“Not at the moment. I told him if I needed him, I’d be in touch.”
Nancy, as though incapable of standing for more than two minutes, pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Her dramatic flight from the old Vicarage to Podmore’s Thatch had apparently left her no time either to comb her hair, powder her nose, or find herself a blouse that matched her skirt.
She looked not only distraught but a mess, and Olivia knew a surge of the old, irritated impatience. Whatever happened, good or bad, Nancy always made a drama of it and, moreover, cast herself in the leading role.
“She went to London yesterday,” Nancy was saying. “We don’t know why. Just went off on the train, on her own, for the whole day. Mrs. Plackett said she returned home quite exhausted.” She sounded offended, as though, yet again, Penelope had pulled a fast one on her. Olivia half expected her to add, And she never even told us she was planning to die. To change the subject, she asked, “Where is Antonia?”
“She’s gone to Pudley to do some shopping?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Not yet.”
“And Mrs. Plackett?”
“Upstairs, I think, getting your room ready.”
“In that case, I’ll take my bag up and have a word with her. You stay here. When I come back, we’ll have that drink, and then you can get back to George and the children.…”
“But I can’t simply leave you on your own.…”
“Of course you can,” Olivia told her coolly. “We can keep in touch by telephone. And I’m better on my own.”
* * *
Nancy finally departed. With her gone, Olivia and Mrs. Plackett were at last able to get down to business.
“We’ll have to get in touch with an undertaker, Mrs. Plackett.”
“Joshua Bedway. He’s the best man for the job.”
“Where is he?”
“Right here, in Temple Pudley. He’s the village carpenter, does undertaking as a sideline. He’s a good man, very tactful and discreet. Does a lovely job.” Mrs. Plackett glanced at the clock. It was nearly a quarter to one. “He’ll be home now, having his dinner. Like me to give him a ring?”
“Oh, would you? And ask him to come as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Plackett did this, with no histrionics, no pious lowering of the voice. A simple explanation was given and a simple request made. She might have been asking him to come and mend a gate. When she rang off, her expression was satisfied, as though with a job well done.
“That’s it, then. He’ll be here at three. I’ll come with him. Be easier for you to have me here.”
“Yes,” said Olivia. “Yes, it would be much easier.”
They then sat at the kitchen table and made lists. By now, Olivia was onto her second gin and tonic, and Mrs. Plackett had accepted a small glass of port. A real treat, she told Olivia. She was very partial to port.
“Next person to get hold of, Miss Keeling, is the vicar. You’ll want a church service, of course, and a Christian burial. Need to fix on a plot in the graveyard, and then a day and a time for the funeral. And then speak about hymns and such-like. You’ll have hymns, I hope. Mrs. Keeling loved her concerts, and a bit of music’s nice at a funeral.”
Discussing practical details made Olivia feel marginally better. She unscrewed her fountain pen. “What’s the vicar’s name?”
“The Reverend Thomas Tillingham. Mr. Tillingham, he’s known as. Lives in the Vicarage, next to the church. Best would be to give him a tinkle, and maybe ask him over tomorrow morning. Give him a cup of coffee.”
“Did he know my mother?”
“Oh, yes. Everybody in the village knew Mrs. Keeling.”
“She was never exactly a regular church-goer.”
“No. Maybe not. But always ready to help with the organ fund, or the Christmas jumble. And every now and then, she’d ask the Tillinghams for dinner. Best lace-mats on the table, and a bottle of her best claret.”
It was not hard to imagine. Olivia, for the first time that day, found herself smiling. “Entertaining her friends; that was what she really loved.”
“She was a lovely lady in every way. You could talk to her about anything.” Mrs. Plackett took a ladylike sip of her port. “And another thing, Miss Keeling. You should let Mrs. Keeling’s solicitor know that she’s with us no more. Bank accounts, that sort of thing. That will all have to be attended to.”
“Yes, I’d thought of that.” Olivia wrote: Enderby, Looseby & Thring. “And we’ll have to put notices in the papers. The Times and The Telegraph, perhaps…”
“And then, flowers in the church. It’s nice to have flowers, and you may not find time to do them yourself. There’s a nice girl in Pudley. She’s got a little van. When Mrs. Kitson’s old mother-in-law died, she did lovely flowers.”
“Well, we’ll see. But first, we’ll have to decide when the funeral is to be.”
“And after the funeral…” Mrs. Plackett hesitated. “Nowadays a lot of people don’t think it’s necessary, but I believe it’s nice for folk to come back to the house and have a cup of tea and a bit of something to eat. Fruit-cake’s nice. Course, it depends on the time of the service, but when friends come a long way—and I’ve no doubt there’ll be many from far afield—it seems pretty thankless to send them away without so much as a cup of tea. And somehow, it makes things easier. You can have a bit of a talk, and talking takes the edge off sadness. Makes you feel you’re not alone.”
The old-fashioned country custom of a wake had not occurred to Olivia, but she saw the common sense of Mrs. Plackett’s suggestion. “Yes, you’re perfectly right. We’ll organize something. But I should warn you, I’m a useless cook. You’ll have to help me.”
“You leave it to me. Fruit-cake’s my speciality.”
“In that case, that seems to be everything.” Olivia laid down her pen and leaned back in her chair. Across the table, she and Mrs. Plackett surveyed each other. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Olivia said, “I think, Mrs. Plackett, you were probably my mother’s best friend. And right now, I know perfectly well that you’re mine.”
Mrs. Plackett became embarrassed. “I’ve done no more than I should, Miss Keeling.”
“Is Antonia all right?”
“I think so. She was shocked, but she’s a sensible girl. Good idea, sending her to do the shopping. I gave her a list as long as my arm. Keep her busy. Make her feel useful.” With that, Mrs. Plackett downed the last of her port, set the empty wineglass on the table, and heaved herself to her feet. “Well, if it’s all right with you, I’ll take myself home and give Mr. Plackett a bite to eat. But I’ll be back at three, to let Joshua Bedway into the house. And I’ll stay till he’s finished and gone.”
Olivia went to the door with her and saw her away, stately as ever on her bicycle. Standing there, she heard the sound of an approaching car, and the next moment the Volvo turned in at the gate. Olivia stayed where she was. Fond as her affections were for Cosmo’s daughter, and sorry for the girl as she felt, she knew that she, herself, was incapable of dealing with yet another flood of emotion, another damp and teary embrace. The carapace of reserve, strong as an armour, was, for the time being, her sole defence. She watched as the Volvo drew to a halt, watched Antonia unbuckle her seat-belt and climb out from behind the steering wheel. As she did this, Olivia folded her arms, the body language gesture of physical rejection. Over the roof of the car, across the few feet of gravel that separated them, their eyes met. There was a pause, and then Antonia closed the door of the car with a soft clunk and came, walking, towards her.
“You’re here,” was all she said.
Olivia unfolded her arms and laid her hands on Antonia’s shoulders. “Yes. I’m here.” She leaned forward and they kissed, formally, touching cheeks. It was going to be all right. There were to be no histrionics. For this deliverance Olivia was deeply grateful, but she felt sad too, because it is always sad when someone you have known as a child finally grows up, and you know that they will never be truly y
oung again.
* * *
At exactly three o’clock, Joshua Bedway was there, driving up in his little van, with Mrs. Plackett beside him. Olivia had harboured fears that he would be attired in inky black, with an expression of gloom to match, but all he had done was to change from his overalls into a decent suit and a black tie, and his sunburnt countryman’s face did not look to her as though it could stay sombre for very long.
For the moment, however, he was both saddened and sympathetic. He told Olivia that her mother would be very missed in the village. In the six years that she had lived in Temple Pudley, she had made herself, he said, very much part of the little community.
Olivia thanked him for his kind words, and with formalities over, Mr. Bedway produced, from some pocket, his notebook. There were one or two details, he told her, and proceeded to list them. Listening to him, it dawned upon her that, at his job, he was a true professional, and for this she was deeply greatful. He spoke of The Plot and The Sexton and The Registrar. He asked questions and Olivia answered them. When he finally closed his notebook, returned it to its pocket, and said, “I think that’s all, Miss Keeling; you can safely leave the rest to me,” she did just that, gathered up Antonia, and walked out of the house.
They did not go down to the river, but made their way out of the gate and across the road, to climb a stile and follow the old bridle track that climbed the hill behind the village. It led through fields filled with grazing sheep and their lambs; the hawthorn hedges were coming into flower, and mossy ditches were cushioned in wild primroses. At the top of the hill stood a stand of ancient beeches, their roots exposed, eroded by centuries of wind and weather. Reaching these, hot and breathless from the climb, they sat, with a feeling of some accomplishment, and surveyed the view.
It stretched for miles, a great chunk of unspoiled English countryside, basking in the warm sunshine of an exceptional spring afternoon. Farms, fields, tractors, houses, all were minimized by distance to toy size. Steeply below them, Temple Pudley slumbered, a random cluster of gold stone houses. The church was half hidden by yews, but Podmore’s Thatch and the whitewashed walls of the Sudeley Arms were clearly visible. Smoke, like tall plumes of grey feather, rose from chimneys, and in one garden a man had lighted a bonfire.
It was marvellously quiet. The only sounds were in the bleating of the sheep and the rustle of the breeze in the beech branches overhead. Then, high in the blue, an aeroplane, like a sleepy bee, hummed drowsily across the sky, but did nothing to disturb the peace.
For some time, they did not speak. Since their reunion, Olivia had spent all her time either making or receiving telephone calls (two of these, both quite pointless, were from Nancy), and there had been no chance to talk. Now she looked at Antonia, sitting there on the tussocky grass just a few feet away, in her faded jeans and her pink cotton shirt. Her sweater, discarded during the long hot climb up the hill, lay beside her, and her hair fell forward, hiding her face. Cosmo’s Antonia. Despite her own battened-down misery, Olivia’s heart went out to her. Eighteen was too young for so many awful things to be happening. But nothing could be changed, and Olivia knew that, with Penelope gone, Antonia had become, once more, her responsibility.
She said, breaking their silence, “What will you do?”
Antonia turned and looked at her. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, what will you do now? Now that Mumma’s gone, you no longer have reason to stay at Podmore’s Thatch. You’ll have to start making decisions. Think about your future.”
Antonia turned away again, drew up her knees, and rested her chin on them. “I have thought.”
“Do you want to come to London? Take up that offer of mine?”
“Yes, if I may. I’d like to do that. But eventually. Not just now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought that perhaps … it would be a good idea, if I just stayed here for a bit. I mean … what’s going to happen to the house? Will it be sold?”
“I imagine so. I can’t live here, and neither can Noel. And I don’t suppose Nancy would want to move to Temple Pudley. It’s not nearly grand enough for her and George.”
“In that case, people will want to come and look around, won’t they? And you’re far more likely to get a good price for it if it’s furnished, and there are flowers around the place, and the garden’s looking nice. I thought perhaps I could stay and see to everything, and show prospective buyers around, and keep the grass cut. And then, when it is sold, and it’s all over, perhaps then I could come back to London.”
Olivia was surprised. “But, Antonia, you’d be all alone. By yourself, in the house. Wouldn’t you mind that?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t mind. It’s not that sort of house. I don’t think I’d ever really feel alone there.”
Olivia considered this idea, and realized that it was, in fact, a sound one. “Well, if you’re sure, I think we’d all be enormously grateful to you. Because none of the family are going to be able to hang around, and Mrs. Plackett has other commitments. Of course, nothing has been decided yet, but I am certain that the house will be sold.” She thought of something else. “However, I don’t see why you should have to do the garden as well. Surely Danus Muirfield will be coming back to work.”
Antonia said, “I don’t know.”
Olivia frowned. “I thought he’d simply gone to Edinburgh to keep an appointment?”
“Yes. With a doctor.”
“Is he ill?”
“He had epilepsy. He’s an epileptic.”
Olivia was filled with horror. “An epileptic? But how perfectly ghastly. Did Mumma know?”
“No, neither of us knew. He didn’t tell us until the very end of our holiday in Cornwall.”
Olivia found herself intrigued. She had never set eyes on the young man, and yet all she had heard about him, from both her sister, her mother, and Antonia, only served to whet her interest. “What a very secretive person he must be.” Antonia made no comment to this. Olivia thought some more. “Mumma told me he didn’t drink or drive, and you mentioned that, too, in your letter. I suppose this is why.”
“Yes.”
“And what happened in Edinburgh?”
“He saw the doctor and he had another brain-scan, but the computer in the hospital had broken down, so that he couldn’t get the results of his tests. He rang us up to tell us this. Last Thursday, it was. And then he went off with a friend to fish for a week. He said that it was better than hanging around at home, kicking his heels.”
“And when is he returning from this fishing trip?”
“On Thursday. The day after tomorrow.”
“Will he know the result of the brain-scan then?”
“Yes.”
“And after that, what happens? Is he coming back to Gloucestershire to work?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it depends on how ill he is.”
It all sounded rather sad and hopeless. And yet, on consideration, not totally surprising. As long as Olivia could remember, a succession of oddballs and lame ducks—like bees to honey—had found their way into Mumma’s life. She had never failed to support and sustain them, and this generosity of energy—and sometimes hard cash—was one of the things about his mother that drove Noel up the wall. And was, perhaps, why he had taken such an instant dislike to Danus Muirfield.
She said, “Mumma liked him, didn’t she?”
“Yes, I think she was very fond of him. And he was sweet with her. He looked after her.”
“Was she very upset when he told her about his illness?”
“Yes. Not for herself, but for him. And it was a shock to be told. Something unimaginable. Cornwall was magic, and we were having such fun … it was as though nothing bad could ever happen again. Just a week ago. When Cosmo died, I thought that was the worst. But I don’t think any week’s ever been so dreadful, or so long as this one.”
“Oh, Antonia, I am sorry.”
She feared that Antonia was about to succumb t
o tears, but now Antonia turned and looked at her, and Olivia saw with relief that her eyes were dry and her face, though serious, quite composed.
She said, “You mustn’t be sorry. You’ve got to be glad that there was just time enough for her to go back to Cornwall before she died. She loved every moment of it. I think, for her, it was like being young again. She never ran out of energy or enthusiasm. Every day was filled. She didn’t waste a single moment.”
“She was very fond of you, Antonia. Having you with her must have doubled her pleasures.”
Antonia said painfully, “That’s another thing I have to tell you. She gave me the earrings. The earrings Aunt Ethel left her. I didn’t want to take them, but she insisted. I’ve got them now, in my room at Podmore’s Thatch. If you think I should give them back…?”
“Why should you give them back?”
“Because they’re very valuable. They’re worth four thousand pounds. I feel they should go to you, or to Nancy, or to Nancy’s daughter.”
“If Mumma hadn’t wanted you to have them, she wouldn’t have given them to you.” Olivia smiled. “And you didn’t have to tell me about the earrings, because I already knew. She wrote me a letter to tell me what she’d done.”
Antonia was puzzled. “Why did she do that, I wonder?”
“I suppose she was thinking of you and your good name. She wanted no person accusing you of pinching them out of her jewel box.”
“But that’s weird! She could have told you any time.”
“These things are better in writing.”
“You don’t think she had some sort of premonition? That she knew that she was going to die?”
“We all know that we are going to die.”
* * *
The Reverend Thomas Tillingham, vicar of Temple Pudley, called at Podmore’s Thatch at eleven o’clock the next morning. Olivia did not look forward to the interview. Her acquaintance of vicars was slim and she was uncertain as to how they would deal with each other. Before his arrival, she endeavoured to prepare herself for all exigencies, but this was difficult to do because she had no idea what sort of a man he was going to be. Perhaps elderly and cadaverous, with a fluting voice and archaic views. Or young and trendy, favouring outlandish schemes for bringing religion up to date, inviting his congregation to shake hands with each other, and expecting them to sing newfangled and jolly hymns to the accompaniment of the local pop group. Either prospect was daunting. Her greatest dread, however, was that the vicar might suggest that, together, he and Olivia should kneel in prayer. She decided that, should such an horrific eventuality arise, she would cook up a little headache, plead ill health, and dash from the room.
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