Postcards from the Past

by Marcia Willett

  ‘The point was that we had Dom,’ Billa says. ‘He came just when we needed him. She had nobody. I was pretty beastly to her over Andrew.’

  Ed watches her. Tris’s arrival has changed her, softened her, and he is faintly worried by it.

  ‘We were children,’ he says consolingly. ‘Children are naturally selfish. There were lots of reasons for the way we behaved. It’s no good looking at past mistakes in isolation. We have to remember the whole context or we get a completely biased view of it. Don’t beat yourself up.’

  She smiles at him gratefully. ‘I won’t,’ she says. ‘I just wish I’d been a bit nicer to her before she died. That awful depression did for her. Sitting about in her dressing gown and those terrible bouts of weeping. I really believe that she thought Andrew had left her for another woman, you know. She really loved him but I think it was in a very physical way that drove her mad.’

  Ed doesn’t quite know how to react to this; it’s not really his kind of conversation.

  ‘Mmm,’ he says non-committally. ‘You could be right.’

  Billa gets up from the table. ‘Go and do some work,’ she says. ‘I’ll phone Tris about tomorrow and I’ll bring you up some coffee later on. Don’t forget we’re having an early lunch.’

  ‘OK,’ he says, relieved. ‘Great.’

  He gathers up his papers, hurries away upstairs into his study and closes the door behind him. He stands still for a moment and the room seems to gather and settle round him, welcoming him. Ed takes a deep, happy breath and sits down at his desk.

  * * *

  ‘I think we’ve got everyone in the diary now,’ Sarah says. ‘Are you sure you’re going to manage with the few that need more time?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ says Tilly confidently. ‘They’re going to be very flexible up at Chi-Meur and because I’m living in I can always work early or late. I’m doing extra at the pub for these next few days and then that’s that. Don’t worry, I shan’t let anyone disappear through the net. Sir Alec will need quite a bit more time. I’m going on to spend an hour with him when we’ve finished here.’

  George begins to grizzle and Tilly whisks him out of his chair and begins to dance with him, blowing raspberries into his neck until he starts to giggle. She can see that Sarah is wanting to make some retort about spoiling him, but just managing to restrain herself, and Tilly feels a great surge of affection for her. She’s having these moments quite a lot lately, with Dom, with Billa and Ed, with Sir Alec. She is so happy she is almost effervescing with it, but she knows that Sarah will be slightly embarrassed by such an overflowing of joy so she resists the urge to give Sarah a hug and contents herself with kissing George’s smooth, satiny cheek.

  ‘So when are you moving in?’ Sarah is asking, still checking the database and making notes.

  ‘Monday week. I shall have got through lots of our work by then and I’ll have finished at the pub. You must come up and see the Priest’s Flat. There’s a huge bank of lilac trees growing just under the windows. Sister Emily says the scent is paradisical when they flower.’

  ‘“Paradisical”,’ Sarah snorts. ‘Very nun-like. And you won’t keep calling it the Priest’s Flat, will you? People will think it’s a bit weird.’

  Tilly shrugs. ‘I can’t help that. Everyone calls it that. I can’t just move in and change it; it’s not my flat. Anyway, I rather like it.’

  ‘You’ll be taking Holy Orders next,’ says Sarah waspishly. ‘How will your street cred do when you tell your friends you’re going to be living in a convent?’

  ‘Actually, they think it’s rather cool, and Mum and Dad are pleased now they’re over the shock of it. They think I’ll be really safe now. Even better than Mr Potts’ bedroom.’

  Tilly sits down with George on her lap. She is sad that Sarah is going, she’s going to miss her, but she wishes that Sarah was more upbeat about her own move.

  ‘Let’s see those house details again,’ Tilly says. ‘It looks really nice. I bet you can’t wait for Dave to come home and get going. After all, this was your home, wasn’t it? Your family home. It’s going to be really great moving into this house with Dave and the boys.’

  Sarah gets up from the computer and fetches the house details’ folder. She sits down again with it between them. Tilly shifts George to one side, and together they begin to reread the spec.

  * * *

  It’s quite a relief, a bit later, for Tilly to leave Sarah’s cottage and drive down to Sir Alec’s house. He greets her warmly but she sees that he is limping and he looks rather drawn and tired.

  ‘Couldn’t get out this morning,’ he admits. ‘Would be the right ankle, wouldn’t it? Driving’s tricky and I couldn’t face the long haul down to the beach. Poor Hercules is housebound.’

  ‘I’ll take him out,’ Tilly says at once. ‘I’d love it. I’ll give him a walk when we’ve finished the session,’ and an hour later she and Hercules set off together down the hill towards the beach. Half-way down she hears an engine behind her, the approach of a big vehicle, and turning she sees the school bus coming. She hauls Hercules well into the side until it’s passed and then sees an excited face at the back window, a hand fluttering. It’s Jakey. When she and Hercules reach the vicarage he’s waiting for them, his school bag dumped by the front door.

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ he asks. ‘Are you going down to the beach?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Poor Sir Alec has twisted his ankle. But you need to ask if you’re allowed to come. Is Dossie waiting for you? Or Daddy?’

  ‘It’s Daddy,’ he answers, running to the front door and opening it with a shout of greeting.

  Tilly’s heart does a little hop, and when Clem appears at the door she gives what she hopes is a nonchalant wave. Jakey is explaining the situation, words tripping and tumbling in his eagerness, and Clem says, ‘Hang on a minute,’ disappears and then comes back out, dragging on a jacket and putting keys in his jeans pocket. He’s wearing his clerical collar but he pulls the jacket collar up so it’s not too obvious, and anyway Tilly doesn’t mind. She quite likes the way he’s prepared to stand up and be counted.

  ‘Not too long,’ he cautions Jakey, and he smiles at Tilly and they all go together down the village street and out on to the beach.

  It’s very wild and windy. Their words are snatched from their mouths and tossed about like the gulls in the great cloudy spaces above them.

  ‘Dossie’s been on the phone,’ Clem says, as they stroll behind Jakey and Hercules. ‘She’s got this friend who breeds black Labs. Because of the economic pinch they’re planning to find a home for their oldest breeding bitch. She’s about five, very gentle and sweet, and Dossie thinks that if we’re going to have a dog she might be a good choice.’

  Tilly’s heart glows at his words, ‘if we’re going to have a dog’. There’s something satisfyingly permanent about them.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ she says. ‘I’d love to see her.’

  ‘That’s what Dossie thought. She says that she could take you over to meet them before we mention anything to Jakey.’

  She nods. ‘Great. Shall you phone Dossie? Or shall you give me her number?’

  ‘Both,’ Clem says decisively.

  Jakey is scaring the seagulls wading at the water’s edge. He runs, just dodging the in-sweep of the tide, his arms out-stretched like aeroplane wings, and Hercules runs with him, barking.

  Tilly and Clem laugh.

  ‘It’s going to be good,’ Clem says suddenly, confidently, and Tilly, overwhelmed with happiness, can’t resist slipping a hand inside his elbow. He presses it against his side and they stride out together, heads bent against the wind.

  * * *

  Tris drives cautiously along the lanes between the Chough and the old butter factory, keeping a wary eye open for Dom or Billa. He’s taking a risk, a huge risk, but every instinct is telling him to make his move. When she invited him for coffee for the following morning Billa told him that she would be out this afternoon and he gue
sses that Dom, in that case, won’t be visiting. He and Ed might be working down in the woods but that will suit his purpose just as well. Anyway, Tris has his story well prepared in case he is taken by surprise. He is fizzing with an adrenalin rush, with energy and excitement. He can barely breathe.

  He drives in over the bridge, picks up his satchel and gets out, closing the car door as quietly as he can. Billa’s car is gone and there is no sign of Ed. Gently, gently, Tris presses down the handle on the kitchen door and walks in. Bear is nowhere to be seen and Tris advances silently across the kitchen towards the open door into the hall. He can see Bear now, stretched on the slates by the front door, and Tris reaches into his pocket for the treats he has brought specially for this eventuality. As Bear raises his head, Tris bends to put the tasty snack beside him. Bear hesitates, still recumbent, growls half-heartedly, and then begins to sniff. He hauls himself up a little and begins to eat the first treat.

  Quickly, quickly, Tris runs up the stairs and pauses outside the study door. He listens for a moment, waits for a heartbeat and then opens the door. Sitting at his desk, his laptop open in front of him, Ed gazes at him in astonishment. Cursing to himself, Tris closes the door behind him and advances into the room, his hands upraised in apology.

  ‘I am just so sorry about this,’ he says. ‘Nobody heard me knock and that old Bear is fast asleep in the hall. But listen, Ed. I’ve had a call. An emergency back in Toulon and I’ve got to go. I didn’t have your phone number so I thought I’d just dash round and say goodbye. I guess that Billa is out.’

  ‘Yes, yes, she is.’ Ed is on his feet now, still looking rather dazed. ‘I’m sorry to hear this. Nothing too bad, I hope.’

  ‘Well, it’s Léon’s mother. She’s been taken very ill and Léon is at his wits’ end.’ Tris pauses, drags a gasping breath, doubles over and sits down rather suddenly in the little armchair. ‘Sorry, Ed. Sorry. Shouldn’t have run up the stairs like that.’ He leans forward, head in hands, massaging his brow with his fingers, still gasping for breath.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Ed is really concerned now, coming out from behind his desk, bending down to look at Tris.

  Tris breathes quickly, glancing up from between his fingers. Actually he does feel rather ill – shouldn’t have popped that pill on the way over – but it adds authenticity to the next part of his plan. He leans back in the chair and presses his hands now against his ribcage. Then he slips the satchel from his shoulder, opens it carefully so that Ed can’t see inside it, and begins to rummage in it.

  ‘Damn,’ he says. ‘Damn, damn, damn. I remember now. My tablets, Ed. They’re in the car. Had to take one coming over. Do you think you could…?’ He groans. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, no,’ says Ed, clearly alarmed. ‘Will you be OK?’

  Tris nods. His breathing is laboured and ragged. ‘On the front seat. Not locked.’

  Ed hurries out. Tris sits up, listens for a moment and then he’s on his feet and crossing the room to the cabinet containing the John Smart miniatures. Yesterday he managed to try the lid, just lifted it an inch or so to make sure it wasn’t locked, and now he removes from his satchel a small Perspex tray made specially to transport the precious little miniatures without damaging them. He stands it on the desk and opens it, lifts the lid of the cabinet and swiftly takes out the six ivory ovals and sets them carefully into their appointed places in his tray. He closes it and slides it gently into the satchel, shuts the lid to the cabinet and he’s back in his chair when Ed returns, out of breath, with the tablets.

  ‘Do you need water?’ he asks anxiously, giving Tris the bottle, but Tris shakes his head, takes out a capsule and swallows it down. He sits without speaking, his eyes closed, giving himself time to recover. He feels he might explode with excitement.

  Presently he opens his eyes again and almost smiles at Ed’s worried expression: what a sweet, gullible guy he is. Tris has to subdue a spurt of laughter.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says gratefully. ‘That’s much better. I’m really sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ says Ed predictably. ‘I’m sorry that you have to be like this.’

  Tris sighs: not in a self-pitying way but in a ‘Well, that’s life’ kind of way. He shrugs. ‘I think I’d better be on my way,’ he says. ‘It’s a shame not to have seen Billa or Dom again. But say goodbye for me, will you? None of you knows just what it’s meant to me to be able to come back. There’s been closure here for me. I really mean that.’

  He’s getting up, walking to the door – but not too quickly, still playing it carefully – and managing to look regretful and grateful all at the same time. Ed, clearly uncomfortable, concerned, follows him down the stairs, offering him tea, a glass of water, whilst Tris edges as quickly as he can through the kitchen and out to the car.

  ‘If I can get back in the next twenty minutes I’ll be fine,’ he assures Ed. ‘The tablet will get me that far, don’t worry. Thanks, Ed.’

  He holds out his hand and Ed takes it, shakes it firmly.

  ‘But you’ll stay in touch, Tris,’ he says. ‘Now we’ve got this far. We’ll want to know how you are.’

  ‘For sure,’ says Tris, sliding into the driving seat and placing the satchel carefully beside him. ‘And thanks again, Ed. It means a lot.’

  He starts the car, raises his hand and drives back across the little bridge. Tensed against the possibility of meeting either Billa or Dom in the lane, he hunches over the steering wheel, still subduing the desire to burst out laughing. He reaches out to pat the satchel: at least two hundred thousand pounds worth of miniatures just riding along on the passenger seat. He’d get that much on the open market but it isn’t an option. He doesn’t mind. He’s got his private collector lined up, all ready to do a very good deal.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ mutters Tris, as he negotiates the twisting lanes.

  He thinks of the sheaf of photographs his father left in the envelope with Elinor’s will; photographs of valuable items that he’d seen in the old butter factory: the miniatures, two paintings, a few pieces of furniture and some first editions. Clearly his father intended to use these photographs to get some idea of the value of these items, just in case, but his time at Mellinpons had run out. Over the years Tris occasionally studied those black-and-white photographs, watched the market rise and fluctuate, filed them away for future reference; and then six months ago he was at an auction where a John Smart miniature had sold for forty-three thousand pounds and he pricked up his ears. He knew that Ed would never have parted with his miniatures. Then, when he was told that his time was nearly up, he decided on this one last throw of the dice. The will had always been a sideshow; a ruse to enable access to the old butter factory, if necessary, for talks and discussions whilst he waited for just such an opportunity that he’s been given today. And what fun it has been. The plotting and planning, choosing the postcards, watching and waiting, those two aborted tries at straight burglary, and then this moment of victory.

  ‘For Léon,’ he mutters, the laughter spurting out at last. It hurts to laugh, though; a fist seems to be squeezing his lungs and he feels sick.

  He’s glad to pull into the Chough car park and slump for a moment, leaning over the steering wheel. He wishes now that he’d followed his instinct, packed his case and checked out before he went to the old butter factory. But caution had stayed his hand, warned him that he might not get away with it this time, that he’d look a fool if he needed to come back. If he’d trusted his instincts, by now he could be on his way to Bristol and on a plane out. Instead he must take this extra time to explain the emergency, pack up and pay. He doesn’t want anyone suspecting, raising any kind of alarm. He gets out of the car, taking the satchel with him, and goes into the pub.

  There are a couple in the bar, chatting to the landlord, but he can’t see them very clearly. The bar seems to be darker than usual. The door opens and the girl, Tilly, comes in behind him.

  She smiles at him. ‘Hi, Mr Marr,’ she says, and then her expression
changes and she looks alarmed. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  And he isn’t OK. The hand is squeezing harder, crushing his ribs so that he can’t get a breath, and he grasps at the bar with one hand and grips the satchel tightly with the other. He is slipping, sliding, crumpling on the floor, and all the while he is cursing to himself: ‘Not now. Not yet.’ He seems to lose consciousness for a few seconds and now, as he recovers, there is a woman kneeling beside him; her long fair hair falls forward, brushing his face. Her lips move as though she is calling his name but he cannot hear her. He is weak, helpless. ‘Maman,’ he cries, and this time it is he who is lying on the floor whilst she bends over him, touching his hair. But his voice makes no sound, and it is growing darker, and someone pulls her away from him so that he can no longer see her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tilly kneels beside Christian Marr, calling his name, trying to edge the satchel from his arms so as to make him more comfortable. One of the customers at the bar comes hurrying over, talking about the recovery position, pushing Tilly to one side and firmly removing the satchel, which he lays on the floor. Tilly picks it up, out of the way, as the man heaves Mr Marr on to his side. The landlord is dialling 999, calling for an ambulance.

  ‘Dash up and pack a bag for him,’ he calls to Tilly. ‘Pyjamas and stuff. Wait. Here’s the pass key.’

  Tilly grabs the key, runs out and up the stairs. She realizes she’s still holding the satchel, hesitates, and then hurries on. She opens the bedroom door and goes in, laying the satchel on the bed. There are two grips lying inside the hanging cupboard and she takes the smaller one, seizes pyjamas from the bed and dashes into the bathroom. She takes up a sponge bag and puts in a toothbrush and toothpaste, sees an electric razor, picks up a bottle of after-shave.

  Back in the bedroom, she opens the drawers of the chest and takes out boxer shorts, two pairs of socks and some handkerchiefs. She hesitates over a jersey, wondering whether he will need it and whether he has any friends locally who ought to know what’s happening. She looks at the satchel. She’s never seen Mr Marr wearing a jacket so perhaps he keeps his private things in the satchel. She hesitates to open it and then decides that there can be no harm in it.