The Big House

by Larche Davies

  “Why should you want to get a job so soon, dear? You must think of your education and go to college if you want a really good job, a clever girl like you.”

  “I’ll catch up on it while I’m working,” said Dorothy. “Lots of people do. If I get a job, I can support the others while they get an education, and when they have good jobs I’ll get on with my own education and get a better job. Then, we’ll be able to save enough for our house. It’s our three-step housing plan. Step one, job; step two, education; step three, house. And then we’ll be safe.”

  As soon as she finished speaking she remembered she was supposed to be careful what she said in front of Miss Clements – and anyone else for that matter. The trouble was that they had become so used to her they were beginning to trust her. Though, as David had once pointed out, it wasn’t so much that she couldn’t be trusted, but that she was unreliable, unless, of course, it was something to do with food.

  “That’s a very long-term plan,” murmured Miss Clements. “So that’s what you children intend to do! Well, I’m full of admiration, though I’m sorry that you don’t feel safe in this house. Dear me, we don’t know the half of what’s going on in people’s minds.”

  “Just as well,” snapped Miss Marilyn.

  Miss Clements pushed back her chair and stood up. “Now, I’ve got to rush, dears. The Women’s Institute is meeting tonight, and after that I’m going to my friend Mary’s house for a bit of a chat, so I’ll be late back. She’s the registrar for all the weddings, and it’s so interesting to hear about the strange ceremonies people ask for. Would you be kind and clear up for me, and put the dishes in the machine and lay for breakfast. Not you Marilyn, of course. The children can manage. It would be such a help.”

  Having to rush did not mean the same thing to Miss Clements as it did for other people. She puffed upstairs. The dishes had been cleared and the breakfast things laid before she reappeared. She put on her coat, and then popped into the kitchen to check that she’d remembered to take a steak and kidney pie out of the freezer.

  “Right, I’m off,” she said at last. “And I’ll probably have a lie-in in the morning, because late nights don’t suit me, so you may have to make your own breakfasts.”

  *

  In her flat on the sea front, Isobel sat thinking and staring out at the sea. What an interesting visit that had been. She had no doubt that the girl was the Dorothy they were looking for, but there were only three children not four. If the missing one was Copse’s daughter, she should be back from Thomas’s trial by now. The little boy could well be Paul, but he was of no interest to her until she’d found the right David. And, although the older boy had the right name and blue eyes, he had the wrong hair. He certainly didn’t fit the description of handsome either. His skin had a grey unhealthy pallor to it, and although she never liked to be unkind, she really would have described him as ugly.

  It was time to report her day’s activities to the holy leaders. Typing into her laptop in code, she told them of her plan to persuade Dorothy to come to her flat, and asked them to send down two abduction agents, to be available when needed. When she had finished her report and closed the laptop down, she picked up her mobile phone and rang Drax. There was no response. She left a message for him to contact her and went downstairs to the restaurant below. It was busy and noisy, despite this being a weeknight and dreadful weather.

  There was a small table near the window, looking out across the promenade to the sea. A nice spot if one liked that sort of thing. She grimaced inwardly at the menu and ordered an omelette with salad. While she was waiting, her mind wandered to the tempting thought of joining Drax abroad. Not that she was keen on having to put up with him, but she would if she had to, and she liked the idea of living in a warm country. They both had enough funds stashed away to keep them in luxury forever. But she would miss London and she would miss her work. There was so much she could still do to help the Holy Cause through this difficult time, and she would be ready for high recognition once it was back on its feet.

  Like Drax, she had no difficulty in reconciling her love of good things with the Magnifico’s strict ban on comfort. Of course it was a sin to indulge, but Isobel was confident that her soul would be saved because of her unflagging devotion to her duties. There were few Good Doctors in the Magnifico’s service who could perform a disposal as painlessly as she could – and with such a kindly and gentle manner about her – or who could deliver a new-born baby and assess its worth reliably, and take the responsible decision as to whether it should live or die.

  She knew she had all the right qualities to serve the Magnifico, but prided herself on one above all others. She had no compassion. That was her secret to success. Drax was her equal in that respect – though not in other ways, of course.

  The sea was pounding over the wall of the promenade, hurling spray against the window. What a ghastly place to live! One would have to wear hideous windproof clothes like anoraks and woolly hats. She looked around her. All these locals chattering and laughing grated on her nerves. A thought struck her. This would be the ideal place to set up a mission base. Virtually the entire population would be ripe for either conversion or disposal. What an opportunity! She would discuss it with the holy leaders when she got back to civilisation. If it weren’t for the sea and the gulls, and so on, she wouldn’t mind being one of the missionaries herself for a while. Her spirits lifted. She finished her meal and, leaving a tip, crossed over to the counter to pay the bill.

  “That was delicious!” she purred with her charming smile. “Thank you so much.”

  The man at the till felt warm all over. What a lovely woman!

  *

  As soon as Isobel was back in the flat, Drax rang. Her first words were sharp. “Where on earth have you been?”

  “I couldn’t stand it any longer,” he said, “so I went to the cinema.”

  “Flaming flesh! Not again?” She threw her bag down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “You couldn’t have gone more public! Are you asking to be caught or what?”

  “I don’t like to hear you swear,” said Drax reprovingly. “It was OK. I wore the hat. I put some of your eye shadow under my eyes and concealer on my mouth, so I looked really ill.” He was gazing into a small hand mirror as he spoke. “I looked almost ugly, not like me at all.”

  She laughed at his vanity, and then was immediately struck by the obvious.

  “Holy Magnifico! How could I have missed what was staring me in the face,” she exclaimed. “There’s an ugly boy here called David!”

  “Well, then, it can’t be the real David. He’s not ugly. In fact, he’s remarkably handsome. He’s very like me except his hair’s lighter.”

  “It’s the hair that could have fooled me.” Isobel spoke slowly. She was trying to picture what the gaunt, pallid schoolboy would look like with ash-blond hair.

  Drax studied his own hair in the mirror and smoothed it back – his crowning glory, if one could apply that to a man. Did he spot a streak of grey? No. What a relief! Even Copse’s lustrous black locks couldn’t compare to these golden waves.

  “Are you listening?” called Isobel.

  “Of course, my darling. I’ve been longing to hear your voice all day.”

  “He’s about the right age,” continued Isobel, “and lives with the same foster mother as Dorothy, but he’s got black hair, and looks ill and sinister. He’s certainly not the blond young Adonis we’re supposed to be looking out for. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner, but he could have dyed his hair.”

  Drax was only half-listening. He was savouring the thought that the son and daughter who had betrayed him might soon be brought to justice. It made him extraordinarily happy. He placed the mirror on the coffee table and threw himself comfortably down in an armchair.

  “Do you love me?” he whispered down the phone.

  “Oh, for the Mag’s sake!
” she snapped. “I’ve got other things to think of at this moment.” She stepped over to the window and closed the curtains. The booming of the waves was unsettling. It made her irritable.

  Drax studied his long, tapering fingers and blew on his nails to buff them up a little. He wished he could have brought his piano here. It would have been soothing to see those elegant fingers dancing gracefully over the keys. So therapeutic!

  “You sound as though things might not be going too well for you,” he said eventually.

  “Sorry,” she said, shifting her bag off the sofa and lying down. “It’ll be alright. I’ve got a plan, and if it works, we’ll be fine. If it doesn’t, I’ll think of something else.”

  She had never liked the sea. It was ominous and uncontrollable. The constant pounding and frothing of the waves and the screeching of the seagulls had given her a headache. The traffic noise of the Cromwell Road rumbled down through the phone and she could almost smell the exhaust fumes. Delicious! She longed for London. Traffic could be controlled and the sea could not. This place gave her bad vibes.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to try and arrange to have Dorothy in my flat for coaching in computers,” she said wearily. “I can tell she’s not keen, but I’m hoping a powerful onslaught of charm will put her mind to rest. If she agrees to come, the abductors will have an easy job. Otherwise I’ll have to get her some other way. I’ve briefly met the foster mother, and there’s something about her that makes me suspect a weakness. I’m not sure what it might be.”

  “The most usual one is money.”

  “I was thinking the same, but I’d have to assess her a bit more before I could risk that one. As for the boy, I’ll be looking at the top of his head in class tomorrow to see if there are any ash-blond roots showing through, and maybe all will be revealed.”

  She blew a kiss down the phone, rang off and closed her eyes. What a prize if she could get David as well as Dorothy!

  *

  On the Wednesday morning, Gwen Jones arrived late and out of breath. Dorothy and David had already left for school, and Paul was on his own in the sitting room with his drawing book. Miss Clements answered the front door in her dressing gown, and Gwen was full of apologies.

  “I’m so sorry!” she gasped. “Evan had one of his night terrors and it’s put everything late. I had to use one of his tranquilising syringes, which I never do if I can avoid it.”

  “Don’t worry dear,” said Miss Clements soothingly. “I’ve only just got up myself. A late night, you know. The children got their own breakfast.”

  “I’ll apologise to his teacher.” Gwen bent down to push Paul’s arms through his coat sleeves. “Did you see? That computer teacher from the school? It was on the news. They found his body just down the coast from here.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Miss Clements was truly shocked. “Was it that nice Mr Owen? He’s been missing since Monday.”

  “Yes, I think that was the name. Terrible! They’re suggesting it was suicide – threw himself off a cliff!”

  Gwen reminded herself she was in too much of a rush to get caught up in conversation.

  “I wanted to ask you, though I’m short of time now, but would it be alright if I were to take Paul home with me after school to stay the night on Friday, just for the weekend, until Lucy comes back?” She hardly dared hope for a positive answer. “My husband thinks I’m looking after him for a neighbour and he’s taken quite a fancy to him,” she said hurriedly. “Just for two nights, that is if the authorities will allow it. And of course I’d make sure that Evan took his bed-time sedation.”

  Miss Clements was only too glad to push any talk of suicide out of the way.

  “Well, I know Lucy’s got some more meetings with the lawyers, so she might not be back till Monday or Tuesday. I don’t see that a couple of nights’ visit with his own grandparents over the weekend would be forbidden, Mrs Jones. He has been very anxious about Lucy, humming a lot you know, and fiddling with that gold chain round his neck. David or Dorothy can get his overnight bag ready for you to take when you pick him up for school on Friday morning.”

  Gwen’s voice cracked. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes filled tears. “You can’t imagine how wonderful it is to have something of Maria back in the house again.”

  Miss Clements took her two hands in hers, hoping fervently that the moment wouldn’t develop into anything too distressing. “May he bring joy to your hearts. Bless you, my dear,” she murmured.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy and Beverley attended Mr Lovett’s office at ten o’clock on the Wednesday, as arranged. Mr Lovett ushered them into his room. He introduced them to another man who was already seated in one of the leather armchairs, and whose name Lucy immediately forgot. Beverley sat down in a corner and hoped this wouldn’t take too long. Thank God it was an early appointment. She was feeling quite peaky.

  “This is the young lady the judge praised for her extraordinary courage,” Mr Lovett told the other man, waving his hand towards Lucy.

  He spoke to Lucy in his kindly but rather pompous manner. She gave him a weak smile, but wished it could all be over. The room had become familiar to her after many meetings with Mr Lovett, but she still glanced warily around as she sat down. The walls were lined with books. Everything was brown – the carpet, the curtains and the leather chairs. Even the backs of the books were brown. The colour of security dear, Miss Clements would have said, thought Lucy.

  Mr Lovett sat facing her from behind his massive desk. He shuffled through a pile of papers, took out a cardboard sheet of photographs, and set it to one side. Lucy briefly wondered if he had a photo of her and David. He shuffled a bit more, found what he was looking for, and handed it over to the other man. Then, they both started putting questions about Father Copse. It was tedious. Lucy had been through all this many times before.

  She answered patiently, gave explanations, and reiterated what she had already told them over and over again. What a waste of time! The police had taken statements months ago, and she had described in detail her life in Father Copse’s house. Now she just wanted to get back to Paul. Then they started questioning her about Father Drax but, although she had often visited his commune for prayer meetings, there was little she could tell them about him as a person. They would have to ask David and Dorothy.

  At last, they seemed to have all the information she was able to give them, and they stood up to leave the room.

  “Stay where you are, there’s a good little lady,” said Mr Lovett. “We’ve just got to sort out some documentation.” Lucy wondered if it would have sounded less patronising if he’d said, “good young woman,” and decided that it wouldn’t. It didn’t really matter. He was trying to be nice.

  Beverly got to her feet, looking very pale. “I’ll just get a breath of fresh air,” she said.

  As soon as the door had closed, Lucy stood up from the squishy leather armchair and stretched her legs. She looked at the backs of the books. They didn’t mean anything to her, and nor did the papers on the desk. There was nothing interesting as far as she could see, apart from the sheet of photographs lying to the right of where Mr Lovett had been sitting.

  She studied the photos. A quick glance told her that David and she weren’t on it, but she recognised Father Drax straight away, with his yellow hair and handsome, cruel face. There were two women she recognised as aunts from the Drax commune and some others whom she didn’t know. When she reached the bottom picture – the last on the page – something twisted inside her, just below her ribs. She knew that face! No, she didn’t. She frowned. There was something about it, but she didn’t know what. She stared down at piercing blue eyes and a porcelain complexion framed by smooth, shining, silver-blonde hair. Underneath was written, “Isobel Drax, wife No. 8.”

  By the time Mr Lovett returned, she was back in the leather chair, and he already had his mind on other things. “Good girl. I h
ope we didn’t take too long. You may go now,” he said, picking up another file from his desk and flicking through it. “Back tomorrow at two, please. I’ve told Beverley.” His phone rang and he waved her out of the room.

  *

  “Who is wife number eight?” asked Lucy, as they stepped out into the rain.

  “Don’t speak to me,” groaned Beverley, clutching her stomach. They swerved past a group of black-clad barristers and almost tripped over a homeless man in a wet sleeping bag. Lucy hardly noticed any of them. Who on earth was wife number eight? She’d seen most of Drax’s wives at one time or another, when the communes met up for prayer meetings, and she would surely have noticed that silver hair.

  By the time they reached the hotel, Beverley was almost bent double. “I must lie down,” she moaned. “It’s the breakfast – that black pudding.”

  Lucy’s heart sank. They would never get back to Wales if Beverley was ill. She pulled herself together. How selfish could she be!

  “Can I do anything for you? Shall I get reception to send a doctor?” she asked.

  “No, but thanks.” Beverley pressed the lift button. “It’ll pass.” She groaned again. “Just don’t you go anywhere. Don’t leave your room.” She fished a plastic carrier bag out of her pocket. “My God! I thought I’d throw up in Lovett’s office.”

  They reached their floor and Beverley staggered along the corridor, holding the plastic bag open in front of her face. “You’ll have to order room service,” she gasped, as she unlocked her door with shaking hands. “There’s a menu and a phone number. I’ll ring old Lovett.”

  Lucy went back to her room. She dragged the armchair from its corner and pushed it up against the door. The face of the eighth wife swam before her eyes. It was no one she knew, so why was it familiar?

  She sat on the bed and picked up the menu. It was too early for lunch, but there was no harm in choosing what to have. Such sophistication! She couldn’t wait to tell the others about it. They’d all be at school now, but perhaps she could ring them later on the room phone. It was stupid that she didn’t know David’s mobile number. There had been no point before, because they were always together. Suddenly, she longed to speak to him, not only about the photo and the room service, but just to hear his voice. She felt terribly homesick – if that was the right word when you didn’t really have a home.