Herv fell silent, processing her words. She was right. His knee-jerk reaction to Kay’s revelation had led astray his common sense.
‘Now, about my wall. If you insist on coming tomorrow, what time shall I expect you? I’m always up and dressed by half-past seven,’ asked Emelie, moving away from the M-word. She didn’t want Herv bracketing her with the village busybodies. She’d done what she set out to: make him think for himself, not just regurgitate the words that fell from Kay Sweetman’s vicious tongue.
HISTORY OF WYCHWELL BY LIONEL TEMPLE
Contributions by Lilian Dearman.
Little Raspberries is the only cottage on Raspberry Lane. It is so-called because of the abundance of fruit which grows in its long sun-catching garden.
Little Raspberries was built as a charity cottage and has always been granted to someone in most need of its tranquil setting. There is a small bridge over Blackett Stream across to the wood where it is believed Margaret Kytson’s cottage stood, though there is no firm source for this rumour, only hearsay.
Records show that past occupants of Little Raspberries have included Anne Mumford, John-James Settle, Jack Pettigrew (uncle of Lionel Temple Senior) and the last occupant Jessie Plumpton, who has lived there, at the date of this book, for seven years and is an expert pie-maker, taking full advantage of the rich raspberry harvest that occurs between June and October.
Chapter 41
Marnie marched home to Little Raspberries, shut the door and locked it against the village, against the world, against Herv Gunnarsen most of all. She clicked on the kettle and checked her emails to see if anything had arrived from Mr Wemyss whilst it was coming to the boil. It had, and also, she couldn’t believe her eyes to see she had also received one from Caitlin.
She opened the message from Mr Wemyss first; Caitlin could wait. His mystery client would like to engage Dennis Whitby as the builder to carry out the renovations of the houses, and could Marnie arrange for him to visit and prepare quotes. He, apparently, had done work for Miss Dearman in the past and she had been very pleased with his services.
Marnie made herself a coffee before opening the email from Caitlin. The subject line said: Please read. She couldn’t imagine what it could say because it would be neither a wedding invite, nor an apology. Maybe she’d heard about Marnie’s mother and wanted to say something on the lines of, ‘sorry to hear about your mum, had to say that, but it doesn’t mean we are friends. I still think you’re a shit.’
Should she delete it without reading and not give Caitlin a chance to stick the boot in again? The temptation to look was too great though. She clicked on it and found a considerable amount of typing.
Dear Marnie
I have no idea how to start this, I’ve rewritten this email a load of times and nothing seems right so I’m just going to jump in and say that I owe you the biggest SORRY in the world.
You will not be surprised, I’m sure, to hear that Grigori and I have split up. I found out he had been sleeping with Tawny his PA. He was so arrogant when I confronted him and he said something, though I can’t quite remember what in all the drama, that made me realise he really had come on to you on the staircase at Lucy’s wedding, blaming it on drink of course. After all the years we were mates, I cannot believe that I took his word above yours. I feel ashamed.
Let’s go out for a drink and talk. I really miss you and could do with a friend right now.
Lots of love
Caitlin xxx
PS. Sorry to hear about your mother.
Marnie read it and initially a candle flame of joy ignited inside her that her friend wanted to be back in her life, then she re-read it and the light was snuffed out immediately. So, if Grigori hadn’t been so stupid as to drop himself in it, she would still be enemy-zoned – correct? And that line ‘I could do with a friend right now’ might as well have been written in a highlighter so yellow, it could have been seen from Mars. And though Caitlin knew that Marnie and her mother didn’t get on, a post scriptum mention for her death – really? Where was the ‘how are you?’ for a start. But then Caitlin always was less about you and more about me me me. These were crumbs from the apology table, and Marnie didn’t do crumbs any more. She wasn’t someone on a piece of elastic that could be dropped and picked up again when it suited. Nope, she wasn’t that Marnie now and the awareness that she wasn’t shocked her in a warm way. Could she be actually growing up at last? Thanks to a batty old lady who had seen her warts and all and still valued her as something precious . . . ?
Marnie didn’t answer straightaway. She took her book into the garden down by the stream. The raspberries had ripened early, she noticed; they were fat on the brambles and would need harvesting soon. They would have made wonderful toppings for Mrs Abercrombie’s cheesecakes: raspberry and champagne, raspberry and white chocolate, raspberry and even more raspberries . . . but that was a closed avenue. Maybe someone in the village made jam or pies, like Jessie Plumpton had, and could use them. Or maybe Lionel or David would take them for their wine-making; it would be a shame to waste them so she’d ask around. She wondered who the next occupant of Little Raspberries would be when she left. It had been the most wonderful bolt-hole. In winter, when snow fell, the garden would look like Narnia. She could imagine sitting in this spot with a fire crackling in an iron basket and drinking a mug of warm spiced cider. She imagined kissing Herv Gunnarsen with cinnamon lips and gave her head a shake to rid it of the image.
She forced herself to focus on the Country Manors book, willing it to pull her into the story again so she could forget all about her future and Caitlin and really annoying Herv Gunnarsen and Christmas snogging, and it worked for a while until Manfred’s nephew Jurgen Goss arrived at the manor all the way from Austria – a whopping great hunk of a bloke with a lion’s mane of blond hair, blue eyes and a penchant for gardening and fornicating with some very inventive uses for his garden twine. Marnie closed the book; she’d read enough today.
She replied to Caitlin just before she turned in for the night.
Dear Caitlin
I am so sorry to hear that you’ve been through all that. You don’t need me to tell you that you are so much better off without G. Onwards and upwards – good luck.
My best wishes
Marnie x
That said all she needed to really.
Lying in bed, she started to think about her own plans for Wychwell. That lovely tearoom she had envisaged. It would have been the ideal place to sell her cheesecakes in, if she’d stuck around. Screw Mrs Abercrombie and her rubbery crap. As for the question of which one would be better – Winter House or Summermoor . . . well, why not both? It would make perfect sense to knock them together into one big tearoom.
As Marnie started to lift off the shores of consciousness and drift into sleep imagining how the combined buildings would look, her eyes flashed open. She sat bolt upright, switched on the bedside lamp and starting frantically hunting for a pen and paper. There was something she had to write down before she did a Lilian and forgot it.
She had a hunch where Margaret Kytson’s well might be. Lilian hadn’t found a clue in the ledgers – which is why she couldn’t locate it again when she looked. It’s what Lilian hadn’t seen in them that had given her the answer.
Marnie got up and made herself a hot chocolate in an effort to reboot her bedroom routine because her mind was spinning. Going out for a walk around the block was not an option. Knowing her luck she’d see the Pink Lady floating across the manor gallery, and there were only so many mysteries her brain could deal with in one evening.
Chapter 42
Marnie was awoken at half past seven hearing the squeak of her letter box. It was Sunday so it couldn’t be the postman. There was a note waiting for her on the doormat when she padded downstairs to investigate. A handwritten one, no envelope.
I wanted to warn you, Titus has been asking a lot of questions about you, I have no idea why though I have tried to find out. I do know that today I overhe
ard him on the phone and he mentioned that you had been a foundling and (quote) ‘the dates tie in’. It has something to do with Lilian going off to Ireland in January 1984 and returning in late June. There has always been a story circulating that Lilian was pregnant and was sent away for six months to avoid a scandal. But this has never been substantiated. Wish I could be more help, but I thought you should know.
H
Marnie’s hands, holding the letter, were overtaken by the worst pins and needles. This couldn’t be. Surely this was rubbish. It was a wild assumption. Bonkers. But Titus seemed to be taking it seriously. Was that why he asked for her birth date that day outside the shop? Was that why Kay Sweetman had once alluded to Herv sucking up to her but it had nothing to do with fancying you?
Emelie would know. Marnie had intended to go up to visit her that morning to see how she was. She thought she might perk her up telling her the theory she’d come up with about the location of the well and now she would ask her about this too, this mad rumour that she was Lilian’s child. Emelie was an early riser but still, it didn’t seem polite to call on her before nine. As soon as the clock on the wall started to chime that hour, though, Marnie was on her way, half-walking, half-running across the green to Little Apples.
As she passed the end of Herv’s lane, she fixed her eyes forward so that she wouldn’t see the blonde walking out of his house, his hand familiar on her back, or the two of them snogging on the doorstep, though the temptation to turn her head and torment herself was right there. She hurried up the path to Emelie’s cottage and knocked on the door, but there was no answer, which was odd. Marnie knocked again and tried the handle. Emelie’s tiny boots were in their usual place on the mat so she hadn’t wandered over to the shop. Marnie pushed the door fully open and the smell of damp assailed her nostrils. Thank goodness she’d agreed to let Herv sort it for her.
‘Emelie?’
Marnie stepped into the kitchen, but there were no signs of breakfast and the kettle was cold. She called up the narrow staircase.
‘Emelie?’ She hoped she hadn’t woken her up.
‘Marnie, is that you?’ Emelie’s voice was weak.
Marnie bolted up the stairs to find her on the bedroom floor.
‘I think I might need a doctor, Marnie,’ said Emelie. Marnie rang for an ambulance.
Emelie’s breathing was coming in fluidy rasps; she was in pain and Marnie daren’t lift her in case she had broken something, so she sat on the carpet and cradled the old lady until the ambulance arrived within a quarter of an hour, though it felt like much longer.
‘We’re up here,’ Marnie called when she heard the knock on the front door. The paramedics – a man and a woman – moved in swiftly, took over with calm proficiency, asked questions, looked at the tablets on her bedside table.
‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart, we’ll get you to hospital and comfortable,’ said the male paramedic to Emelie.
‘I’m dying,’ said Emelie as they lifted her onto a carry chair.
‘You’re going to be okay, don’t you talk like that,’ insisted Marnie, holding her hand, feeling Emelie grip it back hard. ‘And, what’s more, you’re moving into the manor and out of this cottage for a while, I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘No, Marnie, I really am dying.’
Marnie let go of Emelie’s hand and followed behind as the paramedics descended the twisty staircase with expert ease.
‘Emelie?’ Herv was standing in the doorway, a bag of tools in his hand. ‘What’s happened?’
The female paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over Emelie’s nose. ‘You breathe in nice and steady,’ she said, her attention fully focused on the old lady.
‘I found her upstairs,’ said Marnie. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong.’
‘We’re going to need space in the ambulance,’ the male paramedic said to Marnie and she nodded, understanding.
‘I’ll get my car.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ said Herv.
Marnie followed Herv down the hill as the paramedics transferred Emelie into the back of the ambulance then set off at a fair pace, but without the emergency bells and whistles. Marnie was grateful for that because it would have scared Emelie, she thought as Herv zapped open his car doors and they got in.
He caught the ambulance up at the traffic lights on the Skipperstone road, but then it went through the red light and they had to wait. Until then, neither of them had spoken. It was Herv who first broke the silence.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’ve no idea. I found her on the floor at the side of her bed. I don’t know how long she’d been there, but she couldn’t breathe very well and she had a bad pain in her side.’ Her throat felt clogged with emotion and she had to cough it away before continuing. ‘The ambulance didn’t take very long to arrive at least.’
‘It’s good you were there.’
‘Well, if I hadn’t been, at least you would have found her.’
‘I was late. I should have started work at half-past eight. But I had another coffee . . .’ Herv slammed his hand down on the steering wheel.
‘You’re weren’t to know, Herv.’
They had caught up the ambulance, but it was travelling very fast now. Then another set of lights held them up.
‘She said she was dying,’ said Marnie as they saw the first directional sign for the hospital. ‘I told her not to talk like that and she said that she really was.’
‘She can’t be,’ said Herv, flatly. He recalled the Emelie of yesterday, forcing him to face facts, making him think, mind bright as a button. He took the corner into the crowded car park a little too fast, squealing his tyres.
‘There’s a space,’ shouted Marnie, spotting someone just reversing out of one. Another driver had seen it too but Herv was quicker. This was no time for gallantry.
‘Are you a relative?’ asked the receptionist, when they enquired about Emelie.
‘Yes,’ lied Marnie.
They were directed to the emergency department where, eventually, a doctor took them into a cubicle and told them that Emelie had died and on her hospital notes was her explicit instruction that there should be no attempts at resuscitation.
It hadn’t been the damp that had caused her breathlessness, she had a pulmonary disease that she’d know about for a year, apparently, but refused treatment for it because she didn’t want to spend the time she had left in hospitals. And if she died, that was to be it, she’d made it plain that she must be allowed to go without medical intervention. Marnie and Herv went in to see her. Emelie looked peaceful and asleep, the lines smoothed from her face. Marnie gave her a kiss on her cheek, stroked her hair, said goodbye to her. Herv’s kiss was gentle on her forehead, a thank you, grateful kiss. Then together they walked back to the car, in silent shock. They’d expected to find Emelie poorly and possibly looking at a couple of weeks on a ward. Separately, they’d both resolved to have Little Apples damp-proofed and replastered by the time she came home. Neither of them had expected that she wouldn’t be home again.
‘I’ll go and tell Lionel,’ said Marnie, as they left Skipperstone. She felt stunned.
‘I can do it, if you like,’ said Herv.
‘Emelie will need a nice dress and . . .’ she was going to say her handbag. How ridiculous.
Herv knew what she would need and what to do. He had been through this ritual before.
He pulled up outside his house and turned to Marnie; she looked devastated. He wanted to reach across and take her hand. His fingers twitched with intention and then Marnie opened the car door and the moment was gone.
‘I should go and lock up her house,’ she said.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The cottage appeared the same as always from the outside, apples now weighing down the tree in the front garden, most too small and green to be picked and Marnie thought that Emelie wouldn’t be around to see them grow heavy and ripen in the late summer sunshine. They both walked inside her cheery
, homely lounge to find Emelie’s old typewriter on the deep windowsill, the Country Manors book on the coffee table, her crocheted blanket draped over the back of her rocking chair by the fireside, all normal and as usual, except for the clock on the wall whose tock sounded louder somehow, set against a silence in which it was apparent something important was missing.
Whilst Herv went upstairs to check that the windows were closed, Marnie bolted the back door then took the front door key from the hook on the wall. She dropped it and it landed in one of Emelie’s short boots. The sight of them made her face crease with sadness that she wouldn’t see the dear little woman again. Then she heard the top step creak as Herv came down and she forced herself to recover.
‘All right?’ he said. Marnie nodded. Outside, she gave Herv the key to take to the vicarage.
‘Do you want me to walk you home?’ he said.
‘No, I’ll cut across the green,’ she replied. ‘You go and let Lionel know.’
She wanted him to clear the two-step distance between them and wrap her in his arms but he didn’t. She set off home, her straight back giving no clue of the grief that held her tight in its grip.
Chapter 43
First thing the following morning, Marnie asked Mr Wemyss to pass on a message to the mystery owner of Wychwell that she would not now be meeting the builders until after Emelie’s funeral. Mr Wemyss was sad to hear the news of her death. Emelie had lodged her will with him, he said, and so he would be in touch with Lionel Temple to ensure that her final wishes were taken care of.
In the afternoon, she went over to the vicarage to ask if she could do anything for Emelie, knowing that she had no living relatives. Her brother had died years ago and had been childless; the Taubert line had come to an end. She found Lionel talking to Derek in the churchyard, standing by Lilian’s grave. The closer to the men Marnie got, the more blurred her vision became. She burst into tears when she reached them and Lionel put his arms around her.
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