by Diane Janes
‘Maybe you should ask him to be a bit nicer to me.’
Danny chose to ignore the point. ‘It’s so great when the three of us get along together – like we did at the beginning. It was perfect – and that’s the way I like things. I want everything to be perfect between you and me.’
‘But Simon—’
Danny didn’t allow me to get any further. He kissed his forefinger and placed it against my lips. ‘I always get what I want, remember? And I want everything to be perfect, so it will be.’
With the evening sun slanting in at the kitchen window and Danny silhouetted against it, it was easy to imagine him sweeping aside all obstacles to our happiness. He was by turns my forceful handsome warrior and my parfit gentil knyght. He kissed me properly, taking me up bodily and perching me on the table, the better to do so. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispered into my hair. ‘Sometimes I can hardly believe you’re mine.’ Distracted by Danny’s kisses, I did not even think to question the veracity of this alleged honeymoon period, in which Simon and I had been the best of pals.
Next morning Simon was as good as his word: he rose early and was back at the house with the pane of glass before ten o’clock. Replacing the window proved to be a major task, involving all four of us attempting to hold the pane in place, while simultaneously getting in each other’s way and issuing contradictory instructions to one another. The end result looked awful. Even after Simon had trimmed the surplus putty with a dinner knife, it bulged around the glass with the appearance of badly managed pastry. The surface was a blur of fingerprints, as if a thousand phantom hands had come pawing at the window: an effect I found so creepy that I voluntarily set to work to clean them all off. The others left me to it. It was a desperately tedious job. Each time I cleaned the outside I managed to miss some marks, which were instantly visible once I got back into the drawing room, and every time I went outside again I spotted a few more marks on the inside of the pane. Eventually I gave up the unequal struggle and went to find Trudie in the garden.
She was lying stretched out on the dry grass in her bikini. Her eyes were closed and there was a bottle of suntan lotion lying beside her, with a single white drip suspended halfway down its label. Cleaning the glass had made my arms ache, so the sight of such indolence irritated me.
‘Who were you phoning, the other day?’
The question made her jump. Either that or she hadn’t heard me approaching.
‘No one. What are you talking about? There isn’t a phone here.’
‘In Leominster.’ I flopped down beside her. ‘I saw you come out of a phone box, the day before yesterday.’
‘Oh – then. I wasn’t phoning anyone.’ She relaxed into her former position.
‘Yes you were.’ She’s such a liar, I thought, unexpectedly angry. ‘Why else would you be in a phone box?’
‘I wanted to see if there was a Yellow Pages, but of course there wasn’t. They’ve always been pinched, haven’t they? The phone books and Yellow Pages.’
‘Why did you want a Yellow Pages?’
‘I wanted to look at the antique dealers. If you must know, I wanted to see if any of them advertised any special interests.’
‘Come off it,’ I said. I was convinced that she was giving me the runaround. ‘You were in a street full of antique dealers. You didn’t need to look them up in the Yellow Pages. You were calling someone.’
‘Well, what if I was?’ she suddenly snapped. ‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business, anyway.’
This silenced me. It was absolutely true of course. If Trudie wanted to make half a dozen phone calls, it was really nothing to do with me at all. Nor was it anything to do with me if she wanted to visit the local antique shops – unless of course she was stealing from Simon’s uncle. I thought about the way she had sneaked off on her own, two days running. Had she anticipated that I would ask her what she had been up to? It occurred to me that the alleged encounter with Josser had provided a distraction at a very convenient moment.
‘Did you really bump into Josser in Leominster?’ I asked, trying to sound natural and friendly.
‘Of course I did.’ Trudie sounded natural and friendly again too. ‘It frightened the life out of me. He’s such a creepy sod.’
‘You didn’t think that when you went for a ride on his motorbike.’
‘That was then – before he came round and left his calling card through our window.’
‘Do you think he’ll come back again?’
A cloud edged in front of the sun, blocking some of the heat. Trudie sat up and half turned towards me. ‘I shouldn’t think so. He’ll be one of those people who just comes into your life story, then goes out of it again. You know, like Colonel Careless.’
‘What?’
‘Colonel Careless – the bloke who hid with King Charles II in an oak tree. He just appears on the stage of English history for that one day; then he’s never heard of again.’
‘You’re making that up,’ I said, laughing. ‘Nobody could possibly have been called Colonel Careless.’
‘It’s true – honestly. We did it in History.’
‘Come on, Trudie.’ We were both laughing now. Keeping my tone light, I said, ‘So are you going to tell me why you gave me the slip in Dorothy Perkins?’
Trudie considered this for a moment, looking arch, with her head on one side. ‘Well, all right then,’ she said, affecting a reluctant conspiratorial tone. ‘Since you’re dying to know, and I think you can keep a secret . . .’ She paused theatrically. ‘My grandmother gave me the most valuable gift I possess . . .’
I wasn’t in the mood for any of her fairy stories or wind-ups so I faked a yawn, holding my mouth wide open and patting my fingers repeatedly against my lips. I was getting very tired of hearing about Trudie and her ‘gift’.
‘You obviously don’t really want to know,’ she said, getting to her feet and walking back towards the house. I let her go. She got into a huff periodically but it never lasted very long.
SIXTEEN
In spite of being young and fit, Simon and Danny found the pond excavation hard going. They suffered from blistered hands and sunburn in the early days, coupled with the frustration of seemingly getting nowhere. Sometimes they spent an hour or more just extracting tree roots, or a whole morning hacking away a rotten stump. They dug out wheelbarrowloads of stones, which they hauled away to provide foundations for the rockery – often the only man-made sound in the garden was the distinctive chink of a stone tossed into the bucket. Once or twice we thought we heard a motorbike roaring along the lane, but, as Trudie said, plenty of people had motorbikes.
While the boys were engaged with their building project, Trudie and I amused ourselves as best we could. The two of us had fallen into the habit of walking down to the woods together. It was a way of escaping from the house for a while and, with no one to overhear, we could indulge in the sort of conversations which held no interest for the boys, to say nothing of seizing the opportunity to grumble about the way they left their dirty socks lying around and forgot to flush the loo. Lately everyone had a grievance of some sort and none of us were slow to air them. Even our woodland excursions became the subject of a spat between Simon and Trudie, when he complained one afternoon that she had not been on hand to provide him with a cup of tea.
‘I’m not your bloody slave, you know,’ she said. ‘I’m a free agent. I can come and go as I please.’
‘This isn’t a frigging holiday camp,’ Simon snarled. ‘You can’t expect a free ride.’
‘I do more than my fair share, so screw you,’ she shouted. ‘If you don’t want me here, I can soon find somewhere else.’
‘Pack it in, Simon,’ I said. ‘Trudie works really hard. It didn’t hurt you to make your own tea just for once.’
‘If I’m not wanted—’ Trudie began, but I managed to soothe her down with platitudes while Simon stumped off – probably to sulk.
After what seemed like an eternity they finally finish
ed digging out the pond. The eventual result was an irregular oval about ten feet by six at its widest points and deep enough to allow for two or three feet of water. Simon ordered sand for the lining and we all stood round when the lorry arrived to deliver it, toasting the first significant landmark in the project.
The arrival of the sand signalled another fall-off in the work rate. It was a milestone and as such felt like a good excuse for a couple of days off. Danny was all for a return trip to the seaside, but Simon said it was too expensive in petrol, so we settled for a walk on Hergest Ridge instead. The heat was less intense that day and from the top of the ridge it was possible to see banks of cloud, creeping in from Wales.
‘If it rains,’ said Danny, with more than a shade of hope in his voice, ‘we won’t be able to work on the pond tomorrow.’
‘I wish it would rain,’ I said. ‘I’m fed up with this hot, sticky weather.’
‘I’ll make it rain for you,’ said Trudie. ‘What we need is for that dark cloud over there to come over here and shed on us. Whistle for wind, someone, and I’ll do a rain dance.’
Simon obediently began to whistle – a traditional tune which I half knew, but couldn’t put a name to. Trudie stepped out of her sandals, did a couple of exploratory steps across the grass, then started to dance – graceful and unselfconscious, her long gauzy skirt swirling around her strong brown feet and ankles. She unwound the silk scarf she’d been wearing round her neck and whirled it above her head, like an offering to the gods, against the darkening sky. Simon switched to a verse of ‘Greensleeves’ and from that to ‘Spanish Ladies’ while Trudie danced and danced. It was as if she had forgotten us, forgotten the whole world.
We became so fixated on Trudie that we hardly noticed the progress of the clouds. The first spots of rain took us by surprise. They splotched our clothing with damp circles, the size of a 10p piece.
‘Hey, Trudie, you can stop now,’ exclaimed Danny.
Simon aborted his whistling mid-bar and Trudie spun to a halt, staring up at the sky.
‘I made it rain,’ she said, doubtfully – repeating the words with something approaching elation: ‘I made it rain.’
The shower didn’t amount to much, which was just as well considering how far we were from shelter; but the boys addressed Trudie as Rain Goddess for the rest of the day, allowing her to precede us everywhere and bowing her in and out of the pub at Old Radnor – much to the bemusement of the locals. This success in conjuring up a shower reawakened Trudie’s fascination with her so-called mystical side, and on the homeward journey she and Simon started talking about the Agnes Payne mystery again. I wished they would shut up about it. Bettis Wood was a happy, sunlit place for me just then, and I didn’t want it invaded by the shadowy deeds of long ago.
When we reached the house, the lads fell to discussing the pond again. Simon was starting to worry about the stages of the operation which were still to come – in particular the concreting. Neither he nor Danny had any experience of using concrete, so Simon had obtained a book on the subject of constructing garden water features, from the library in Kington. The contents were not reassuring. Danny’s theory that ‘you slap together a bit of sand and cement, then add water till it looks about right,’ was apparently somewhat wide of the mark. Simon’s book was full of cautionary tales about what would happen to your concrete if you didn’t get the mix or application right. It ended up by stating: Concrete laying is a skill that demands considerable knowledge and practice. If you are at all unsure of your ability to do a satisfactory job, employ a professional to do it for you.
Which was all very well, but Simon’s uncle had only left enough money to cover raw materials and the hire of a concrete mixer. Manpower and expertise would cost extra – and we didn’t know how much. In the end, Simon decided he would go into town the next day and make some enquiries. ‘Asking costs nothing,’ he said.
Trudie elected to go with him, while Danny and I stayed behind at the house. With Simon gone Danny opted for some lighter work, and spent half an hour clearing the last small patch of weeds out of the rose bed by the terrace, before throwing himself down on the lawn and saying he was whacked. I joined him there and we sat discussing what we might do next, while drinking tepid glasses of orange squash (we had run out of ice cubes as usual).
‘Let’s walk down to the woods,’ Danny suggested. ‘Get away from this place for a while.’
It was another sunny day with a few picture-book fluffy clouds almost stationary in the sky. As we turned into the road I could already feel the back of my dress sticking to me. Insects hummed and butterflies skimmed the field. We had to go in single file down the path, but once inside the wood we walked hand in hand.
‘It’s really nice to have you to myself,’ he said. ‘We don’t often get a chance to go somewhere on our own.’
I squeezed his hand in acknowledgement.
‘You look like a fairy in that dress,’ he said.
‘Funny-looking fairy,’ I said.
The garment in question was a bit of a joke between us. It was one of those over-priced boutique buys which I had quickly regretted: a cotton dress which fell straight from shoulder to hem, with a dozen tiny buttons leading up to a plain round neck – yellow with a big white daisy on the front. After one wash it had shrunk to a length which was positively indecent, and, far from making me look like a fairy, it probably gave the impression of an urban street walker. I almost never wore it, but I was so far behind with the washing that I hadn’t anything else clean to put on. Tomorrow, I thought, I will have to drag out the twin tub and tackle the pile of clothes in the corner of the bedroom floor.
We walked on for a bit, eventually sitting down in one of the grassy dells not far from the playground. After exchanging a few kisses, we began to roll around together on the grass – half playful, half in earnest. I realized my dress had rucked up around my waist and tried to pull it down.
‘Don’t,’ he murmured, between kisses. ‘Let’s do it here, out in the forest.’
Presumably this was his idea of Free Love and all that back-to-nature stuff, but I could only focus on lower middle class proprieties and creepy-crawlies.
‘No,’ I squeaked, as his thumb engaged with the waistband of my pants. ‘We can’t. Not here. Let’s go back to the house.’
‘No,’ he said, with his mouth close to my ear, full of lust and mischief. ‘Here.’
‘It’s more comfortable in bed,’ I protested, aiding rather than impeding his assault on my knickers by trying to wriggle away.
‘Much more romantic here,’ he said, kissing me again.
At that precise moment I couldn’t think of anything less romantic than the prickle of bent grass under my bare bottom, but it was clear that Danny would not be deflected. I tried a last protest. ‘Someone may see us. Suppose someone’s coming.’
‘Someone is coming, babe – and it could be you.’
I didn’t want to upset Danny by repelling him with the violent refusal my every instinct cried out to make. My only hope was a random bird watcher or someone out walking their dog, but Bettis Wood was deserted as usual. Even so, I covered myself up as quickly as possible afterwards, urging him to do the same. It would be just typical for this to be the one afternoon when some pillar of the Parish Council brought her grandchildren through the wood, to hunt for pine cones or something.
‘You’re not upset, are you?’ Danny asked, as we set off for home.
‘No – of course not. Why should I be?’ I didn’t want to make a big thing out of it. Didn’t want to be accused of being a prude.
‘It was good for you, right?’
For a second I thought he had picked up on my unease, but then I decided it was no more than a routine enquiry – a question to which I always answered in the affirmative – so I nodded, even while I set about dismissing the uncomfortable conjunction from my mind. The truth was that by then I had come to the conclusion that sex was not all it was cracked up to be. Danny was the first boy
I had slept with and the idea had turned out to be far more exciting than the actuality.
When we emerged from the wood, Danny led the way back along the path and I followed a pace or two behind. It wasn’t a situation conducive to conversation, so I was left with my own thoughts. I decided that I would switch on the immersion heater as soon as we got in, so that I could have a bath later. Tomorrow I would get up early and do the washing. I hated that stupid dress – I should never have allowed things to get so far behind that I had nothing else to wear. I was conscious that lately some aspects of the housekeeping had been neglected more than usual. When Trudie first joined us, it was generally she who had initiated things like the washing and ironing; whereas I tended to have a mass of good intentions, which never quite came to fruition. Lately Trudie’s initial enthusiasm had worn off.
When we reached the top of the footpath and came out on to the road, there was a glint of sunlight on metal, visible through the bushes.
‘Si’s back,’ said Danny. A fraction of a second later we turned in between the lilac and the rhododendron which marked the gateposts and he added, ‘Blimey O’Reilly – that’s Mum and Dad’s car, parked next to Si’s.’
We both automatically quickened pace. As we entered the house we met Simon in the hall.
‘It’s your mother.’ He addressed Danny. ‘There’s nothing the matter. She just drove out here to see how you are.’
At that moment we came into line with the open door of the drawing room and caught sight of Mrs Ivanisovic and she of us, so no chance for me to sidle upstairs and pretend to be out. There was nothing for it but to look pleased and walk right in.
She was being entertained to tea by Trudie, who was singularly inappropriately clad for the task, in a pair of cut-down denims, to which a splash patch saying Try it, you’ll like it, had been sewn; and a bikini top from which her breasts strained to escape every time she leaned forward, which she was doing now, to pour tea from the best teapot. Amid everything else, I noticed that Murdered Agnes must have anticipated visitors, since she had kindly returned the teapot in the nick of time.