A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  Decision reached, Johnnie put down his tankard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went back to work.

  Beth Monroe skirted the boarded-up ruins of the shopping centre, averting her eyes as she always did. She was meeting Moira for their regular Thursday lunch but her anticipation was tempered, as it had been for the last six weeks, by an undeniable sense of guilt. Because, for the first time in the thirty-odd years of their friendship, she had a secret she could not bring herself to share.

  They hadn’t been easy years; both women had been widowed relatively young, but while Moira now had a married daughter and two grandsons, Beth and her husband had been childless and she’d felt all the more alone. She’d thrown herself into her job as a dental nurse and it had proved a lifeline, but she still had to return each evening to an empty house, which seemed the more lonely after the hustle and bustle of the surgery. It had been Moira who’d suggested she might take in lodgers.

  ‘But you’d have to vet them carefully,’ she’d added warningly, ‘and I’d advise you to stick to women.’

  It had taken Beth a while to reach a decision, reluctant as she was to share her home with strangers. But, as Moira pointed out, she had three bedrooms, two of which were habitually empty, and the extra money would certainly be useful.

  In the end it had been quite exciting; a few alterations needed to be made to the house, the first being the creation of a sitting-cum-dining room for her guests. Once the original dining suite was removed and sent to auction, Beth decorated then refurnished the room with individual tables at one end and easy chairs, a television and a coffee table at the other. Bookshelves and lamps completed the transformation. The lodgers would have to share the bathroom but there would never be more than two of them at any one time, and she sacrificed a corner of her own bedroom to install a small en suite. She was then ready to receive boarders.

  That had been six years ago and lodgers had come and gone. For some time she’d kept to the women-only rule, offering accommodation to a succession of students from the local college, women on business assignments and nurses from a nearby hospital. Then, after several months of having one room unoccupied, Eric Barnes had arrived at the door and it had seemed illogical to turn him away. He worked for a local firm but his family was down south and, like all her lodgers, he went home at weekends. He paid his account promptly, was tidy in his ways and friendly without being familiar – in short, the ideal lodger – and had now been with her for two years.

  Which brought her to Johnnie, who had also arrived when she had a room free, due to a guest leaving suddenly to nurse a sick parent.

  ‘He was born in Dorset,’ she’d told Moira over lunch a couple of months ago, ‘but his mother was Australian and when his father left them she decided to return to her family in Adelaide, taking him with her. But he never really settled out there and when he left school he came to university in the UK and has been here ever since.’

  Moira had laughed. ‘Do your guests usually tell you their life stories?’ she’d asked, and Beth had flushed.

  ‘No, but we got talking somehow and it just … came out.’

  ‘Did he also give you his date of birth?’

  She’d laughed shamefacedly. ‘No, but if there’s a hidden question there, I’d say he’s in his mid-fifties.’

  ‘And now you have two gentlemen under your roof! So much for my dire warnings!’

  ‘Neither is likely to stab me in my bed!’ she’d retorted, feeling the need to defend herself.

  ‘But that’s not the only danger,’ Moira had said darkly.

  Even to herself, Beth couldn’t explain why she’d not shared her secret. At first it had seemed so amazing, so totally unexpected, that she’d wanted to hug it to herself, uncertain of her own reactions. It wasn’t that Moira would disapprove – she’d probably be glad for her – but suppose it didn’t last and she was made to look stupid, gullible? Better to play safe, with no one to have to tell when it fell apart.

  It had started so innocuously. Johnnie – or Mr Stewart as she’d then thought of him, since she kept her dealings with her lodgers on a strictly business footing – had settled in well, though he was little company for Mr Barnes as he went out each evening after their meal. She had, however, been disconcerted to learn he intended to stay over the weekends, when she enjoyed having the house to herself. ‘I sometimes have to work on Saturdays,’ he’d said when she’d broached the subject. ‘And anyway, where would I go?’ And she’d helplessly let it drop.

  Possibly because he sensed her reservations, for the next few weekends he’d left the house straight after breakfast on both days and not required an evening meal. Then the status quo irrevocably changed, and it began on one of his free Saturdays while he was still at breakfast.

  Beth had stripped all three beds as usual and stuffed the sheets and pillowslips into the washing machine. It was some minutes before she noticed that the machine was leaking, by which time a creeping tide of soapy water was spreading over the kitchen floor. Horrified, she’d flown to the machine and switched it off but when the water continued to gush she ran to Johnnie in the front room.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she gasped, ‘but can you help me? The washing machine’s leaking and I can’t stop it!’

  He hurried after her into the kitchen. ‘Where’s the stopcock?’ he asked. And, at her blank look, ‘The valve that controls water coming into the house?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she stammered. ‘How stupid—’

  ‘No matter, I’ll find it,’ he said briskly. And he did. Then, while she watched helplessly, he siphoned the rest of the water from the machine and together, with the help of mops and towels, they soaked up the spilled liquid.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Beth exclaimed, flushed and breathless. ‘I’d better phone a repair man to find out what caused it.’

  ‘Before you do,’ Johnnie said, wringing the last sodden towel into the sink, ‘let me take a look at it; it might be a simple blockage, which I can fix and save you a call-out fee.’

  Thankfully, his diagnosis proved correct. Beth made a fresh pot of coffee which they drank together in the restored kitchen, after which, as usual, he went out for the rest of the day. The episode had caused a blip in the balance of their relationship, but now order was re-established she’d assured herself it wouldn’t happen again.

  Johnnie, however, had other ideas. The following morning he arrived in the kitchen as she was frying his bacon.

  ‘No point taking it through when there’s just me,’ he said. ‘If you’ve no objection I’ll eat in here with you.’ And he’d seated himself at the kitchen table.

  It would have been churlish to object, Beth told herself, particularly after all his help yesterday. And that was how it started.

  Moira looked up with a smile as Beth joined her at their usual table.

  ‘You’ve had your hair cut!’ she exclaimed. ‘It suits you – you look a good ten years younger!’

  Beth flushed as she seated herself. ‘I’d got in a bit of a rut,’ she said dismissively.

  Moira continued to survey her, head on one side. ‘And you’re wearing more make-up than usual!’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Anxious to change the subject, Beth glanced at the paper her friend had laid down. ‘Anything of interest?’

  Moira sobered. ‘Yes, actually; a member of that building firm was killed last night in a hit-and-run – you know, the ones who built the Whitefriars Centre. As if they weren’t in enough trouble.’

  ‘Poor man. It must have been weighing on his mind, though; perhaps he stepped out deliberately.’

  Moira frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think it’s possible?’

  Beth shrugged. ‘Could you live with knowing you might have killed a hundred people?’

  ‘Put like that … But if he did mean to kill himself, it’s a bit hard on the driver.’

  ‘Who didn’t stop, you said.’

  ‘He probably thought no one would believe him
.’

  The waitress hovered over their table and after a belated glance at the menu they gave their order. As she moved away, Moira said casually, ‘How’s that new lodger of yours? You’ve not mentioned him lately.’

  To her annoyance Beth felt her cheeks burn and Moira gave a low laugh, laying her hand briefly over her friend’s. ‘Oh, come on, hen, this is me you’re talking to! Something’s been putting a spring in your step these last few weeks, even before the new hair-do. You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘You mean I’m behaving like a teenager,’ Beth said crossly.

  ‘Not at all. The young haven’t a monopoly on falling in love.’

  Beth drew in her breath sharply. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Whatever. Something’s going on, so tell your Auntie Moira, who has only your best interests at heart!’

  So reluctantly at first, then with a feeling of relief, Beth told the story of the flooded kitchen and the consequences it had led to.

  ‘When Mr Barnes goes home at weekends it leaves just the two of us, and soon after that episode Johnnie suggested that instead of him sitting alone in some café and me cooking for one, we should go out for our evening meal. He was already having weekend breakfasts in the kitchen, so I couldn’t think of a valid reason to refuse.’

  ‘No reason why you should,’ Moira said.

  ‘It’s become a regular routine. We usually go the cinema and round the evening off at a Chinese or Indian restaurant. Then on Sunday evening when Mr Barnes comes back we revert to being Mr Stewart and Mrs Monroe. It’s – exciting, Moira; like playing a secret game.’

  ‘But while Mr Barnes is away …?’

  Colour washed over her face, and Moira said softly, ‘Oh, dearie, I’m so glad for you.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m a silly, middle-aged fool?’

  ‘Not at all. At least – he’s not married, is he?’

  ‘Divorced. He told me that at the beginning.’

  ‘Then what possible harm are you doing?’

  Beth released her breath in a long sigh. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, Mo. I wasn’t at all sure what you’d think and I suppose I was a bit … ashamed. After all, I’d never been with anyone but Dougie.’

  ‘I know, hen, but Dougie, bless him, has been gone a long time.’

  ‘You’ve never …?’

  ‘It’s just never come up, but then I do have Katrina and the bairns. They were my survival kit, something you never had.’

  ‘So you’re not going to cross me off your Christmas card list?’

  Moira laughed. ‘Not a chance!’ she said.

  THREE

  Foxclere

  As he washed his hands, Edward French glanced up and caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror – a lived-in face, he thought, greying hair, lines round his eyes and mouth. Wryly, he recalled the many words that had been used to describe him over the years – entrepreneur, businessman of the year, dynamic. All of them decidedly past tense. Did everyone feel like a knotless thread when they retired?

  No, he answered himself, reaching for a towel, because the fortunate majority, unlike himself, had a family awaiting them, with whom, as the cliché had it, they could ‘spend more time’. Not only that, it was only recently he’d realized to his dismay how few people he could consider friends, having concentrated over the years on maintaining business rather than social contacts and leaving the latter to his wife. Which was why he was now trying to build a new life for himself, hence this insane idea of learning the piano. Several times he’d been on the point of cancelling the appointment but had been unable to think of a convincing excuse. Why he’d considered it in the first place he couldn’t remember. Because he enjoyed music?

  As a boy he’d been more interested in outdoor pursuits than in learning an instrument, and since then he’d simply not had the time. In fact, he’d not had time for a great many things that in retrospect were more important than flying round the world on business, chief among them poor Cicely, his gentle, compliant wife who ‘hadn’t liked to trouble him when he was so busy’ and therefore failed to mention the symptoms of what had proved to be a fatal illness. That was something he’d have to live with, as was the likelihood that he’d also lost his daughter, who had roundly condemned his self-centredness, accused him of neglecting her mother throughout their marriage, and, immediately after the funeral, flown to Canada with the express intention of remaining there. And since she’d changed her mobile number he’d had no success in contacting her, despite repeated attempts.

  He sighed, turned from the mirror and walked through the echoing rooms to the front door. Lamb to the slaughter, he thought.

  Ten minutes later he drew up outside a substantial detached house standing in what looked to be an acre or so of garden. A blackbird was singing lustily in a cherry tree as he walked up the path and rang the bell. It was answered by a small woman with fair hair, who gave him an encouraging smile.

  ‘Mr French? I’m Jill Lawrence. Please come in.’

  She stepped aside and he expected to see an impressive entrance to match the exterior; but although a handsome staircase swept up to the right, on the left the rear of the hall had been closed off by a door, now standing open, that presumably led to a private apartment.

  ‘It used to be the family home,’ Mrs Lawrence explained, ‘but it was too big for me after my husband’s death, so now we share it. My daughter and her family live upstairs.’

  He could do with a similar arrangement, Edward mused, but regrettably there was no one prepared to share with him. Beyond the door the rear of the hall was furnished with a mahogany coat stand and a monk’s bench on which stood a large vase of flowers. Various doors opened off it and he was shown through one of them into a small room where the sun streamed through a bay window that gave on to a patch of lawn at the side of the house. In front of the window stood a piano with its attendant stool and another chair drawn up beside it.

  Ridiculously he felt his heartbeat quicken, but his companion was indicating one of the easy chairs that flanked the fireplace. ‘Please sit down for a moment,’ she said. ‘Before we start the first lesson I like to have a chat with new students to learn their interests and help us get to know each other.’ She paused, and when he didn’t speak, continued, ‘You told me you’d recently retired; what line were you in?’

  ‘I was the managing director of a wholesale clothing firm,’ he said a little stiffly. Then, since she seemed to be expecting more, added, ‘My wife died a couple of years ago and my daughter’s now living in Canada, so I felt it was time to make a new life for myself and catch up on things I’ve missed, such as going to the theatre, reading books I’ve always intended to …’

  ‘And learning to play the piano,’ Jill prompted.

  ‘Indeed. If I have a vestige of talent, which is highly unlikely.’

  She gave a light laugh. ‘Not the kind of attitude I encourage! You never learnt to play at school?’

  ‘No. I was into sport of all kinds – rugby, cricket, swimming, rowing.’

  She leant back in her chair and studied him with clear grey eyes. ‘So what made you decide on the piano?’

  He shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. ‘Since our phone call I’ve been asking myself the same question. I suppose because it’s something completely different and I’ve always enjoyed listening to music.’

  She nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘One other thing – with my adult students I like to establish at the outset how they prefer to be known.’ And at his blank look she added, ‘Should I continue to call you Mr French, for instance, or would you feel more relaxed with Edward?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer,’ he said unhelpfully.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s what you prefer.’

  Familiarity had never come easily to him and there were now few people who used his first name. However, in for a penny …

  ‘I suppose “Edward” is less of a mouthful,’ he said.

  She smiled. �
�Then Edward it is,’ she said. ‘And I’m Jill.’

  ‘So how was your new pupil?’ Georgia asked a couple of hours later. She had knocked at her mother’s door on her return from a visit to Plants R Us, the commercial flower-arranging firm that she ran, and Jill had invited her to an impromptu lunch.

  ‘Not quite the usual run,’ Jill replied, sliding the omelette out of the pan. ‘A widower, recently retired and with too much time on his hands, from what I can gather.’

  ‘No family?’

  ‘Only a daughter in Canada.’

  ‘And how did he shape up musically?’

  Jill made a little face. ‘He was terrified of making a fool of himself, which didn’t help. I’ll have to get him to relax or he’ll lose all interest and give up. The trouble is he hasn’t got a piano at home, didn’t seem to realize he’d have to practise between lessons and had no idea where he could go to do so. So I suggested he ask Giles Austin, whom he knows and plays golf with, if he could have access to one at school a couple of times a week.’

  Georgia helped herself to salad. ‘He sounds hard going.’

  ‘I get the impression – I don’t know why – that he’s rather lost, somehow. He probably lived for his work and now that it’s gone he feels he has nothing left.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s making an effort,’ Georgia said. ‘Oh, and talking of making an effort, after our discussion about Richard feeling left out, I thought I’d ask them to dinner – plus you, of course – try to smooth things over. We did invite them to the house-warming when we moved in, but if you remember they weren’t able to come.’ She paused. ‘Or didn’t want to. And they’ve not been to you either, have they?’