by Holly Bell
‘Where?’
‘There, in Little Madley, as it was called then. At home in his workshop at the back of his house. Like yours, dear.’
‘How come your friend survived and he didn’t? If I may ask?’
‘They were supposed to meet in The Apple Cart, the inn there. When the air-raid warning sounded, she went into the shelter. He didn’t follow. They found him the next day when it was light, in the inn. It had collapsed. I don’t think she ever got over it entirely. After the war, she married, had children, and has outlived them all.’
‘Your friend is still alive?’
‘Yes, Violet is in Pipkin Acres Residential Home, between here and Upper Muttring. That reminds me, I must go and see her. I don’t think she has much longer, to be honest. Her mind wanders rather. I’m not entirely sure if she knows who I am. I think she goes into the past sometimes …. So many women lost their menfolk you know … hmm …’
‘You too, Miss — Gwendolen?’ Amanda asked, tentatively.
‘Oh yes, I was married.’
‘And he …?’
‘Yes, he was killed in the war.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh don’t be, dear,’ replied Gwendolen cheerily, ‘I wasn’t. He wasn’t really quite the thing.‘ She rubbed her cheek and arm absent-mindedly, which gave Amanda a pretty good clue as to the way in which he had not been ‘quite the thing’. ‘And I got a chance at another life,‘ she continued, ‘and very interesting it was too.’
Amanda’s curiosity was aroused.
‘May I ask, in what way?’
‘Well, dear, I got the chance to travel.’
‘In import-export? Tourism?’
‘In a way, dear, yes.’
‘Ah, as a rep or a buyer?’
‘As a matter of fact, it was for the British Government.’
‘You were a diplomat?’ hazarded Amanda.
‘Not exactly. I was an agent.’
‘An agent?’
‘A field agent.’
Amanda had seen enough action films to recognise the term.
‘Miss Armstrong-Witworth, you don’t mean that you were a … a spy?’
‘Oh dear, you make it sound so dramatic. It really was not like you see in the films, you know. Really not at all glamorous.’
‘But … but how were you … erm … recruited?’ Amanda’s attention was caught, the dining room table utterly forgotten.
‘Not off the street or out of a Cambridge university, no. You see, I went to work for dear Sir Ambrose, a friend of Papa’s, at the Home Office. A very minor department and just filing and typing. But it came to light that I had a certain flair for languages.’
‘Such as?’
‘I spoke fluent Russian.’
‘Russian?’
‘Yes. Dear Papa taught us. He was very fond of Russian culture. He always said that it was the language of the soul. We used to have readings from the great Russian authors every evening. We went to the Russian opera, the ballet, we sang songs, his friends from Russia visited. We had émigrés staying with us. Hmm.’ She smiled gently, reminiscing. ‘What jolly times.’
Amanda made a connection.
‘Of course. Your cats: Pushkin, after the writer, and Natasha, the heroine from War and Peace.’
‘That’s right, dear. Let me make you some tea. I can see you’ve had rather a shock.’
‘Well, it is a surprise. Here I was thinking all these years that you were just … that you …’
‘That I was a sweet little old lady.’
‘Erm, yes,’ confessed Amanda, apologetically.
‘You should know,’ said Miss Armstrong-Witworth mildly, ‘that there is no such thing as a sweet little old lady. The person might be sweet, she might be small in stature, she may be senior in years and, indeed, a lady, but not what all of those words strung together have come to mean.’
‘Clearly not,’ agreed Amanda with sincerity.
‘No, that is just a construct that has served many of us exceedingly well.’
‘How so?’
‘It acts like an invisibility cloak, rendering the wearer able to come and go and ask questions and overhear information whenever and wherever she pleases. They see me in the street and will say, “Oh, it's just Miss Armstrong-Witworth.”
‘But when they see you in the village, they say, “There goes our furniture restorer. Perran and Senara adopted her, you know. Her family perished in strange circumstances, you know, and she’s at least 30 and not yet married. What do you think of all of that?” You may not realise it, but you have glamour, my dear, you are an oddity. Doing a man’s job, living alone with just your cat for company.’
Amanda looked concerned.
‘And yet,’ continued Miss Armstrong-Witworth comfortingly, ‘you are loved, and you are our oddity. The Japanese vase that is valued all the more for the crack in the glaze.’
Amanda relaxed. She didn’t mind if people thought she was cracked. ‘That’s kind of you, Gwendolen.’
‘You see, you’re not invisible like I am, in spite of your quiet ways. Now let me get the tea.’
Amanda sat down at the dining room table and shook her head, wondering if anyone in this village was what she thought they were. Here was Miss Armstrong-Witworth, whom she thought she’d known her whole life, and all the while ….
The former spy came in from the small adjoining dining-room with the tea tray.
‘Miss, erm, Gwendolen.’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you have a gun?’
‘A pistol? Naturally,’ Miss Armstrong-Witworth replied calmly, as she poured out the tea into two bone china, hibiscus patterned, Wedgwood teacups.
‘And … did you … ever kill anyone?’
‘Yes, but they were all bad, I do assure you.’
Amanda opened her mouth to speak but no sound issued forth.
‘Drink your tea, dear.’
Amanda sipped at the delicate lapsang souchong, feeling the urge to lie down in a darkened room for half an hour with a cold compress to her temples, while the world resolved itself back into its familiar shape.
‘You’re quite right, Amanda, dear,’ said the 007 in the muslin dress. ‘People are not always what they appear to be. That is why you have to be so careful whom you trust. Especially on dating sites.’
‘You know about dating sites?’
‘This is a grange, not a convent, dear, we do have contact with the outside world. Our wifi is really quite excellent since I installed the new router.’
‘You …?’
‘Oh well, in the Service we were trained in the use of radio equipment. If you keep up with technology, it isn’t really that difficult.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to have a look at my connection sometime,’ Amanda uttered, mesmerized, ‘It’s been running slow.’
‘Of course, dear. Let me know when. Well, I must let you get on.’
Amanda was overwhelmed by a sense of unreality. Dear Miss Armstrong-Witworth who had just brought in the tea, in her pretty hat and floating gown, had had a licence to kill?
Miss Bond patted Amanda’s cheek. ‘It’s come as a shock. Then again. You with your sweet face and your child’s eyes, yes, I expect it’s something that you experience yourself quite often. Especially from gentlemen who imagine you are a helpless ingénue. I imagine they get quite a shock when it turns out that you are really quite self-sufficient. For you are not at all helpless, are you, dear?’
Amanda looked back at the gentle blue gaze. What did she mean?
Then Miss Armstrong-Witworth continued, ‘No granddaughter of Senara’s would be brought up to be helpless.’
Amanda breathed an internal sigh of relief. ‘Well. I hope that I’m reasonably independent.’
‘I’m sure you are, dear. No.’ Miss Armstrong-Witworth looked at Amanda reflec
tively. ‘You don’t need a rescuer.’ She paused then added, ‘Or a limelight grabber either. Someone with quiet intellect and humour, and the something extra, just like you. No,’ she said again as she wandered out of the room, ‘I don’t think Mr Ford will do for you.’
Mr Ford? Of course, the whole village had been speculating about her and Ryan Ford. Perhaps Miss Armstrong-Witworth was right. It crossed Amanda’s mind that much of Gwendolen’s description could apply to Trelawney, but he would not do at all either. He was too decidedly Normal, in spite of his family connexions. No, the right man would have to be someone of her magical world, and Trelawney could not be further from that.
Whoever it was … had yet to show himself.
Chapter 15
The Germans are Coming
No sooner was The Pouring finished than the villagers began talking about the next big event. The concrete was drying nicely flat, and was, at least partially, cured. Everything had gone according to plan and on schedule. It was now far more than rumour: the Germans were coming.
Inevitably, Amanda heard it from Joan.
‘That’ll be nice for Irma Uberhausfest, to have someone to talk to in her own language.’
Perran who was standing nearby, unseen, of course, by the postlady but perfectly solid to Amanda, commented, ‘Irma’s been here more years than in Germany. I’d say English is her own language.’
‘And Irma speaks it better than half the village who was born here!’ added Granny, caustically. Senara had Views on the state of the British education system.
‘I wonder how much they’ll socialise, though, Joan,’ Amanda mused, ignoring her grandparents.
‘Oh, Irma’s having one to stay. She’s got the extra rooms and sometimes does take in paying guests. Makes a nice addition to the income from her business.’
Irma Uberhausfest had the distinction of being, at 91, the oldest party planner in England. Long retired from a career in accountancy, Irma had discovered a talent for organising personalised entertainment for the over-70s. After experimenting with parties for friends, word of mouth spread sufficiently for Irma to decide on a radical life change.
She gave herself a makeover, had her hair restyled, gave her sensible wardrobe to a local charity shop, and created a new elegant, fashionable, artistic look for herself. Next Irma sold her Mercedes hatchback and obtained for herself a remarkable reconditioned VW Beetle former police vehicle, with a Porsche engine, in metallic purple. (Dazzled, Dennis Hanley-Page proposed on the spot. Irma laughed and told him that she wasn’t currently in the market for a toyboy.) Irma set up a website and got some business cards printed: Finely Aged Festivities was born.
‘Older people are not children, you know, my dear, they want more than balloons and sing-songs,’ Irma told her when Amanda went to assess the cost of post-birthday-bash repairs for the insurance. The event Irma organised for Mr Fortescue’s 80th, with a burlesque theme, featuring a dancer of the exotic variety, caused a scandal in minor parts of the village and a flood of bookings from over four counties.
It was Irma who was the second to give her the news, when Amanda popped into the post-office to dispatch a completed repair that had been sent to her. Amanda usually had insurance-funded work of some description after Irma’s parties, so they were on especially friendly terms.
‘Amanda, they are coming. So many nice young men. One who is staying with me, oh, his family is so nice.’
‘I’m sure they’re all lovely, Mrs Uberhausfest, but they all one have one drawback: they live in Germany. I live here.’
‘People move. I did.’
‘Yes, but you moved here with your husband.’
‘No, no, we do not want to lose you, Amanda. He will move here!’
‘Er, well, I think that this is all premature. They haven’t even arrived yet. Anyway what exactly does this company do?’ she asked, equally interested to know and eager to change the subject.
Irma was predictably knowledgeable. She explained that the business, Huf Haus, began with dream houses. To minimise time on site, every preparation possible was crafted in the warehouse. Each home was designed according to the customer’s needs and desires, then entire panels, walls, roof structures and beams transported to the location, and within days, stylish mini-palaces of wood and glass grew up, fixtured and fitted, ready to be inhabited, decorated and loved.
From there the company had expanded to include larger commercial buildings. The asthma research centre would be the first of its kind to grace the United Kingdom. Damian had enticed the sponsors with the idea of having a stake in architectural innovation, as well as a cause that would also be good for their own public relations.
Actually, a small team of Germans had already come and gone, working with the British builders on the concrete. A mere cameo before the main event.
‘On Monday they will be here,’ announced Mrs Uberhausfest. An inspired thought was kindled in her fun-loving soul. ‘Maybe I should throw a party for them.’
‘I’m not sure they will want one. Of course, you can ask them.’
‘Amanda,’ said Mrs Uberhausfest, looking seriously into her young friend’s eyes, ‘I see you only working. When do you have fun? Come to my next party!’
‘You can hardly take a guest to a client’s party, Mrs Uberhausfest.’
‘Oh, I can plus one if I want. You need to get out, have fun.’
‘I think your parties might be a bit much for me.’
‘Oh yes, these young people are wild, wild!’ To Irma, anyone in their 70s was designated as ‘young people’. ‘But it is good to enjoy yourself. You will think about it?’ Irma took Amanda’s hands and patted them. ‘I know your grandmother would wish me to encourage you to “hang loose” sometimes. You know, she and I, we are friends for over fifty years.’
Amanda smiled affectionately, and kissed Irma’s cheek. ‘I know, Mrs Uberhausfest. Thank you for your invitation. I promise to think about.’
‘Good. Anyway, they arrive on Monday, Monday. Many nice young men. You will see.’
Only the earliest risers saw the first arrivals: Joan the postlady and Joe the milkman from Madley Cows Dairy, naturally. Sylvia the lollipop lady (she of the circular ‘stop’ sign on a pole, used to halt traffic so that school children could safely traverse the roads twice a day) and her husband were also up, as were insomniacs, and those roused betimes by hungry infants or door-flapless cats returning late from all-nighters.
These alone witnessed, just after dawn, the headlamps of the first giant truck sweep gently through the village, and then turn off to the right to light the track to Lost Madley. The sun rose as further trucks and vans arrived. The villagers, Damian and Robin assembled. There was the inevitable wait for the British crane, and then the German team swung into action with seamless ease. By the time Amanda and Tempest arrived, late in the afternoon, whole wall panels were in place. It was a wonder, like watching a time-lapse video.
As Amanda stood transfixed, Tempest grumbled in his throat and pushed at her legs. She looked down, then followed his stare. There he was, the strange man, near the builders. But this time he was not looking at her but at one of the crew; a tall man of about Amanda’s age, she judged. He was brown-haired with golden roots. She could not tell his eye colour from a distance but thought they might be blue. Looking up from a task he had just completed, the builder caught her gazing at him and smiled. She blushed and grinned back self-consciously. Thereafter, her eyes strayed to the two men, until the construction team finished for the day.
Amanda felt she owed the smiling man an apology for staring and waved at him. He came over to say hello.
‘I’m Hugo.’
‘Hello, I’m Amanda, I’m sorry for staring at you like that. It’s just that the man in the suit was looking at you and I just wondered why.’
Hugo flicked a look around. He said quietly, ‘Do you have time for a cup of coffee perhaps? My accommodations are in Sunken Madley at the pub, The
Snout and Trough, I think?’
Amanda was surprised by his manner and invitation. Both intrigued and willing, she replied, ‘Yes, we can have coffee there.’
He went to have a word with his foreman, and soon they were sitting with hot drinks in Amanda’s favourite corner of The Other Pub.
‘The man in the suit,’ began Hugo in fluent English, with a slight Bavarian accent.
‘Yes?’
‘You see him?’
‘Yes, of course,’ answered Amanda, surprised by the question.
‘Well, no one else does. Except me. My colleagues don’t.’
‘Really? They can’t miss him. He’s right on the concrete slab.’
‘We have not reached there with the panels yet, but you will see. They will be walking straight through him.’
‘Oh,’ said Amanda. She saw Granny and Grandpa standing behind Hugo. She wondered, if he turned, whether he would be able to see them. She was sufficiently well-trained to be cautious of a trap. Was Hugo friend or foe?
However, Grandpa was giving the thumbs up sign. Hugo glanced over his shoulder to see what she was looking at. But Perran and Senara were too quick for him and, with a wink from Grandpa, had vanished.
Amanda said, ‘He’s a ghost, then.’
‘Or a recording. You know about these things?’
‘Yes, I’m a furniture restorer. My grandfather told me about them. I remember the first one I came across. A chair with a sort of roof over it? Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I came near, and stood in front of it in a certain place, I would see a man in a Victorian black suit, sitting with a maid in a long dress on his knee. When she saw me, she would look shocked and get up very quickly, and then they would disappear.’
That made Hugo laugh. ‘Exactly what I mean,’ he confirmed. ‘Yes, the man could be like that. Tell me, does he do the same thing every time he appears? And are you always in the same place when you see him?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘In fact, the first two times I saw him, he looked at me, but today I saw him looking at you.’
