by Kathy Shuker
Rapidly they reached an equilibrium which was not what it had been before - they were both a little too guarded, too careful and measured for that - and it was perhaps a little stormier, but it was good all the same and too enticing to leave alone. For Claire it was like riding her bike down The Cutting, the lane which ran downhill from the church to Bank Lane, north of the river. The Cutting was perfect for freewheeling - it was quiet and straight and too steep to pedal. They had all done it as kids for the thrill of the speed and the wind in their ears as they gathered a crazy momentum down the hill. Intoxicating, it was. But there was no way to stop once you started, not till you swerved left at the bottom and the ground levelled off onto Bank Lane. You could brake then, or throw yourself down on the grassy bank making the ducks parp a complaint and waddle away. Claire’s father told her not to do it - ‘you could get hurt’ - but she did it anyway. She couldn’t resist.
The fallout from the advertisement began to subside. She received another couple of silent phone calls but nothing else was left outside her door and the letters offering false sightings or abuse tailed off. Neil looked at them with her and agreed they were all fakes or cranks. It was at least reassuring to be able to share it with him.
And, just in time for the fête, Laura came to stay for the rest of the summer holidays and Claire told her that she and her father were ‘seeing each other again’.
‘Really? Are you saying it’s serious?’
Claire smiled. Her teenage daughter was talking like the parent. ‘I don’t know Laura. Well, I do. I mean it’s serious. But, you know…we’re going to see how it goes.’
Laura gave her mother a hug.
‘But are you happy, mum?’ she muttered over Claire’s shoulder.
‘Yes, Laura, I think I am.’ Or I will be, she thought. Yes, I will.
Laura squeezed her a little tighter and Claire closed her eyes in relief. For the first time in years, she dared to think that they were getting over it. They could dare to be happy again - as a family. Then she felt a twinge of guilt for thinking it. Because the guilt wouldn’t go away.
Chapter 21
‘I don’t know why you didn’t go and see her yesterday afternoon when she invited you over,’ Claire said to Laura, washing out the mixing bowl and utensils and putting them to drain.
You should have got it over with, she wanted to say, but as always bit it back, not wanting to prejudice her daughter against her own grandmother. Laura was entitled to make up her own mind about Eve - though Claire suspected she already had.
‘You know why,’ said Laura bitterly. ‘She was going to have a go at me. Dad says grandma wants me to spend time in the vineyard and show some interest in wine-making. Why the hell would I want to do that? I want a life.’
‘Claire.’
‘Sorry mum, but really. I’m at uni. I’m not interested in making wine.’
‘I know. So it’s up to you to say that if she brings it up. You should make a point of seeing her today at the fête. She’s going to be there so it’s a chance to get it out of the way.’
Claire came to stand in front of her daughter and took hold of her by each arm.
‘Look, Laura. It’s your life. You choose. I’ll back you whatever you decide to do. But you’re at an age now when you’re the one who has to say it to Eve. She never believes me anyway - you know that. She’ll take it from you, if you say it firmly, politely, but like you mean it.’ Laura looked at her disbelievingly. ‘She will, Laura. You know she and I don’t see eye to eye, but she is fair. You have to stand up to her, though, or she’ll railroad you. It’s no good trying to avoid her and thinking she’ll forget. It just gets worse. Trust me.’ She smiled at her daughter sympathetically. ‘Oh drat, the scones.’
Claire let go of Laura, spun round and pulled the oven door open. She peered in anxiously; the scones still looked pale. Not quite ready? She had no idea.
‘I’m so rubbish at this,’ she muttered and closed the oven door again, glancing at her watch.
‘Why are you making something for the cake stall anyway?’ said Laura.
‘Hettie Blake asked me so I thought I ought to make an effort.’
It was interesting just how much more popular Claire had become with certain people in the village since she’d been seen going round with Neil again. It was amusing and a little bit irritating but it wasn’t a bad feeling; Claire rather liked being included again.
She bent down and peered in through the greasy glass of the oven door, waited another minute, glanced at her watch again and opened it, pulling the top baking tray out and putting it on the stove top.
‘What do you think, Laura? Done?’
Laura leaned over and poked the top of one of the scones.
‘Yeah. Probably.’
Claire pulled the second tray out and began transferring the scones to a wire rack.
‘What will dad say?’ Laura asked suddenly.
‘What about?’
‘Me not wanting to work here.’
‘He’ll be OK about it.’
Claire’s gaze met Laura’s. As usual she tried to second guess what lay behind her daughter’s shuttered eyes, but couldn’t tell. And for a moment she thought Laura was going to tell her something but the next the girl was walking out of the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder.
‘I’m getting the bus into Fowey, mum. I’ll be back for the fête. I’ll see you up there.’
*
Claire was running late as usual. It was already five past two and she was only just leaving the house. The fête officially started at two. Hettie Blake wasn’t going to be impressed.
And Eddie was in his front garden, cutting sweet peas from his wigwam and, having seen her, he was already heading for the fence, a small bouquet in hand. She hadn’t the heart to ignore him. He thrust the flowers at her as she came across to join him.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, smiling. ‘What a lovely scent too. Thank you. But would you mind putting them in some water for me till I get back? I’m already late and I’d hate for them to wilt.’
He grunted and nodded and let his hand drop.
‘I’m going up to the fête,’ she added. ‘I promised some scones for the cake stall. Perhaps I could get you something there. Is there anything you’d particularly like?’
He hesitated with a hint of a guilty smile. ‘Chocolate cake?’
‘OK,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’ll see what they've got.’ She started to move away.
‘I never go,’ he barked. ‘But I saw the posters. That psychic woman’s telling fortunes isn’t she?’
Claire stopped again and turned. ‘So I believe.’ She wasn’t sure if she found the idea of Jane running a fortune-telling booth distasteful or funny.
‘Got a history, that woman y’know.’
She frowned. ‘Jane Sawdy? What do you mean?’
‘My sister told me just the other day. She lives in Bodmin. I was telling her about the fête and the psychic. She said rumour was that that woman got prosecuted for stealing a child.’
A chill ran down Claire’s spine. ‘What?’ she breathed.
‘Ah,’ said Eddie, nodding. ‘Depressed she was, that's what they said. Lost a child herself or somethin’’ He sniffed dismissively. ‘But it didn’t happen in Cornwall.’
He added the last remark as if that made it less important somehow or perhaps more doubtful. He turned away and went back to this sweet peas.
Claire carried on up to the fête, her thoughts running wild.
*
In days gone by, the fête had been held on the little green down by the river. There were black and white photographs of the event, saved for posterity, in a number of old books and periodicals from the nineteen-thirties onwards. But the event had slowly outgrown the relatively small square of green and had moved over the years to two other sites before settling, just three years previously, in a small field adjoining the Craft Yard which had once belonged to Charlie Hitchen and which, now grassed over, t
he Pennymans offered each year for the village’s use. It was unfortunate that it was slightly out of the centre of the village but it did have the advantage that it was relatively flat - something few fields in Bohenna could boast - and was conveniently close to the amenities of the vineyard and Craft Yard, notably their car parks and toilets.
Julia stood behind the Pennyman wine stall, flanked on each side by her brothers, selling plastic beakers of both red and white wine - and even the occasional bottle - to an apparently endless queue of customers. It was a glorious summer’s day and though the event hadn’t been officially opened yet, already the field was thronging with people. Their stall stood on a slight bank half way along the hedge which ran alongside the road and allowed a good view of the event. She disliked selling wine in this way, thinking it didn’t offer it the respect it deserved. ‘It’s a village, Julia,’ her mother had said. ‘We’re part of it. It’s important to do this, show willing.’ ‘It’s good for business,’ her two brothers insisted. She supposed they were right. Maybe she just didn’t like standing here when she thought she could be doing something more useful. And Tim had arranged a pile of those awful teddy bears on one side of the table and they were selling too. He would be insufferable.
Julia’s gaze wandered. She saw Phil weaving slowly through the crowds towards the field entrance to her left. It looked as if he was leaving already though he had promised to help relieve them on the stall later. In the gateway to the field she saw him stop to talk to a woman and a moment later it became clear that it had been Claire. Here she was now, slipping through the crowds, carrying something.
Julia made a point of following her progress. She was heading for the cake stall and proceeded to give them whatever it was she’d been carrying. Julia relaxed a little but still she couldn't stop watching the woman. Claire looked distracted and Julia, constantly suspicious, wondered what she would do next.
Neil had assured his family that the whole advert issue was a thing of the past, that Claire had abandoned any more efforts to trace where that hair slide had come from, that she wasn’t asking questions any more or actively searching for Gilly. He and Claire were ‘having another go’ he’d said; they were ‘getting on really well’; they were ‘very happy together again’. But he hadn’t explained where Claire had found the slide or why it was so significant to her - he hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all - and Julia still felt uneasy, not helped by the fact that, despite his fine words, Neil didn’t look happy. He was edgy. In fact, they all were. Something had yet to be resolved, she knew; it hadn’t gone away.
The queue was growing and Neil nudged her pointedly. Julia picked up a plastic beaker and put on a smile.
‘Red or white?’ she shouted above the noise.
*
Claire walked round the field in a daze. She bought a strip of raffle tickets and a jar of jam. She played the tombola and tried to guess how many Liquorice Allsorts were contained in a very large glass bottle. She bought a couple of potted leggy cosmos from the plant stall and struggled to stop them from falling out of the plastic carrier bag they’d been put in.
Her eyes were continually drawn to the small tent at the side of the field with the bold sign FORTUNE-TELLER outside. There was a queue of people waiting to go in. Claire toyed with joining it and confronting Jane directly. Caution warned her against it and she kept away. Neil was busy on the wine stall, of course, and she could see no sign of Adam. There was no-one to share this new information with. In any case, she had made too many mistakes by rushing headlong into things; she wanted some time to think.
And Laura hadn’t materialised which was starting to concern her. Claire checked her phone again. She had told Laura to ring when she got to the field but there was still no message and no missed call. She pocketed the phone, walked across to the Pennyman stall and joined the queue. Tim smiled and Julia nodded distractedly; Neil served her.
‘Where’s Laura?’ he immediately asked, tipping white wine into a plastic tumbler. ‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘She went to Fowey this morning on the bus. Said she’d meet me up here.’
Neil glanced at his watch, lips compressed.
‘Well,’ he said grudgingly, ‘time yet, I suppose. I told her, you know, that she had to make the effort. After missing mum’s birthday bash…’ He flicked a look along the queue. ‘I’ll try and get away in a bit, darling.’ He was already looking at the next customer. ‘A bottle, sir? Yes, what would you like? We’ve got…’
Claire walked away, clutching her beaker of wine. Yes, Neil was busy. He might plan to leave the stall to join her but, from past experience, she thought that was unlikely to happen. Work still dominated his mind; some things never changed.
She continued her slow tour of the field, exchanging the odd word here and there, looking in on stalls she had so far missed, playing out a part as if, by conforming to the rules of the occasion, all her thoughts would fall into place and line up. She saw Nick Lawer ahead of her at one point, talking to someone, and quickly changed direction rather than bump into him. There was Eve again, standing near the staging, talking to one of the organisers. And at one point Tim passed nearby, taking his break from the stall, walking with an earnest, purposeful step.
She stopped at the book stall, dumped her bags down and worked her way round the square of tables, browsing the paperbacks. She bought a couple, retrieved her bags, and, with still no message from Laura, decided to leave. It was after three now and she was going home to figure out what to do. She paused to send Laura a text and made her way back down the hill.
The house was eerily quiet after the hubbub of the fête. As she walked through the door, a message arrived melodically on her phone. It was from Laura: Missed the bus. See you at home later. Will explain.
Relieved, Claire put the kettle on and unpacked the first bag: runner beans and potatoes, gingerbread and chocolate brownies - the best she could do for Eddie - and the paperbacks. She carefully rolled the other plastic carrier down off the two plants, trying not to snap their shoots and wondering where she could plant them. A piece of paper had settled in among the fronds of one of them and she pulled it out curiously. It looked like a sheet torn from a small notebook and it had writing on it.
If you want to find out more about the hair slide, come ALONE to the church at four thirty. Make sure you’re not seen.
Claire felt her heart thump harder and read it twice. She glanced furtively towards the window as if someone might be watching her, then turned the paper over - there was nothing on the back - and read it again. There was no signature, nothing that indicated who had written it. Did this have something to do with Jane? Could she have slipped through the crowds and left it herself? Or maybe it was just a trick, another twisted joke. But it was the fête day after all, which made sense. Someone might be there who had been there a year ago. The same person who had put the slide to the stall? Perhaps that was just what the writer wanted her to think. There again, could she possibly ignore it? No, of course not - just in case.
She glanced at her watch; twenty-five past three. Plenty of time then. It probably wasn't wise to go alone. But the writer mightn’t show if he thought she had a companion. She couldn’t risk losing the chance of information.
She reboiled the kettle and poured the steaming water over a teabag, still staring at the note. She didn’t recognise the handwriting. She wasn't sure she knew what Jane’s writing was like these days. Mechanically she pressed the teabag into the water for a couple of minutes then extracted it and slopped some milk into the mug, weighing up her options. It would have been good to talk to Neil about it but that was out of the question. He would insist she ignore it and he’d lose his temper. If it was the hoax she suspected, she would have jeopardised their relationship for nothing.
Still she reached for her phone and, on an impulse, rang Adam’s number but he didn’t answer and it cut to the answering service. She waited for the beep.
‘Hi Adam…’ She hesitated. ‘Ne
ver mind. It’s nothing important. I’ll speak to you soon.’
She cut the call. Maybe that wouldn’t have been smart either. She would go alone.
*
The church clock was striking four when Claire closed the front door behind her, its chimes echoing down the valley. Eddie was in his back garden, bending over his rows of strawberry plants, out of sight; she had checked before she left.
The sun was still shining. Wearing a tee shirt, cotton trousers and trainers and holding her phone in her hand, she cut quickly across to the footpath through the woods and followed the zig-zagging track until she reached the river. Glancing up and down the riverside path, she saw no-one and she struck west towards the main bridge. Once there she stood on its arch, nonchalantly looking down into the water while a family she didn’t know came the other way carrying bags and a cuddly squirrel and eating ice-cream, clearly coming away from the fête. When they’d gone by she crossed to the other side and walked quickly, keeping to the narrow lanes and cutting up on another footpath until she reached the churchyard gate.
She paused and surveyed all around. She was early. The sound of the fête loudspeaker drifted across to her from further along the hillside, announcing the winners of the various raffles as the event drew to a close. There was no-one visible anywhere nearby; the fête had drawn most of the village. She pushed the gate open, walked up the path and lifted the heavy iron latch to ease the huge oak door of the church open, then slipped into its chill, dark interior.
It was empty. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sorry. It was a long time since she had been in the church and she hesitated, looking round, feeling the building’s calm, dank embrace. Slowly she walked down the main aisle and through into the Lady Chapel. On the far wall was a small polished brass plaque.