The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  ‘I see why it was closed down in the end,’ said Elliott.

  ‘I have no idea how they got away with functioning for so long. I think Ofsted must have been bribed for years to keep it open.’

  ‘We live in a very corrupt world.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  They walked on, around the high wall that was now topped with razor wire. Anyone who knew the place wouldn’t have broken in, only out.

  ‘Outside the first-year dormitory was a staircase that didn’t lead to anywhere: it was very odd. We thought a door at the top must have been bricked over. If you went up a couple of steps, sometimes a coldness would descend, a freezing sensation that was very scary. There. You can see where there once was a window.’ Sophie pointed upwards. ‘There was a story circulating that a pupil had died in there and the icy spot was where her ghost sat. Something angry and trapped and dead.’ The thought of being held in that place forever made Sophie shiver. It was bad enough being there for a snippet of time, never mind eternity. ‘The rumour was she was beaten to death by a teacher and her body hidden in the walls. The school explained her disappearance by saying she had eloped with one of the gardeners. Despite the lack of any evidence to support that story, we all believed it.’

  ‘Did they hit the pupils there?’ asked Elliott.

  ‘They still used to when I first went there, right up until I was thirteen, when it was finally made illegal in independent schools,’ said Sophie tightly. ‘There was one teacher in particular who would whack you with a cane at any opportunity. Miss Egerton. She’d been a nun once. We all hated her with an absolute passion. She was cruel. I thought she was a shrivelled-up old woman when I was there, but I suppose she must have been not more than ten years older than I am now. Even when she couldn’t hit us any more, she still carried her cane with her everywhere and would whack the furniture instead. The sound of it whistling past your ear set your nerves on edge. Not being able to use it made her even more frustrated and vicious. And Miss Branchester used to smack us with thorny rose stems if we didn’t arrange our flowers properly. It doesn’t sound very brutal but it really hurt.’

  ‘There was a big scandal when the school eventually closed, wasn’t there? Huge. A lot of parents said that they had no idea what was going on within the walls,’ said Elliott.

  ‘I doubt that,’ huffed Sophie. ‘Most girls were sent there because their parents knew exactly what was going on within the walls. Centre of academic excellence of course, but with an added hidden curriculum. It was run like some warped Swiss finishing school. They were determined to quash my spirit.’

  ‘I don’t think they quite managed,’ said Elliott.

  Sophie disputed that. Sophie the Trophy was hardly known for being her own woman. If anything, she was the enemy of strong women. She existed in the shadow of her husband, she was good enough to work for him but not good enough to be given a wage for it. She bowed to his will and for her pains he humiliated her in the worst way possible whilst lecturing the British public on keeping their own houses in order. And that same British public now believed that Sophie the Trophy was presently being massaged and pampered back to health, following a mental anomaly, so that she could stand up and tell them all how she had forgiven her very silly husband, that she must learn from this, take it on the chin because it was entirely her own fault that this episode had occurred. She really must learn to be a better wife.

  St Bathsheba’s had made her cold and controlled, unspontaneous and overly cautious, apart from one wonderful summer when she had run wild with a pack of sun-painted kids and leapt in lakes and laughed.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Sophie, turning her back on the building. ‘I hope they knock it down and build something modern where people can have fun. It was a terribly grim place and I think unhappiness can stain a building indelibly.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Elliott. ‘Or people can colour it with their happiness. Kitty Henshaw loved the almshouse which is why it has such a merry feel to it. Has she visited you yet, Pom?’

  ‘I thought I heard something moving around last night but I must have been dreaming,’ said Sophie, with an inner chuckle.

  Slattercove had a weird mix of shops on its High Street, such as The Knit Nurse woolshop, the Whitby Animal Welfare charity shop, a handmade sweet and chocolate emporium, a very expensive jewellers next to a European mini-mart, a gift and card shop and a very beautiful old-fashioned toy shop from a bygone age, called Nancy Kringles. There was a massive blue teddy bear in the window sitting on a ride-on toy train. He was wearing a guard’s hat and waistcoat and wore both a whistle around his neck and a hefty price tag. The selection of clothes shops in Slattercove wasn’t great either: a couple of ladies’ dress shops – Veronica’s and A la Mode – Girly Girl, which catered for female teens; Patsy’s Pants; Cazual which catered for middle-aged people who favoured the jumble sale look and Seconds Out which sold chain-store rejects. Sophie bought some clothes and underwear, a waffle dressing gown and some sneakers. Then from Bob’s Bits and Bobs, she bought bubble bath and washing powder and then walked into a hairdresser’s and asked for a trim. She sat in the waiting area for twenty minutes and read the most downmarket tabloid newspaper of them all. The headline was ‘MY REBECCA DUMPED ME FOR MP’. Rebecca Robinson’s ex-boyfriend was telling the story of how they’d often had threesomes with both men and women, as if there wasn’t enough sleaze surrounding the saga. She flicked to the letters page but couldn’t escape mention of herself even there. The title of the letter intrigued her. Blame the Husband, not the Wife.

  It seems to be a common occurrence that in high-profile affairs, the partner of the erring spouse is tarred with an unfair level of blame as seems to be the case with John F. Mayhew and his wife Sophie. Often when this happens, the partner has no idea there is anything wrong in the marriage and that is because there isn’t. Opportunity presents itself to said erring spouse who wants to have his cake and eat it so it is grossly unfair to assume that Mrs Mayhew is at fault. I wish her a speedy recovery.

  That heartened her, someone coming to her defence. She hadn’t considered anyone would do that.

  ‘Ready for you now, love,’ said the junior, holding out a nylon gown for Sophie to put on.

  ‘Bloody hell, who’s cut your hair? Ray Charles?’ asked Betty of Betty’s of Slattercove when Sophie was seated.

  ‘My sister,’ lied Sophie. ‘She’s a trainee.’

  ‘A trainee what – butcher?’ scoffed Betty. ‘I hope you didn’t pay her.’

  Forty minutes later, Sophie’s bob was sleek and even and shiny as a beetle’s back. She did look very French and nothing like Sophie the Trophy. In WH Smith, she noticed that John’s face didn’t appear on the front of the Telegraph or the Guardian, which would have pleased him, she thought. Apparently there had been a terror attack in Spain and she could imagine him sinking to his knees in gratitude for it. His priority would be that a nutter had gone mad in a van and diverted the heat from him rather than that innocent people had been injured; she knew how his brain ticked.

  Tracey was knocking on her door when Sophie’s taxi pulled up in front of the almshouse. She has the same cheery blue eyes as her brother, Sophie thought as she walked towards her with her carrier bags.

  ‘Been shopping? Dolce and Gabbana?’

  ‘They were shut, I had to settle for alternatives.’

  Tracey grinned. ‘Nice hair.’

  ‘It needed a tweak. Betty of Slattercove.’

  ‘Ah, the famous Betty of Slattercove. I bet she’s a change from your usual.’

  ‘She was slightly cheaper,’ said Sophie. ‘Come in, I’ve bought some coffee and biscuits.’ She unlocked the door and invited Tracey inside.

  ‘Thanks but I’ll have to pass as I can’t stay for long. Oh, I lied about the staircase being unsafe, I meant to tell you,’ said Tracey. ‘Now I know you’re trustworthy, go and have a poke around the upstairs rooms if you like. The view is quite something.’

  �
��I will. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s very warm in here,’ said Tracey as they walked into the bedsit. ‘Did you make a fire this morning or is Kitty making sure you’re comfortable?’

  ‘It’s all down to Kitty,’ smiled Sophie, dumping her bags. At the mention of her name, a draught blew down the chimney sending a puff of ash from the grate into the room.

  ‘She heard us talking about her,’ Tracey said with a soft chuckle. ‘Listen, I’m here to ask you a favour. A massive favour, but I totally understand if you wouldn’t want to. I haven’t got anyone to look after the bar tonight. Dave can’t do it and it’s Steve’s birthday – the builder I told you about. He wants to take me and Jade out for a meal. Hoping to build some bridges and . . .’

  ‘You want me to look after the bar?’

  ‘In a nutshell. I’ll chuck in as many bags of nuts and crisps as you can eat.’

  ‘If you give me a quick lesson, I’ll be happy to.’

  ‘Really?’ Tracey raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought you’d say no. I mean I know you’re in hiding, so I was expecting that, but I would like to go. Elliott’s taking Luke for his swimming lesson and I didn’t want to ask him to cancel it because he’s hoping to get his first badge tonight and there’s no one else I would trust. I know we’ve only just met but . . . well, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t rob me blind and drink all the vodka. Have you ever . . . no don’t answer that, of course you haven’t.’

  ‘Have I ever run a bar? Surprisingly enough yes. At a charity event last year. I can pull a pint and I can work a fancy till.’

  ‘Nothing fancy about my till,’ Tracey assured her. ‘But there won’t exactly be a rush on and I’ll be back before closing. It’s a really simple system, no cocktails or anything like that. The most complicated thing you’ll be asked for is a bitter top. Old Marshall from down the hill calls in at seven p.m. for a pint of it every night and he’ll leave at eight. He sits in the corner and analyses that day’s racing results. It’s that exciting. Anyone else is a bonus.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do for you,’ said Sophie.

  ‘If you want to run any clothes through my washing machine whilst you’re there, you’re welcome,’ Tracey offered. ‘It’s a washer-drier and it’s in the room to the side.’

  ‘That would be brilliant, thank you. I bought some washing powder today.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, I wouldn’t expect you to supply that . . . Ells said that he’d taken you to St Bathsheba’s today. How was it?’

  ‘Stirred up a lot of memories,’ said Sophie. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of them awful.’

  ‘Magdalena said the same the last time she was up in this neck of the woods, which would be about seven years ago I think. She lives in London now, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t. We sadly lost contact, like you do,’ said Sophie. ‘I regret that. We had some nice chats. She taught me Scouse and I taught her how to put blusher and false eyelashes on.’

  ‘She’ll be PM one day. I hope she is. But she does say that she wouldn’t be who she is today if it weren’t for that school; she took a lot of positives from the negatives. And she gives you a lot of credit too. Right, must go. I have to try and make myself beautiful for a man and approachable to a teenage girl. I hope to get a few words out of her tonight that have at least two syllables. If you come over in about an hour that would be grand, Pom.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Sophie, though she was feeling less and less like Sophie with every hour that passed and more like Pom, who tackled ghosts, charmed young boys and whom people talked to as if she were a real person and not a statue.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Here’s a price list,’ said Tracey. ‘There’s ice in the freezer next to the washing machine in the side room, but you probably won’t need any. Barrel’s changed so you don’t have that to worry about. Now, what else?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Sophie. ‘Go and enjoy yourself. After you’ve adjusted your eye make-up.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ Tracey looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Oh shit, I’ve gone for smoky and ended up with spooky.’ She foraged in her handbag for a tissue.

  ‘Where’s your make-up bag?’

  ‘Here,’ said Tracey, reaching underneath the counter. ‘I always put my make-up on down here, the lights are brighter.’

  ‘Sit on the bar stool,’ Sophie commanded. Tracey did as she was told and Sophie poked around inside the pouch.

  ‘Eyes or mouth, not both, that’s the rule. I’d go for eyes in your case because they’re lovely. Your lipstick is too dark and makes your lips look thinner than they are. Now this rose pink is a much nicer shade.’

  ‘I don’t wear a lot of make-up,’ said Tracey. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing with it. I end up looking like a clown.’

  ‘You won’t when I’ve finished with you. Let’s start again on the lips. And where’s your blusher?’

  ‘I never use blusher.’

  ‘Blusher is an essential,’ said Sophie with a tut. ‘Next time you go into town, buy blusher. I’ll use a little of this pink eyeshadow in the meantime. And some of the white to highlight.’

  A few minutes later and Tracey was looking at herself in a mirror with a rose-pink mouth agape.

  ‘Bloody hell, I’m gorgeous,’ she said. ‘You’ve given me cheekbones. And kissable lips. Hopefully. Did you learn how do to this at St Bathsheba’s?’

  ‘Nope. I just always loved messing around with make-up.’ Her childhood masterclass had obviously gone down well with Magda. She wondered if she’d impressed Tina Ackroyd as much and she’d become a make-up artist to the stars, as she’d said she would when her dream was born that summer they spent together. Sophie hoped so.

  Old Marshall came in for his pint at the allotted hour.

  ‘How do,’ he greeted her, totally unmoved by a new face behind the bar. Or by a French accent. He sat silently in the corner and took out his newspaper. Her own face was on the front of it, her Sophie face. Talk about hiding in plain sight. It was wonderful not being recognised. She’d felt at ease today strolling around Slattercove, no one staring at her, virtually invisible. For the first time in years she felt able to breathe freely, as if fame had somehow constricted her chest.

  She busied herself tidying behind the bar for something to do, then when the washing cycle was over, she moved her clothes into the tumble drier. It would be so good to have everything clean. She heard the bell above the door tinkle and went back into the bar to find Miriam Bird and another woman newly arrived. Someone must have told the Sunday school teacher that she was in charge that night and Miriam had come to check her out. Sophie felt a mischievous thrill trip down the length of her spine. She gave the brace of women her widest smile.

  ‘’Allo, ladies, can I ’elp you,’ she said, shovelling on the French.

  ‘We’d like two gin and tonics, ice and lemon please,’ said Miriam. She had a small mouth gathered into a tight little moue, like the top of a draw-string bag.

  ‘Cerrrrtainly,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Can you put the lemon underneath the ice please?’ asked the other woman.

  ‘Cerrrrtainly,’ replied Sophie again, as if her sole aim was to please. ‘Do you ’ave any preference as to what jjjjin? Gordons? Bumbay Zaffir? Barf-hitter?’

  ‘Oh, I think we’ll have the Bumbay,’ said Miriam, a glint in her eye, smirking at her companion.

  Sophie held the glasses up to the optic, then put in the lemon, then the ice and popped the tops off two small bottles of tonic.

  ‘You can put the whole tonic in,’ said the other woman, also pursing her mouth. They looked very alike as they pursed. Sisters, Sophie guessed. Actually they could have been sisters to Annabella and Victoria as well, because they were partial to a purse and had the resulting lip lines too.

  ‘It always tastes bettair with the lemon under, I think,’ said Sophie, handing over the glasses. ‘Seven pounds eighty pence, s’il vous plaît.’

  Miriam fumbled in he
r purse, counted out the exact money and then went to join the other woman, who had chosen the table by the window.

  ‘Settling in, are you?’ Miriam called over.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you very much. Tracey and Elliott ’ave been so kind.’

  Another round of compressed lips.

  ‘I can’t imagine that almshouse being very warm or comfortable,’ said the other woman.

  ‘Au contraire, it is lovely and warm. And . . .’ Sophie leaned over the bar as if about to divulge a secret, ‘it ’as a ghost. I have ’eard it in the middle of the night, ringing a bell, moving about, knocking on the wall. At first, I was afraid . . . I was petrified.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t live with a ghost,’ said Miriam, patting her chest. ‘I have it on good authority there’s a malevolent poltergeist in that house. It cut one man’s head open by flinging a plate at him.’

  Sophie wanted to snigger. ‘Oh no, I love the ghost. I say to eet, “Come out and show yourself and say hello, you are welcome. We will share.” It is so exciting. I want to see Miss Kitty ’Enshaw so much.’

  She saw the two women exchange a quick glance with each other. Did she detect a flash of annoyance?

  ‘Ah – I recognise you. You are Miss Turd the Sunday School teacher, aren’t you?’ Sophie asked, innocent to the last, as she wiped down the bar top with a cloth.

  ‘Bird. Miriam Bird,’ said Miriam Bird. ‘And my sister Josie here is a teacher at Slattercove Nursery.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ Sophie smiled. ‘So you both teach little Luke Bellrin-gurrr? One through the week and the other on Zunday.’

  ‘That’s right,’ returned Josie Bird. ‘Lovely little boy.’

  ‘And zuch a lovely far-ser – zut alors! He has the face of un ange.’ Sophie pretended to fan her face. Which prompted Miriam to snap, ‘And he’s a married man.’