by Pat Herbert
“You know we haven’t been happy since …”
“Since you killed Rodney Purbright, you mean?” said Elvira with venom, rubbing at the ink stain, making it spread further. “Blast it!” she muttered under her breath.
“You helped me bury him, don’t forget,” spat back her sister. “And it’s no good rubbing your blouse like that. You need to put sugar on it.”
“And I’ve been regretting it ever since,” muttered Elvira, leaving Vesna to guess whether her regret was for helping her bury Purbright’s body or for rubbing the ink into her delicate silk blouse. “I should never have agreed to do it. I should have shopped you to the police.”
“But you did help me,” Vesna pointed out. “You wouldn’t have seen me hang, would you?” Not waiting for an answer, she carried on. “The point is, I’ve met this bloke …”
“Bloke? What bloke?”
“Oh, just some bloke that came into the shop. He comes from Cromer.”
“Cromer? What’s he doing here, then? It’s a long way to come for spuds, isn’t it?”
“Oh, he was just passing through. Called in for some oranges and a packet of cigarettes, that’s all. He’s a travelling salesman.”
“Okay, so what are you saying? You’re planning to go off to Cromer with a man you hardly know and leave me here with … with …”
“With what exactly?”
“You know full well. It’s something to do with him. Why it’s so cold in here all the time.”
“You don’t really believe he’s haunting us, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Elvira. “And so do you. Anyway, you can’t just go off with this man. Are you going to marry him?”
“He’s asked me,” said Vesna, looking down at her slippered feet in embarrassment. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all week.”
“I suppose I should congratulate you,” sniffed Elvira, standing up and going to the window.
It had just started to rain and the sound of spattering against the panes made the room feel even colder. She hugged her shawl around her shoulders.
“Look, Elvie, love. I’m sorry. But it’s a chance I have to take. He seems very keen on me, and he’s got a nice little semi, he tells me. Just waiting for the right little wife, he said.”
“All very cosy. I must say I don’t like the way you’ve fixed this all up behind my back.”
“I’m sorry,” repeated Vesna. “But I really have to take this chance, don’t you see? I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t for this place.”
“What do you mean? You just said it’s not haunted, so what about this place that you have to up and marry a man you hardly know?”
“No, I just meant …” Vesna paused.
“What? What precisely did you mean?”
The younger woman looked sheepish. “Oh, just that it’s the memories. Of what – what happened.”
“And you’re planning to leave me here to face them alone? I wasn’t the one who murdered him and now you’re abandoning me, even after I helped you and shouldn’t have done.”
“Look, Elvie, it’d be better all-round if I wasn’t here, really it would. Anyway, you’ve got your shop and the business is doing well. It would be silly to leave all that now. I’ll write to you – often.”
“Do I get an invitation to the wedding?”
Vesna flushed at her sister’s sarcastic tone. “Er, it’s just going to be a registry do. In Cromer. I don’t think it’s worth your while coming all that way.”
“You are going to get married, aren’t you?” Elvira began to pace the room.
“Of course. What makes you think I’m not?”
“It all seems a bit sudden, that’s all.”
“Well, sudden or not, that’s the way it is. I’m going to start packing now. Derek and I are leaving on the one o’clock train tomorrow.”
Elvira ran out of the room and up to her bedroom, slamming the door. She flung herself on the bed, clutching the newly cleaned eiderdown as dry sobs vomited out of her mouth. It seemed she was doomed to remain in this fridge of a cottage alone while her sister played fast and loose with Derek in Cromer.
After a while, she lay quietly, breathing fast. She felt utterly exhausted. What a miserable existence it was. The cottage held no attractions for her anymore. With Vesna gone, what was she to do? She had the shop, it was true, and people were popping by all the time with their worries, aches and pains. She was getting quite a reputation among the locals and even further afield. Maybe, given time, she wouldn’t miss Vesna so much. But somehow, she knew she’d never get over losing her. Although Cromer wasn’t so far on the train, to Elvira, Vesna might as well have died.
She knew, in her heart of hearts, that her sister wasn’t going to marry this Derek. He was probably married already. What was she thinking of? Vesna had already broken all the rules by committing murder, and now she was about to ruin her life yet again by going off to live over the brush with a married man. It seemed to Elvira that once you started on the slippery slope, there was only one way to go – and that was down.
Chapter Twelve
Elvira still missed her sister, even though she had been gone for almost a year. When she first left, Vesna wrote at least twice a week, telling her all her news. Derek was a charming man, she said, and they were very happy together. They only had a couple of rooms, but they were clean and bright. (What happened to that semi? Elvira had wondered.) Once Derek became a retail manager, and no longer needed to travel up and down the country, things would be much better all-round. But, for the time being, they were very happy. She wasn’t in love with Derek, but he treated her well, gave her lots of little treats, and they had lots of fun together.
Elvira had written back just as regularly with her own news which wasn’t nearly as exciting as Vesna’s. There was no man in her life to talk about, but she had been able to tell her that Harry Banks had become engaged. She had taken a vicarious pleasure in passing this on, although she supposed it was water off a duck’s back now that her sister had Derek and seemed to be very happy with him, married or not.
The correspondence between them had gone on all through the months leading up to Christmas but, by then, Vesna’s letters had tailed off, reducing to a mere trickle by January. By April, Elvira stopped waiting for the postman to bring a letter with a Cromer postmark; she knew there wouldn’t be one.
One morning in early May, she was in the front garden doing some weeding when she stood up to give her aching back a rest. As she stood there, shielding her eyes from the bright sun, she thought she was seeing things. She rubbed her eyes and inwardly screamed as she realised she’d managed to get some dirt in them. As they watered, the figure she thought she had seen advanced further towards her. When she could focus once more, she knew it hadn’t been a mirage. Her sister stood before her, a weak smile on her pale, thin face.
Elvira took her in her arms while Vesna stood there, arms limply at her sides, not returning the hug. Not noticing or caring, however, Elvira continued to hug her, full of joy at seeing her again. Maybe it was just a visit, but the heavy suitcase she was carrying belied a fleeting one. Eventually, she relaxed her hold and took the suitcase from her.
“It’s so good to see you, love,” she gushed. “I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you. You stopped answering my letters.”
Vesna stared at her tall, dark sister and saw someone she hardly recognised. Flushed as she was with happiness at seeing her sister again, Elvira looked almost handsome, and she felt a sudden pang of affection for her. She grabbed her hand.
“It’s good to see you too, Elvie,” she said. “I – I missed you.”
Elvira led her into the cottage but, as she did so, noticed her wince at the sudden coldness. She, herself, had grown so used to it, she hardly noticed it anymore. Vesna, hugging her coat around her, walked into the parlour and sat down on the battered, old sofa. Elvira could see she was far from happy.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said brightly, “then yo
u can tell me all your news.”
Vesna looked around the room. “The place hasn’t changed much,” she observed.
“What did you expect? You haven’t been gone that long.”
“No, I suppose not.”
A few minutes later, they were sitting side by side, drinking hot mugs of tea. Elvira had managed to dig out a couple of chocolate digestive biscuits, which Vesna devoured greedily.
“Have you eaten lately?” asked Elvira.
“Not since last night,” she replied, through a mouthful of crumbs.
“You must be hungry. I’ll cook some eggs and bacon.”
“Lovely.”
Elvira got up at once, but Vesna pulled her down again. “There’s no hurry,” she said. “I want to talk to you first.”
Elvira studied her young sister’s face closely. She was looking very tired. There were dark circles under her round blue eyes. Her cheeks were pale and much thinner than she remembered.
“No, love, you must eat first,” insisted Elvira, standing up again. “It will only take a few minutes to rustle up a decent meal. Once you’ve eaten, then you can tell me all about it.”
“You’re a brick, Elvie,” muttered her sister, as a tear began to trickle down her dry cheek. “You’re not one to judge, are you? Whatever I’ve done, you won’t mind, will you?”
Elvira almost laughed. Considering she’d covered up a murder for her, it was all too true.
Half an hour later, the two women were sitting at the kitchen table, the remains of Vesna’s meal still waiting to be washed up.
“That was delicious, Elvie. Just what the doctor ordered. Any more toast, by the way?”
Elvira stood up directly and fetched the toasting fork. “Let’s go into the parlour and we’ll toast some bread by the fire.”
Although it was a fairly warm day, the parlour fire was kept going all the year round in an effort to fend off the unnatural cold inside the cottage. It had little effect, however, and the sisters shivered as they huddled around the hearth, toasting thick slices of homemade bread.
“Do you feel up to telling me what happened, Vessie?” asked Elvira, buttering a slice of toast for her. “I mean, are you back to stay?” She looked at her expectantly, her lower lip quivering slightly.
“That all depends …” Vesna bit into the hot toast, and butter trickled down her chin.
“On what, love? I really don’t want you to leave again. Is Derek – I mean has your husband …”
“Oh, come off it, Elvie, you knew I wasn’t going to marry him, didn’t you?”
Elvira looked away in embarrassment. “I – I didn’t know for sure, but I suppose…”
“It’s all right, dear, you were quite right. He was already married. What a complete fool you must have thought me.”
Elvira sighed, shaking her head. “I know it was hard for you – staying here. You thought you had a way of escape. I understand.”
“You’re too good to live, Elvie. You should’ve found a good man to marry. You deserve it – much more than me. It wasn’t fair that I got the looks. I’m a selfish so-and-so.”
“Don’t say that,” ordered Elvira firmly. “You’ve been good to me – I wouldn’t have the shop if it wasn’t for you.”
“Anyway, I intend to make it up to you now,” said Vesna. “I’ve learnt my lesson. Derek was just having fun. When he was fed up with me, he went back to his wife. It’s an old story.”
“You poor love,” said Elvira, studying her sister’s face.
She seemed closed in on herself and didn’t invite the hug Elvira wanted to give her. They had never been demonstrative in their affection for each other and now, when Vesna needed comfort, Elvira didn’t know how to give it.
“Never mind, Vessie. No one need ever know. You’re just the same as before you went away. People won’t be any the wiser…”
Vesna gave her an ironic smile, as she wiped away her tears. “I think they might, you know. You see… I’m going to have a baby.”
PART TWO
The Mid-Nineteen-Fifties
Chapter Thirteen
Bernard Paltoquet stared at himself in the full-length hall mirror. Today was his thirtieth birthday, but he was feeling and, in his own opinion, looking at least ten years older. He still retained all his hair, which was a plus point but, on closer examination, he noticed some grey at the temple and forehead. Oh dear, he thought, tempus is definitely starting to fugit.
He didn’t consider himself a vain man, but he had a dread of getting old. He also had a dread of putting on weight. Turning sideways, he continued to stare at himself, holding in his stomach, not daring to breathe out. What he saw reflected back at him gave him cause to feel even more concerned. He was getting a pot. Most men got pot bellies through drinking too much; his worst enemy couldn’t accuse him of that. But wolfing down all the delicious meals Mrs Harper dished out to him, and demanding second and third helpings, was proving his downfall.
He sighed and turned away from the offending mirror. It was probably designed to make you look fatter and older than you really were, he thought hopefully. Like those in fairgrounds.
Entering the dining room, he found the table spread with the usual accoutrements for breakfast. He heard Mrs Harper singing away in the kitchen, and the wonderful aroma of sizzling bacon wafted towards him as he sat down at the table. Should he just have a piece of toast and a cup of tea? Hang it all, he then thought, it was his birthday, after all. If he didn’t deserve a good breakfast on his birthday, when did he deserve it? The dieting and exercise would have to wait for at least another twenty-four hours. He and his friend, Robbie MacTavish, had planned to celebrate with a meal in the West End that evening; he couldn’t be on a diet for that, could he?
Mrs Harper brought his breakfast through from the kitchen and plonked the plate down in front of him. “’Appy birthday, Vicar,” she greeted him, and placed a white envelope next to his food.
He was touched. A birthday card from his devoted, but unsentimental, housekeeper: that had never happened before. He opened it with pleasure, but his face fell when he saw it wasn’t a card at all. It was two small photographs of Mrs Harper, instead. They weren’t even nice photos, as she was scowling.
“What’s up?” she asked, as he stared at the photos.
“Er, well, Mrs Aitch. These pictures – they’re – like you,” he finished lamely.
“’Course they’re like me,” she said. “They are me.”
“Well, thank – thank you.”
“You don’t ’ave to thank me, Vicar. Just sign the back of them, saying they look like me.”
Bernard was beginning to understand. Could it be that Mrs Harper was applying for a passport or some such other legal document? He dutifully signed where requested wondering, as he did so, where his birthday card was.
“In case you’re wondering,” she said, as if reading his thoughts, “I’m getting a passport done.” She puffed herself up with pride.
“Oh, right,” said Bernard, handing the photos back to her, secretly glad he wasn’t meant to put them in his wallet next to his bosom. “Are – are you planning a trip abroad then?”
“You could say that,” she grinned, as she poured out more tea for him. “You know old Mrs Selfridge at number forty-four?”
“Mrs Selfridge? Yes, of course, a nice old body. Doesn’t come to church very often, though.”
“Well, no. She’s ’ad a lot to contend with lately. ’Er ’usband ’as just popped ’is clogs.”
“Pardon? Oh, I see. I’m sorry to hear that. Should I go and visit her to offer my condolences and what comfort I can, do you think?”
“You can if you like, but you won’t find ’er shedding no tears over that layabout. Geoff Selfridge was a waste of space, in my opinion – and in ’ers. Dying’s the best thing ’e ever did, ’cos ’e’s left ’er a nice little nest egg. She ’ad ’im well insured, she weren’t daft. She’s going on a cruise round the Mediterranean a
nd ’as asked me to go with ’er, all expenses paid. So, like, I could ’ardly turn it down.” She eyed Bernard cautiously. “I know it means you’ll ’ave to do without me for a couple of weeks, but I’ll find someone to look after you, don’t worry.”
Bernard’s heart sank at the thought of doing without Mrs Harper’s stew and dumplings, not to mention cakes and apple pies, for two whole weeks, but realised he was being selfish. He cleared his throat gallantly.
“I’m very pleased for you, Mrs Aitch. You deserve a nice holiday. When – when is this trip of yours?”
“Oh, not until June,” she said, scraping some crumbs off the table cloth. “But I need to get my passport form and photos in the post soon. I don’t know ’ow long it’ll take.”
“Well, I hope you have a lovely time.”
“Thank you, Vicar. Oh, by the way …”
“Yes?” said Bernard, as he munched his toast.
“Did you ’ear about the body they found on the Common yesterday?”
“Body? Oh, dear me, no. Was it a heart attack victim or something?”
“No. It was murder, they’re saying. A young girl, apparently, in ’er teens. All ’acked about. ’Er ’ead ’ad been severed from ’er body. Is it in the paper?”
Bernard shrugged. “It hasn’t arrived yet. I’ll give that paperboy a thick ear when I see him. He’s always late these days. Can’t get out of bed, I suppose.”
“Well, there you are. Ain’t it terrible though?”
“Terrible, indeed. Do they know who the poor girl is?”
“No, I ain’t ’eard nothing about that.”
Mrs Harper started to return to the kitchen but, as she did so, he called after her. “Has the post been yet?”
Surely there would be a card from Robbie, at the very least. He realised, as he thought this, the poor dead girl on the Common wouldn’t be celebrating any more birthdays, with or without cards. He felt humbled as he tucked into his eggs and bacon.