by Beth Moran
Amanda recovered. She folded her arms, leaning close to my mother, her features dripping with venom. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Only one person alive knows what really happened, and that’s me. You ain’t got no proof of nothing. This is my town. Either keep your mouth shut or get out. If I have to make you, I will. I’ll slice that pretty smile off your daughter’s face to start with. You know what’s at stake. You know what I’m capable of.”
Jen returned with a second box just in time to see my mother slap Amanda full in the face. Jen stepped forward smartly and grabbed Amanda’s arm before she could retaliate, as I moved in front of Ma. Jen dragged Amanda away, still cursing and snapping, while I pulled Ma in the opposite direction, leaving the bags strewn across the tarmac. I shoved her into the car and sped off as fast as I dared along the main street on market day.
Ma shook uncontrollably, her teeth chattering together despite the car’s baking interior, and she looked ready to pass out. It took only minutes to reach the campsite, where I hustled her out of the car and down the path to my caravan. I made us tea with two spoonfuls of sugar each and forced her to drink some before I asked her what on earth had just happened.
“That woman. It was her. I know it was.”
“This is to do with Daddy, and what happened before he left Hatherstone?”
“Yes. It was her. Her fault. She did it, she made him leave.”
“What did she do?”
“Henry told me everything.”
“What did he tell you?”
“His name wasn’t even Henry. Not before that night. Before her.”
“Ma.” Running out of patience, I shook her shoulder gently. “Tell me what happened.”
“That woman killed Henry Hatherstone.”
That was all Ma would say. Her lips clamped shut in their trademark scowl, and I knew nothing would prise them open. But I could think about nothing else as I prepared lunch, slicing freshly picked tomatoes and cucumbers, tossing them with balsamic vinegar before adding a hunk of feta cheese and a handful of olives. By the time I had eaten, I had made it past “wow” to consider if what Ma said made any sense. I had a live grenade ticking in my pocket. How long was the fuse? What should I do with it?
I ran out of time to spend on the Daniel-Henry-Amanda issue that day. I’d promised to take Scarlett for her appointment at the oncology department of Nottingham City Hospital, and other things soon occupied my mind. How could she not know the time or the day, forgetting it the second after I had told her, have no awareness or interest in where we were going or why – yet she could discuss the finer details of food hygiene certificates and public liability insurance?
Doctor Thakkar, sombre and sympathetic, never let us feel for a moment that she had a queue of equally desperate and dying patients waiting, who also needed her time and expertise. She answered every question, writing her responses down so they weren’t forgotten. She listened to Scarlett’s repetitive rambling, and sat handing over tissues as her patient uncapped the lid on all the pain and frustration she had tried to keep sealed off from Grace and Valerie.
We talked about hospice care. That was a short, sharp conversation.
The doctor offered to arrange an appointment for a Macmillan nurse to visit. That conversation took longer, but I persuaded Scarlett it was only fair to her family to accept all the professional help on offer.
She may or may not have realized that we could no longer safely leave her alone. Scarlett had filled the blue van with gas from an unlit stove, tried to eat a piece of chicken only partially cooked, and slipped twice getting in and out of the shower. Samuel had moved in, rather than the other way round, hoping familiar surroundings would support her memory and orientation in daily tasks. However, even with a manager in place, running a hundred-and-fifty-acre farm demanded working hours similar to those of big-shot city lawyers or a mother of quadruplets. Samuel couldn’t be with her all the time. Grace’s final exams began in a week, and Valerie also had to divide her time between college and the campsite. I had to face the truth, much as it made me squirm: my mother was the one keeping Scarlett out of the hospice. Until we had proper carers in place, no way could I encourage her back onto a plane to Ireland.
I asked Ma to tell me what she knew about Amanda, and Henry’s death.
She shook her head. “Some things are better left forgotten. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I explained how Archie and Ginger believed Henry had committed suicide; that they blamed themselves, and the guilt had nearly destroyed Archie.
She replied, “I’m not even sure what happened anyway. I probably got it all wrong. The coroner would have been correct.”
I ranted for another few minutes. She began to hum the theme tune to Coronation Street.
While imagining tightening my fingers around her throat until I had squeezed the truth out, I kept calm enough to inform her in level tones that I would be heading up to the Hall to tell Reuben what she had said that morning. She shrugged her shoulders, scrubbing the pile of freshly dug potatoes I had tipped onto Scarlett’s outside table, as if I had told her I was popping to the loo. But before stalking away, I noticed the two lines etched between her brows were more pronounced than they had been since she arrived in England. Her knuckles were bright white as she scraped at the soft peel.
Reuben answered the kitchen door. A bowl of pasta in a cream sauce stood on the table.
“Have you eaten? There’s plenty, if you want any.”
“No, thanks.” I hadn’t eaten, but my stomach felt full of rocks.
I helped myself to a glass of water, sitting at the table while Reuben ate. He tried to make small talk, but he could see I hadn’t just dropped by for a chat.
“What’s happened?”
I described the scene at the market that morning and the conversation with Ma when we got back. The rest of the pasta went cold. Reuben swore softly.
“She won’t tell you what she meant?”
“No. Prison and torture won’t get her to open her mouth unless she wants to.”
“Amanda might crumble under the right sort of pressure.”
“Admit to murder? That’d have to be a lot of pressure. She’s already threatened to maim me, without knowing what Ma has accused her of.”
I spoke casually, but inside my head my thoughts were running around in panic. She wants to maim me! I kept fixating on the surface of the table. This table was over one hundred and fifty years old. It felt solid and reassuring. Reuben poured us both more water.
“I can’t see much point in getting Brenda involved. She would only want to speak to your mum.”
“Ma thinks that anyone in authority is stupid, lazy or corrupt. Except for the police. They are stupid, lazy and corrupt. If you want to make doubly sure she keeps stumm, call Brenda.”
Reuben thought for a moment. “There is always a chance she was lying.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe she’s jealous? Amanda was an old friend of your dad’s. Maybe she was more than a friend. It’s hard to imagine Amanda having a platonic relationship with any man.”
I considered this. “Even so, you didn’t see her. Ma wasn’t lying.”
“Okay, she believes Amanda killed Henry. That doesn’t make it true.”
“My da lied? Are you saying he killed Henry, then fled to Ballydown, took Henry’s name and told Ma Amanda did it?”
Reuben didn’t answer.
“No. If he killed his best friend – ” my voice broke on the words – “he might have run off if he was young and scared, but he would never have blamed someone else. Not a teenage girl. His friend.”
“Even if they had something going between them, she wasn’t his girlfriend by the time he spoke to your mum. Maybe something happened between Amanda and Henry? Daniel could have been the one who was jealous. Maybe he saw Amanda with Henry and lost it. Then blaming Amanda enabled him to live with it. Maybe he convinced himself it was her fault.”
/> “My father wasn’t a murderer. And if it had been an accident, he would have confessed. He was brought up by your parents; they took him in and treated him as their son. He wouldn’t have done that to them.”
“How old were you when he died, Marion?” Reuben asked it gently, but I could hear the implication behind the question.
“That doesn’t matter. My father was a good man.” Whatever that meant. I thought about Father Francis, about a boat with a hole in it in the middle of a muddy lake in a storm. My father was a good man. I seethed at the injustice that he could not be here to prove it.
“If Da killed Henry, why is Amanda so keen on keeping me from finding out the truth? You can’t believe she would sneak about throwing bricks through windows to protect the memory of a boyfriend from thirty years ago?”
“No, I don’t. I think Amanda killed Henry.”
“Then why are you accusing my da?”
“I’m not. But next time Amanda does I want you to be quite certain she’s not telling the truth.”
“Oh.” I picked at a scratch on the table for a minute.
Reuben leaned back, comfortable with silence.
“Thanks. For listening to me about this, for helping me out.”
He shrugged. “It’s for my benefit too, if I can find out what really happened to my brother.”
“Well, anyway, it’s good to know that if my bloody remains are discovered on the caravan floor you can point Brenda in the right direction.”
“No problem.” Reuben stood up and filled the kettle, setting it to heat on the stove.
“So, will you stay for a coffee? I want to hear your grand plan to save the campsite and provide me with some extra business.”
“What? I have only told two people about that today, and one of them has no short-term memory.”
“Ah, but I happened to deliver a box of salad to the other one this afternoon.”
I told him my plans, keeping them vague and half-hearted, watching for signs that he thought I was an idiot.
“Sounds good.”
“Really?” A hot flush raced up my neck to my face. “You think I can do it?”
“Not by yourself. But you aren’t a fool, Marion. You’ll get help when you need it. If I had any doubts, it would be that you’re over-cautious. Don’t spend so long asking for advice and making sure everything is done right that you don’t get around to opening before it’s too late.”
“That’s why I’m going to start small, with a kiosk and an outside eating area, like we did at Christmas. I’ll do drinks and homemade ice-cream, strawberries, pancakes. Maybe get Jake to build a barbeque and let his band play at weekends.”
Reuben looked at me. I couldn’t read the expression in his velvet eyes. “You owe me dinner.”
“What?”
“If you are planning on opening a professional eatery, kiosk or no kiosk, I am assuming your cooking lessons have been successful.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“So what happened to ‘If you can manage to teach me how to cook, I promise I’ll make you a slap-up dinner’?”
“I’m not sure Erica would like you having dinner with me.”
Reuben kept his gaze steady. “Who I have dinner with is no longer any of Erica’s business.”
I nearly wet my pants.
Who could I tell about cooking a three-course dinner for Reuben without them taking it the wrong way? Was there any way I could casually drop it into the conversation without it being glaringly obvious how I really felt about it?
How did I really feel about it?
Squiggly, sweaty, jumpy, tongue-tied and flappy.
Grace asked me why I was cooking crab cakes for the second time in two days.
“I’m practising.”
“For what? The annual crab cake-athon?”
“I’m cooking dinner for a friend.”
“Jo won’t care how nice your crab cakes are, as long as there is a massive pudding.”
“It isn’t Jo.” I turned away to hide the fact that my head had turned into a tomato.
“You haven’t got any other friends.”
“Thanks for pointing that out. Aren’t you my friend? Or Valerie?”
“You are practising making crab cakes for dinner with Valerie?” Grace pointed her embroidery scissors at me from the caravan sofa. I went back to flipping my cakes.
Twenty seconds later, she gasped. “It’s a man! You have a date! It’s a friend you want to be more than a friend!”
I turned off the heat and reluctantly swivelled to face her. I knew that to protest would be futile. I couldn’t stop jiggling.
“Grace, I will tell you everything if you promise me two things.”
“Yes, I promise! Tell me ev-e-ry-thaaang.”
Oh dear.
“You must never, ever repeat this information or talk about it to anyone, unless I say that you can. Especially the person involved. And, you mustn’t take the mickey or turn this into something it’s not. I am really trying to be normal and mature and nonchalant about this. I am terrified of acting like a stupid girl with a pathetic crush.”
“Hmmm. They are highly boring promises, designed to minimize any fun I could derive from this situation. That is not an easy decision. Maybe I’ll have to call round every night until I catch you eating dinner with your secret lover instead.”
“Grace! If this goes wrong, the only way I can avoid dying of embarrassment is to move back to Ireland, leaving you with my mother.”
“I like Jane. She makes me breakfast. That sounds like a reasonable swap.”
I wrung my hands, trying to think of a way to keep this under control. “I am on the brink of cancelling this as it is. I really need a friend here, Grace.”
“I thought you had a friend. One worth making crab cakes for.” She laughed. “All right! I promise – what was it? – to never repeat anything about your new boyfriend ever to anyone, and not to tease you about it. Now spill.”
“Remember I had some cooking lessons in the autumn?”
She did.
“I made a bet with Reuben that if he managed to teach me how to cook I would make him dinner. That’s why I’m practising. Because it’s like my end of course exam. It isn’t a date.”
Grace’s mouth had dropped open at the name Reuben.
“It isn’t a date!”
“So then why all the secrecy, the red face and the ants in your pants?” She grinned. “You want it to be a date. You fancy Reuben.”
“All the secrecy is because I can’t handle the inevitable nudges and winks and jokes because I’m cooking a posh meal for a man. Yes, I do want it to be a date. I do fancy Reuben and I am majorly freaking out about it. Happy?”
She grinned wider. “Very.”
Friday morning, the first in June and the day of my non-date, I spent shopping in Nottingham with Grace. Not for food – I had done that already – but for what Grace described as a “Reubenishous” outfit. She prepped me in the car park.
“Okay. I wrote down Mum’s lesson on dressing for a first date. This is our brief.” She unfolded a scrap of paper and began to read in a perfect Southern drawl. “One: no trashy or flashy. If he’s watchin’ to see if your boob pops out he ain’t listenin’ to ya. Two: make an effort. Be yourself, but your best self. Three: wear shoes you can walk in. Stumblin’ about or hobblin’ like an old horse is not a good look. Four: wear somethin’ you feel confident in. There is nothin’ sexier to a man than a woman who is comfortable with herself. Not to a decent, well-adjusted man anyhow. That’s it.”
I tried on a million outfits that morning. Nothing felt right. I was looking for that perfect combination of “Wow – I have never noticed before that you are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen” and at the same time appearing not to have made an effort. “This old thing? I’ve had it for ages.”
I knew that clothes couldn’t transform me into a different person or add six inches to my legs. I knew Reuben had seen me sprawled in a ditch s
plattered with mud, covered in bruises from being hit by a car, standing in my underwear with a boiled chest, and wearing nothing but chicken poop. There was no perfect outfit. He liked me or he didn’t. Or so I told myself. Then Grace handed me a deep blue dress with a fitted waist and a full skirt. It had thin straps and a neck-line that was low enough to be flattering without showing more than a hint of cleavage. It looked simple enough to be casual, but elegant enough to make me feel like an actual grown-up woman; the type of woman who has handsome male friends around for dinner without breaking into a sweat whenever she thinks about it. I swished the skirt in front of the changing-room mirror. It fitted perfectly. I even looked a teensy bit sexy.
Grace offered me the blue heels with the stars on. I accepted them tentatively, praying that Reuben wouldn’t turn up in his work trousers and holey T-shirt. I would keep watch through the window and if he walked up in his muddy boots I’d quickly swap the shoes for flip-flops.
Phew. Non-dates were exhausting. Candles? Eat inside? Or outside behind the van where no one could spot us? Music? Wine? I was out of my depth, treading water and praying for a lifeboat to come and get me out of this.
In the end, the non-date dilemmas mostly solved themselves. My tiny caravan filled up with so many dirty pots, empty food packets and fish smells that eating outside became the only option. Candles would be pointless as it didn’t get dark until after ten. Eating on the grass made music impossible unless I had it blaring so loudly through the caravan window that it would attract unwanted attention. Reuben brought a dusty bottle of wine from the Hall cellars.
“I didn’t know what to bring to go with the food you’ve made, but most of the wines from our cellar are good enough to work with anything.”
He had dressed in a smart pair of jeans and a shirt. I had only seen him wearing a shirt once or twice before. This one was a very dark grey that made his eyes appear deep navy. Like the ocean at night. I wondered if Erica had brought him the shirt from her work.
I carefully took the bottle without touching his hand, and walked around the side of the van to put it on the table.
“Can I get you a drink?” I sounded like a puppet on the arm of a terrible ventriloquist.