by GJ Minett
‘Need me to show you round or you OK on your own?’ asked Sharp, opening one of the overhead cupboards and rummaging around inside.
‘I’m fine,’ said Ellen, frowning. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Thought I’d make us a drink,’ he said, moving on to the next one. ‘Where d’you suppose she kept the teabags?’
‘I thought we weren’t supposed to touch anything.’
Sharp laughed at her sense of propriety. ‘Don’t hear her complaining, do you? Anyway . . . two teabags? Who’s going to know?’
Ellen thought about it and asked for white with no sugar, then left him to it. She felt happier looking around on her own.
Leaving the kitchen, she opened a couple of doors in passing to see what lay behind them. One was a toilet with a small hand basin, the other a utility room, which was where the washing machine had been plumbed in. There was also a full-sized freezer chest, a vacuum cleaner and a number of cleaning materials, all neatly tucked away in their prescribed places.
At the end of the corridor, she climbed two small steps and walked through a sliding door into the conservatory. This, she knew instantly, was where Eudora would have spent the bulk of the daylight hours. Evenings in the front room, maybe, especially on cold nights with a roaring log fire. The days though would have to be spent in here, especially when the sun hit the glass and poured into the room like liquid honey. A cream-coloured sofa with off-white throws was strategically placed to take in the pergola and the rock garden at the side of the house. In front of the sofa was a glass-topped coffee table, a copy of Country Life lying open, presumably at the page where Eudora had left off reading for the last time. A pair of spectacles lay next to it. Ellen moved as if to close the magazine, then thought better of it.
Over by the window was an old rocking chair which wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Adirondack back porch. She decided to try it out. It creaked ominously the moment she started to ease it back and forth and she jumped up quickly, cursing those extra pounds. Some day she really would get around to doing something about it. In the corner was a small cabinet, which supported a record player with a Perspex lid. Tucked away in the shelves were a number of LPs which, judging by their covers, had seen better days. She flicked idly through them: Carousel, The King and I, South Pacific. Eudora had loved her musicals, then.
At the far end, where the conservatory joined the rear of the cottage, a writing desk faced out over the back lawn and provided the same view of the hills that Ellen had been enjoying a few minutes earlier. She walked over to take a closer look at the laptop which was out of its case and set up ready for use. Good for you, girl, she thought. Her mother, although twenty years younger than Eudora, had always been intimidated by new technology. Barbara had picked up the little she needed to know during her time on Reception at Langmere Grove, but the idea of her going anywhere near a computer for personal use would have been laughable, even before the dementia set in. Eudora had clearly found for a use for it.
Her hand hovered over the ‘On’ button and paused there. It wasn’t her laptop – not for another couple of days, at any rate. She was a little uncomfortable about the idea of prying into Eudora’s personal affairs within ten minutes of crossing the threshold. It was bad enough that she was traipsing through the cottage like some insensitive tourist. It felt like an intrusion, however much she tried to convince herself that this was what Eudora had intended. Logic dictated that the laptop would not have been left there if it contained anything she wasn’t meant to see, but even so. It just didn’t feel right.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Borat’s voice coming from the kitchen, Sharp’s customised ringtone. She decided she’d forget the laptop for now and satisfy herself with a quick check of the desk drawers. To her disappointment, they were all locked. She looked around briefly for the keys but couldn’t see any. She added it to the mental list of things to ask Wilmot when she next saw him. Already she was beginning to attune herself to the idea of a return visit at the weekend.
She left the conservatory and went upstairs to look at the rest of the cottage. The staircase was narrow and steep, twisting back on itself, and she was grateful for the rope banister, which she used to haul herself up. It was a short but demanding climb, even for her relatively youthful legs. Eudora must have been so grateful for the downstairs toilet. You wouldn’t want to do this more often than you had to.
The wooden floor of the landing was covered at intervals by rugs, which did little to prevent the boards from creaking every few paces. She took a quick inventory of the rooms. Bathroom – on the small side, certainly not as big as the one she was used to at home, but serviceable and (predictably) spotless. Bedroom one – single bed, old teak wardrobe, small bedside table with a clock radio and a copy of the Bible. Bedroom two – small, used principally as a storage room. Double bed (which must have taxed the imagination of those charged with getting it into the room in the first place). Small chest of drawers. Every available bit of floor space (and most of the bed for that matter) occupied by large crates such as those used by removal companies. A quick check inside one of them revealed clothing (male). Another contained books (Dickens, Austen, the Brontës). A third held documents and loose papers. Presumably not many visitors came to stay at Primrose Cottage.
The third bedroom was obviously Eudora’s. Large double bed. Kidney-shaped rosewood dressing table, polished to within an inch of its life, supporting a lavender-coloured jewellery box and a brush-and-comb set. Bedside table holding spectacles case (empty) and copy of Return of the Native. Reading lamp perched precariously near the edge. Ellen walked over and moved it into the centre. Oak wardrobe with sliding doors. She took a quick look inside and decided that whatever vices Eudora might have enjoyed, shopping for clothes was not one of them. There was an abundance of woollen cardigans and jumpers but only a couple of nice dresses. For the rest, the emphasis seemed to be on the practical – tweed, made to last, nothing extravagant or showy. There was certainly very little here to suggest ninety-one years of self-indulgence.
Ellen placed one hand on the dressing table and rubbed at the bedroom window to remove the condensation. Peering through it, she tried to make out the tractor she’d seen earlier but there was no sign of it now. She could see the woman with the two springer spaniels though. She was now on the footpath which ran parallel with the end of the garden, heading towards the copse and tugging frantically at the leads in an attempt to exert some sort of control over the dogs. Clearly she wasn’t sufficiently confident to let them run loose. It was far from clear who was walking whom.
A sudden movement caught her eye and she craned her neck forward to see Sharp on the patio below her, mobile pressed to his ear. He was hunched over, clearly feeling the cold, and she wondered briefly why he’d opted to take his call outside. Girl trouble, she told herself with a smile. That was something he’d want to keep to himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen to care. Far from cool. He looked up and saw her at the window. Pausing for a moment, he waved sketchily, then turned his back and ended the call abruptly.
He was in the kitchen once more by the time she’d finished looking around upstairs. He held out a cup of dubious-looking coffee.
‘No milk – least, none you’d want to put in your drink. Came out in lumps. No teabags either. There’s a jar over there with “TEA” on it but it’s all loose, like.’
‘Coffee will be fine,’ she assured him.
‘Couldn’t remember what you said, so I just put the one spoonful.’
Ellen thought about making another but decided to spare his feelings. She took her drink into the conservatory and rested it on the coffee table before easing herself onto the sofa, which seemed to stroke and cosset her as she sank into it. Sharp followed her but stayed on his feet, wandering aimlessly from one side of the room to the other. He checked his watch, then picked up a biro and tapped the lid of the laptop several times, as if tuning in to some silent rhythm only he could hear. Then
he wandered over to a Vettriano calendar which was hanging from the back of the door and flicked through the pages, looking at the pictures. Ellen watched him take a sip from his drink. He walked over to gaze out of the window for a few minutes before checking his watch again.
Eventually he came over, put his cup on the table next to hers and sat down on the sofa, careful to leave a respectful distance between them.
‘Alright then?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The coffee.’
‘Oh . . . yes. Fine.’
‘Thought so. I’m good with coffee. Long as it’s instant.’
She leant forward and picked up Eudora’s Country Life.
‘If you fancy a walk after –’ he said.
‘A walk?’
‘After you’ve finished here, like. I was thinking . . . that pub I was telling you about. The Wayfarer’s? It’s only just up the road. They do nice food there.’
‘Oh, I don’t think –’
‘Sausage, egg and chips. Ham, egg and chips. Steak and kidney pie. All good stuff. I was thinking, we could nip up there and have a drink, maybe something to eat before we go back. My shout, like.’
Ellen laughed. ‘It’s only just gone eleven. Besides, I brought lunch with me. I’ll eat it in the car on the way home.’
‘Cool.’
It wasn’t just her lack of inclination to spend any more time with him than she had to. He might be anxious to come up with an excuse for getting back late to the office, but she preferred to set off as early as possible. She knew that if she were to get back to her car and leave Cheltenham by midday, there was a reasonable chance she might be home in time to collect Megan and Harry from school. Maybe they could go swimming at the Leisure Centre. Harry in particular loved it and she’d been promising for ages but never quite found time for it. As an alternative, lunch with Liam Sharp didn’t even come close, however much she might have liked to see the local pub and maybe meet a few of her new neighbours. Not that they would be, of course. Neighbours.
‘Still . . . no rush, eh?’ he said, taking a sip from his drink and making a series of whooshing noises as he realised how hot it was. ‘Plenty of time to enjoy your coffee. You reckon she kept any biscuits in there?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘I’ll see what there is. You never know.’
He got to his feet and headed back into the kitchen. Ellen flicked through the magazine, wondering if she might be able to learn something about the area. She’d never been to the Cotswolds. There’d been no time or money for holidays when she was young. As soon as she was old enough, the six-week summer break from school was given over to working at Langmere Grove, first of all in the supermarket, then helping her mother in Reception. What holidays they had were usually spent at home, in the rent-free caravan they were allowed to use on site until they finally had enough money for a small semi-detached house in Middleton. Why go away and waste money, with the beach at West Wittering practically on your doorstep?
She and Jack had broken the mould to a certain extent. After the debacle in Wales, they’d honeymooned for two weeks in Goa, spending the best part of the next twelve months paying it off. And now her holidays were geared around the children – Center Parcs in Belgium last year, Disneyland booked for the summer. But there were large areas of this country which were still completely unknown to her. It occurred to her that she probably knew Barbados better than she did the Cotswolds.
Sharp’s voice came floating in from the kitchen.
‘You get to choose. Custard creams or digestives. Bit soft but I think they’re OK.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Sure? Probably just as well. This one’s got –’
Ellen jumped as three sharp raps resounded throughout the cottage. The door knocker had clearly lost none of its effectiveness over the years.
‘Want me to get that?’ called Sharp.
‘No, I’ll go.’ Ellen hauled herself out of the depths of the sofa and headed for the front door, straightening her skirt as she went. The latch was stiff and she fiddled with it for a few moments before opening the door. It swung back to reveal a tall shambles of a man, dressed in a suit that had clearly seen better days and an unbuttoned raincoat that should have been discarded years ago. His age was difficult to assess accurately. He looked to be in his late sixties, but the excess weight he was carrying might well have inflated that estimate by several years. He removed a battered trilby from his head and smiled, holding up a fifty-pence coin for her perusal.
‘Found it on the path – by the gate,’ he said, his voice pitched an octave higher than she’d been expecting. It sounded odd in such a large man. ‘Don’t know whose it is.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘Is she ready?’ He peered over her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Eudora. Is she in? I’ve come to collect her.’
December 1973: John Michael
The professor’s here today.
First visit for nearly two months. Time was, he came at least once a week but the book’s published now. The interviews are over. The tape recorder’s been put away. The professor’s got a new project, a six-part series for the BBC on the decline of family values in Britain in the Fifties and Sixties. Or should that be F-Fifties and S-Sixties? Filming’s already under way. Busy man, everyone wants a piece of him. They reckon he’ll get something in the Honours List for services to the Arts, despite his unfailing and controversial support for the boy known as ‘Every Parent’s Nightmare’.
When he does come, he brings a present to make up for the gap between visits. Never anything exciting – usually a book of some sort, something designed to improve the m-m-mind. There are rules about what he can bring in, mind you. Sometimes, on a good day, he’ll bring a bag of frosted doughnuts and he’ll sit there in the visitors’ room, licking the sugar from his fingers while he talks about how things are progressing. The professor likes doughnuts.
It’s difficult to get excited about these conversations now. It’s not like it was eighteen months ago, when things were moving so swiftly. That kind of momentum doesn’t last. John Michael knows that now. Seems like all he’s heard lately are the same phrases over and over again: groundswell of public opinion; petition to the Home Secretary; letters of support from leading academics, actors and theologians. Blah-di-blah. They all start to blend into one big letdown and he’s had to learn to cope with it or go under. It’s such a load of crap. There was a time when the words ‘wind in our sails’ appeared in every other sentence. Now it’s all ‘inching our way forward’ and ‘getting there bit by bit’.
Getting where exactly?
The professor’s brought another book today. No doughnuts though. This time the book is The Ascent of Man by Jacob Bronowski, signed by the author with a brief message of support which looks suspiciously like the professor’s handwriting. He can forgive him for that. His heart’s in the right place. He may be a bit of a bore but at least he still comes. Hasn’t given up on him.
That’s why he’s managed to get closer than all those psychiatrists they kept putting in front of him. Waste of time that is . . . theirs even more than his. At least he got a few laughs out of it. He doesn’t feel remotely bad about the crap he’s fed them over the years – perfect upbringing one day, childhood from hell the next. They didn’t deserve anything better. It wasn’t for his benefit they were here. They had one thing in their minds and that was to confirm whatever crackpot theories they brought into the room with them. Pretty clear from the outset that what they really wanted was to hear all about her. They seemed to think that because they were dealing with a young boy, he was just going to roll over for them. But he’s always known how to keep things covered up. The things they wanted to hear, they were never going to get from him. Never.
But with the professor it’s always been different. Least he listens. There doesn’t seem to be any hidden agenda with him. He just wants to help. He’
s looking for answers which might win round the doubters and move the campaign forward. That’s always the bottom line with the professor. He can take the two-hour train journey, the lengthy wait, the frisking, the stale air and clanging of doors, the shouting and banging and this shitty room, almost entirely stripped of colour – he’ll take it all and come back time after time ’cos the only thing that matters is getting John Michael Adams out of there.
So now the professor knows things he’s never shared with anyone else. Things he never even told his dad. Like the one about the ants – that time they invaded the kitchen cupboard. And she didn’t lose her temper, like most people would. She just calmly emptied the cupboard and scrubbed it from top to bottom. When she’d finished, she picked up a half-empty jam jar, took him by the hand and led him into the back garden. Then she scooped out what jam was left and made a little trail of it, leading from the jar back down the path. It looked like a long, red snake, he remembers.
She went inside and made lunch. Sausages and mashed potatoes. With ketchup. An hour or so later, she took him back out into the garden and pointed out the stream of ants, marching in columns from a gap under a paving stone, leading to the jar and back. She smiled and put a finger to her lips, like this was their little secret, the two of them. Then she took a small container from her apron pocket, squatted down and poured it over the ants. He can remember kneeling down and looking at them closely. Some of them lay still, as if stuck to the path. Others either scurried off in all directions or lay there, legs flailing feebly.
She told him to stand back. Then she put the container on the floor for a moment and took a box of matches from the same pocket. Taking one from the box, she struck it and dropped it into the puddle. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react, waited to see what she was expecting, as the blue flame sped along the trail and scorched everything in its path. When she smiled, he knew she wanted him to clap. And she hugged him.