The Big House

by Larche Davies

  “Lucy’s email!” said David. He scrabbled around in his school bag and found the printout.

  Paul tried to take it from him. “It’s from Lucy. Let me see, let me see.”

  “Don’t snatch!” said David. “You won’t understand it anyway, because I don’t. I’ll read it out. This is what it says.” He read slowly. “‘Two things: A. Bore da! B. Wear new T-shir.’”

  They digested it in silence. He read it again.

  Dorothy nodded. “I had exactly the same message. The “bore da” is obviously an alert. It’s the rest of it. We haven’t got any new T-shirts. What on earth’s she on about?”

  Paul was humming. He put the lid on his drawing materials. The pencils and crayons had all been counted and everything was neat and tidy. The hum turned into a song.

  “‘B. Wear new T-shir’ – beware new teacher,” he sang. “Beware of the dog. Beware the wicked witch. Beware the Prince of Darkness.” He stopped for a moment and looked anxious, then started again. “I want my Lucy,” he sang, fingering the gold circle on his neck. “Beware, beware, beware.”

  Dorothy and David stared at him.

  “Of course!” exclaimed David.

  The phone rang twice that evening, but they couldn’t hear it from upstairs, and Miss Clements was afraid to answer it in case it was that woman.

  *

  Margaret turned up at ten o’clock sharp on the Thursday morning. She flashed her identification so fast that Lucy had to ask her to show it again. There was her photograph sure enough, iron-grey hair in a hard perm and an expression so sharp it could have cut Lucy in half.

  The two of them spent a tedious morning in the hotel lounge. Lucy would never have expected to long for Beverley’s chatter, but she did. “Do you know how Beverley is?” she ventured.

  “No idea,” said Margaret.

  She sat in stony silence and her hawk-like eyes flashed in all directions. No wonder Mr Lovett had said abductors wouldn’t stand a chance, thought Lucy. Margaret would see them coming before they knew it themselves. If it was Beverley she’d be so busy talking she’d miss an army of abductors.

  Lucy had a book, but she was too worried to concentrate. No one had answered the phone when she rang last night. She’d tried twice. Maybe they were upstairs, in which case, they wouldn’t have heard it. But Miss Clements should have heard it from the kitchen, unless she was too focused on her cooking. Supposing they hadn’t deciphered her email? She knew they’d work it out in due course, because their minds operated as hers did, but what if it took them too long? They could have been abducted by now, and she hadn’t been there to help them.

  They had an uncomfortable bar lunch, and then set off for their two o’clock appointment with Mr Lovett. It didn’t take long. He asked her whether she knew anything about a disposal centre outside Manchester, which she didn’t, and did she know that the Father Arthur in the North of England had, in fact, been her own father – Father Copse – under an assumed name. She hadn’t known that either, so at least it was something new. At last, the meeting seemed to be drawing to an end, and she asked if she could look at the sheet of photographs.

  She stared at the picture of wife number eight. If only Paul were here, he’d be able to spot differences or likenesses straight away. Lucy put her hand over the hair and tried to imagine it as reddish, and thick and wavy, but that didn’t help. The skin looked much finer than Miss Morris’s. Make-up on such fine skin would look almost clown-like, which Miss Morris’s rosy cheeks were certainly not.

  So her suspicions had been wrong. And, looking at the picture now, she didn’t even have the same feeling about it. Well, never mind, it was an enormous relief. She’d been worrying about the others for nothing, and just hoped her email hadn’t frightened them.

  The meeting ended in a rush, as Mr Lovett remembered he had a train to catch, and Lucy and Margaret set off for the hotel. As they emerged from the tube station, Lucy stopped and looked around. There were so many people it was impossible to imagine how London could sustain them all. It would be easy to disappear among them, especially in this rain with hoods and umbrellas adding to the confusion. She stood for moment and studied the buses. At least two of them were going to Victoria.

  Margaret grabbed her arm. “Don’t even think it!” she snapped.

  There was no need. She’d be going home tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I notice I haven’t been arrested yet,” said Miss Morris, as she walked straight into the dining room, “so you obviously had the good sense not to call the police – though, of course, I did have to leave my flat rather hurriedly, and my work at the school, just in case.” She removed her sunglasses and a charming, little red cloche hat, and shook out her red-gold hair. “I felt a bit silly in these sunglasses in this weather. Is it always like this in Wales?”

  “According to the weatherman, it’s raining in London at this moment,” said Miss Clements coldly.

  Miss Morris put the briefcase on the table and opened the lid. It was packed with notes. “Half a million,” she said. “I’ve got a driver outside. Would you please go and tell Dorothy and David they’re to go to London immediately on urgent business with the lawyers?”

  “I can’t. They’re not here. They had to go back to London.” Miss Clements strained to catch any sound from upstairs – footsteps, a book falling or a door opening? All was quiet.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you. We’ve been watching the house. Their father won’t be pleased if he doesn’t get them back. He can get quite fierce when he’s angry.” Miss Morris looked around the pleasantly furnished dining room. “It’d be such a shame if all this were destroyed, when you could so easily have made things comfortable for yourself and your sister. Just think of what all that money could do for you.”

  Miss Clements was shaking. She tried not to look at the money, but her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own.

  “I tell you what,” said Miss Morris. “You have them here tomorrow morning by ten o’clock sharp. Father Drax doesn’t want the little boy, only his own children – and Lucy Copse if she’s here. Tell them they’re needed in London to make statements. Your livelihood won’t be at risk, if that’s what worries you, because you’ll say somebody rang from London and gave you instructions, and you thought they were official.”

  With a delicate gesture, she placed one hand lightly on top of the stack of bank notes. “Even if you were to lose the work, you needn’t worry, because you’d have half a million staring you in the face. I shall leave this briefcase here, so you can look at it now and then, and think about what all that money could do for you.”

  Miss Clements’s eyes shifted involuntarily to the briefcase. “Don’t talk such rubbish. I’ll do no such thing. Take it away.”

  “Then why haven’t you called the police? Why haven’t I been arrested? Of course you’ll take the money, and I’ll take the children.”

  Miss Morris studied the round, anxious face carefully. She could see the flush, and noticed the difficulty in breathing.

  “Come now,” she said gently. “You’ve worked hard all your life. You don’t really like children very much. I can see behind that benign expression of yours. You’ve been stuck with looking after kids because it was the only thing you could do, and for years you’ve been putting on a kindly face to hide the tedium you really feel about the whole thing. Once these exceptionally nice children have moved on, you’ll be back to making chips with tomato sauce for future criminals.” She gave a little laugh. “I must say, I may be a lot cleverer than you, but you’ve beaten me on that. I could never look after children. I can’t stand them.”

  Miss Clements grabbed the edge of the table. She thought she would pass out. How did this woman, whom she had only met twice, know how she felt? Did those piercing, blue eyes penetrate her very mind and soul? She longed for peace and freedom, and middle age was almost up
on her. There was so little time to live a life for herself. Suddenly, she felt powerless under this woman’s gaze. Was this what hypnotism felt like? No, it couldn’t be that. Not if she was wide awake and a woman of principle. She straightened her back, and the colour drained from her face.

  “I’ll do it,” she whispered.

  Miss Morris closed the briefcase, and pushed it towards her.

  “Happy retirement,” she said. “Ten o’clock sharp. Don’t keep us waiting. There are double yellow lines outside.” She put the little red hat back on her head. “I won’t need the sunglasses. It’s getting dark already, with all these black clouds. Such a dismal place. It’s a shame to have to leave this lovely, comfortable room. Oh, and as we have a deal now, I must warn you. I’m sure you’re an honourable woman and take pride in keeping your word, but if you do let us down, you and your sister will be in the gravest possible danger.”

  She held out her hand, but it was ignored. Picking up her bag, she gave the hat a little tweak and made for the front door.

  “By the way,” she said, “our agents have infiltrated your local police, so it’s just as well you didn’t ring them.”

  She smiled to herself. Miss Clements was not to know that was untrue. There simply weren’t enough agents to go round these days.

  As Miss Morris let herself out, the blood rushed to Miss Clements’s head, and there was a searing pain across her forehead. A band of black swept over her eyes and blinded her. She felt her way over to the nearest chair and sat down to wait for it to pass. Ten minutes or more went by before her vision cleared. She stood up shakily and looked at the briefcase.

  The deal was done now, and, if those threats were real, there was no going back. She had no experience of what people like this might do if they were double-crossed, but she guessed it would be something pretty horrible. Her peaceful life was in fragments, and she felt ill, not just for herself but for Marilyn – and those poor children! With the briefcase in one hand and the other clutching at the wall, then a chair and then the newel post of the stairs, she tottered across the hall to the kitchen.

  *

  When Marilyn arrived back from the library, she took one look at her sister and stopped dead in the middle of one of her grumbles.

  “What on earth is the matter? You look dreadful. Did you forget your blood pressure pills?”

  Miss Clements shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Come and sit down quickly,” said Miss Marilyn. “I’ll put a pack of frozen peas on your head.”

  She dashed to the freezer, and slapped a bag of peas on the top of her sister’s head and spinach at the back of her neck.

  Miss Clements slowly recovered her power of speech. She pointed to the briefcase that lay on the kitchen table. “Look in there,” she said hoarsely.

  Miss Marilyn opened the bag, and gasped. “What is it? Is it forged?”

  “I’ve done a deal,” wailed Miss Clements. “With that horrible woman with the ginger hair. That money is for us. The children will be picked up tomorrow at ten o’clock and taken to their father.”

  She put her head in her hands and howled. Donald looked up in surprise from his bed in the corner, turned himself round and went back to sleep.

  “I don’t know what came over me. She’s got some dreadful hypnotic power. It was as if she could see right inside my mind. And, now, if I call the police or don’t hand over the children, you and I are going to be murdered or tortured or buried in concrete – or whatever criminals do.”

  Miss Marilyn was now the one to feel faint. She plonked herself down on a chair and gaped open-mouthed at her sister. “You can’t have said what I just thought you said.”

  “I did say it,” groaned Miss Clements.

  “You’ve sold the children back to those crazy religious lunatics? What on earth came over you? We don’t need the money.”

  “It was the cottage. She somehow knew about the Greek cottage, and I’ve never told a soul – except you, of course.”

  “You could buy half a dozen cottages if you sold this house – or more. We don’t want the money. It’s filth.” She stood up. “I’m going to call the police.”

  Miss Clements grabbed her arm. “Don’t! They’ve been infiltrated. You don’t know who you’ll be talking to. It could be one of their spies. It’ll be the end of us.”

  “I’d rather that than take money for delivering up those children.” Miss Marilyn’s voice was raised firmly above its usual whine. “Even if I can’t bear them,” she added.

  “What is to become of us?” moaned Miss Clements, turning the peas and the spinach over onto to their cooler sides.

  “What has already become of you, I’d like to know,” snorted Miss Marilyn. “My ever-calm, ever-compassionate sister, to sacrifice children to the devil!”

  At this point Miss Clements really did swoon. The spinach and peas slipped off with two wet thumps as she slid from her chair to the floor. Miss Marilyn made a valiant effort to lift her with her skinny arms, but couldn’t. Her sister was fat and heavy. She slapped her face and tried to shake her, and eventually covered her up with a couple of kitchen towels and a dishcloth.

  Her mind was racing in meaningless directions. She went to the cupboard and took out a loaf. There was cheese in the fridge and sliced ham. Huh! Processed. So much for home cooking! She buttered the bread and made four thick sandwiches, two ham and two cheese.

  “What a fool!” she muttered to herself. “What a fool!” She put the sandwiches into two plastic boxes and filled two Tupperware mugs with milk. “That’ll have to do,” she said aloud.

  Miss Clements stirred, but didn’t open her eyes.

  “Idiot!” snorted Miss Marilyn, as she stepped over her body to the drawer where they kept their passports. “Fool!”

  She went upstairs, and packed two wheelie suitcases and put them by the front door. When supper time came at seven o’clock, she took up a tray to the children in the first-floor sitting room. They were staring at the television, fed up with their incarceration.

  “It’s last night’s supper, cold,” said Miss Marilyn, banging the tray down on a coffee table. “Miss Clements is ill, so you’ll have to put up with it.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Dorothy. “Can we help? Is she very bad?”

  “She brought it on herself. Cast your bread upon the waters and it’ll come back to you,” was the abrupt reply, and Miss Marilyn disappeared down the stairs.

  *

  When Miss Clements eventually started coming to, Miss Marilyn was sitting at the table checking the contents of the briefcase. She counted out two separate bundles of five hundred pounds, and put them into envelopes, which she attached to the sandwich boxes with elastic bands. Then she changed her mind.

  “No, that’s not right,” she muttered. “I’d be tainting innocent children with the devil’s filthy lucre.”

  She put it back in the briefcase and closed the lid and then burrowed around for cash in the housekeeping drawer. Her sister had paid Mr Nicholas for doing something to the boiler, and there was only ten pounds left. That man had double his wages in the cakes he ate.

  “If this is all there is in the house, it’ll have to do,” she said aloud and put five pounds into each envelope. “It’s better than nothing.”

  Miss Clements opened her eyes and rubbed her head. “What am I doing here?” she croaked. Then she remembered. “Oh, my God! What’s to be done?” She grabbed hold of the table leg and pulled herself up to a sitting position.

  “You fainted, that’s all,” said Miss Marilyn. “You deserve to drop dead in shame after what you’ve done, but you only fainted. I don’t know why the Lord didn’t strike you down.” She put the kettle on. “You have a cup of tea now and something sweet to give you strength, and then get up to bed. I’ll see to the children. We’ll all be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  M
iss Clements felt too unwell to protest. She had a cup of tea and one of her fruit buttermilk scones. They had come out really well, she thought. She must use that recipe again. Then she lumbered to her feet and, with her sister pushing her from behind, made her way up to her room on the first floor.

  Miss Marilyn hurried back to the kitchen. She put the sandwich boxes, milk and money envelopes into two plastic carrier bags, and deposited them by the front door.

  Paul was asleep when she went upstairs. His overnight bag had been packed ready for tomorrow. She took it downstairs and propped it against the wall next to the other bags, rang Gwen Jones, and then went back up to the upstairs sitting room. The scene was peaceful. Dorothy was curled up in an armchair, looking at the pictures in a recipe book Miss Clements had lent her. Her revision notes lay unopened on the coffee table. David sat cross-legged on the floor, poking a tiny screwdriver into the back of a broken clock.

  Both youngsters looked up and smiled as Miss Marilyn entered. For a split second, she thought how nice it was when children smiled.

  “How’s Miss Clements?” asked Dorothy. “Is she any better?”

  “Yes. She’s recovered a little and she’s gone to bed. Be very quiet when you go up to your rooms. You’d better go up soon and get some sleep, because you’re going to have to leave very early, before it gets light.”

  The children stared at her. Their skin prickled.

  “What’s happened?” whispered Dorothy.

  “It’s that woman – that ginger Jezebel. You were right about her. She’s laid a trap and she’s coming for you at ten tomorrow to take you to your father.”

  There was a horrified silence and then they both jumped to their feet.

  “We must go now, straight away,” said David. “It’ll be the abductors – the disposal agents. They won’t wait till ten o’clock. They’ll be watching the house all night. How do we get out of here?”

  “We can’t leave Paul!”

  “He’ll be alright,” said Miss Marilyn. “I’ve rung Mrs Jones and told her to pick him up tonight because my sister’s not well. His bag’s ready in the hall. She should be here any minute.”