The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  ‘They’re ten and eight,’ Ellen replied distractedly. Her thoughts were racing as question after question flooded her mind. She was having difficulty in marshalling them into some sort of order.

  ‘Ten and eight,’ cooed Rose. ‘Is that all? Well, you take my advice and enjoy it dear, ’cos before you know it they’ll be out the door and leading lives of their own and you’ll wonder where –’

  ‘Why did Eudora have photos of me and my family?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Did she say who sent them to her?’

  Rose looked blankly at Bob for a second, then turned back to face her. ‘Well . . . we always assumed you did, dear.’

  ‘Me? No. Why would I?’

  ‘Why would you?’ Rose frowned, then broke into a throaty chuckle. Clearly she was as puzzled as Ellen by the way this conversation seemed to be taking two steps back for every forward move. ‘Are you sure you’re alright, dear?’ she asked, concern etched into her features. ‘Maybe the journey . . .’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Just a little confused. I don’t understand why she had these photos or where they came from.’

  Rose looked to her husband for help.

  ‘Well, we always assumed it was you as sent them,’ he said, his voice surprising Ellen with its deep, broad, West Country burr. ‘That’s what Eudora told us. Look what my little primrose has sent me, she said.’

  ‘Her what?’

  Rose laughed.

  ‘We thought it was so sweet, didn’t we? She always called you that. My little primrose. It must feel funny having a cottage named after you. Don’t remember what it was called when that actor fellow owned it . . .’

  ‘Gable End,’ said Bob, in full flow now.

  ‘That was it. Gable End. Heaven only knows why. It hasn’t even got one. A gable, that is. Unless he named it after Clark – before your time, dear. Anyway Eudora changed it to Primrose Cottage as soon as she moved in. We all thought she was expecting primroses everywhere in the garden,’ she said, amused by the memory. ‘She could have called it Julie’s Cottage, I suppose. Might have saved some confusion.’

  ‘Julie?’ queried Kate.

  ‘I know – doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?’

  Ellen held out a hand to ward off the inevitable follow-up from Kate. There were so many things she herself wanted to have cleared up, but for now there were limits to the price she was prepared to pay. She suspected discretion was an alien concept as far as Rose Woodward was concerned. If every clause and sub-clause of this exchange was going to be common knowledge throughout the village and picked over by everyone after Evensong, she’d prefer to keep a few things to herself for now.

  She replayed their conversation in her head, looking for a way in.

  ‘So, you and Bob,’ she said, reaching down for her cup and taking another sip. ‘You say you were here before Eudora?’

  ‘Oh goodness, yes. Been here for ever, we have. Nineteen sixty-six we left Moreton. You ever been there, dear? Moreton-in-Marsh? Well, it’s easy enough to remember ’cos it’s the year England won the World Cup and they were playing one of their matches the day we moved in. Bob was in a grumpy mood, ’cos he couldn’t watch it. Had the wireless on all afternoon, didn’t you dear?’

  ‘Portugal,’ said Bob. ‘Semi-final.’

  ‘So that means we’ve been here for . . . what . . . over forty years now. Almost long enough to be accepted as “old village”. And Eudora, bless her, when was it she came? Early Eighties? Not long after your father died, at any rate.’

  Ellen nodded vaguely, remembering Eudora’s password – Primrose82.

  ‘And you saw quite a lot of her, I guess. You were close?’

  Rose smiled, although there was a touch of uncertainty about it.

  ‘Well now, close . . . I’m not sure I’d go that far, would you?’ She looked at Bob who backed her up as usual. ‘I mean, we got on fine and all that. We like to think we’re good neighbours so we kept an eye on her, like you do – you know, calling round for a cup of tea and a chat, checking to see if there was anything she wanted from the village store, that sort of thing. Especially when she started to get a bit shaky on her pins, poor thing. We’re only talking about the last few years, mind you – she was amazing till then. You’d never have guessed she was as old as she was.

  ‘So like I said, we got on well enough but I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were close exactly. Your mother . . . she wasn’t what I’d call congregarious as such. Is that the word? She liked her privacy. I mean, what we’ve been talking about earlier, we didn’t get all that from her overnight – just little things dripping through over the years, that’s all. And then, she thought such a lot of your two little ones, didn’t she? I think she was glad to have someone she could share it all with.’

  Ellen put one hand to her forehead, trying to assemble her thoughts, a gesture Rose was quick to misinterpret.

  ‘Oh, don’t you go fretting about all that, now. It’s not your fault. You had your own life and she never once complained about it. She understood how difficult it was for you. I’m sure she’d have liked to see more of you out there in Australia but you were so good with those emails of yours. They meant a lot to her.’

  ‘My emails?’

  ‘She used to print them off and let us read them. It sounds like you’ve got such a healthy life out there. I think she felt bad about not taking you up on your offer to let her have your back room. She knew how much you wanted her to move out there with you but, like she said, at her age you can’t just up sticks like that and start somewhere else. I think she was afraid she’d be a burden.’

  ‘Do you happen to know if she spoke to anyone else about all this?’ asked Ellen, more intrigued than ever. ‘Someone she talked to a lot?’

  Rose shook her head.

  ‘No dear, not really. Apart from Reverend Williams, of course. If there’s anything you want to know about Eudora, he’d be the one to tell you. You never know – maybe he’ll know what happened to those photos. I do hope they turn up somewhere. They meant such a lot to her.’

  Rose glanced across at her husband, who was checking his watch, and nodded to herself. ‘Lunch doesn’t make itself,’ she told them. ‘I expect I’m keeping you from yours too. Unless you want to come round and eat with us? You’re more than welcome to.’ She rocked herself back and forth two or three times before struggling to her feet with the help of Bob’s proffered hand.

  Ellen thanked her for the offer and assured her they’d be fine.

  ‘Well, what about tomorrow?’ asked Rose. ‘If you’re here for the weekend, we’d be happy to have you round for Sunday lunch. Roast pork?’ she said, dangling the offer in front of her like a bunch of keys.

  Ellen thanked her again, explaining that they weren’t sure just yet what their plans were. A lot depended on how much they managed to get done that afternoon and evening. Rose insisted that the offer be left open rather than turned down flat and Ellen escorted them both to the front gate. She waved as they walked off down the road, then went back in and closed the door, leaning against it for a few seconds, as if to gather her thoughts. After a few moments she went back into the conservatory where Kate was on one knee, flicking her way through the LP collection. She straightened up to face Ellen as she came back in and the two of them looked at each other for a few moments without saying a word. Then, almost on cue, both burst out laughing at the same time.

  ‘They think Eudora’s my mother?’ said Ellen, spreading her hands in disbelief.

  ‘Jesus, I was so afraid you were going to take her up on her offer of Sunday lunch. Can you imagine what that would be like?’

  ‘How old was Eudora? Ninety-one? Haven’t they done the maths? I mean, if she had me when she was . . . forty, for God’s sake, that would make me fifty-one!’

  ‘Yeah, well, they did say you looked good. Must be all that sun and surf.’

  ‘Please – do I
really look that old?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been saying for some time you could make more of what you’ve got . . .’

  Ellen picked up a cushion from the settee and threw it at her, then dropped back into the sofa. As she did so, she realised her drink was still on the floor, beyond her reach, so she did a pantomime of Rose, struggling to get up.

  ‘If I ever get like that, promise you’ll shoot me,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘You’ll have to find someone else,’ said Kate. ‘You get anything like that, I’ll be long gone.’

  Ellen reached across for her cup and took another sip. It was a little on the lukewarm side now but still drinkable.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said, thinking back over the conversation with the Woodwards. ‘Just how weird was all that? You think Eudora was having a bit of fun at their expense?’

  ‘Depends on what she told everyone else, I guess. We’ll probably have a better idea when we’ve spoken with this vicar.’

  ‘You don’t suppose Eudora said granddaughter and they just got their wires all crossed, do you?’

  ‘Why? Would that make any more sense?’

  ‘Well . . . I’d feel a bit better about it for starters.’

  Kate sat down in the rocking chair, resting her feet on the rockers and swaying vigorously back and forth. Ellen was dismayed to note that it didn’t seem to make the same protesting noises for Kate as it had for her two days earlier.

  ‘Well, you can rule out Barbara’s side anyway,’ said Kate. ‘Her parents died before you were born, didn’t they?’

  ‘Her mum did. Her dad died when I was about twelve months. So she says, at any rate.’

  Kate fixed her with the look she reserved for whenever signs of paranoia about her mother came to the fore. It was a well-rehearsed routine.

  ‘And even if that still leaves your father’s side of the family, this is still a load of crap. Nanny Eudora? Do me a favour. If she actually told them you were her granddaughter and they got the wrong end of the stick, there might have been some sort of misunderstanding for maybe a week or two but come on – they’ve been sitting here, having the same conversations for years. No way.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And if you’re her granddaughter, why just you and the kids in the photos? Where’s her son? How come they didn’t spend the past twenty years pumping her on that one? If there was something funny going on, you think Rose would have been slow to let you know just now? I don’t think so. By the way, you’ve got –’

  Kate waved a finger, pointing vaguely in the direction of Ellen’s face. Ellen lifted a finger to her mouth and came away with a smear of blood, where she had managed to make her lip bleed. She had no idea she’d been concentrating that hard.

  ‘There’s still such a lot we don’t know,’ she said, reaching into her pocket for a tissue, which she used to dab gently at her lip. ‘I mean, what’s all this about emails I’m meant to have sent? And from Australia, for Christ’s sake! And what’s with all this Julie business?’

  ‘I know – good stuff, all this. Any time you want to go away for a weekend, you make sure you call me first, OK? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

  ‘Well, there’s got to be a connection of some sort. That much is obvious. You don’t just leave everything to a total stranger, do you?’

  ‘Unless this is just some sort of fantasy of hers.’

  ‘So she what . . . just picked me out at random? How does that work? And the photos – if the Woodwards are right and she’s got them going back to when I was at school, where did she get those? Who’s been sending them to her?’

  ‘You know what?’ said Kate, springing to her feet so quickly that the chair continued to rock unoccupied for several seconds. ‘We’re not going to solve anything sitting here. I vote we start with those boxes upstairs. I feel a working lunch coming on. You up for it?’

  Ellen smiled and held out her hand. Getting out of the sofa wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  March 1974: O’Halloran

  O’Halloran shoulders his way through the crowd in the doorway and resumes his place at the table. He watches as the boy comes back from the bar, carrying a pint of lager and a glass of that awful concoction his father insists on pouring down his throat. Sad bastard. Must have shit for brains if he really believes he can back out now, after everything’s been put in place. O’Halloran shakes his head and dismisses their brief exchange from his thoughts. Not worth spoiling the mood.

  Some moments, it seems to him, should remain frozen in time. If there’s such a thing as a benevolent supreme being, a concept with which he personally has never quite managed to come to terms, then surely something like this ought to be preserved in amber. Or even better, it should be permanently on tap, a memory you can sip and savour at your leisure rather than a dry museum piece you can only look at behind protective glass. Everyone should be able to pull a pint of fresh nostalgia now and then.

  Because no more than fifteen feet from where he’s sitting right now is John Michael Adams. That’s John Michael Adams, for fuck’s sake! This is not just any young lad – this is a world exclusive right here, and yet there’s nothing to highlight the significance of the moment. No cameras, no crowds pressing closer to pick up every word, every nuance of the conversation.

  There must be – he takes a quick look around – a hundred or so people in the bar. Once the story breaks, he has no doubt that in every office, every workplace within a plausible radius, there’ll be ten times as many willing to swear on their mother’s life that they were at the Prince’s Arms the night John Michael Adams walked in with his father. They’ll recall seeing the pair of them, sitting there at the table, oblivious to the music and apparently lost in each other’s company. Some will remember queuing at the bar with one or the other and exchanging a few pleasantries while they waited. The more creative will claim they knew instinctively there was something funny about them – they’ll remember saying so at the time. It was obvious from the strange way the boy seemed to be glaring at anyone who came too near. You could tell, just looking at him – those eyes! He’s a nutter.

  Losers. The reality is those who are actually here right now haven’t got a clue. Not a sodding clue! They’re far more interested in listening to the group performing onstage or chatting up the woman next to them. He’s the only person who knows what’s going on here and he’s managed to put it together with no help whatsoever from the big boys in London or even journalistic minnows like the CDG.

  Even now it hurts that they saw fit to toss him aside the way they did. He was the only person to get close to all the major participants in the story. This was his exclusive, a chance to make a name for himself and launch himself on to bigger and better things. He was very much flavour of the month when he engineered that interview with Martin Adams. Back then it was all gosh, Frank – how on earth did you manage that? But once the boy was shut away they all seemed to lose interest. The story could still have had legs if only they’d shown a little faith and support. Instead they’d done nothing but gripe about other stories he was supposedly neglecting and harp on about his reluctance to let go. Obsessed, they’d called him, as if a true professional could be anything other than driven. They’re the reason he’s never been able to get the recognition his efforts deserve. To them he’s still the number one fuck-up who gets the call whenever there’s a staff shortage or something as mind-bogglingly stultifying as a town council meeting to cover. But that’s going to change very soon – oh yes, is that going to change!

  He’s pleased to note that this half-hour the boy has had with his father seems to have had a positive effect on him. He looked jittery when he came in, eyes skittering everywhere, and that wasn’t in anyone’s best interests. Far better to give a little, he thinks. Sometimes, when you’ve got someone on the floor and your foot is pressing on his throat, it’s not a bad move to ease off and let him have that quick gasp of air. Never take away the hope – always leave them something to
cling to. Personally he feels he owes them nothing. The boy is damaged goods as far as he’s concerned, a little shitbag who should have been strangled at birth. As for the father, he deserves whatever he gets, but if letting them have a few moments to themselves oils the wheels a little, then who’s he to complain? It’s not as if it’ll cost him anything – he still has his hands on the reins and can jerk them back any time he wants.

  The first inkling he has that things might not be going strictly according to plan is when someone comes running in from outside and tries to push his way through the crowds gathered at the bar. He’s shouting to be heard above the din and gesticulating urgently. A handful of people immediately disappear through the door and there’s talk of calling for an ambulance, which makes him think there’s probably been a fight outside . . . not that unusual on a Saturday night.

  Then two lads return to a table near by with reports of an accident – some mad bastard has lost control of his car, mown down a pedestrian, then panicked and driven off without stopping. O’Halloran hears this and he’s out of his seat like a shot because he’s been wondering why old man Kasprowicz hasn’t shown yet and even though there are any number of other possibilities on offer here, he just knows somehow that something’s gone wrong.

  Even as he moves towards the door, he’s sifting quickly through his options. What he really needs to do is get out there and assess the situation for himself but he doesn’t much fancy the idea of leaving the boy behind with no one to keep an eye on him and he can’t be in two places at once. From the doorway he can see that a crowd has spilt out from both bars and gathered in the entrance, where they can follow the drama outside without having to brave the worst of the elements. He looks back over his shoulder at the boy who seems oblivious to everything. He’s tapping his feet to the music and doodling on the table with his finger dipped in a pool of ale that has slopped over the rim of his glass. If he’s at all concerned by the fact that his father hasn’t yet returned, he gives no sign of it.