Where the Wild Cherries Grow
Page 1
About the Book
I closed my eyes as I tried to pick apart every flavour, because nothing had ever tasted so good before. It was love and it could not be hidden.
It is 1919 but the end of the war has not brought peace for Emeline Vane. Lost in grief, she is suddenly alone at the heart of a depleted family. She can no longer cope. Just as everything seems to be slipping beyond her control, in a moment of desperation, she boards a train and runs away.
Fifty years later, a young solicitor on his first case finds Emeline’s diary. Bill Perch is eager to prove himself but what he learns from the tattered pages of neat script goes against everything he has been told. He begins to trace a story of love and betrayal that will send him on a journey to discover the truth.
What really happened to Emeline all those years ago?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
June 1969
June 1969
June 1969
June 1969
June 1969
June 1969
June 1969
June 1969
Part Two
May 1919
February 1919
June 1969
February 1919
June 1969
February 1919
June 1969
February 1919
June 1969
March 1919
June 1969
March 1919
June 1969
March 1919
June 1969
March 1919
June 1969
Part Three
March 1919
June 1969
April 1919
June 1969
April 1919
June 1969
April 1919
June 1969
May 1919
June 1969
June 1919
June 1969
July 1919
June 1969
July 1919
July 1969
July 1919
July 1969
Epilogue
Reading Group Questions
A Q&A with Laura Madeleine
Wild Cherry Cake Recipe
Acknowledgements
Read on for an extract from The Confectioner’s Tale
About the Author
Also by Laura Madeleine
Copyright
For Terry and Iris
The most unlikely of allies
Prologue
April 1919
We ran through the darkness. My shoes were lost to dancing and the dusty road was cool beneath my bare feet, though the night air was warm. I laughed, tried to ask the young man who held my hand where we were going, but he only turned to me and smiled, teeth glinting in the deep tan of his face.
I followed him, jumping down on to the beach. It was high tide and the sea was rich with the scent of minerals. The surface was calm, but I knew that beneath it was teeming with life, with fins and scales and flashing silver eyes.
He stopped walking, so abruptly I almost collided with his back. We had reached the cliff at the end of the beach. When I tried to get his attention, tell him that we couldn’t go any further, he dropped my hand, leaving a tingle of disappointment in its place.
It was damp here, smelled of wet sand and drying seaweed. He ran his fingers over the surface of the rock, pulling aside a plant that was making a valiant effort to grow in a waterless crevice. Behind it, a chunk of stone was missing, almost like a foothold. Another piece of stone had been prised out further up. Above that, a little way past his head, was a ledge.
I tried to protest that I was in no state to climb, but he responded with a grin that I imagined had not changed since he was a lad of thirteen, delighting in trouble. He stooped and tapped my ankle, until I raised my leg, hesitating.
His hands enclosed the sole of my foot. His fingers were warm, coarsened from years of salt and rope. He was looking up at me through his black hair, with those eyes that always saw too much.
Then I was boosted high and I yelped in surprise as I scrabbled at the uneven rock. My foot found purchase in one of the holes, and I clung there, breathless with laughter, not daring to look over my shoulder. Behind me, I heard the breaths of his own quiet laugh, at my ungainly pose, at my skirt close to splitting.
With a burst of effort, I hauled myself up, and twisted, until I sat on the ledge. I gave a mocking salute down to the ground below. He swiped at my foot and began his own scrambled ascent. For a moment, he rested beside me. The stone beneath our hands retained a trace of the day’s fierce heat.
He went ahead, feeling his way around the cliff face. The path was steep, and I tried not to think about the sea, lapping at the ragged rocks below. Wine was flowing through my veins; it made me reckless. Together, we edged our way around the curve of the cliff. This near, I was engulfed in his scent, cotton dried in sunlight and warmed by skin, woodsmoke in his hair, spice on his breath and always, always, that mineral tang, like the sea on a winter’s day.
The path twisted, taking us high above the dark waves. Finally, I felt grass beneath my feet, smelled sweetness upon the air and we emerged on to a tiny plateau beneath the brow of the cliff. Here, a single, twisted tree was growing: a wild cherry, its fruit flushed pink. The forbidding rock walls sheltered it from the winds, like a fierce creature guarding something precious. The young man ran a hand along the shining bark. This was his secret place, I knew then, in a town too small for secrets. I wanted to ask him why, but he only smiled, rested his hands upon my shoulders and turned my body to look.
Behind us was the town, all of it, stretching around the bay and up into the hills. I could see the café we had fled with its strings of flickering electric bulbs, could see the silhouettes of people dancing, stomping and spinning, kicking up the wine-soaked dust.
The wind carried smoke from the bonfire up here. I breathed deeper, closing my eyes until I could pick out other scents: coal from the railway track and tar from the boats, the powerful reek of fish scales, drying on nets and traps. I could smell sun-baked stone, wild herbs, myrtle and olive trees on the hillsides above. I caught a wisp of the food we had eaten that night, heady with spices. And above it all that single cherry tree, a drop of sweetness, just shy of ripe.
His hands shifted upon my shoulders. Once, I would never have stepped out alone with a man like this, but once did not exist any more. I leaned back and felt his cheek rest against my hair. Above us were stars and behind us in the darkness, a soul took up singing.
‘There’s a nightingale,’ I whispered, but I knew he couldn’t hear it. And I knew, too, that I was lost.
Part One
June 1969
It’s the smell of kippers that wakes me, rather than the gut-wrenching jangle of the alarm clock. Kippers mean one thing.
Swearing, I stagger out of bed, the blanket and sheet tangling around my legs. Two steps down the corridor to the bathroom. The door is closed but I barge in regardless, hoping that Louise isn’t sitting on the toilet. Serve her right if she is, she knows I have to be out of the house at this time.
My dad looks up in surprise, chin and neck half-lathered, handle of the razor clenched.
‘Bleeding hell, Bill, could’ve stuck myself like a pig.’
I aim a hasty stream at the toilet, not without a few splashes – sorry, Mum – while Dad grunts behind me.
‘Told you to get that clock fixed. In my day, we didn’t need one, up at dawn …’
Ignoring his monologue, I make a grab for the facecloth hanging by the sink. Dad
drawls on and on, shaving slowly just to wind me up, I’m sure of it. Between his rinse-and-drag motions, I wet the cloth under the tap, rub at my face, neck, armpits. It rasps over my chin, but not too much. For once I’m glad that my manly grooming rituals are limited to a few pitiful attempts per week.
Toothbrush from the mug, a bit of paste and I’m out. I brush with one hand, searching the drawer for a pair of pants and a vest. The suit is waiting on its hanger. I grimace at it. Some day, I’ll buy myself a new suit. One that actually fits. One that isn’t brown.
I thunder down the stairs in a cloud of Aramis – the same bottle Mum got me for my eighteenth – and spit toothpaste into the kitchen sink.
Louise is ignoring a bowl of cornflakes as she tries to re-animate her week-old hair-do, Mum is flipping Dad’s kippers. There are toast corners in the rack, so I grab one, despite Mum’s attempts to stop me. On with the hated, squeaky leather shoes, and shoelaces. Oh, for a world without shoelaces.
Outside it’s warm and by the time I make it to the corner, I’m already sweating. The bus is at the stop, primed to trundle off like a greyhound at the track. I leap for the steps just as the driver releases the brake.
It’s packed, as always. Men in suits far better than mine, with briefcases and umbrellas balanced across their knees, though when was the last time it rained? There’s a spare seat at the back by the stairs and I collapse into it, a mess of sweat and toast crumbs. I’m so grateful to have made the bloody bus, it takes me a minute to see who I’m sharing a seat with. When I do, I realize why this space was free.
A child is staring back at me, a boy. He has fine, pale blond hair plastered to his head in a bowl cut, and enormous, bottle-bottom spectacles – the worst the NHS has to offer. He’s one of those children who always look sticky. I grimace out a smile and glance away, pretending to be fascinated by the advertisements above. He’s still staring, I can feel it. From the corner of my eye I see him raise a hand, slow as a snake, and wipe his nose.
I’m an adult now, aren’t I? I should say something to this kid about manners, produce a handkerchief from my well-equipped pocket and brandish it at him. But there’s nothing in my pockets, save for the loose change that makes the lining sag, a wrapper from a toffee and my house key, still proud on its own ring, the plastic one with a grinning sun that my aunt got me from Margate.
‘You—’ I start weakly, staring down at the boy.
‘What are you?’ he interrupts.
The words of reprimand dissolve on my tongue. He is still looking up at me, but now his mouth is closed, lips pursed and appraising.
‘What?’ is all I can manage.
‘I said, what are you? And you should say “pardon”, not “what”.’ He sniffs again. ‘Mummy says.’
As I gape helplessly, I notice a book held tightly on his lap. It’s a thin, cardboard-covered thing about the size of an almanac.
‘What have you got there?’ I ask, attempting to summon the false jollity that adults talk to children with. ‘Is it a picture book?’
‘No.’ He still hasn’t looked away, not once. Has he even blinked? ‘It’s the latest issue of the Palaeontology Society’s Members’ Journal. I’m not a member, yet, but Uncle Alan is. He said I could have it.’
‘Well, that’s …’ Of course, I’d get stuck next to the weird kid. Up ahead the traffic is thickening, crushing itself on to the roads that lead into London. We’ll be here for some time. ‘That’s, uh, groovy.’
The boy frowns. ‘What does “groovy” mean?’
‘Groovy, you know, something cool, interesting.’
‘Groovy,’ the boy tries out, and nods. ‘So, what are you?’
This again. I look around for the boy’s mother or guardian or anyone, but no one meets my eye. In fact, the two businessmen in the seats opposite are studiously ignoring us, obviously relishing the fact that they do not have to sit next to the sticky, eccentric child.
‘What do you mean?’ I sigh at last, giving up. ‘Am I what? Animal, vegetable—’
‘I mean what are you,’ he repeats patiently, helping me along. ‘As a job. What are you?’
‘Oh. Right. I’m a solicitor.’ I feel a wave of pride at those words, and brush a few crumbs from my polyester lapel. ‘Well, I’m a solicitor’s assistant, really, but in a few years I’ll be—’
‘What’s a solicitor?’
This is like being back at the grammar school, under the eagle-gaze of the old headmaster, who distrusted anyone who came from the new part of town.
‘We, uh, we sort out legal things for people. Help them with problems, fill in the right paperwork.’
‘So what do you do all day?’
‘I help my boss, Mr Hillbrand. I make copies for him, and sometimes he trusts me to visit our clients and take them papers to sign.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, “why”? Because they need signing.’
The boy shrugs, as if to say, Have it your way, pal.
‘I’m going to be a palaeontologist,’ he says, careful to pronounce every vowel. ‘And dig up dinosaurs and the oldest creatures in the world and build them again.’
‘That sounds cool,’ I admit. The boy nods sagely. ‘Much cooler than papers.’
I sink back into my seat. The traffic is moving again. We’ll be in central London in twenty minutes.
‘When I was your age,’ I tell him, taking the crumpled tie out of my pocket, ‘I wanted to be Scott of the Antarctic.’
‘Late, Perch.’
‘Traffic, Mr Hillbrand, sorry. That A13 was murder this morning. Hello, Jill.’
‘Morning Billy, good weekend?’
I show my teeth in what I hope looks like a smile and nod. No one calls me Billy. Not even Stephanie.
I sit down at the desk squashed into the corner, behind the stack of triplicate forms that are waiting for me. Almost immediately, I stand up again.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes. But let Jill do that. Jill? Need to go through a client file with you, lad. They’re coming in at eleven.’ Hillbrand cracks his neck importantly. It makes me shudder to think that some day I’ll be a crackly necked old bastard. ‘They’re interested in one of the dormant case files, believe it or not. Right back from when Great-uncle Durrant ran the firm. Never looked at it twice, to be honest. Reckon it’s a straightforward enough job, though. Some papers need locating, power of attorney transferring to the relatives, and what not.’
He suppresses a belch. Hillbrand’s one of those people who looks thin, until he turns to the side and you see his belly. I’ve seen the man eat enough for a family of four, but for some reason, not an ounce of it ends up on his limbs.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘thought it was about time you got a client of your very own. I’ll let you walk it, feed it.’ He laughs at his own joke, and I smirk along dutifully, until the reality of what he’s said hits me.
‘Wait, what? You mean that I … that I’ll be in charge of the casework?’
‘Jesus, Perch, close your mouth, you look like Larry the Lamb. Don’t get excited. You’ll start on the easy stuff. Might mean a few late nights, though. Reckon you’re up to it?’
‘You bet!’
I sound like a Boy Scout. Hillbrand looks pained. He digs around in his pocket for change.
‘There’s two and six. Go and get some biscuits, will you? Nice ones, with chocolate bits, not the rubbish your granny buys. This lot we’ve got coming in aren’t short of a few bob. They’ll know the difference.’
I’m halfway down the dark staircase when I hear his yell. ‘And I wouldn’t say no to an egg bap!’
The woman sniffs when I offer her the plate of biscuits. She bypasses them with a tight smile and a flick of her hand, even though they’re Cadbury’s best. She’s wearing short gloves, an immaculately tailored cream dress.
The man next to her is already on his third cigarette, though they’ve been here all of ten minutes. He slumps back in his chair. His belly and Hillbrand’s are facin
g each other like boxers at opposite corners of the ring.
It’s clear that Hillbrand & Moffat Solicitors is not what they were expecting. I know the feeling. I too walked trembling up to the grand building several months ago, only to discover that the solicitor’s office is nothing more than a couple of broom cupboards on the second floor. The rest of the building is, in fact, a gentlemen’s club. One that Hillbrand has never been invited to frequent.
This pair are obviously used to finer things. I, on the other hand, have no cause to complain.
‘Mr Hillbrand,’ the woman says, setting down her cup of tea, untouched, ‘as my attorney mentioned in his letter, expediency in this matter is of great importance. My father’s condition is,’ she presses a hand to her lacquered hair, as if it just threatened to move, ‘unlikely to improve, but nevertheless, we have a limited amount of time in which to act.’
Her accent is strange, somewhere between American and British. Hillbrand offers a buttoned-up smile of his own.
‘I understand, Mrs Mallory. I’m sure we can have this done and dusted for you by the end of the month.’
He holds out a hand and I fumble with a stack of cardboard files. Two of them slide out of my grip and into his lap. He manages to keep down most of a grimace.
‘From what I know so far, it seems like a simple matter,’ he says, opening the topmost file. ‘Power of attorney over your father’s assets, transference of ownership of a property to you, the next of kin. And a subsequent sale to a developer?’
Mrs Mallory shifts in her expensive tailoring.
‘In essence, that is the case.’
‘The law doesn’t deal in essences, Mrs Mallory.’
Is Hillbrand trying to be funny? The woman shoots him a disdainful glance.
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Hillbrand. Just as you are no doubt aware it would have been preferable for my own attorney to deal with this from Boston. However, changeover processes are lengthy and since your firm once represented my family and have possession of the relevant historic files, we have decided to place ourselves in your hands. Do I make myself clear?’
I’ve never heard such polite hostility. Hillbrand has the grace to take the hit.