by Beth Corby
‘In here will do,’ she says, with a dismissive flap of her hand, and starts shoving priceless pieces of furniture out of the way. I bend to help, but an annoyed cough makes me turn. A butler with shiny shoes and a possibly permanently affronted expression gives me a stern look.
I hesitate, but Jane draws herself up to her full height. ‘We need room to waltz,’ she says firmly, though I detect a hint of defensiveness in her tone. The butler surveys our attempts, flares his nostrils, and takes over.
Jane crosses her arms and plonks herself down on one of the pushed-back sofas looking irritated. I perch on another, waiting for him to finish squaring everything off and leave.
‘We don’t get on,’ Jane says flatly as soon as the door closes. ‘He thinks I should know my place, but like I’ve told him, I’m perfectly capable of managing things myself. I’m not a porcelain doll!’
‘Perhaps he’s worried about his job,’ I suggest. Jane looks at me, taken aback. ‘If you always do what he feels he’s been hired to do, he might feel a bit . . . superfluous?’
‘Hmm. You might be right.’ She nods slowly. All trace of her irritation disappears, and she laughs. ‘Donald could always make me see things differently, too.’
‘How did you meet Donald? I’ve been dying to ask since we first met.’
She smiles. ‘It’s a long story and I have been given special instructions about that.’
‘Is it to do with a task?’
‘Yes, and Donald was very particular about it. He said it wouldn’t help if you received information out of order, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.’
I know better than to push it. ‘OK, so what do we do now?’
Jane stands up. ‘We practise and then we have some tea.’
‘Sounds good,’ I agree, and she opens an antique cupboard concealing a very modern sound system and puts on a waltz. It streams out of multiple speakers, as clear as if there’s a full philharmonic orchestra in the room with us, and Jane moves to the centre of the carpet and beckons to me. ‘Do you remember the steps, or would you like to go over them?’
‘Let’s go over them again,’ I say, and we make a start.
After an hour, I’m confident with the basic waltz and Jane’s even shown me some salsa steps. She’s ecstatic about my progress, possibly because I’ve only stepped on her foot once.
‘Well done! I knew you’d be an excellent student. Let’s have some tea,’ she says, and the butler, who’s probably been lurking about outside the door, sweeps in. Jane waits graciously as he repositions the furniture and lays out a full afternoon tea complete with crumpets. She makes a big show of thanking him. We exchange a conspiratorial smile, which turns into a laugh as my stomach groans loudly.
‘Help yourself,’ says Jane, pouring the tea.
I take a crumpet and start buttering it. ‘Thanks, I’m starving,’ I say and chomp into its delicious warmth.
‘Yes, it’s surprisingly hard work,’ says Jane, taking one herself. ‘You’re doing really well, though, and it won’t be long before you’re ready for something a bit more complicated. Did Donald want you to learn anything in particular?’
‘Not really.’ I swallow. ‘His letter just mentioned the dance class, and he seemed to think I’d be hooked after that.’ To my own surprise, I realise I am.
‘Sounds like Donald. Did he suggest dancing with Alec?’
Suddenly self-conscious, I look down at my plate. ‘No.’
‘Oh?’ Jane seems surprised. ‘He struck me as an accomplished dancer. I wonder why Donald chose me when Alec is available.’
‘You’re much better to learn with!’ Jane looks up, startled by my vehemence.
‘But you would like to dance with Alec?’ she asks perceptively.
I picture myself stomping about on his feet like an enthusiastic hippo, and I don’t mean one of the dancing ones from Fantasia. ‘No.’
Jane gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘Oh dear. You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?’
I stare at her, desperate to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. ‘It’s nothing like that . . . not really . . . he and my sister are . . .’ but I haven’t a clue how to explain, and it makes me uncomfortable even to try. I look at Jane, caught without an explanation. ‘It’s complicated.’ I’m only just realising how true that is.
‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘I don’t know. To be honest I just want to focus on the tasks, but it isn’t that simple.’
‘It never is,’ Jane agrees sadly. ‘Feelings muscle their way in, and once they’re there, they act like a constant tripwire.’
A lot like sisters.
Jane sips her tea, shaking her head, and I give her a furtive glance. I really do want to tell someone and Jane’s so lovely . . .
‘I didn’t even think I liked him,’ I begin hesitantly. ‘In fact, it was awful in the beginning – and at the funeral he was so suspicious and judgemental – but as we’ve worked on the tasks we’ve got to know each other, and I can see he was just worried about Donald, and me being a gold-digger – which I’m not, obviously. Anyway, we were getting on better and better, and the day before yesterday, he kissed me.’
Jane’s hand lands on top of mine. ‘He kissed you?’
‘Yes. Right in the middle of a task.’ I can’t help blushing. ‘But it can’t have been that good, because he pulled away and acted like it was a massive mistake. And now I don’t know how I feel, or whether he likes me at all. It’s ruined everything.’
Jane taps her fingers on her mouth thoughtfully. ‘It sounds like it was spontaneous. I wonder why he backed away?’
‘I wish I knew, and I haven’t been able to ask him because then Lauren came to stay, and now he seems more interested in her. And what’s worse, last night I think he and she might have . . .’ I look down and see my hands are shaking.
Jane shakes her head. ‘I can tell you here and now that if he chooses your sister over you, he doesn’t deserve you.’
‘She’s more fun than I am.’
Jane’s eyes focus on me. ‘Donald didn’t think so.’
I hug her verdict to myself and sigh. ‘I know, and I should be happy with that and concentrate on the tasks, but even Donald’s letters are frustrating. It’s like I’m constantly waiting for the next thing, and it’s never what I expect!’
Jane laughs. ‘Donald hated to be predictable. It was part of his charm. But you’re coping with the tasks? At least, for the most part?’
I bite my lip, not sure if I should say anything, but she did say if I ever needed to talk . . . I take a deep breath. ‘There is one unexpected hitch.’
Jane gestures for me to continue.
‘Do you remember the old lady who spat in Donald’s grave?’ Jane’s eyes dart to mine. ‘Well, she came to visit us a few days ago.’
‘Mrs Jennings?’ asks Jane quietly. ‘What did she want?’ Both her recognition and urgency surprise me.
‘She told us that Donald ruined her social standing and she wants . . . revenge.’ It sounds a bit overdramatic, but Jane’s reaction says it’s not.
‘What kind of revenge?’
I shift uneasily, starting to suspect that Jane knows something. ‘She wants us to reject his will to ruin his plans, because apparently he ruined hers? “An eye for an eye” is how she put it.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘She said she’ll expose Donald’s secrets to the tabloids. Apparently there are some fairly well-known people involved.’
Jane blanches. ‘And are you going to turn down his will?’ she asks, but I can’t quite tell whether she thinks I should.
‘We don’t want to. Donald worked really hard to set everything up, but there are so many unanswered questions. Like, is Mrs Jennings dangerous? Is there really anything worrying in Donald’s past? If so, how much does she know? Until we answer those questions, we don’t know what to do.’
Jane looks pale, but calm. ‘What do you have to go on?’
&n
bsp; ‘She told us that Donald kept her quiet using some sort of blackmail. We’re hoping that Donald’s letters might reveal what happened. Apart from that . . .’ I shrug. ‘Do you know anything that could help?’
Jane shakes her head. ‘I don’t know much, but I can tell you that Mrs Jennings is dangerous. She knew Donald in London and, from what I’ve heard, she’s adept at both acquiring information and using it against people. Has she given you any kind of deadline?’
‘No. She said she’s leaving us to think about it – stew might be a better word.’
Jane’s mouth is a hard line. ‘Sounds like her. OK, I’ll see what I can find out, but I definitely don’t know what Donald had on her.’
‘Do you know what he did to upset her? Perhaps we can work from there?’
Jane shakes her head. ‘He never told me.’
We sit miserably for a few moments. ‘Is Mrs Jennings really that bad?’
Jane hesitates. ‘Yes, but leave it with me.’
I check my watch awkwardly, knowing I’ve completely destroyed the mood. ‘I should probably be getting back to Lauren. Thanks for having me.’
Jane escorts me out to my car and hugs me again. ‘Call me if you hear anything, or even if you just need a chat.’
‘I will, and I’m really sorry to have worried you with this.’
‘Don’t be. I’m here to help you,’ she assures me. I close my car door and roll down the window. ‘But keep me informed,’ she adds seriously.
‘I will,’ I promise. ‘And thanks again.’
‘Any time,’ she says, but as I drive off, I know I’ve ruined her day.
Chapter 17
Back at The Laurels, no one’s home. I go up to my room to find a book and see another of Donald’s envelopes propped against my bedside lamp. The inscription reads, ‘For Hannah. The Fifth Task. To be given after her first dance class – task four being an ongoing project.’ I decide to take it outside.
Sitting down on the garden bench, I take a moment to appreciate the view before tearing open the envelope. There are more pages than in his previous letters. I unfold them and start to read.
My Dearest Hannah,
I wish I could have taught you to dance! Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be, but Jane will be excellent. She was a joy to teach, and will be very supportive, I’m sure.
I hesitate as Jane’s words about being twirled around the bedroom floor come back to me, and a little piece of jigsaw falls into place.
I myself learnt to dance when I was sixteen. My mother saw a flyer on the church noticeboard advertising dance lessons, so one evening she dressed me in a shirt and tie, shoehorned Betty into a dress, and hurried us down the high street to the village hall. My friends were there, too, grumbling and tugging at their collars as the local girls twisted their fingers in their skirts, and whispered behind their hands. It looked as if all our mothers had made a pact.
The teacher, a very prim and Welsh Mrs Jones, taught us the basic steps, with the girls in one row and the boys in another. I remember her desperate attempts to convince the boys to make even a token effort, while the girls, though far more willing, giggled incessantly and had to be told repeatedly to keep quiet.
Each week we were marched down to the village hall, and made to go through the same boring routine. I memorised the steps so I could stare out of the window and was rarely told off, while my friends, whose feet were of the clodhopping two-left variety, received the majority of Mrs Jones’ tongue-lashings.
Then came the week that Mrs Jones decided we should dance with a girl. The girls went quiet for the first time in weeks, and I’m convinced the panic emanating from the boys seasoned the wood of the building. It was an intimidating atmosphere, and yet I remember looking along the line, searching for one face. It became imperative that I dance with her and none of the other frivolous nonentities that frosted the room. I was searching for Judith. Judith with her generous brown curls, pale skin, dark eyes and full lips. She was seventeen (older than me) and not silly. Before I even realised what I was doing, I walked across the room, stunning the boys around me, and asked her to dance.
Mercifully, she didn’t giggle. She smiled as if she had been waiting for me and took my hand, and we stepped onto the dance floor together. My heart sang as the fear of rejection washed away, and I have only a vague recollection of anything other than how she looked as she held up her arms and placed a hand on my shoulder. My lead emboldened the girls, who refused to be left unclaimed. They hauled bewildered boys onto the floor and the music began.
We rocked about the room, accompanied by the scratchy recording of a waltz and Mrs Jones’ delighted applause. I have never been so glad to remember anything in my life. I didn’t step on her toes and I didn’t fumble. Our magical bubble drifted around the room, everyone swirling around us, until finally it was popped by Jimmy Bartle, of go-karting fame, who cannoned into us with a determined girl called Mavis. He and Mavis had been having a battle of wills over who should lead. Mavis, being superior in both persistence and height, had won. Unfortunately, she didn’t look where she was going and led them on a collision course with us, and due to the power struggle, their momentum was considerable. They barged into us, full force, knocking us completely off our feet, and I watched as Judith began to fall. I had no other thought than to save her, and I swung her around so that she fell on top of me, hoping she wouldn’t hurt herself. She almost knocked the wind out of me. The waltz whined on, her curls obscured my vision, but I both heard and felt the shocked silence around us. Judith propped herself up on her hands and looked down at me with mischief in her eyes, but it was only a moment before Mrs Jones yanked her away, glaring at me accusingly as if expecting me to explain. That our compromising position had alarmed her was obvious, and after that, further practising in lines ensued.
That was the starting point of my relationship with Judith.
I engineered our next meeting. I knew where she lived, so I sat on a wall down the street for what must have been hours. She eventually rewarded me by walking past with her friends. She gave just a flicker of a glance through her lashes as she passed, but when they had turned the corner, she ran back and whispered for me to meet her by the river the following day.
I hardly slept. I imagined so much, and yet didn’t know what to expect. I was so disappointed when I woke the next morning to find that it was raining. With no other method of contacting her, I went anyway, refusing to believe that she wouldn’t go. I waited under a tree, feeling hopeless, with the leaves dropping heavy drips on me, but refusing to leave. And do you know what? She came. She was soaked through, with her hair clinging to her face and neck, but nothing could dampen that smile. I can see it even now.
There was no greeting, shyness or uncertainty. She joined me under the tree, took my face in her hands and kissed me full on the mouth. I looked at her eyelids, amazed that anyone could be so uninhibited, and my insides melted. The kiss was long, warm and damp from the rain. The world was gone. When we finally came up for air, she laughed with an exhilaration that was dizzying. She was so free of the gaucherie that inflicted our friends. She seemed ethereal, amazing and different, like a tropical bird next to starlings. And from that day on, I was hers and everything changed. From then on, the only thrill-seeking I wanted to do was with her. And with her, everything was a thrill; stargazing, swimming, picnics, even reading aloud was breathtaking when it was done with her. That summer ‘I put away childish things’, and spent all the time I could with her.
So here is your next task, to be done, as I did it, at the same time as learning to dance: you must stargaze. As you do so, try to understand what Judith and I had, and what our time together was like. See if you can find a hint of that magic, because for me it was the most blissful time I have ever known.
Gloriously yours,
Uncle Donald
I sit very still, remembering my own kiss in the rain. It was magical, right up to the point Alec froze and swam away. But even that couldn’
t obliterate the feeling.
I stare up at the sky and watch a flock of sparrows swooping about and coming in to land all together in a bush, then taking off again almost immediately, moving to a tree. The sparrows shift from tree to tree, inspecting the entire garden, before flying off as the terrace door swings open. Lauren’s laughter trickles down to me like an ice-cold stream.
‘There you are,’ she says, skipping down the steps with Alec following just behind. I move along the bench so they can join me. Alec smiles at me tentatively, and I feel a tightening in my chest as I’m struck by how gorgeous he looks in his blue shirt, with the sun’s rays emphasising the strong line of his jaw.
‘We saw your car, but there was no answer in the house, so we thought you must be out here,’ he says.
I nod, smiling back in a way I hope looks natural. ‘Yes, I just got back from visiting Jane, and the garden looked so lovely . . . Have you been anywhere nice?’
‘Alec took me to the pub and taught me to play pool,’ says Lauren. She doesn’t meet my eye, because Nicholas had a pool table when we were growing up, and she always beat us hollow.
I glance at Alec. ‘Is she any good?’ I ask him.
‘Yes,’ he says frowning a little as he takes a seat. ‘How was dance practice?’
Lauren squeezes in between us, and I move up against the arm of the bench. ‘Fine.’
Alec’s eyes drop to Donald’s letter. ‘I see you found it,’ he says, and Lauren squints slightly, her head tipping to one side as she tries to read the exposed page. I carefully fold it and put it back in its envelope.
‘Yes, thanks. I thought I’d see what the next task is.’
‘So what is it – snowboarding? Parachute jumping? A quick jaunt up Everest?’ asks Alec, smiling.