s cup of tea, either. Didn’t he have that weird little kid?’ He laughed and held out his mug for a refill.
She showed him the garden. He knew a great deal about hedgerow plants and their medicinal properties. He told her how to make a healing poultice from the comfrey that grew in abundance up the lane and pointed out the tiny milkwort lying low in the rough grass. ‘In Ireland, the fairies use it as soap,’ he said. By the time they found Tom in the vegetable garden, she’d known Brendan all her life.
‘But we only have his word for it,’ said Tom when Brendan was taking a shower. ‘If he’s going to stay here tonight, we’d better be sure that nothing’s left lying about.’
‘I could ring Maddy and check, if you like,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll do it now, before he comes down.’ She ignored his sceptical gaze.
While the phone rang and rang, she composed a literate message in case Charles Leighton answered. When she was about to give up, someone lifted the receiver. A child said ‘Hello.’ It was Arthur. She told him who she was. ‘I hoped you’d phone me one day but I expect you want Maddy. I’ll get her for you.’ Before she could talk to him, he’d gone, his light voice echoing as he shouted. ‘Maddy. It’s Anna.’
The slap of her daughter’s shoes on the floor grew louder and it took an age for her to reach the phone. The Leighton house must be vast. She pictured a Victorian villa, built by an English industrialist for his Welsh mistress.
‘Mum? Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. We’re all fine. Someone’s turned up here, looking for you.’ She gave the details of Brendan’s arrival. ‘Was I right to ring?’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the shower. What d’you want me to do?’ There was silence at the other end. ‘Maddy?’
‘Hang on, I’m just thinking. Right. I’ll phone you in about an hour. Act surprised. Don’t tell him you’ve spoken to me already. And please don’t mention that I’m pregnant. You haven’t, have you?’
When she returned to the kitchen Tom was sharpening his penknife. He looked up, waiting to hear what his daughter had said, but Anna ignored him.
Brendan had changed his clothes. He was wearing a white collarless shirt and dark green corduroy trousers. His wet hair appeared darker and, where it had already dried, formed tight curls. For some reason, the sight of the pale skin on his bare feet embarrassed her and she glanced away. He looked as if he had walked out of a Hardy novel.
Brendan kept up an easy flow of conversation. His tales were amusing and he told them well but, throughout the meal, she sat stiff with anticipation, her hands gripping her fork, her shoulders hunched. Tom concentrated on his food, answering in monosyllables when a question was addressed to him.
At last, the phone rang and she hurried to answer it, enunciating clearly, as if in an elocution class, ‘Hello. Maddy. What a nice surprise. You’ll never guess who we’ve got here. Brendan. Would you like a word?’ She raised her voice further. ‘Brendan. It’s Maddy.’
Brendan took her place and she returned to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. ‘Why did you do that?’ asked Tom.
‘What?’
‘Shut the door.’
‘It seemed polite. I don’t know.’
‘What could he need to say to her that we shouldn’t hear? I think it’s asking for trouble. She’s just getting her life in some sort of order and now you’re pushing this man at her. He doesn’t convince me. But, you’ve made your mind up.’
She carried the plates over to the sink. Tom had a habit of playing Pontius Pilate when things became complicated.
‘She’d like a word with you,’ said Brendan when he came back into the kitchen.
Maddy told her mother that she was planning to come to Pen Craig the next day, alone. Art would be at school and Taliesin needed to be there to meet him. She might stay a day or two. She’d ring when her bus got in.
Brendan had finished the dishes and Tom was studying a magazine which she knew he’d read, from cover to cover, weeks ago. She told them about Madeleine’s visit
‘It’ll be grand to see her,’ said Brendan.
‘She shouldn’t be bouncing around on a bus.’ Tom shook his head.
‘What shall we do this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Anyone fancy a walk?’
‘I’ve got work to do,’ Tom said, heading upstairs.
‘Could I be a bit cheeky and ask if I can practise my flute? Only if I won’t be a nuisance,’ said Brendan.
She took him to the summerhouse and showed him where they kept the key. Once inside, he put his hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry about me, Anna. I’m used to it. Animosity. Rejection. Some people are very afraid of the outsider. But others, like yourself and Maddy, are open to new experiences.’ He moved his hand along her arm. ‘You’re tense. Relax.’
She longed to stay but it wasn’t an option. ‘See you later,’ she mumbled and headed towards the garden.
She worked, accompanied by his music. She had assumed he would play jolly jigs and plaintive folk songs but what she was hearing was a concerto, the runs and trills complex and flawlessly executed. No doubt about it, Brendan was an accomplished flautist. The music wafted through the air, drawing her back to the summerhouse. She stood out of sight, behind the bushes, listening.
A car coming up the lane broke the spell. Doors slammed and there were shouts and laughter from the yard. Curiosity overcame her and she found Flora and Luke taking bags from the car. Bill was there, too.
Flora hurried to kiss her. ‘Hi, Mum. Surprise, surprise. We’re giving Luke’s new car a run.’ Over Flora’s shoulder, she could see Luke and Bill shaking hands. The last time Luke had visited, Sally had been there to fuss her son and have his favourite meal on the table.
‘Come on. Let’s find Dad and put the kettle on.’ Flora craned her ears from side to side. ‘Can I hear music?’
‘Tell you later,’ said Anna, guiding Flora into the kitchen. ‘Tom. Come on down. We’ve got a visitor.’
They were on their second cup of tea when Brendan appeared, carrying his silver flute. Anna made the introductions and invited him to join them. There were very few women who could have resisted the young man’s charms and soon Flora was giggling, cheeks pink and eyes flashing.
Tom went back to work and she followed him. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with all of you. It’s painful to watch. I thought Flora, at least, would see through him. He’s a con man and you’re all falling for it.’
‘Don’t be silly. A con man’s up to something illegal. OK, Brendan’s a bit of a charmer but that doesn’t make him a criminal.’
Tom took up his pencil and she was dismissed.
This time yesterday, she had been desperate to connect with her children. Now, unbidden, they were gathering around her. Flora and Luke had both taken the following day off work and didn’t have to return to Bristol until the next evening. It would be nice for the girls to catch up with each other. They might even manage a few hours together before falling out.
She prepared the spare rooms. One of the biggest wrenches, when they moved, had been leaving the bedrooms where the girls had grown up. Even after they had left home, they remained ‘Flora’s Room’ and ‘Madeleine’s Room’. She’d prised the ceramic name-plates from the doors, unwilling to leave them for strangers to discard, and they were in one of the many boxes, still waiting to be unpacked.
Bullying and coaxing duvets into clean covers, she remembered that they had another guest. Where would she put Brendan?
She thought back to Flora and Luke’s arrival. Did they look like ‘a couple’? It was difficult to tell. Bill’s gloomy presence had dominated and everyone was trying, too hard, to gloss over Sally’s absence. It certainly hadn’t been the r
ight moment to announce a liaison.
The house filled with noise. Flora and Brendan were laughing together in the kitchen. Tom was listening to Miles Davis in his office. All these people around and she was on her own once again. In their bedroom she gathered armfuls of dirty clothes. It had been her mother’s trick to use a pair of knickers, en route to the washing machine, as a duster. This dual use made perfect sense to her and she began wiping the dust from the sills and the bedside tables with the boxer shorts Tom had worn the previous day. She moved to the chest of drawers and shunted the surface clutter to the one end. The chest was dark mahogany and had belonged to Tom’s grandmother. When she wiped the dust away, it shone like a conker, fresh out of its casing. She pushed the bits and pieces to the other end. Tom’s watch, her hairbrush, a bus timetable, some pegs, the beads that Arthur had given her. And the missing black velvet box.
She rattled it, expecting it to be empty but it wasn’t and she eased the lid open. They certainly looked like the original earrings. The necklace that Tom had given her was safely stashed in the lower compartment of her wooden jewellery box and she compared them. A perfect match. She inspected the gold wires but they shone, bright and clean. How could she tell whether they had ever been worn – by her or Mrs. Prosser?
There were several ways they could have found their way back to the chest of drawers but it was difficult to juggle the possibilities in her head. She found a piece of paper and jotted down the options:
Tom bought a replacement pair – ie. the pair I saw Mrs P. wearing WAS mine.
Tom found the original pair somewhere in the garden – ie. The pair Mrs P. wore WAS NOT mine. (But how on earth had they fallen out of the wall?)
Tom saw Mrs P. wearing them and persuaded her to give them/sell them to him to replace the missing ones. (If so, did he ask her how she came by them?)
Prosser has put them on the chest. When? How? Why did he give them to his wife then take them back?
