Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  9

  Eunice was not coping very well in the kitchen. < Dressed in a floral apron, splattered with what looked like most of the tomato coulis, her face was bright red. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead. The room was stiflingly hot and there was the most ghastly smell of overcooked fish.

  “I’ve brought you a box of Black Magic chocolates,” I said, giving her my best smile.

  “Don’t give them to me now!” Eunice shrieked, brandishing a spatula. “Can’t you see I’m cooking? Mary! Mary! Come here, quickly! Our guest has arrived!”

  Smoke started to billow from the Aga. Eunice gave a cry of dismay as it rapidly filled the kitchen.

  “I’ll open a window,” I said, flinging the nearest one wide. As the air slowly began to clear, the sepulchral form of Eunice’s sister-in-law, Mary Berry, clutching a wrench, drifted toward me. I noted she had a smudge of grease on her forehead and wore a housecoat over a calf-length, black evening dress.

  “It’s dreadful in here,” she said grimly. “If we don’t die of suffocation, we’ll die of food poisoning.”

  Mrs. Berry peered at the chocolates, muttered, “Eunice hates Black Magic,” and slunk back to the pine kitchen table, which I now saw was strewn with several pieces of farm machinery.

  I stood in the midst of chaos. Dirty pots and pans were scattered haphazardly over every available countertop. Five live chickens huddled under a small desk along with stacks of old newspapers. Laundry was piled in a heap in the corner next to a rusty, dilapidated washing machine. I changed my mind about taking off my safari jacket and just undid the buttons. There was nowhere to hang it.

  In the end, I left the chocolates balanced on top of a row of empty milk bottles on the window ledge. “Can I do anything to help, Eunice?”

  “Take in the starters. Oh!” My hostess flipped my safari jacket open with her spatula and scowled at my jeans and top. “I said formal attire.” Peeping from the hem of her floral apron, I saw a shimmering electric blue skirt.

  “I came straight from the office,” I lied, stepping neatly away from the spatula. I didn’t want to get food on my favorite—and only—jacket. “It was a busy day.”

  “It’s too late to change now. Mary!” barked Eunice. “Leave that wretched tractor alone!” She gestured for me to come closer and said in a low voice, “We’ll talk later, but what did Dougie say about me?”

  “Well, he’s obviously still in a state of shock,” I said. “I think—”

  “Sssh! Not now! Later.” Eunice hissed as her sister-in-law trudged toward us hefting an old car battery. “Mary always goes to bed early.”

  “I’ll take that,” I said, bounding toward Mary.

  “She can manage.” Eunice pointed her spatula at a wall of outdoor coats. “Go through that door into the hall. The dining room is the first room on the right.”

  “Where are the starters?” I said, stifling the urge to snatch the spatula out of Eunice’s hand and beat her about the head.

  “Mary will open the hatch.” Eunice waved her spatula—again—at a side table weighed down by stacks of moldy looking pamphlets emblazoned BAN CCTV! NO PRIVACY! Above them was a sliding frosted-glass window, underneath stood a mound of moth-eaten blankets and a half-chewed dog bone.

  “Where’s Jenny tonight?” I tried to sound casual but my stomach churned with fear.

  “In the barn,” said Eunice.

  Thank God! I’d have to get over my inherent terror of dogs, if Robin and I were to ever have a future.

  Having dumped the car battery on the floor where anyone could trip over it, Mary Berry grasped the door handle and, after much heaving and groaning, the hatch shuddered open to reveal a gloomy room beyond.

  “Pop around, Vicky dear,” Mary Berry said. “This is such a waste of time.”

  I slipped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. To my delight, the interior walls still retained their original oak paneled wainscoting. These days most of the Devon long-houses had been ruthlessly modernized. Dividing walls were knocked down to let in more light and inglenook fireplaces were bricked up to stop drafts and keep in heat.

  It would appear that Dairy Cottage had retained all of its seventeenth-century features including beautiful flag-stone flooring that shone like glass from hundreds of years of wear. It made me want to stop for a second to consider my own mortality.

  But there was no time for that tonight. I pushed open the door to a dingy dining room. The ceiling was so low I could reach up and touch the beams without standing on tiptoe. At the far end stood a vast inglenook but no fire burned merrily in the grate. Even though it was May, the place was freezing. It probably faced north. The smell of mildew and dust was overpowering. I suspected it must have been years since this room had last been used.

  I went straight to the diamond-paned, leaded-light casement windows and forced one open. Unfortunately, the stench of manure from the cowshed outside was even worse. I tried to close the window again, but it jammed. The evening was rapidly turning into a disaster and we hadn’t even sat down to eat what promised to be a somewhat challenging meal.

  I took in my surroundings. Imprints on the faded red-patterned carpet showed that at one time there must have been far more furniture here than just the heavy oak sideboard, refectory table, and high-backed chairs. The yellowing walls had lighter rectangular patches where paintings had probably once hung. Presumably, they’d been sold.

  I felt sad. I knew that ever since Mary Berry’s farming husband had been fatally electrocuted while trimming a roadside hedge, the two women had been struggling to make ends meet. I’d even persuaded Topaz—Dairy Cottage was on Grange land—to allow the ladies to live there rent free, but even so, it can’t have been easy for them. This lavish dinner must have cost Eunice a lot of money. I resolved to pretend to love every mouthful.

  The refectory table had been laid with what I guessed was their best china—a complete set of matching plates and tureens carrying the Asiatic pheasant pattern—and polished sterling-silver cutlery. There were three chairs on either side with an elbow chair at each end.

  Instinctively, I was drawn to a beautiful silver centerpiece of a male and female mallard swimming in a lake of solid silver. Out of habit, I picked it up, carried it to the window where the light was better, and turned it over. I could just make out the four distinguishing marks—Britannia and the lion’s head were fairly standard—though I couldn’t read the exact date mark or maker. This piece was definitely valuable and was most probably a family heirloom that had been passed down from generation to generation. I felt a quiver of excitement. Hadn’t something similar to this sold at Sotheby’s last year for thousands and thousands of pounds?

  Dad would be thrilled to hear about this treasure, but I could never tell him. Although I shared his passionate love of silver—I had no desire to join the family business and couldn’t even begin to imagine stealing this from my poverty-stricken hosts.

  All thoughts of the silver mallards vanished when I realized the table was set for four. I knew some widows still laid a place for their deceased loved ones. I hoped I didn’t have to conduct an imaginary conversation with Gordon Berry as in “He’ll always be with us in spirit.”

  “What are you waiting for?” shouted Eunice. Her fer rety face peered through the hatch, then disappeared from sight.

  I hurried over. “Coming!”

  “Mary! Hand her the herrings!”

  Mary Berry passed me two plates of gelatinous-looking roll-mop herrings. Each one was garnished with a tiny sprig of what looked like chickweed. “No one can eat this muck,” she muttered. I had a sinking feeling she might be right.

  I set the plates down on place mats depicting various hunting scenes and returned for the other two. “Who is our fourth guest, Mrs. Berry?”

  “Call me Mary,” she said. “Eunice bullied Robin into coming. She wanted a man’s opinion on her cooking.”

  Robin was here! I swear I nearly dropped the china. My hands literally began to tr
emble. I should have dressed for dinner but at least I was wearing eye makeup.

  The evening had suddenly improved, especially now that I was officially on first-name terms with my prospective mother-in-law!

  “I thought he was at sea?”

  “Robin never tells me anything.”

  “Do we have any nice candles?” I said brightly. “It would make the table look so romantic.”

  “Doubt it,” said Mary. “You could try looking in the sideboard. We might have a couple of stumps we keep for power cuts.”

  I found three, tucked behind several dusty bottles of homemade sloe gin. The candlesticks were tarnished but they’d have to do. I even found some Swan Vesta matches—though most had been used and put back into the box.

  I’d been fantasizing about enjoying a candlelight dinner with my handsome lieutenant in full naval regalia for weeks. True, tonight we’d be joined by his mother and aunt, but it was a start and far better than trying to talk in a bar filled with noisy punters.

  I needed to check my reflection and wash my hands. I went back to the hatch and was about to ask where the downstairs loo was when I was struck dumb.

  Robin had entered the kitchen.

  “Ahoy there matey!” Robin scooped up his mother and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. “Hmm. Lovely smell of old lightbulbs. What’s cooking?”

  “Dead fish,” said Mary dryly.

  Not wanting to miss a single minute, I trotted back to the kitchen and stood in the doorway just staring at the most handsome man I had ever met.

  “Why aren’t you in dress uniform?” Eunice scolded, still clutching that wretched spatula. I had to admit that Robin didn’t look as attractive in plain denim jeans and a red-checked shirt. Out of uniform, I noted he had a very small bottom and short, rather thin legs.

  “I hope you’re not going to dine in that dirty apron, Auntie,” he teased. “Oh, wait! What’s that you’re wearing underneath? Is that one of my favorite dresses?”

  Eunice gave a twirl.

  Mary saw me watching and rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you going to say hello to our guest, Robin?”

  Robin turned around, rewarding me with a brilliant smile and a nautical salute. “Oh! It’s Vicky! You look pretty tonight—but not as beautiful as you, Auntie.”

  “I thought you were still in the English Channel on maneuvers,” I said, recalling our last disjointed conversation transmitted from HMS Dauntless. Fortunately, he managed to cancel our date before I reached the Three Tuns. There’s nothing worse than being stood up in a bar packed with farmers, which was what happened the other time we’d tried to make plans.

  “Maneuvers?” Eunice declared. “You told me you were doing shore-based drills this month. I wrote it down on the calendar.”

  “Change of plan, Auntie. You know how it is,” Robin said smoothly. “What’s everyone drinking?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Mary said. “I’ll have a large one.”

  “Don’t give her a double,” said Eunice. “You know she can’t take it.”

  “Auntie? Dry martini?” Robin said. “Do we have any olives, Mum?”

  “No olives.”

  At the mention of the word, I felt uncomfortable. Should I mention Olive’s interest in Douglas Fleming? Sooner or later the subject was bound to come up. I resolved to do it later. Eunice was bound to be more affable after a drink.

  “If there are no olives, I can hardly have a martini, can I?” Eunice snapped.

  “In that case, gin and tonics all round,” said Robin cheerfully.

  “A weak one for me,” I said. “I’m driving.” I hated gin. It depressed me.

  Robin disappeared into the walk-in larder and emerged with an enormous bottle of Gordon’s gin and Tesco tonic water.

  “Ice? Lemon?” he said.

  “No ice. No lemons,” said Mary.

  “Never mind.” Robin searched for a space to put down the bottles. “Mum, mind if we shift some of this stuff?”

  “I’ll help,” I said. Between us, Robin and I managed to move the tractor drive shaft under the table. Our fingers touched, twice.

  Eunice produced four grubby glass tumblers and darted back to the Aga as a loud hissing sound signaled that something had boiled over.

  Robin deftly mixed the drinks. I took a sip and practically keeled over. It was pure gin. “Is there a splash more tonic?”

  “I can’t taste anything.” Mary picked up the gin bottle and added a generous slug.

  Robin sashayed over to Eunice who was just in the process of removing the tinfoil from a fish kettle. The smell was beyond nauseating. He handed her a tumbler and they clinked glasses. “What’s on the menu, Martha Stewart?”

  Eunice laughed with delight. “Monkfish medallions with tomato lemon coulis followed by snow eggs with pistachio custard and chocolate drizzle.”

  “Good Lord! We are in for a treat!”

  “Or a visit to emergency.” Mary took a large draft of gin and gave a happy shudder as it went down.

  “What’s the occasion?” said Robin. “Whose birthday?”

  “It’s a practice run isn’t it, Eunice?” Mary said. “Douglas—”

  “Shut up!” said Eunice.

  Robin frowned. “Auntie? You’re not up to your old tricks again, are you?”

  “She most certainly is.” Mary took another sip. “Not even a restraining order can stop your aunt, now that old Scarlett Fleming is dead.”

  Restraining order? I recalled Melanie’s comment earlier during the day. Hadn’t she said, “I’ll call the police, again?”

  Robin looked genuinely concerned. I caught him shooting his mother a look of alarm but Mary just shrugged and knocked back her drink.

  “Well, if it’s a practice run,” he said, rubbing his hands with forced glee, “we’d better get started!”

  The food was worse than I feared, probably because the entire dining room smelled of cow manure, but the others didn’t seem to notice. Robin kept up a cheerful banter, praising his aunt’s nonexistent culinary skills.

  The roll-mop herrings felt and tasted of rubber. The monkfish medallions were more of a blob than the flat, perfectly rounded shape illustrated in the cookbook that Eunice had proudly shown me earlier.

  As the evening wore on, Eunice became more subdued and Mary kept leaving the room with her glass in hand, on the pretext of having a weak bladder—obviously, topping up her gin.

  Robin and I tried to cheer Eunice up. He told dreadful jokes but she didn’t laugh. I even committed a professional no-no by giving her the heads-up about this week’s article on the pros and cons of her current favorite subject, CCTV cameras, but to no avail. Yet, without intending to be unkind, Eunice’s misery was my joy. I really felt Robin and I were bonding in our effort to boost her spirits.

  When we were finally confronted with dessert, I wasn’t sure if I could brave a single teaspoon. The snow eggs had curdled and the pistachio custard with chocolate drizzle looked like something the cat had thrown up.

  “Well . . .” Mary said, finally, as she pushed her untouched plate aside. “You’re not going to win hearts with your cooking.”

  “I imagine it was a complicated recipe,” I protested, trying to retrieve my spoon that was, quite literally, stuck in the pistachio custard. “It’s all delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’ll just have to practice some more, Auntie,” Robin said, giving Eunice a playful nudge.

  “That’s it!” Eunice flung her spoon and fork down with a clatter. She leapt to her feet and fled from the room.

  “Auntie! It was a joke!” Robin put his napkin down, adding, “I’d better go and see if she’s all right.”

  “I’ll just nip to the loo.” Mary stood up unsteadily and weaved after them. I was left all alone and in a bit of a dilemma. It was only seven forty-five. Was the evening over? What about the conversation I needed to have with Eunice about Douglas Fleming? And, what about my Robin? Was he going to be stuck to her side all evening? At one point—aft
er he had told a hilarious knock-knock joke—I’d fantasized about Eunice saying, “Run along you two lovebirds,” and how Robin would take my hand. We’d go for a moonlit walk through the muddy farmyard and enjoy a goodnight kiss. He’d look deep into my eyes and say, “My mother and aunt adore you, and so do I.”

  I decided to wait. Perhaps he’d gone to tuck her up in bed? I suddenly felt incredibly maudlin. It must be the gin. Mum called it a “mother’s ruin” and never touched the stuff. I should have followed her example.

  I waited until the candle stumps had all burnt out and the room was in complete darkness. I thought everyone had forgotten I existed until I heard voices coming from the kitchen and went to investigate.

  Despite the summer evening, Eunice was dressed to go out in a heavy blue wool coat and headscarf.

  “I’m taking Auntie up to the Three Tuns for a plate of scampi,” said Robin. “You don’t mind keeping Mum company do you, Vicky?”

  “You go with them. Don’t mind me.” Mary scowled. “I’m sure I’ll have time to clear the plates, wash up, and clean the kitchen before I have to get up at four to milk the cows tomorrow morning.”

  I hesitated, torn between an evening with Robin trying to make his aunt laugh or getting into his mother’s good books. Judging by the near-empty gin bottle that Mary clutched to her chest, I chose the latter. I was curious about this so-called restraining order.

  “Of course I’ll stay with Mary,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving her with all the washing up.”

  As Robin ushered Eunice out the back door, he whispered in my ear, “I’ll make it up to you at the Gala. Save me a dance.”

  What incredible luck! As I turned to face the messiest kitchen in Christendom, I reflected that the evening had worked out, after all.

  Was it really any of my business to speculate or gossip about Douglas Fleming’s future? Perhaps I might tell Mary that Douglas Fleming had other admirers. Surely, it was far kinder for Eunice to hear this kind of news from a family member.

  But that aside, I really wanted to talk to Mary about Robin. There was so much I didn’t know about him. I was sure that she’d soon realize I would make the perfect daughter-in-law.