Embroidering Shrouds

by Priscilla Masters

  EMBROIDERING

  SHROUDS

  Priscilla Masters

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471311420

  Copyright © 1999 Priscilla Masters

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  With apologies to the real inhabitants of Spite Hall. I’ve borrowed the name only, I couldn’t resist it, but the entire story comes, as usual, straight from my head!

  Chapter One

  6 p.m. Sunday, October 25th

  She mumbled while she worked, hands lumpy with arthritis selecting the right shade of thread. Pink for the child’s skin. She measured a length, snipped it, made it rigid with saliva and concentrated on threading it through the eye of the needle. Harder for a rich man. She made her stitches fine, a difficult manoeuvre with such stiff hands but she would manage it. She was determined.

  It was an intricate design, the most complicated she had ever attempted. The baby in the centre, lying on its back. Its mother in the background, hands over her face, unable either to witness or stop the event. The soldier with his sword raised, his next move easy to anticipate. Nan had stitched the title beneath, the sentiment originating from Tintoretto though it was not a copy. His painting had been far too detailed. But she had liked the title, thought it apt and had adapted it. Massacre of the Innocent. The border was her particular pride, complicated and wide, bearing emblems – a cross, Remembrance Day poppies, a chalice, supplicating hands.

  Nan’s eyes drooped slightly. Tapestry was tiring, hard on the eyes, and she wasn’t so young now. She smiled, half dozing. She had captured all that she had wanted – and more: that implication of piety. She closed her eyes again and dreamed.

  Lydia sat back, listened to the wind screaming like a banshee and sighed. It would be wreaking havoc on the hen house roof. She’d spend most of tomorrow nailing the corrugated tin back to the rafters. She too felt tired. It was time to stop; she’d done enough for today, completed her quota. She could take the evening off and listen to the radio. She folded the exercise book and stared out through the blackening window at the silhouettes of trees forced to dance in submission to the storm, only now realizing that from outside she was illuminated. If anyone was out there she could be picked out as though she sat in the centre of a lit stage. The thought made her suddenly apprehensive. She should have closed the curtains earlier.

  Two miles away the same thought was flitting through her sister’s mind. Nan’s eyes had drifted from the work towards her reflection in the darkening glass. She saw herself clearly, unkindly. Marion Elland, the home help, did her work well. The light picked out details on the glass that she would have asked it to spare. Knobbly joints, a stooped back, sparse white hair, her face creased with more than seventy years of living. Worst was the reflection of her expression, her native aggression watered down by fear. The fear of an old lady living alone, the fear of the vulnerable, the fear that someone was outside, watching her. She should have closed the curtains earlier.

  Her eyes were caught by a movement outside. Too big for a cat or a dog. Taller, less graceful, white-faced. She tried to stand up – too quickly – and fell back in the chair with a gasp of pain.

  She should have been slower, taken her time as Doctor Edmonds was always telling her. ‘Take your time, Nan. What’s there to hurry for?’ He didn’t know that taking time was the luxury of the young. For her time was running out as fast as the sand in an egg timer. Faster than she knew. Faster even than nature intended. Nature would have allowed her the slow slide towards death. He would not.

  She reached for her walking stick, varnished blackthorn, stout and strong. It provided her with some small measure of confidence, a delusion of security. She thought with it she would be able to defend herself.

  It was some use; with it she could stand, take the vital couple of steps and reach the window. Sharply she snapped the brocade curtains almost together. She did the same to the other two windows, then with a feeling of relief she dropped back in her chair, exhausted by the effort.

  Robbed of his view Christian Patterson padded away from the window and crossed the garden towards his front door.

  Nan always mumbled while she worked, the habit of a woman who had lived alone for years. Sometimes she uttered bits of well-known poetry, a few bars of songs, acerbic comments to herself about other people or acid rejoinders to the radio commentators. Tonight it was the turn of ‘The Lady of Shalott’, an old favourite.

  And so she weaveth steadily

  And little other care hath she

  She liked the image it threw out, the picture she longed to portray, of a young, graceful woman, bent over her needlework. Suddenly she looked up, her eyes threatening to flood – more than fifty years too late. And Sir Lancelot? Would he come riding by? She shivered. God forbid. But he would come one day. He would come. And like the Lady of Shalott it would prove her downfall; the mirror would crack.

  She bent back over the canvas, stretched across a wooden frame to keep the pattern taut, the stitches neat and even. It was for the church, meant to replace the top of one of the threadbare footstools. People didn’t bother about the church nowadays. Folk would interpret the work as they wished. Nan Lawrence’s face twisted in angular spite. They would look at it and see one thing, when she knew it represented something quite different. And when she rested her knees on it while she prayed it would be a fitting symbol of her dominance.

  What she could not know was that this design, colourful as it was, would soon become even more colourful. Drops of scarlet would rain randomly to alter the picture, but while she would be the one to apply the colour it would not be of her design. And in time the piece of canvas would be studied, but it never would reach the church.

  She leaned back to appraise it. It was almost finished. He would be – no – he would not be pleased. But he would be surprised – yes – surprised.

  It was an understatement. She felt desperately tired. Her chin dropped. Her mutterings changed to snores.

  Joanna Piercy had no such problems. She was wide awake. Replete and mellow with thought, wine and food, she sat back on the sofa listening to some soft pop classics. The Very Best of Love. She stretched her arms above her head. ‘Well,’ she challenged Matthew with a sideways grin. ‘Am I a good cook or not?’

  He was still sitting at the table, a half-empty wine glass in his hand. He returned her grin, put his glass down and answered with mock gravity. ‘No, not good, Jo
,’ he said.

  She stood up in one swift, graceful movement and moved behind him to fold his head against her. ‘Not good, Matt? Careful,’ she warned.

  He tilted his head right back to kiss her full on the mouth. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he said. ‘It was wonderful. I’d almost forgotten how well you can cook – when you try.’

  ‘Sarcasm’, she said, combing her fingers through the thick, honey-coloured hair, ‘will cost you dearly. You can load the dishwasher, Matthew Levin, for tucking that spiteful little comment behind a compliment.’

  ‘Later’, he said, ‘I will throw the plates in the dishwasher, not now.’

  But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook yet. ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘But for now I should really give the chef her just desserts.’

  She giggled and pulled him away from the table back towards the sofa. The CD changed tracks.

  Matthew glanced up towards the window. ‘Hang on a minute, Jo,’ he said, letting go of her hand abruptly. ‘Don’t want the neighbours peeping, do we?’

  Joanna giggled again. Relaxing evenings spent with a bottle of good French wine were infrequent and heady. She felt almost drunk with happiness. ‘We haven’t got any neighbours’, she mocked, ‘except Hubert and his sheep. And they won’t tell – whatever we get up to. And anyway,’ she said recklessly, ‘who cares?’

  He drew the curtains. ‘I care,’ he said.

  She lay with her head in his lap, looking up at him; it was minutes before either of them spoke.

  ‘I am’, Matthew sighed, ‘a lucky and contented man. A very contented man.’

  Joanna studied him slowly. During the year since they had moved into the cottage in the moorlands village of Waterfall Matthew had undoubtedly been happy – for most of the time. The final break up of his marriage had seemed the right step for both of them. It was a new phase, this contentment, after the angst and guilt and doubt had evaporated and they were still savouring it. Throughout the summer he had played cricket with renewed vigour every weekend while she had joined her fellow members of the cycling club. They would meet at the end of the day exhausted but happy and hungry. Through the winter they walked together in the Peak District, discovering country pubs and unknown villages – unknown to them as a couple, a whole new Garden of Eden. Through the week they both worked hard; their leisure time together was precious and valued.

  She closed her eyes to shut out a rogue thought. ‘You don’t think saying you’re a contented man is tempting the fates?’ She was asking the question lightly, dreamily, but they both knew her fear, that contentment was an illusory state. And as though to confirm her fear, the phone rang before Matthew could answer. The destruction of the atmosphere was swift and complete.

  Matthew moved first. ‘Leave it.’ Joanna tugged at his arm.

  ‘Jo,’ Matthew was impatient, ‘I can’t. It might be ...’

  She knew who it might be. Who else would disturb an idyllic Sunday night when they were both relaxed. ‘Leave it,’ she said again, sharply. ‘Let the answerphone ...’ But he shook her from him and picked up the phone.

  Straightaway she knew her instinct had been right by the way the lines on his face deepened, by the way his hand pushed his hair from his forehead, exposing deep furrows which had not been there seconds ago. Dammit. The little witch must have an instinct for the precise moment of happiness to so utterly destroy it. Joanna put her shoes back on. She might as well load the dishwasher.

  Nan Lawrence’s rest had been short-lived; a loud thud had disturbed her from her dream. She had been digging, digging into damp soil, preparing the ground for ... Dig, dig, dig for victory. Dig dig dig for ...

  She sat up, startled. She knew what she had been digging for. There was a second thud followed by an ominous, grating sound. And now she knew what it was that had disturbed her.

  It was the long-case clock in the corner. Christian had explained to her why it made that noise; there was a fault in the movement. He had even made a joke about it. He had said it was old, stiff, misshapen and arthritic, like her.

  Thinking of the clock reminded her of Christian and the lines in Nan Lawrence’s face melted with a streak of sentimentality. A vivid picture presented itself of his tanned forearms disappearing into the trunk of the clock while his grin challenged her. Emotions fought for their place: pride, bitterness, fear. Pride that the boy had inherited some of her powerful character. Bitterness because however hard Nan wished he was her true grandson he was not. Fear that the male sex was so much stronger, more aggressive, more cruel than the female, and his youth made him raw and reckless. A rare pang of conscience hit her; maybe, maybe she had influenced the boy too much. Certainly his mother had thought so.

  She tried again to concentrate on her sewing but it was impossible now, her eyes were too tired. And now she had a new worry: she couldn’t remember whether she had turned the key in the front door or pulled the bolt across. Foolish the way she forgot things these days – important things. But it wasn’t safe to leave the door open, she must check.

  She stood up and stumbled across the room, using her stick for support, as the physiotherapist had showed her. But even with the aid her progress was slow, and someone was knocking at her door.

  Lydia normally felt safe behind drawn curtains and closed doors and didn’t bother with locks and bolts. But tonight something was making her restless; maybe it was the wind, howling outside. And it wasn’t just her, the soft clucking in the corner was louder than usual. She crossed the room to stand over the basket. ‘Quiet, you two. Nothing’s happening. It’s just a storm.’ But the hens failed to respond to the soothing tone in her voice and clawed at the straw in their basket.

  Lydia Patterson picked up the larger of the two hens, a fat, black and white pencilled bird. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Is there a fox outside?’

  The hen gave a noisy cluck.

  Lydia placed the hen back in the basket and returned to the window, pulling back the curtain to stare outside. The wind was gaining strength, noisily tearing through the night. There was something restless in the air; she wasn’t imagining it. She pulled the front door open and stood at the top of the steps, peering around the yard. Was something slinking along the hedge or was it her imagination?

  She took the gun from its cabinet and slotted two cartridges into the barrel.

  Joanna wasn’t clattering the plates on purpose, they just seemed to be making a louder noise than usual. Matthew glared at her, frowning.

  She wasn’t trying to listen either, but she couldn’t help it. Matthew’s voice was very clear. And when he spoke to either Jane or Eloise he had a habit of speaking even more slowly, more deliberately and more clearly than usual. Add to that the fact that Eloise’s voice was high-pitched and shrill, particularly when she was trying to coax something out of her father.

  Even in the kitchen, scrubbing the green Le Creuset saucepans that she had learned not to ruin in the dishwasher, she could hear Matthew’s replies to Eloise. But she could not make out her words, only the tone. She’s laying down the law, Joanna decided. What was it now, a half-term treat? A weekend somewhere? Money? She picked up the wine glasses, wondering whether to risk putting them in with the dishes. There was still half a bottle of wine left. They wouldn’t be drinking it now. Correction, she thought sourly, they would drink it, they just wouldn’t enjoy it. In a sudden fury she slammed the dishwasher door shut, ignoring the protesting clatter from the crockery and switched it on, her mind working overtime. How many evenings did she and Matthew have together? With his work and her irregular hours, few. Too few. So how did his daughter sense when it was their turn for an evening at home when he wasn’t on call? How did she know?

  Sunday, of course, the traditional family day.

  Sulkily Joanna listened to Matthew’s apologies to the ex-wife now. ‘I’m sorry, Jane. I do realize.’ A pause before a patient, ‘Yes, I do understand. It’s fine. No, no, I’ll be glad to see her.’ Another long stop
while Jane Levin continued the tirade. ‘Joanna will love to have her, I promise.’ Said more firmly. Joanna froze in the doorway. Matthew shot her a swift, anxious, apologetic grin, meant to be reassuring, a we can manage it together sort of grin, at the same time as he was speaking into the telephone. ‘I’m sorry, Jane, but I shall have to go now.’ And, surprisingly, without waiting for her lengthy sentences to end he put the phone down, stood motionless for a moment then finally turned towards Joanna. He held out an arm in pacification and typically didn’t wait to drop his bombshell. Matthew always broke bad news quickly.

  ‘I’ve promised to have Eloise for half-term. OK?’

  Chapter Two

  7 a.m. Monday, October 26th

  Lydia was out of bed and already writing.

  Dora nestled over the brown egg, feeling the comforting shape of it beneath her feathered rump. She eyed the other hens with a certain air of smugness. None of them could have produced such perfection.

  Lydia stopped writing and stared through the window, her thoughts years away. How different all their lives could have been if ...

  She tutted to herself; no use dwelling in the land of If. She must accept what was and be practical. So instead of searching through dreams she forced herself to see what was through the window: a yard, muddy and strewn with branches and twigs blasted from the trees by the storm, a corrugated tin roof lurching at a drunken angle over the hen house. Damage had been done and now there was work to do.

  Joanna’s contentment temporarily returned as she wheeled her bike round to the front of the house and took a long glance back at their home. Waterfall Cottage never failed to delight her. Built in the earlier part of the nineteenth century, it had originally been a farmworker’s cottage in the attractively but misleadingly named village: there was no waterfall. There were stocks and a pinfold, an ancient parish church, and a school which had been closed for twenty years but still served as a village hall. Waterfall Cottage stood opposite the triangular village green, a small, pretty stone cottage that backed on to the churchyard. She and Matthew had gutted the entire house, preserving what they could and at the same time improving it with a damp course, central heating, a kitchen which masqueraded as traditional yet held every available modern labour-saving device: a microwave, a dishwasher, a fridge-freezer. They had decorated throughout in modern, bright colours, chosen every stick of furniture together: an antique pine dining table and eight chairs, a feather-stuffed sofa, a cabinet which she had filled with her only inherited heirlooms, a collection of Victorian Staffordshire figures, bequeathed by an aunt.