by Beth Corby
My friends and I never spoke of it, but I’ve often wondered whether they had the same questions – why did he go in, and was it really our fault? And I often wonder if it would have even happened if I’d told my friends to stop being so ridiculous, that not even a grown man could survive in that current, and told them to stop laughing at his boasts.
Then there is the question of whether I should have told someone of my suspicions. Back then I thought his parents, our parents and the village would blame us for something that wasn’t necessarily our fault, and that my friends would definitely blame me for blabbing. I could see no good coming of it, for it wouldn’t help Billy’s parents or bring him back, but I still loathed myself for not doing so.
Billy died the same year as Albert Einstein, James Dean and Alexander Fleming. Any mention of them reminds me of Billy and inevitably leads to a sleepless night. In penance, each year on the anniversary of his death, I toast his memory and warn myself against the dangers of arrogance, because of everything I have ever said or done, that day of pointless boasting is my one regret. That is why I speak my mind and risk offence rather than puffing up other people’s egos. That is why, horrible though it is, Billy is a fundamental part of who I am. If I am to trust you with knowing me, then this is the reality. Everything else is stamped with my own special brand of integrity, even if it falls far below everyone else’s moral threshold. This, however, is the exception. This is my conscience. You see, I do have one.
Yours irrevocably,
Uncle Donald
The letter falls from my fingers, but I’m too exhausted to pick it up. In fact, if I had any energy at all, I’d use it to cry.
I stare at the letter on the floor, exhausted by everything that’s happened. On the plus side, if Donald can tell me about Billy, he’s unlikely to hide anything else from me. On the minus side, I no longer think I want to discover what Mrs Jennings is hinting at.
I cover my face and take a few moments, but though my eyes ache, no tears come. I let my hands drop.
I wish I could go home and bury myself in books, but I’ve told Alec and Mrs C that I’ll carry on. I’m sure they wouldn’t expect me to if they read Donald’s letter . . .
But they won’t read it. It’s private – a gift of trust, albeit a horrible one. So here I am, stuck as Donald’s heir in more ways than I ever thought possible.
I haul myself out of the chair and go to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. Mrs C will have left us some dinner, but I can’t face Alec again tonight. Taking my sandwich and a glass of water, I head for my room, and as I dig about in my things, I thank heaven I have packed my copy of Jane Eyre.
Chapter 14
‘Hannah! Wake up sleepyhead. Can I come in?’ A voice scythes through the door, and I turn on my back and prise my eyes open as I struggle to place it. Oh God, Lauren – what the hell is she doing here?!
‘Yes,’ I call as brightly as I can, realising the only reason Lauren didn’t stride straight in is because she’s in a strange house.
‘Still favouring the university way of life, I see,’ she says, coming in and plonking herself down on the end of my bed. She looks at me reproachfully. ‘I’ve been up for hours and you haven’t even cleaned your teeth!’
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, already irritated.
‘I came to keep you company, stupid.’
I stare at her disbelievingly. She’s never kept me company in her life. ‘Why?’ I ask, suspicious.
Her eyes shift involuntarily towards the door and I have my answer: Alec.
‘Oh, you know,’ she hedges, not quite meeting my eye. ‘I want to make sure you’re OK, see if you need any help with the tasks – and besides, I was owed some time off at work and this is such a lovely house.’
And a free holiday. Shit. I rub my eyes, trying to force my brain into gear. ‘So how long are you staying?’
‘A few days,’ she says vaguely, and rearranges her face into a smile. ‘So, tell me your news. How’s everything going?’
I climb out of bed and push the door closed so I can get changed. ‘Fine.’
‘Oh?’ says Lauren, grimacing as I pull on the jeans I’ve left draped over the back of a chair. ‘And the tasks?’
‘Fine. I had to go swimming yesterday.’
‘And that’s a task?’ she asks, pulling a face when I nod. ‘Oh, well that’s disappointing. Have you found out what you are inheriting, yet?’ she asks, already losing interest in the tasks.
‘No. I only find out at the end,’ I say, pulling my head through a top.
‘But you must have some idea?’ she persists.
I shrug. ‘Not really. I’m guessing I’ll get the same as you, or perhaps something to remember him by, like a vase – or his stick.’ I smirk, remembering how close Donald came to smacking Grandma Betty’s bottom.
‘If it’s a vase, have it valued. It might be Ming or Lalique, and knowing you, you’d stick it on a windowsill with cheap carnations in it.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I didn’t mean a literal vase, but there’s a real chance the tasks are basically it. And I’m fine with that,’ I add.
‘Really?’ She doesn’t sound convinced. She gets up and wanders over to the dressing table, her mouth pressing into a disapproving line as she picks through my make-up. ‘So, what’s Uncle Donald written in his letters?’ she asks casually – not that I’m fooled by her relaxed manner. In fact, I’m starting to feel like I’m being given the third degree – and I haven’t even had breakfast, yet.
I keep my voice carefully even. ‘Just childhood reminiscences, nothing groundbreaking.’
She turns, her gaze pinning me to the spot. ‘Can I read them, then?’
I hesitate. ‘Lauren, they’re a bit like a diary – kind of personal? They’re not supposed to be handed round. But there’s nothing to get excited about.’
She watches me for a second, measuring me for weakness. ‘OK,’ she says, shifting aside so I can pick up my washbag.
‘I should get ready,’ I prompt, but instead of leaving she gestures that I should get on with it. I head to the bathroom and clean my teeth as fast as I can, but when I come back I can tell she’s been rummaging through my things – everything’s slightly out of place. There’s no point saying anything as she’ll just accuse me of being paranoid. I bite my tongue, go over to the dressing table and pick up my hairbrush. I barely glance at the window seat, but the cushions don’t look disturbed, so Donald’s letters are probably still safe in the recess under the hinged seat. ‘So, what’s the news from home?’ I ask, pulling the brush through my hair, and listen to the family minutiae as I finish getting ready.
I herd Lauren down the stairs in front of me and spot a worryingly large suitcase parked in the hall. I reckon it’s about a week’s worth of luggage, and my heart sinks.
‘You’ve found her, then?’ Alec says, coming through from the kitchen.
‘She was still in bed!’ Lauren shakes her head and, annoyingly, Alec laughs and smiles warmly at her, which is odd given that they weren’t on particularly friendly terms at the party or the funeral.
‘Well, I’ve told Mrs C you’re staying and she said you can have the first bedroom along the landing.’
‘Does she mind?’ I ask, since this doesn’t sound like Mrs Crumpton at all.
‘No, she’s fine with it. Just said “it’s like Piccadilly-bloody-Circus round here”.’
Lauren purses her lips. ‘Well, she can take my case up when she’s ready.’
Alec and I both stare at Lauren’s enormous bag.
‘I’ll take it up for you,’ he says, and Lauren puts her hand on his arm.
‘You’re such a lamb,’ she murmurs intimately, and as Alec starts up the stairs, I point Lauren in the direction of the drawing room. She doesn’t immediately follow, though, preferring to hang back and give Alec a lingering look. ‘He’s so handsome; I don’t know how you keep your hands off him,’ she says loudly. ‘But then again, he’s not your type – and I wou
ldn’t imagine you’re his, either,’ she adds, giving me a disparaging look. Wow, thanks Lauren.
Going into the drawing room, we both spot the letter I dropped on the floor last night. Of all the letters for me to leave lying around!
‘Oh, is that one of Donald’s letters?’ she asks, bending down, but I snatch it up before she can touch it and stuff it in my pocket. ‘Possessive much?’ she sneers, her eyebrows arched.
There’s an awkward silence, but as Alec comes in Lauren switches on a full-beam smile and he grins at her. Alec seems genuinely pleased to see her, and I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I’d have thought with Donald seeing through her, Alec would have had some reservations – but apparently not.
‘So, how are you finding chaperoning my little sister?’ Lauren asks, purring into action like a well-oiled machine. ‘She’s a funny little thing, isn’t she? So absorbed in her books,’ she says, ruffling my hair like I’m about three.
Alec gives me an inscrutable look, and I feel my mouth twist in consternation.
‘It’s been going really well, actually. We’ve completed three tasks already,’ he says, thankfully glossing over all the friction. I smile, playing along. ‘Which reminds me, Hannah, what’s the next one?’ he asks, like we’re on a sitcom.
The next task? I pull the letter from my pocket, skimming its intense emotions and mentions of Albert Einstein and James Dean. ‘It didn’t say!’
I pick up the envelope from the side table. Inside there’s a slip of paper that I must have missed last night. Resisting the temptation to shield it from view, I silently read it through.
My Dearest Hannah,
How brave you are to keep going with the whims of a dotty old bachelor. I commend your tenacity. As a reward, you will attend a dance class, after which I’m sure you will be hooked. You shall waltz, rumba and tango with the best of them. Don’t be afraid, for you conquered the go-kart, and this will be even better.
The dance teacher I’ve chosen is a lady of repute (not the best kind, in my opinion, but she is a first-rate teacher). I have asked Lady Forester to accompany you. She is an excellent dance partner and my plus-one for any social occasion. It’s a real pity her husband doesn’t dance – he is missing out.
Now go and experience the success of mastering something new. It will be well worth your time, for in my opinion dancing is an extra-curricular necessity.
Jivingly yours,
Uncle Donald
‘A dance lesson,’ I tell him, surprised by the change of pace after all the Boys’ Own adventure stuff.
Alec nods, unsurprised. ‘Donald left me the name of a dance teacher, so it should be easy enough to ring up and book us a lesson.’
‘No,’ I correct him. ‘I’m supposed to go with Lady Forester.’
‘Oh.’ Alec’s staring at me, his expression unfathomable.
‘Oh my God, you’re so lucky!’ says Lauren, making me jump. ‘Is this what all the tasks have been like?’
‘Not exactly. There’s been apple scrumping, go-karting and swimming,’ I say, counting them off on my fingers. She wouldn’t have been so interested in those.
‘And now dancing? I thought the old man was going to make you visit the elderly, or confess your sins, or something. I can’t believe you get an inheritance and tons of great things to do.’
I glance at Alec, who’s nodding sympathetically as if what she’s saying is genuine, and I suddenly flush hot and cold. Surely he doesn’t believe she is genuine? Does he like her? And was he so annoyed at the funeral and will reading, not because of Donald’s plans, but because Donald chose me and not Lauren? I feel like someone’s slapped me.
‘It’s not even like you’re any good at dancing,’ Lauren is saying.
‘That’s sort of the point,’ I stammer. ‘They’re supposed to be challenges – things I haven’t done before,’ I try to explain, but Lauren isn’t listening.
She looks miserably up at Alec. ‘I love dancing. If only Donald had chosen me.’
‘We could all go,’ he suggests, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Hannah has to dance with Jane so you could be my partner.’ His eyes flick to mine.
Lauren rests a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to her. ‘I’d love that!’ she gushes, looking up at him with all the devotion of a Disney princess for her Prince Charming.
‘Great!’ I add weakly, my stomach sinking to my shoes and tugging at my smile like an anchor. ‘Anyone for a cup of tea?’ I ask, suddenly desperate to get away, and I don’t wait for their answer before beating a swift retreat.
I sit at the kitchen table and sink my head into my hands.
‘Your sister, is it?’ asks Mrs Crumpton, chopping the heads off carrots as if she’s Madame Guillotine.
I nod, not lifting my head from my hands.
‘Pushin’ ‘er way in where she ‘as no business?’ she asks, taking a tea tray from the side and clonking it down on the table. ‘Hmm, I saw her when she first arrived. That type is never ‘appy unless they’re the centre of attention.’ She pours hot water into the pot.
I let out a sigh, relieved someone understands. ‘I know I should be pleased to see her . . .’
‘But you know her of old and you can’t choose your family. It’s a pity, but there it is,’ she says, and I can’t help agreeing.
‘Is her visit going to put you out?’ I ask.
‘Not me. You, on the other ‘and . . .’ She leaves an ominous silence. ‘Let me know if she needs ousting.’ I imagine Mrs Crumpton taking Lauren by the scruff of the neck, and feel a little better. ‘Take this through,’ she says indicating the tray.
I get up, but before I go I pour her a cup, and she nods appreciatively. ‘Lunch in a bit.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and I don’t just mean for the tea and lunch.
‘And that’s another thing,’ I hear her tell Donald as I walk away. ‘You didn’t take into account that sister of ‘ers, now did you? There’s trouble there, you mark my words.’
She isn’t kidding.
Things get even more uncomfortable over lunch. We’re sitting at the table, with Mrs Crumpton bringing in the food, when Lauren announces, ‘I could get used to having staff.’
My mouth drops open. Even Alec looks startled, but luckily Mrs Crumpton isn’t fazed. ‘Could you, now,’ she says, dumping our plates in front of us without ceremony.
Not having eaten breakfast, I dig straight in to the cottage pie, peas, carrots and gravy, almost sighing it’s so heavenly, but Lauren looks from me to Alec and back at her plate.
‘This is practically school dinners,’ she says in a stage whisper. ‘I thought after Donald’s party it would be a bit more—’
‘Cordon bleu and silver service?’ interrupts Mrs Crumpton, and Lauren jumps. I don’t think she knew Mrs Crumpton was still within earshot.
She colours slightly, but hastily adopts a haughty expression. ‘Well, frankly, yes!’
‘That wasn’t me.’ Mrs Crumpton fixes Lauren with a look that could cause blisters. ‘That was hoity-toity outside ‘elp. I do good plain cookin’, and no mistake.’
‘It’s really delicious,’ I say quickly, after swallowing another mouthful. ‘Try some.’
Lauren lifts a forkful of mashed potato and meat filling and inspects it. ‘I hate to think how many calories are in this,’ she says, letting it splat back down.
‘The food at the party was stuffed with cream and butter,’ I point out.
‘But that was a treat.’
‘So’s this,’ I insist. Lauren looks at me like I’m mad.
‘Starve then,’ says Mrs Crumpton, stalking out.
‘I suppose I shall have to,’ says Lauren, and picks at the peas and carrots.
Chapter 15
After spending an exhausting afternoon watching a sunbathing Lauren flirt and flaunt about in next to nothing, I’ve decided to push everything to do with her and Alec to one side and focus on the tasks. After all, that’s what I’m here for. I actually feel quite g
ood as I peer into the wardrobe mirror, eyeliner in hand, getting ready for the beginners’ dance class Alec has booked us all into this evening. I’ve found a pair of pumps that I can dance in, and I’ve dug out my favourite top and a pretty skirt, which work surprisingly well together. A small thrill of excitement even pulses through me as I try to imagine what the dance class will be like.
‘Ready?’ asks Alec as I trot downstairs. He’s looking gorgeous in a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves; he’s shaved and I catch a hint of aftershave on the air. I smile at him as I step around Lauren, who’s sat on the bottom step doing up her shoes. She gets up and gives us a twirl to show off her floaty designer dress and strappy high heels.
‘What do you think? Will I do?’ she asks Alec.
‘You look wonderful,’ he tells her. ‘As do you,’ he adds, nodding at my clothes after a pause.
I twist a smile onto my face, feeling about twelve. ‘Thanks. So, shall I drive us?’
Lauren snorts. ‘No, we’ll take my car.’ She wobbles over to Alec like a newborn colt and he offers her his arm.
I stare at her shoes. ‘Surely you can’t drive in those?’
‘Of course I can! Driving isn’t a problem, but gravel . . .’ She sighs dramatically and pouts at Alec. ‘Help me out to the car? And you’d better sit next to me for the directions,’ she adds. So I guess there’s no calling shotgun, even if I want one.
I follow them out, pretty sure that the baby giraffe thing is an act – ‘Oh Grandma, what wobbly legs you’ve got.’ ‘All the better reason to grip your arm, my dear.’ I know Alec isn’t Little Red Riding Hood, but I doubt it’ll be long before Lauren has her teeth in him.
‘It’s good of you to drive,’ says Alec, gallantly opening Lauren’s car door for her.
‘I like to make myself useful. Plus, my car’s more comfortable than Hannah’s.’