by Cathy Ace
Annie took the phone. ‘Here I am again, what’s up?’
Annie thought Mavis sounded a bit shirty as she said, ‘I will have another check around the house, but, as I just told your Mister Evans, I haven’t seen the items he’s referring to. If I do find what he wants, we’ll be sure to bring it with us, but find out from him what it is he’s after, exactly, and maybe it’ll shed some light on what’s going on. In the meantime, I’m going to take some photographs of everything here, and I’ll wait until Carol can come out and have a go at this computer. I wish there was someone from whom we could gain approval for rooting around in this man’s life. Looking around the house I’d say he hasn’t gone on a planned trip and it’s why I think we can justify Carol’s intervention. Agreed?’
‘Agreed. Talk later.’ Annie ended the call.
‘So?’ asked Tudor, eager for news.
‘Mavis will have a proper look for the items you mentioned, but I should say she’s highly observant, and if she hasn’t seen them so far – unless they are hidden away somewhere – they might not be there.’
‘Well then we’re stuffed,’ said Tudor, looking totally deflated.
‘Come on then, tell me what’s in those cases that’s so important,’ said Annie, intrigued.
‘All our stuff for the Morris. The bells, the sticks, and our staff. It’s what makes the Anwen Morris the Anwen Morris. Without it we’re just a bunch of overweight, middle-aged blokes skipping about the place waving hankies around. It’s our history. Our identity.’
Annie bit her lip. Her personal views about Morris dancing had just been put into words by Tudor, but she knew she had to hide her feelings. She forced her face to look concerned. ‘Sorry, doll. Can’t you just get new ones for Saturday?’ She was trying to be helpful.
Tudor looked at her as though she’d sprouted a second head. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? New? New? That’s the whole point. These artefacts are hundreds of years old. They’ve been handed down through generations of the Morris family to be where they are today. You know I said about the grandfather getting the house out of his older brother when he inherited the Morris farm? Well, he also got the Morris artefacts. The older brother didn’t want anything to do with them, nor the Morris itself. Terrible, when you think about it.’
Annie gathered her thoughts, and realized she might have missed something. ‘Tudor, I’m sorry if I’m being a bit dim, but is it significant that Aubrey’s name is Morris and he owns a lot of stuff you all use for Morris dancing – or is it just a coincidence?’
Tudor nodded and sat down again. ‘Of course. You don’t know. Why would you? How about I top up that coffee, then I can give you the whole background on the Anwen Morris, and the role of the Morris family?’
Annie nodded. As Tudor brought the pot of coffee from behind the bar she checked her watch. ‘What time do you open?’
‘Ten minutes ago,’ he replied glumly, ‘can’t you tell by the hordes beating down the door?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Tell you what, come through and sit up at the bar then I can see if anyone comes in, will you?’
Finally perched in her favorite position, Annie placed her phone on the bar between Tudor and herself and pressed record. It would save her having to make notes for the others.
‘The history of the Morris is lost in the mists of time,’ began Tudor in fulsome tones, ‘some say it began in pre-history and is a relic of pagan rites, which is why I wear a hat covered in greenery – I represent the Green man – others that the word “Morris” is a version of the word “Moorish” and refers to the types of dances that Moors brought to Britain during the thirteenth century. That might also explain the black faces.’ Tudor paused and visibly blushed. ‘Is that offensive to you?’ he asked timidly.
Annie was touched. She gave her response some thought. ‘I can only speak for myself, and I know other people might feel differently, but, first off – and you might not understand what I mean when I say this – I never think of myself as black. I don’t look in the mirror and see a black woman, I see Annie Parker; I’m a person, not a skin color. Growing up in London I was used to seeing people of all colors around me, all the time. I never questioned it. People were different, but the same. The same, but different. No one looked down on anyone. Then, when I worked in the City of London I was surrounded by white men pretty much all the time. They all looked down on me because I was a woman, not so much because I was black; misogynists first, racists second. Shocking, but true. The way of the world. Here? I stick out like a sore thumb. But as much because I’m a cockney as black. I just did a job with our agency in Cardiff, working undercover in a bar, and the main thing I noticed was that people would make comments about my accent behind my back, not about my color. But Cardiff’s had black people for a long time, I s’pose. Big port cities do. Shirley Bassey’s from Tiger Bay in Cardiff, right?’ Tudor nodded. ‘See, what I think is, whatever there is that’s different about you, some people will pick on it. Black, tall, skinny, gangly, fat bum, horrible freckles? Whatever it is that people make fun of reflects on their insecurities, not mine. Mind you, I s’pose I just listed all mine. If I could change one thing about myself it wouldn’t be my skin color, it would be the size of my backside. What about you?’
Tudor smiled. ‘My lips. Mick Jagger can have them back.’
Annie and Tudor shared a thoughtful moment, then Annie said, ‘To answer your question – does a white person blacking up their face for a traditional dance offend me? – all I can do is say it doesn’t offend me, but it might offend someone else. Does every Morris group, or team, or whatever, have a blacked-up person in it? Is it a “thing”?’
Annie judged Tudor was relieved at her response. ‘Not every group does, and quite a few are stopping, because they don’t want to cause offence. But if the dance really is more ancient than the time of the arrival of the Moors, then I believe that the blacking of the face goes back to the simple idea of disguise – that the dancer is hiding their identity to make mischief. Lots of teams, or sides, as we are called, use multicolored face paint these days. It keeps the spirit without the possible racist implications.’
‘So, other than that, what’s all the equipment about?’ prompted Annie, knowing she should make some effort to get back to the office and meet her colleagues at some point during the day.
‘Right. There are different types of Morris dance. It’s a fascinating field, but I’ll stick to us, here, for now. Basically, some dancers use swords – more often than not they are an amended type of sword so they aren’t as potentially lethal – and some use sticks. Others use neither and just have pieces of cloth – the hankies to which I referred. The sticks might be made of anything – wood or metal. The Anwen Morris uses cloth and sticks. We also all wear bells on our legs, and we have the additional piece of a ceremonial staff. Some sides have horse-heads that are paraded about – a hobby horse – and some have a man dressed as a woman – known as the Maid or Mary, or even Marion, which probably derives from the time when Robin Hood’s escapades were told of in Morris dancing. We don’t have a horse or a maid here, just the staff. The Anwen Morris Staff.’
Annie was pleased she was recording Tudor’s voice. It was comforting. She felt as though she was being led up Welsh hills and down into Welsh valleys as his lilt rose and fell.
He continued, ‘You asked if the name was a coincidence. The answer is no. There’s been a Morris family in Anwen since some time during the 1500s. Always been in sheep—’ Tudor grinned wickedly – ‘if you know what I mean. Lot of money in wool back then. Mainstay of the wealth around here. The Twysts, too. It’s why St David’s is so big for a country church – wool money. Started building it in 1490 they did, all on the back of sheep. Come the Reformation, they ran from Rome as quick as they could around here, I gather. Of course, they had to swing back that way when they had no choice under Mary Tudor, but they do say that Elizabeth the First came to Chellingworth specifically to worship at St David’s, where her father had also kne
lt while it was still being built. Anyway, one of the things the Morrises spent their wool money on was silver, and a lot of that silver found its way into the bells we wear. Fifteenth-century silver bells around our knees, and a fifteenth-century silver staff at our head. It’s beautiful. A long wand of white Welsh oak covered in chased silver, with a large glass orb at the top caged in gold. Got a few dings and dents in it – but then it would, it’s very old. And it’s used. Never been precious with it. Always been used by the Anwen Morris. With respect, of course. The cloths we use aren’t old. They are still made of wool, though. And the sticks? Well, they’re a bit special too. Yes, they’re just pieces of wood, but they’re believed to be about five hundred years old, and to have been made from an ancient tree, so, when you hold them, it’s like you’re reaching back through time all the way to, well, maybe even the time of Christ. It’s quite something.’
Annie was struck by the man’s emotional connection to the artefacts he was describing, his broad features softened, his gaze grew wistful. ‘They mean a lot to you,’ she noted.
Tudor nodded. ‘To me and to all of Anwen. The Morrises own them, but they belong to all of us, in a way. Like I said, without them it’s all just jigging about. With them, the dance means so much more.’ Annie noted a change in his expression. He looked uneasy as he added, ‘It would all feel a bit like a pantomime without the proper kit. Oh heck, I’d better get on the phone. No. No, I’ll wait till I’m certain.’ Tudor looked horrified as a thought occurred to him. ‘If we don’t have the kit, and we don’t have a musician, then maybe I should just phone the duke and say we can’t dance at all. But that would break with tradition.’
Annie felt the man’s genuine anguish. ‘Tell you what, doll. You stop panicking, and I’ll phone Mave and see if she’s found anything over at Aubrey’s house, alright? And how about another coffee?’
As Tudor Evans scuttled around behind the bar, Annie wandered back into the snug and pulled out her phone. If the items Tudor had described weren’t at Aubrey Morris’s house, she wondered where they might be. As she pushed the button to speed-dial Mavis’s number she also began to wonder how much such items might be worth.
SEVEN
Christine Wilson-Smythe’s day had flown by. After she’d left the office on the Chellingworth Estate she’d spent a few hours on the M4, then an hour or so at her flat in Battersea before she’d headed off toward her parents’ home in Knightsbridge. She’d checked in with Alexander as she’d driven up to London. She knew it was a big night for the both of them; introducing the man she’d allowed into her life during the past few months to her mother and father was something she’d been ruminating on for a few weeks. The sad death of her nanny, and the event organized to remember her, had provided the perfect opportunity for a social interaction that would not allow for an overt examination of Alexander, or of her relationship with him, by either of her parents.
Nonetheless, Christine was more than a little apprehensive; every other escort she’d introduced to her parents over the years had been someone they’d either known personally, or they’d known one of his family members, or at least an acquaintance of his. They’d always had a reference point. Alexander was a complete outsider. Indeed, only he and she understood the distance he had traveled, in the social sense, to arrive at the place he currently occupied in the world. Alexander had insisted upon telling Christine everything about his early life as a courier for the South London underworld, and she’d listened, silently judged, enjoyed a jolly good bellow at him, then had reassessed his early-life situation, and had begun to work toward forgiving him. She hadn’t quite reached her destination, but she was still content to be on the journey. She truly believed Alexander’s business and philanthropic endeavors were now in synch, and both working toward one end: doing much more good in the world than his early nefarious deeds had done bad.
That admitted, Christine was no innocent about Alexander’s difficult position; if he were ever to be recognized for his other, young self, and brought to justice for his deeds – none of which were truly clear to him, except for the fact that he had been aware he was transporting unknown items around South London for some incredibly shady characters – then he could face … what? Prison? Possibly.
Christine took advantage of her residents’ parking permit to be able to leave her car near her parents’ house in Knightsbridge, and she walked the damp and busy streets until she came to the restaurant where Nanny Mullins had enjoyed bringing her for any and every meal possible. As a small child she’d wondered why the woman had chosen this place, of all the possible restaurants in London. She recalled Nanny had said it was because she liked consistency, and now, entering its doors for the first time in twenty years, Christine knew what Nanny had meant. L’horloge hadn’t changed a bit. The maître d’ was still Michel – a little grayer but the same light-footed, smiling gentleman who had seated her when she was seven; the barman was still Stephane, tall with grizzled hair, now white. A waitress she remembered as young and lithe was now round and flat-footed, but she still smiled and even winked at Christine when she entered.
‘Ah, the little miss with a pony,’ she said with a nod. ‘Still out-riding all the boys in the holidays? Making them pay for betting that a girl couldn’t ride faster than them?’
Christine had forgotten how she’d loved to talk about her horse-riding escapades with the boys on her family’s estate in Ireland. How she’d enjoyed those devil-may-care school holidays when she could throw off her uniform and run barefoot with the locals. As she grinned at the remembrances, she caught her father’s eyes across the room, and she felt her face smooth into a polite, welcoming expression. How her father had chided her for her wild ways. Would he do the same about Alexander?
Raising her hand in greeting, Christine picked up a glass of champagne from the bar as she made her way toward her father and mother. The restaurant was hosting about twenty people who were milling about in an area cleared of tables. Christine didn’t recognize anyone as she weaved politely between bodies; she assumed they were all people who had also benefitted from Nanny Mullins’ care and protection.
‘Mother, how lovely to see you,’ said Christine as she tapped her mother on the shoulder. A head shorter than her daughter, the viscountess looked barely old enough to have a twenty-seven-year-old daughter, let alone the thirty-two-year-old son who was too busy to attend the event. Warm kisses with her mother, followed by a hug with her father, allowed Christine to gain some sense of normality. She was on edge; Alexander was late. She glanced as surreptitiously as possible toward the entrance, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She knew she wouldn’t miss him; he’d be about a head taller than anyone else there, and the only person not completely and blindingly white.
Suddenly, and shockingly, he was beside her, handing a glass to her mother, then one to her father. Christine beamed up at him. He looked delightful in his dark suit, crisp white shirt and that subtly stunning tie they’d picked out together. She decided to dive right in, her heart thumping in her chest as she spoke.
‘I see you’ve already met. Good. Mummy, Daddy, this is Alexander. Alexander, my parents.’ She knew she was grinning madly, but she didn’t care.
Christine was immediately aware that something was terribly wrong; the expressions on her parents’ faces were singularly peculiar. They both looked horrified, and they had frozen on the spot. Her mother was visibly blushing, and she was rolling her eyes at Christine’s father like a madwoman; her father was adopting the sheepish look he had when he was about to stammer something unutterably stupid – which, for a very bright man, he did with alarming regularity. Alexander was looking cool, calm and confident, as he always did. Yes, his height meant he was literally looking down on her parents, but that was beyond his control. He was extending his hand toward her father in a welcoming manner. So what on earth was going on? Christine couldn’t fathom the dynamic at all.
Unable to stand it any longer she looked at her father and said, ‘What?
’ rather abruptly.
‘Mr Bright? A pleasure to meet you,’ spluttered her father at last, shaking Alexander’s hand. ‘Christine told us we’d be meeting you here, but we didn’t realize you were … you.’
‘Well who did you think he was?’ butted in Christine with disbelief. ‘If he was bringing you a drink … oh my gracious me, Daddy. You didn’t think he was a waiter, did you?’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Alexander,’ said her mother weakly. ‘Terrible faux pas. Probably best if we don’t mention it again.’
One look told Christine that Alexander found the whole situation rather amusing. At least she hoped she was reading his reactions correctly.
‘Never again, Lady Ballinclare,’ said Alexander quietly, his deep voice reassuring.
‘It’s Fiona, please, and Aiden, of course.’
Alexander nodded at Christine’s mother and father then added, ‘I’m just going to get a glass for myself. May I freshen yours?’ His eyes twinkled as they caught Christine’s.
Christine nodded, threw the entire contents of her glass down her throat and handed it to Alexander. ‘If ever I needed another, now would be the time. Thanks.’ Alone with her parents she glowered at them. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’ she whispered angrily.
‘Christine, don’t be so quick to judge,’ snapped her father. ‘We’re in unusual surroundings, sharing a space with people we don’t know, and a stranger asked us if he could bring us a drink. What was one to think?’
‘You knew I’d invited Alexander, and I know I told you what he looked like. Tall, dark, latte skin, scar on his forehead, well dressed. What more did you need? That he’d written his name on a big label on his chest?’
‘Please don’t speak to your father like that, Christine. Your beau could have introduced himself to us,’ whispered her mother.
‘Mummy, it’s not 1922. He’s not my “beau” and you could have done the same, you know. Good gracious me.’ Christine shook her head in disbelief as Alexander rejoined the little group, glasses in hand and a wicked grin on his face. Christine suspected he was thoroughly enjoying her parents’ discomfort.