Your Turn to Die

by Sue Wallman

  “Did you ever meet Rose?” asks Tatum.

  Margery says, “Yes. I knew her a bit. I was at school with Alice and I visited her parents’ home once or twice, so I met little Rose then. I also saw her a few times when she was staying at Roeshot House. Rose was a lively girl. Not one for sitting still. She loved being outdoors and wildlife. She wasn’t very conventional. I remember her telling me once how she was never going to get married like her sister. Most of us were quite keen to get married in those days. It was the done thing. I married in my thirties, which was considered very late.”

  “How did Rose and Alice get on?” I ask.

  Margery sighs. “She was extremely fond of her sister,” she says. “That’s one of the reasons I find all this so difficult to understand. Alice’s father died when Rose was little, and their mother could be very domineering. Alice was protective of Rose, a very responsible sort of person. She sometimes found her sister a little high-spirited, but I thought they got on very well. One of Rose’s favourite things was to play croquet. She used to beg everyone who visited to play and I can picture her now, having a game with Alice and Doug and whoever else might be around.”

  “Do you think Rose took her own life?” asks Tatum.

  Margery frowns. “I wouldn’t like to speculate,” she says.

  There’s a pause. Did Tatum go too far?

  “What was Doug like?” asks Tatum. “Was he fun, or serious?”

  Margery leans back on her chair. “Oh, he was very serious.” That’s all she appears to want to say about Doug.

  I can see Tatum dying to ask more, but Margery says, “So, tell me, what ideas have you had about the memorial?”

  We shift uncomfortably. “That’s why we wanted to ask you,” says Evan. “We hadn’t got further than something like a bench.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t do at all,” says Margery. “No, I think you need something fun for Rose.”

  “Like a croquet set,” says Ivy.

  Margery’s eyes widen. “What a splendid idea. I would be quite willing to fund a croquet set for Roeshot House if your father got the lawn in good order, Evan. A croquet lawn should be well maintained and cut to the required length. I can look up the rules.”

  We look at each other. “I’ll speak to Dad,” says Evan, and I love that he’s willing to risk angering his dad because we wanted to find out more about Alice and Rose. “I’d like to make a bird box too,” he adds, and I realize he feels a connection to Rose, and I like that too.

  “That’s a lovely idea,” says Margery. She’s smiling and animated – and that must be why Tatum risks the next question:

  “Did you ever suspect Alice was hiding something from you? It was a big secret for her to have kept.”

  Margery says, “If you want to put your cup down, please would you put it on that coaster, not directly on the table.”

  “Sorry,” says Tatum.

  “I never thought Alice was hiding anything of that magnitude, but she did have a breakdown of sorts about a year after John was born. I thought it was because Rose had run away after an unhappy love affair in Switzerland. That’s what we were all told. Doug died when John was very young but, in many ways that made life easier for Alice.”

  “What d’you mean?” I ask.

  She looks embarrassed. “I’ve no wish to gossip.”

  “Didn’t she get on with Doug?” asks Tatum.

  “He was a demanding man,” says Margery. “I always felt Alice rushed into marriage with him to escape her mother.” She slaps her hands down on her lap with finality and says, “I’ve forgotten to bring through the digestive biscuits.”

  She disappears into the kitchen and Tatum pans her phone camera round the room, until Evan puts his hand in front of it, and the three of us growl at her to put it away. I look out of the patio doors, at the dad and the boy playing football. The sight stabs me with sadness. I think about the times Dad used to take me to my dance classes. How occasionally when he thought he or I needed cheering up, or there was something to celebrate, we’d take the extra-long route so we could go to the drive-through McDonald’s for a McFlurry.

  I look at Ivy next to me, who’s repositioning a velvety cushion behind her back. I shouldn’t let myself feel so sad about Dad when the truth is I can still see him, if I make the effort.

  “Was that your phone?” Ivy asks, nodding towards my pocket.

  It’s a text message from Mum, who’s been in touch with Elaine. I relay the message: “Jakob’s had an operation to pin his leg, but he needs another one on his arm tomorrow.”

  “Ouch,” says Evan.

  “He won’t be able to take his violin exam now,” I say.

  “Result!” says Tatum, laughing.

  I shake my head, feeling my face flush with anger. “You don’t understand. Yes, he moaned about his violin practice but he always did it. He secretly loved it. You heard him through his bedroom door. He was really good. He’ll be gutted.”

  Margery comes back with a plate of biscuits and says, “What’s this?” in a sharp voice, and I tell her about Jakob falling down the stairs.

  “He played the violin,” adds Tatum, unhelpfully.

  “How dreadful. I’d have loved to have heard him play.” She commands us to take a digestive and not drop crumbs on the carpet. “Such a pity you didn’t continue with lessons, Evan.”

  Evan squirms. “I wasn’t any good. I remember you playing a piece to us with loads of twiddly bits, though, that started off slow and then became faster and faster. We all loved that.”

  “Really?” says Margery. “You remember that? Well, I never. I still play that piece to keep my fingers moving.”

  “Can I hear it again?” asks Evan.

  Margery hesitates, but not for long. “I’d be delighted,” she says.

  From a shiny case, Margery picks up the bow and tightens, then lifts a golden-coloured violin and tunes it, the noise far from tuneful. There’s a moment’s silence before Margery moves her upper body decisively, and starts with a long mournful note. The pace picks up little by little and before long the twiddly notes that Evan mentioned come in, and Margery’s fingers move faster and faster.

  I look around the room, and imagine I can feel Alice’s presence here, late in her life, visiting a friend but burdened with regret. I wish I could feel Rose’s lively presence and understand her more. Of course, she’d never have been here. This flat wouldn’t have been built in the fifties. The violin piece twists and twirls, becoming ever more frantic, and I look out of the patio doors. The dad and the boy have disappeared, but something else catches my eye. To the left hand side of the doors, I see the stone dragon statue from the photo in the book of gardens that we found in the attic.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “The dragon,” I say, when Margery has played the final chord with a flourish, and we’ve applauded loudly. “Please, could I have a look at it?”

  “What?” mouths Tatum, but as she goes over to see what I’m looking at she recognizes it too. “That was in the photo of Rose, outside the conservatory!”

  “Alice gave it to me when she went to live at Silverways. I’d always admired it,” says Margery. She seems more comfortable with us now she’s played her violin.

  The dragon has a chipped wing but he’s still fierce-looking. “Alice’s grandfather bought it for her in China,” says Margery, patting the dragon’s rough stone head. “It was supposed to bring luck. Doug thought it was ugly, so it wasn’t allowed at the front of the house.”

  “I think he’s gorgeous,” I say, and bend down to look the dragon in the eye. How much luck did he bring Alice? “How could Doug not like him?”

  Margery says, “The house was his before he and Alice married, and he had it how he wanted, I suppose. The garden was Alice’s domain, though. It was very overgrown when she married him, and she transformed it. Come back inside and wipe your feet on the mat. I have some old photos of the garden, if you’d like to see them.”

  “Yes, please,” says Tat
um. As Margery goes into the flat first, Tatum whispers, “Let me handle this.”

  There’s a piece of wooden furniture in the corner of the room. Margery pulls out two wooden struts at each side, and brings down the sloped lid to rest on them to make a desk. She opens a small drawer at the back of the desk and lifts out a small pile of photos. “I’ve taken these out of some old photo albums I had, and I’m going to send them to Alice’s son, John. I think he’d like them.” She sifts through them and finds the dullest black-and-white photo of a garden I’ve ever seen, far worse than the one of daffodils in the book in the attic.

  We agree with Margery that the garden was indeed lovely. There are a couple more shots of the garden but quite a few photos still in Margery’s hand.

  “We’d love to see any more photos,” says Tatum. At least her phone is safely in her pocket.

  Margery fans out the photos like a pack of cards and says, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm.” She selects one from the pack. “This was Alice before she met Doug, when she was at secretarial college.” We gaze at a young, smiling woman with dark hair pulled up from her forehead so it sticks up slightly before rolling back.

  “She looks happy,” I say and Tatum shakes her head at me as if I’ve said something lame.

  “Ah, she had long hair then,” says Tatum. She turns to us to check we’ve caught the link to Poppy’s ghost.

  “That was a really happy stage of her life,” says Margery, more to herself than us. She hands round the other photos. There’s one of Alice with a cross-looking toddler in her arms. “John was actually a sweet boy,” says Margery. “When Alice asked me to be his legal guardian if anything ever happened to her and Doug, I was touched. I don’t see much of him now he lives in America, but I’m very fond of him. And proud; he’s a talented musician.”

  Margery stares at the next photo for a couple of seconds, then says, “This is Alice and Doug on their wedding day on the lawn at Roeshot House. They had their reception there.”

  I look over Ivy’s shoulder as she holds the photo. Alice looks young and smiley. Doug is a fair bit older and good-looking. They make a handsome couple.

  “What did Doug die from?” asks Tatum.

  “A heart attack, nothing suspicious,” says Margery sharply.

  I look at Ivy, to check she’s OK at the mention of a heart attack. She clenches her eyes shut for a brief moment. I place my arm round her shoulder and give her a gentle sideways hug.

  “This,” continues Margery, “is Rose, with Alice and their mother on the lawn at Roeshot House.”

  We crowd round to glimpse Rose. She’s a bridesmaid, wearing the sort of dress I’m planning for my school prom, tightly fitted then flared at the waist. Her dark hair is loose with white flowers attached on one side. She’s laughing and the resemblance between the sisters is obvious but Rose is more carefree and, in this picture at least, beautiful. Alice is smiling more formally, posing for the camera, unaware Rose is standing side-on, holding her bouquet like a rounders or baseball bat. Their mother stands upright in a stiff-looking heavy coat and a puffy hat, a handbag in the crook of her elbow. There’s no mistaking the smugness in her expression.

  Margery gazes at the photo. “Alice was a decent person and a loyal friend. I just can’t reconcile her with the person who withheld information about her sister’s death and led me to believe Rose was living in Switzerland. She must have had her reasons.” She gathers up the photos and says, “I’m feeling a bit tired now. Let me know, Evan, what you decide to do in memory of Rose.”

  After we’ve left the flat, Tatum wants to sneak round into the communal gardens to film the dragon statue.

  “I can’t believe you filmed in her house when she told you she didn’t want you to,” I say.

  “Calm down,” she says. “This documentary’s for my showreel. Margery will never see it.”

  “It’ll be embarrassing for Evan if Margery sees you out of her patio windows,” says Ivy.

  Tatum compromises by filming the dragon from a point where we’re certain Margery won’t be able to see her, then Evan agrees to film Tatum walking from the entrance to the flats to the pavement, as she describes the photos which she wasn’t able to film. He has to do three takes because the first time she goes out of focus and the second time she stumbles over a stone. She has to check her nose isn’t too red from the cold before she’s satisfied with what he’s recorded.

  “It’s snowing where Mum and Steve are,” I say. “They can’t get back until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Snow here would be a challenge for my lighting, but it would add texture to the shots,” says Tatum.

  “Texture?” asks Evan, but Tatum ignores him.

  We walk on to the Holiday Village for a quick milkshake in the clubhouse, search online for information about Doug Billings, and check if we’ve missed anything about Alice and Rose. There are a couple more articles about the discovery of Rose’s body, both saying that the autopsy report still hasn’t been released, and nothing about Doug apart from facts we already know: he was a solicitor, he was five years older than her and died in 1961, only three years after Rose.

  “Doug didn’t sound very nice,” I say. “I felt sorry for Alice. Margery made it pretty clear that she rushed into the marriage.”

  “My money’s on Doug and Alice murdering Rose,” says Tatum. I realize she’s filming. “All I need is the motive. Let’s discuss what it might be.”

  I shake my head. I’m not playing along with her. The other two copy me. Tatum presses the red button. “But this documentary is shaping up so well,” she whines.

  “You’re not including us – not in the right way,” I say. “You’re just using us.”

  Tatum snaps, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. The key to a good investigative documentary is in the editing. I need loads of material to begin with so I have to film as much as I can. And it needs to be exciting, otherwise who cares? I’m not apologizing for being passionate about this project.”

  “You never know, the documentary might hit on something,” says Evan. “The police are never going to be able to spend much time on a murder that happened so long ago, are they? Stretched resources and all that.”

  “Exactly,” says Tatum, pointing at him as if he’s her star student.

  “Even less time if they think it’s a suicide,” says Ivy.

  “Uh-huh,” says Tatum.

  “But you’re…” I don’t know how to explain my misgivings. How I suspect she might have bumped into Ivy on purpose so that Ivy would knock Jakob down the stairs, just to make the prediction about a twist of fate come true. I’m starting to really think she would manipulate anything to get it on film.

  “I’m interviewing Poppy this afternoon,” says Tatum. “It’s all set up. Poppy’s agreed.”

  Ivy and I look at each other.

  “I’m going to be there,” says Ivy.

  “Of course,” says Tatum.

  Ivy looks at the huge clock on the wall above the reception desk. “We’d better go back for lunch. If Mum’s not feeling her best, I’ll have to make sure Poppy eats something.”

  “You want to walk back via Alice’s bungalow that she lived in before going into Silverways?” asks Evan.

  “Evan!” screeches Tatum. “Why didn’t you mention that earlier? Yes, I absolutely want to film the bungalow.”

  “Don’t bother knocking on the door, though,” says Evan. “There won’t be anyone there. The couple who live there spend the winter in Spain.”

  “Who needs Neighbourhood Watch with you around?” says Tatum with a wink.

  The bungalow isn’t on the way back to Roeshot House. We have to do a massive detour, but it’s worth it because I’d never have guessed Alice would be happy to live somewhere so different to Roeshot House. It’s small, neat and dull, on a cul-de-sac. Tatum films it for a couple of minutes, then says she wants to see the back garden, but the rest of us tell her we should be heading back and she can’t climb over the fence
or the side gate.

  She takes no notice. “It’s open,” she shouts, trying the side gate. “I won’t be long.”

  “Typical,” says Ivy. She looks at her phone. “Mum and Poppy will be wondering where we are.”

  “You could go back and tell them we’re on our way?” I suggest. I feel a lightness in my body, a sudden hopefulness that if Ivy goes and I stay, Evan and I will have a few minutes alone, depending how long Tatum takes in the back garden. “With everything that’s gone on and Jakob in hospital, I’m sure they’ll be worried. I’ll wait for Tatum,” I say, sitting on the low brick wall in front of the bungalow.

  Ivy nods. I bet she knows what’s just gone through my head. “All right. If Mum asks, I’ll tell her we were with Evan’s friends this morning.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I give her the Amigo salute, only partly as a joke.

  Evan sits next to me, leaving a gap between us. It’s quite a small gap.

  “I hope nobody calls the police to say we’re hanging around, or sees Tatum in the back garden,” I say.

  “Hmm,” he says. “Let’s hope not.” He shifts closer and I can feel the heat of his body against me, although he’s not quite touching me.

  This is Pinhurst, where – despite a disturbing few days – good things happen. I feel brave enough to say, “I loved the Holiday Village disco.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?” says Evan.

  It’s quiet. No cars, nobody in sight. We can’t hear Tatum. I move my hand until it brushes against his, and then our hands are latched together and my thumb is stroking his skin. I have the sensation of parts of my body being on different speed settings, some slowed down, others speeded up. We swivel towards each other and make eye contact. Awkward, wonderful eye contact. He brings one hand up. It’s an exquisite kind of agony waiting for it to touch the back of my neck, and a new kind of pleasure as he moves it up further into my hair.