‘No, I don’t,’ Bunty replied, somewhat taken aback. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to dream, does it?’
Later that night, getting ready for bed, Alison was consumed with guilt and wished she hadn’t been quite so abrupt with Bunty. Oh well, she thought, at least I’ll be able to make it up to her when she’s in Australia. Heaven knows the kitchen here could do with a complete face-lift. It will certainly take my mind off the Christmas I could have had if I’d gone to the States.’
Re-reading the letter she’d received from America only that morning, Alison felt tears prick her eyelids. The letter was from Oliver, inviting her to join Jasper and himself for Thanksgiving, and if not Thanksgiving, then why not Christmas and New Year?
At any other time she would have jumped at the chance of seeing her stepbrothers again. They were, after all, such good company and it would have given her the opportunity to get away from the inner turmoil, confusion and despair that was tearing at her very soul.
Yet she knew she couldn’t go. She’d already committed herself to doing work for Penny, had volunteered to help with the costumes for the village pantomime and as for Christmas... She couldn’t let Bunty down at this late stage. Bunty, who’d been like a second mother to her, was looking forward to a Christmas Day spent on Bondi Beach.
‘Well, Christmas here at Keeper’s Cottage will certainly be a far cry from Christmas in Australia or New York,’ she mused.
Folding the wafer-thin sheet of blue paper back into its envelope, Alison thought of previous Christmases spent with Jasper and Oliver. Jasper with his hordes of lively actor friends and Oliver performing at some impressive New Year’s Eve concert, before the traditional walk to Times Square to welcome in New Year.
Alison dabbed at her eyes. Though it was still three months away, she conjured up the image of her own forthcoming New Year’s Eve. No doubt she would spend it here at the cottage, alone apart from the four-legged Jasper, who had managed to sneak into her bedroom and now lay curled up - pretending not to be there - on the patterned quilt.
Placing Oliver’s letter on the bedside table, Alison reached out and stoked Jasper’s wiry fur. ‘I expect we’ll manage to pull a cracker between us,’ she said, wistfully, ‘and I can cook us one of those rolled and boned turkey breast joints. Then we can have lots of lovely long walks and...’
At the mention of the word walk, Jasper stirred and wagged his tail in expectation.
‘No, not now,’ Alison whispered apologetically. ‘I meant at Christmas.’
As if sensing Christmas was still three months away, and not wishing to wait that long before he went for another walk, Jasper cast Alison a look of canine disdain, yawned, stretched and slid noiselessly from the bed. Perhaps he’d stand better chance of a walk if he went in search of his mistress. He might even get another slice of that wonderful roast beef. In fact, he’d done quite well already this evening. Alison had only eaten half her dinner and the remains had fortuitously found their way into his blue enamel bowl.
Switching off the bedside lamp with its garish swirl of Chinese dragons and chrysanthemums, Alison found her thoughts returning to Bunty’s earlier comments concerning Evangeline.
‘Regardless of what you might think, Bunty, I still don’t see Evangeline as a genie in disguise. Far from offering us hopes and wishes for the future as she emerges from her magic lamp, I see her merely opening up a can of worms and... very unpleasant ones they are, too!
Chapter 17
In their hotel room and watched by her anxious husband, Evangeline tugged at the ring pull on a can of tonic water.
‘It’s OK, ‘ she reassured. ‘It’s G and T without the gin!’
Tom reached for the phone. ‘Would you like me to send down for some ice and lemon? It might make it slightly more palatable.’
Ten minutes later, Tom smiled, while adding ice and a slice of lemon to his own glass of tonic. ‘You know, I was really proud of you today, Evangeline.
Evangeline sipped at her drink and gave a sharp, dry laugh.
‘Proud of me, Tom? Surely not! It’s hardly the thing to be proud of, is it? Listening to your wife announce to a room full of strangers that she’s an alcoholic.’
‘I don’t see it quite like that. I see it as being the first step along the way to recovery.’
‘Even though some people say, once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.’
‘Then it’s up to us to prove them wrong.’
Lighting a cigarette, Evangeline crossed the floor to the dressing table and picked up the heavy crystal ashtray. It was already half full. She grimaced as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
‘My God! I look bloody awful. What on earth possessed me to have my hair cut and coloured like this?
‘Don’t worry. It will soon grow.’
Desperate for a drink, Evangeline tugged at her cropped hair and spun round to face her husband. Tears welled in her eyes. ‘Tom Carstairs! Why do you always have to be so bloody nice? Why, for once can’t you tell me that I’m an absolute bitch? That my hair looks a mess? That I look and behave like a common tart and that you’re sick to death of me? Christ knows,’ she said, studying the pile of cigarette ends in the ashtray, ‘I’ve always done things to excess. Booze, cigarettes, clothes, furniture for the house, cars and… even men. You don’t even know the half of it.’
‘Oh, I think I do, Evangeline… and perhaps it’s because of me that you’ve done some of those things. As for telling you you’re an absolute bitch, no, I won’t do that – even though you once called me a boring old fart.’
Evangeline’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. ‘But I didn’t mean it.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so, because you see, my darling, I love you and I always will.’
Watching tears pour down Evangeline’s cheeks, Tom reached out for her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray and held out his hand.
‘Now, as it’s been such an exhausting day, I suggest we get some sleep. Don’t forget we have the rest of the week here in London and we shan’t spend every day at AA. Who knows, by the end of the week and with a few early nights, this boring old fart might even surprise you.’
*
‘But I don’t want to go to school, it’s borin’! I want to go with Al’son and Jasper for a walk.’
‘Look, Rosie,’ the youngest Mrs Jennings scolded, ‘you’ve got to go to school or I shall get into trouble with the authorities. Now, come along ‘cos I’ve got to take Jamie to the clinic for his jab, unless you want to have it instead?’
At the mere mention of the word ‘jab’, Rosie stopped in her tracks. Michelle Jennings smiled knowingly in Alison’s direction.
‘Perhaps you can come and take Jasper for a walk with me one afternoon after school instead?’ Alison suggested, feeling sorry for the disgruntled Rosie who was kicking at a stone with the toes of her brand new school shoes.
‘Rosie! For goodness’ sake! Those shoes have got to last. I’m not made of money you know. We’ve had enough expense just lately what with paying for Great-gran’s funeral.’
Ignoring the reprimand, Rosie walked on ahead to the end of Jasper’s extension lead, leaving Alison and her mother to talk in peace.
‘I don’t know, she gets worse,’ Michelle complained. ‘Why she wasn’t born a boy I just don’t know! She fair wears me out, what with the little ones an’ all.’
‘I expect she’ll calm down before too long,’ Alison replied. ‘I remember I used to be just the same.
I don’t suppose it’s been easy with another baby in the house and her great-grannie dying so suddenly.’
‘Yes, I suppose now you come to mention it, she and Great-gran were very close, and Jamie is certainly a demanding baby. Not like Rosie. She was always so independent.’
‘There you are then,’ Alison encouraged, trying to ease the tension.
Straightening the baby’s pram rug, Michelle looked up thoughtfully.
‘Alison... my father-in-law was wondering whet
her we should put Rosie in Great-gran’s room, now that she’s gone. I know it’s not that big, but at least it would mean Rosie would have a room of her own. At the moment she’s having to share. What do you think?’
‘I think it sounds like a good idea. Would you like me to ask her when we go for a walk? I know some children could be upset sleeping in a room where someone has recently died, but I very much doubt if Rosie will be bothered by such things.’
Having reached the village school, Rosie turned and gazed wistfully in Alison’s direction.
‘How about if I meet you from school this afternoon, Rosie? We could take Jasper for a walk, see if there’s any conkers left up by the golf course and even have a look in the woods for some fallen branches. Don’t forget it will soon be Bonfire Night.’
Mention of after-school activities and Bonfire Night, brought a broad grin to Rosie’s face. Bonfire Night! Great! That meant a bonfire on the village green, making a guy - using a pair of granddad’s old trousers and gardening jacket - and a real bonfire supper round the fire, or in the village hall if it was wet.
‘Will Mister come for a walk with us too?’ Rosie asked expectantly.
Alison shook her head. ‘I’m afraid Max has gone away for a while.’
Rosie was crestfallen. ‘Gone away! But why has he gone? He promised to take me... Where has Max gone, Al’son?’
‘Mr Craven to you!’ Rosie’s mum broke in as the school bell echoed across the playground. ‘Just try and remember your manners.’
‘But Max doesn’t mind,’ Rosie called, scurrying towards the sun-bleached door with its peeling green paintwork.
‘Saved by the bell,’ Michelle sighed, turning the pram in the direction of the village hall and the baby clinic.
‘In more ways than one,’ Alison whispered to herself, drawing in Jasper’s lead in order to cross the road. ‘I’ll meet her after school, then, if that’s OK? Don’t worry about her shoes. I won’t take her anywhere too muddy, I’ll save that for another day when she’s wearing her wellingtons.’
Dangling the restless baby on her knee, Michelle Jennings gave thanks for the likes of Alison Benedict. Apart from Great-gran and Max Craven, Alison seemed to be the most important person in Rosie’s life. And now that Great-gran was no more (having died so suddenly the week after harvest supper), she was probably going to turn to Alison even more for attention.
I only hope Alison won’t mind,’ she thought wistfully. And what about Max Craven, where had he been these past few weeks? One minute he was busy chatting to Great-gran at the barn dance and the next he was gone!
There had been rumours of course. In particular those resulting from the night of the harvest supper. The night that snooty woman Evangeline Carstairs had turned up looking like mutton dressed as lamb.
‘Funny thing, though Jamie,’ Michelle confided to her baby. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen Shirley Hastings parading herself in an identical get up.’
As the baby gurgled and wriggled impatiently, his mother tried in vain to remember what she’d overheard during Great-gran’s funeral tea. Something about Mrs Carstairs being a friend of Mr Craven’s dead wife, and a fuss being made over some photographs. Even Alison Benedict, she was sure, came into the picture somewhere along the line.
Later that afternoon, while cooking tea and with Rosie out of the way, Michelle Jennings turned to her eldest son. ‘Wayne, the night of the harvest supper when you were outside with Donna, what did you...’
‘Honest Mum, I told you before! We weren’t doin’ anythin’ wrong. We just went out for a smoke.’
‘And the rest of it,’ his father called, coming in through the back door. He gave his wife a knowing wink. ‘I bet you were having a good old snog out there in the moonlight.’
‘Dad!’ Wayne remonstrated in disgust.
‘That’s a horrid word. I do wish you wouldn’t use it,’ Michelle said to her husband as he hung up his jacket.
‘What is?’
‘Snog. It makes it sound so... so unpleasant and vulgar.’
‘Well, I never heard you complain before. What term would you prefer, then?’
Feeling herself colour, Michelle replied, ‘I don’t know. Perhaps kissing and cuddling.’
‘Hmph! There’s a lot more than kissing and cuddling goes on in the Church Haywood lusting grounds these days. It’s not quite like it used to be when we were teenagers, Michelle, having a quick grope in the back of the van.’
‘You can say that again, Dad!’ Wayne joined in, ‘Why, only last week Donna and I saw Shirley Hastings with...’
‘Wayne! That’s enough!’
‘But Mum! You started all this! You wanted to know what happened in the village hall car park on the night of the harvest supper.’
‘Oh, did she indeed? And just what exactly did she want to know?’
Feeling two pairs of eyes in her direction, Michelle scooped chips and sausages on to dinner plates and reached for a saucepan of baked beans. ‘I was curious that’s all… I was talking to Alison this morning and she said Max Craven was still away - Rosie was asking for him in case you want to know - and I ...’
‘And you what?’ her husband asked.
Michelle shrugged her shoulders. ‘I just wanted to know if Darren had seen Max and Alison together. I know there’s been rumours about that Carstairs woman and her drinking but...’
‘That’s not rumour, that’s fact!’ Wayne announced confidently. ‘Donna told me she saw Mrs High and Mighty on more than one occasion having a crafty swig from a bottle when she was in the ladies’ loo.’
Ladling the beans with an air of disappointment, Michelle gave up interrogating her son. It was only later when he was leaving to fetch Donna, his current love of the moment, that he popped his head round the kitchen door.
‘By the way Mum,’ he hissed, with a cheeky grin upon his face. ‘Just in case you are interested, I saw Max Craven kiss Alison Benedict and she certainly didn’t seem to mind... not at first, that is.’
Michelle looked up expectantly, waiting for her son to continue. Not at first, he’d said. So what happened later?
‘Anyway,’ Wayne continued, ‘to me it looked as if Alison began to panic. She looked frightened, though I’m sure Mr Craven wasn’t going to hurt her. Then he muttered something and took her indoors. That’s when Donna and I heard the unholy row about photographs and he was shouting about Virginia... whoever she is.’
‘Was. Virginia was Max’s wife. She’s the one who died in the fire...’ Michelle’s voice trailed away as her son closed the door behind him.
*
‘I’ve had cottage pie with squiggly potatoes on top, mashed carrots and swede and Peter Piss, followed by apple grumble and ice cream,’ Rosie announced triumphantly running through the kitchen door.
Michelle raised her eyebrows in alarm.
‘She means, petits pois and apple crumble.’ Alison whispered with a grin, from the doorway.
‘Thank heavens for that.’ Michelle sighed. ‘For one minute she had me quite worried.’
‘An’ we found some conkers and lots of different shaped leaves. Al’son’s going to help me make a book to stick them in so I can write their names underneath. Oh, and yes, I polished my shoes too. The fat lady showed me how to spit on them and make them all shiny and new - just like her Dad did in the army. He was in India and he shot a tiger and he also...’
‘Rosie! How about stopping for breath and letting me invite Alison in for a cup of tea.’ Not knowing whether to laugh or scold her daughter for referring to Bunty as ‘the fat lady’, Michelle simply held up the kettle in Alison’s direction.
Alison shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I’ve left Jasper tied to the side gate and I’d better get back. It’s quite chilly out there now and already getting dark. "The fat lady" reminded me this afternoon, we put the clocks back at the weekend.’
Alison fixed Michelle with a mischievous smile and nodded in Rosie’s direction. ‘She’s been really good, ate all her dinner an
d...’
‘But she doesn’t like vegetables, particularly mashed carrots and swede,’ Michelle declared. ‘Father-in-law grows his own, so they’re always fresh.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Michelle. Most youngsters are like that, so I’m told. I used to hate lamb until I went to stay with a schoolfriend, and when my own mother found out I’d actually eaten it and enjoyed it...’
‘You’re very good with kiddies, Alison,’ Michelle broke in kindly. ‘You should have some of your own.’
Half expecting Alison to pooh-pooh the idea and say she wasn’t yet ready for children, Michelle was shocked to see a look of pure terror spread across Alison’s face, before she mumbled a hasty goodbye and headed for the back door. As an afterthought, Alison turned back to remind Rosie about collecting wood for the bonfire.
‘We’ll go on Saturday morning,’ she said hurriedly. ‘In the meantime I’ll go and look for a scrapbook for our project.’
‘Bye Al’son...’ a contented and sleepy voice called from the kitchen table where Rosie was laying out her coloured leaves, ‘... and thank you.’
‘Blimey what’s this, Sherwood Forrest?’
Rosie looked up indignantly at her father. ‘No, it’s not! It’s leaves for my book. That one’s an oak, that’s a hazel and that crispy one’s...’
‘Well I never Michelle, it would appear we’ve got our own little David Attenborough in the family.’
‘... a beech,’ Rosie declared, and proceeded to tell her father what she’d eaten at Keeper’s Cottage, rounding it off with, ‘an’ I know how to spit on my shoes and make them all shiny.’
‘Who’s Peter Piss when he’s at home?’ a puzzled voice enquired.
Rosie gave a sigh of exasperation in her father’s direction and left her mother to explain. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Michelle whispered, ‘once Rosie’s in bed and asleep.’
But she didn’t. Instead Michelle Jennings found herself relating to her husband, word for word, what Wayne had said about Max Craven and Alison in the village hall car park.
Secrets From The Past Page 18