‘Bloody freezing,’ said Gerald briefly. ‘Gosh.’
‘I have absolutely no idea why you would have picked this day to go on a trip like this,’ Tom said, patting the cream cashmere scarf at his neck.
‘Because we get it to ourselves and we can have a private tour,’ said Tess. ‘I told you to wrap up warm, Tom. There are spare jumpers up here,’ she said, pointing to the overhead shelves. ‘You’ll just have to put one on if you get too cold.’
They were right, though: it was a bitterly cold day in early December, when it hurt to breathe, and the air caught at the back of the nostrils and throat. Frost gripped the yew trees in the churchyard as they drove past; along the road the hanging baskets outside the Feathers were a forlorn sight, black and covered in ice. Tess patted her bag as if reassuring herself that she had everything: notes, water, mobile phone and, of course, a First Aid kit. She didn’t want to get a reputation for being the killer of old ladies. She stared out of the window. It was a lovely day for a drive, cold though it was; the air was clear and the sky was ice-blue sharp.
‘We will be back in time for tea, won’t we, dear,’ said Sherry.
Jemima looked alarmed. ‘I have to pick Gideon up at three,’ she said. ‘And Maisie has a flute lesson at three thirty. I’m afraid I really have to be back by two thirty,’ she said, her voice rising slightly hysterically, as only the English middle-class woman can make it. ‘Tess?’
‘We’ll be back well before then,’ Tess said patiently, for the third time. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I want to get back early too. ‘Cause the Christmas lights are being switched on in Thornham tonight and I don’t want to miss it,’ Sherry told Jemima.
‘Well, the children are so excited about ours.’ Jemima smiled dampeningly, and went back to reading her book.
‘Who’s switching them on?’ Gerald demanded from the back. ‘We had Dale Winton in Chislehurst last year. Funny chap. Very funny.’
‘Actually, we’ve got Frank Roberts this year,’ Sherry told him proudly.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Tom.
‘Frank Roberts, the rugby player?’ Sherry said. ‘Played for Bath for years. Runs a cab company now.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Jemima said coldly, looking up from her book.
‘I have,’ said Gerald. ‘Prop, am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ said Sherry. ‘Lives locally, ever such a nice man. So yes, we’ve got him. Who’s doing Langford?’
‘Look,’ Tess said, tapping the window as the bus slowed down for the traffic lights at the pedestrian crossing. ‘As if by magic.’
She pointed out of the window at a figure taping a poster to a wooden telegraph pole. It was Jan Allingham, chatting gaily to some unseen figure while she wrestled with curls of sellotape attached to her fingers. She turned at the sound of the bus and, catching sight of Tess in the window, waved wildly, sticking the sellotape together.
‘Are you coming tomorrow?’ she called, her voice faint through the glass. ‘Look!’
In the doorway of the health-food shop Tess saw her companion, Diana Sayers, leaning against the shut door, watching her and chatting back. She saw Tess in the window of the bus, squinted to recognize her, and then smiled back. She mouthed something. Tess couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she waved back at her, smiling.
‘So yours is tomorrow, then?’ said Sherry with relief. ‘That’s good. Avoid a clash. Who is it?’
‘Martin Riviere,’ Tess said, pointing at the crumpled poster in Jan’s hand. ‘Again.’ Jemima looked crushed.
Martin Riviere (real name: Martin Trowton) was a fairly ancient quiz show presenter, a local boy made good who had retired to a big house in the valley below Langford ten years ago, since which time—as the only celebrity in the near vicinity—he had been prevailed upon to open the church fete in Langford twice, in Thornham once, the summer fete at Langford Primary twice, made a cameo appearance at the Organ Fund Fundraising Spectacular as the Angel Gabriel, and switched on the lights in Langford now three times.
‘Oh, not again,’ said Sherry, with all the bitchiness of the local rival. ‘How boring.’
Along the high street, signs that Christmas was coming were everywhere. The lights were hung across the street, ready for tomorrow’s ceremony. The window of Knick-Knacks was filled with brown parcels tied with beautiful red velvet ribbons; Jen’s Deli had a tasteful plethora of panettone and Vacherin cheeses; but the rest of the town had no such scruples and silver-fringed signs saying ‘Merry Christmas!’ and large plastic cartoons of Santa, small pearlescent-coloured Christmas trees and pink, green, red and purple baubles and strings of fake glass beads hung in every other shop window, and every house in town. Even Tess and Liz had been involved in their own Christmas tree decorative tussle—Tess being very much of the ‘more is more’ mind-set when it came to tinsel and ornaments, and Liz, who was of the same persuasion as her boss Jen, rearing her hands up in horror every time she saw a bit of tinsel. Still, they had found agreement and their tree stood proudly in the window, the bureau having been moved out of the way so it could take pride of place in their sitting room, along with every other house in town. Almost every house.
As the minibus moved off again, Tess glanced towards Leda House, where the window boxes, like the rest of the facade, were empty, blank and a little dirty. She gazed at the shuttered window.
Lynda clutched Sandy’s hand. ‘It’s freezing in here,’ she said, shivering.
‘I know, but it’s not a long drive,’ Tess told her patiently. ‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes or so. And it really is a wonderful place, if you haven’t been there before. The bestpreserved mosaics in—oh, my God.’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Brian—stop! Stop the bus!’
The front door to Leda House was open—it was never open. She could see just inside, into the hallway; the ceiling lampshade swung in the breeze.
‘Can you stop, please, Brian?’ Tess called, her voice louder than she’d intended.
‘What?’ Brian called.
‘Just pull over, quickly,’ Tess said. ‘I just need to see something—’
Brian screeched to a halt, as the members of the Langford College A level course all tipped over to the left, and Gerald and Tom clutched each other, to stop themselves falling to the floor.
‘Don’t be long,’ Brian said. Tess shot him a look as the door swung open and she climbed down the steps. She hopped across the road and, uncertainty striking her only then, paused at the front gate and looked inside.
No one had been seen in Leda House since the funeral. Jean Forbes had received a nice pension and she and her husband had immediately shut the house up and left for a lengthy—and well-deserved—cruise. The windows were shuttered; the furniture covered in dust sheets. Peering into the darkened hall, Tess called out, ‘Hello?’
The rumbling sound of the minibus’s engine behind her was distracting. She advanced, little by little, so that she was standing on the threshold.
‘Adam?’ she called into the gloom. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out a beautiful, threadbare wine-red carpet, and on the walls row upon row of prints, on exact lines, engravings of classical ruins, of statues, pillars, temples, all in black and white. The long hallway had four white doors, two on each side; they were firmly shut, and the only remaining light came from another door, out to the big garden, with its immaculate lawn that she had glimpsed only once, when as a child she had climbed on Adam’s shoulders to peer over the thick stone wall. Tess slowly stepped further forward. She was standing on the carpet now, in the house.
Suddenly she heard footsteps, a kind of scuffling, shuffling noise, somewhere in the house. She jumped, and breathed out, in a gasp.
‘Adam?’ she said, more loudly, and moved to the staircase at the back of the hallway, looking up. She ran up the steps, peering onto the landing, around to the first floor, but all the doors there were shut, and there was no answer, no sign of anyone. And the noise had come from downst
airs, she was sure…Shaken, Tess came down the stairs again, retreating swiftly towards the front door. She peered back out onto the street, but Diana and Jan had disappeared. Perhaps the door had just blown open; there was no one there. Her fingers itched to open the sitting-room door, and she wrapped her hand round the smooth black doorknob. But she couldn’t open it, something inside her stopped her. There was no one there, and this was ridiculous. She shut the heavy front door carefully behind her and turned back to the van, where the members of her class were watching her expectantly, their faces pressed against the windows.
‘Sorry,’ she called, crossing the road again and hopping on board once more. ‘Sorry, stupid of me. Must be a gardener or something. Thought someone was back in there.’
‘Or a ghost,’ Jemima said, clutching her hand to her throat. ‘Jacquetta—you know Jacquetta Meluish? She’s my neighbour. She said her friend Carolyn said there were ghosts there…’
She looked around momentously at the others.
‘Ooh,’ Sherry whispered.
Brian nodded, unimpressed, and jerked his head, motioning for Tess to sit down, which she did. She shivered as the bus drove off again, glancing back once at the house, still shuttered up, as though its eyes were closed.
‘It was really weird,’ Tess said, that evening, hovering over her flatmate. ‘I got the feeling someone was there. I really thought there was. But it was nothing.’
‘Perhaps it was a ghost.’ Liz turned around from the hob, and licked one of her fingers. ‘Perhaps it was Leonora’s ghost. How spooky.’
‘That’s what Jemima said,’ said Tess uncertainly. ‘But I highly doubt it. I’m sure it wasn’t that at all. It was just—weird.’
‘Well,’ said Liz reasonably. ‘He has to come back some time, doesn’t he? Adam, I mean.’ She paused, and then shook her head and said, ‘Anyway, let’s get these apples started. We can put them in the fridge, for tomorrow. Why don’t you be in charge of dipping?’
‘Sure,’ said Tess, feeling like a five-year-old, but comforted by Liz’s soothing voice.
‘Here, have a lolly stick,’ said Liz. ‘Be careful before you dip them in, though. The sugar’s really hot.’
‘OK,’ said Tess meekly. She glanced at Liz quickly. Francesca had never made toffee apples. She, Tess, had never got back from a long day at work to find Francesca putting the finishing touches to a stew ‘to have later’. Nor had she ever found Francesca ironing her sheets, ‘because I was doing mine and I thought I might as well do yours at the same time.’ Francesca had bought some very expensive lavender linen spray in a cut-glass bottle which was never used. That was as close as she’d got to ironing, in the five months they’d lived together.
Tess paused, holding her apple over the golden, bubbling sugar. She wondered where Francesca was now. She had to call her again, it had been weeks since they’d spoken. Of course, she didn’t desperately miss her, it was just…
‘Tess!’ Liz cried sharply, but it was too late. Tess dropped her apple. It fell into the molten sugar with a resounding plop. The girls both leapt back, but not far enough to avoid a few small drops of boiling sugar hitting Liz’s bare forearm. She howled.
‘Shit!’ she said, composure gone. ‘That really hurts.’
‘God, I’m so sorry!’ Tess cried. ‘Oh, my God! Are you hurt?’
‘No, I’ll be fine,’ said Liz. She patted her arm. ‘Just stings. Just stings! Er,’ she said, looking round at Tess. ‘Why don’t you go into the sitting room and relax? I’ll just finish off here and then we can start supper. Sound OK?’
‘Sure,’ said Tess gravely, smothering a smile. ‘Will do. Let me know if you need any help.’
She went into the sitting room and sat on the sofa, looking at the tree with its twinkling white lights, the little stucco angel on the top that Liz had found at the church Christmas bazaar the previous week. Christmas was almost three weeks away, and she wasn’t feeling Christmassy at all, yet.
She thought back to the previous year and the flat in Balham, and how she and Meena had bought their tree from the dodgy man in the corner shop who also sold them illegal fireworks. They had gone after the pub, dragged it down the street, narrowly avoiding dog shit, and when it was back in the crowded, cold sitting room, they had lovingly festooned it with red, green and gold tinsel, some plastic lamps left over from Diwali, some gold bangles Tess had bought in Accessorize and a feather fascinator that Meena had worn to a wedding the previous summer perched on top of the tree. They had sat in silence, their arms round each other, drinking wine, and then Tess had gone to bed and cried all night: for all it was two months since she’d split up with Will, it was only that night she really realized it was over. She was leaving London, and she was moving away.
Tess shifted on the sofa, tucking her feet under her and gazing at the tree again. It was coming up for a year, now, since she’d moved back. What did she miss about London? Meena, definitely. The flat, with the bed with the loose spring that dug into her back, and the dog next door that howled in the night? No. Fair View, the optimistically named school where she’d taught? No. And yet—though it was unwelcome, Tess’s mind flashed back to earlier that day, as the Langford college A level course poked around the ruins of the villa. Gerald, looking at his watch, had said, ‘Can’t believe this place got a Lottery grant. Bloody ridiculous.’
‘These are the best mosaics we have from Roman Britain,’ Tess had pointed out to him, stamping her feet in the cold, working off some of her aggression.
‘Yup, but I don’t believe in preservation like this,’ said Gerald casually. ‘If this Roman johnny’s place wasn’t meant to survive, it wasn’t meant to survive. Much better to spend the money on widening the road here. Bloody ridiculous an A-road only has one lane on the busiest stretch.’
‘I agree with you about that, Gerald,’ said Lynda. ‘It should never have taken us an hour to get here. It’s ridiculous. Now we’ll be late getting back, too. I don’t know what they’re thinking.’
What who are thinking? Tess wanted desperately to ask, but she didn’t want to get into it and so, regretfully, said nothing, but once again the thought occurred to her: she loved teaching Classics, loved helping these people learn new things, but God, there was no satisfaction in it, compared to how it used to be. When you could interest a bored fourteen-year-old in how the Romans conquered every people around them, from Turkey to the most savage British tribes, or how the Greeks invented the Olympics, or how the general in the first Iraq war used the battle strategies written down by the ancient historian Xenophon because, distressingly, history always repeats itself, then—then you felt you were teaching people something. When you were listening to an idiot like Gerald Mottram talk about how there should be more roads built and you were actually having to pay attention to what he said…well, that was a silly job.
‘Penny for them?’ Liz called from the kitchen. Tess sighed.
‘Nothing interesting. Do you want a glass of wine?’
‘Oh, I won’t, thanks,’ said Liz. ‘Want to keep myself fresh, you know.’
Tess carried on staring into space. ‘What’s the date tomorrow?’ she said, suddenly.
‘Er…’ Liz licked some sugar off her fingers. ‘The seventh of December.’
Tess sat up. ‘That’s tomorrow?’
‘Yep,’ said Liz. ‘Christmas nearly here. Why, what’s special about the seventh?’
‘Nothing,’ Tess said. ‘It’s someone’s birthday. That’s all.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It was a bright, clear afternoon. There was a haze on the fields, a shimmering quality that was deceptively like summer; the grass was golden, and the dark green-black of the yew trees in the churchyard framed the view down across the valley.
St Mary’s was an old church, the oldest building in the town. It sat behind the high street, looking out over the countryside, its small but perfectly proportioned stone walls mellowed over the centuries into a golden-grey hue. On this crisp, cold day,
there was no one around, save Tess. She closed the gate behind her and walked briskly up the path; the faint scent of eucalyptus in her nose as she passed the porch which was festooned with boughs of pine for Christmas.
She turned into the churchyard which stretched out behind the building, looking out over the hills, and picked her way through the graves as the rooks called loudly in the trees. The same family names, Taylors, Frobishers, Edwards, repeated over and over again, the lichen-covered stones listing slightly, as if they were slumbering in the frosty, ice-blue grass. The view was beautiful. Here would be a pretty good place, she thought, to spend eternity.
At the edge of the graveyard she stopped, holding in her hands a little poinsettia plant she’d bought from the flower shop. She had found the grave she was looking for.
Philippa Smith
Beloved mother of Adam
7th December 1943-9th April 1995
Someone had recently cut the grass and a wreath already lay there; Tess looked at it, not giving it much thought, and gently put her plant down on the smooth turf. It was so quiet. She could hear a rook calling, the sound of a car on the road down towards the water meadows, and that was it. The sunlight filtered through the bare trees where the birds had built nests, casting a hazy light over the graves. She took a deep breath.
‘Happy birthday, Philippa,’ she said.
She looked again more closely at the wreath, realizing it was brand new. Philippa had been much loved; it wasn’t that strange, but this wreath was beautiful; lush, glossy ivy leaves and white lilies, shot through with red beads of holly berries and a card resting on top, in handwriting she didn’t recognize.
Always my beloved mum. I miss you every day. Adam xx
Tess stared at the card, suddenly hot even in the chill, but then she realized he must have paid someone to leave the wreath there. It wasn’t Adam’s handwriting, it was a stranger’s, and she should just calm down. She closed her eyes and thought of Philippa. Funny to think she would be sixty-five today—she was older than Tess’s mother, and yet she had always seemed younger, younger than most of her parents’ generation. Perhaps it was her attitude. Where had it come from? Tess breathed in, thinking of how well she still remembered Philippa—her bouncing, curly hair, her ready, wide smile, her penchant for terracotta-coloured clothing, straw bags, wide skirts with deep pockets into which she was continually thrusting her hands enthusiastically, her terrible obsession with tagines, joss sticks, and mangoes. She loved mangoes—she was always serving them up when they went round for tea, and Tess and Stephanie hated them. She gave a little chuckle. Perhaps she should eat a mango, as a birthday tribute to her and to her son.
I Remember You Page 39
