by Sally Bayley
But something got in the way, and that morning Mum found herself, like Jane Eyre, stranded at the altar. As the minister asked does anyone here, there came a piercing scream. Heads turned. At the back of the church a dark-haired woman was screaming ‘No! No! No!’ Mum dropped her roses and ran. The Woman Upstairs was at the back of the church, screaming.
When someone starts to scream, things move fast. Frilly pink shoes scuttle. Faces turn towards the church door and back again. The man at the altar hangs his head. His arms go limp.
Paper rustles. Handbags open looking for sweets and tissues. The man at the altar sits down on the stone floor and begins to weep.
Outside the church Mum clings to her roses, but a head of dark hair pushes her into a car. Mum grips the roses tighter; their petals flutter to the ground. Dark hair climbs in beside her and fills the rear window; the car pulls away. The man on the stone floor lies face-down and weeps.
The seagulls screamed especially loud that day, so the story goes.
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But then one day he was there again, coming through the back door, the man with no hair and a strange accent. It was 14 February, Valentine’s Day, and the man Mum called Laurie had come to take her out.
‘The children are coming along too, Laurie. I’m not playing silly games. None of us needs to be wined and dined, we just need to know what you’re up to. You’ve been away for nearly two years. Two years is a long time. For a child, it’s an eternity. And now you whisk in here and you want to go out for dinner. Do you know what we eat most nights? Cheese on toast, or nothing at all!’
The row went on for a while. I pressed my ear to the door and I heard Mum huffing and puffing like an angry wolf and behind the door I could see her face steaming red and the man with no hair pacing up and down. By the time they came out it was dark and we were getting dressed to go out to the Beach Hotel.
‘Sally, put on your dress with the green collar and velvet hem. I don’t want you looking like a ragamuffin. Peter, tuck your shirt in, for goodness’ sake! Right, coats on, and do them up! We’re going to a nice hotel. I want you to look your best. Paul, go and wash your face. You’ve got a nasty black streak on your chin.’
The Beach Hotel was on the other side of the main road behind a long stone wall; around the front and sides grew dark elm trees and pines. ‘Tall lords and ladies,’ said Maze, who knew all her trees.
I thought of Betsey Trotwood. She wouldn’t have been happy with the name ‘Beach Hotel’. It was too far from the beach to call it that. No, Betsey Trotwood would have sent a cross note to the manager to let him know that if he had any sort of sensible ideas in his head he would have called the hotel Pine Tree Lodge or The Elms.
‘If you had any practical ideas of life, sir, you would know that you don’t call a thing what it is not. If you are expecting a boy you don’t call him Emily. If you are, however, you might call him David. When you are on more certain terms, you might call him Davy, but only after a lot of fuss and hullaballoo. In the name of Heaven! There’ll only be cause for disturbance, and much complaint.’
And then I thought of Miss Marple. She would have been cross about the lack of a sea view.
‘Well really, Dolly. I do call this a bit much, don’t you? I can’t see beyond that dirty streetlamp, let alone the beach.’ Miss Marple looked at her companion who wasn’t paying any attention at all, only pulling at the curtains. ‘Can you see anything, Dolly dear? And did you bring your binoculars?’
‘Of course I did, Jane. Stop fussing. Here, let me have a look. If I can’t see anything through these then I’m going to insist that we are moved. This is distinctly not a sea view! Now Jane, move that chair. I want to get closer to the window. And be a dear and tuck those curtains away for a moment. I need to get a proper look. Shabby … I call this quite shabby.’
Dolly lifted her leg firmly onto the chair by the window. The chair wobbled. ‘Jane, will you give me a lift up? Come on dear, like we used to at school … Hand over thumb and up … now … lift-off! Mind my nylons!’
But the Beach Hotel had always been hidden from the sea, behind a lovely sea wall, Mum said, Sussex flint. The Beach Hotel was surrounded by Sussex and hidden by stone. I’d never seen the hotel from the front, and I would never have dared go up the wide stone steps, or through the glass doors, if Mum hadn’t been pushing me hard from behind.
‘Mum!’
I felt her handbag digging into my back. ‘Go on! In you go. Straight ahead, down the hall.’
But the hall was dark, and except for a few peach lampshades stuck to the wall, I couldn’t see anything. I stopped and looked and blinked. ‘Go on!’ Mum said from behind. ‘Hurry up! We haven’t got all day!’
A man with dark skin appeared from the peach light; he smiled and white teeth split through his brown skin. I jumped back, but Mum tut-tutted and pushed me forward towards a round table with a white candle sitting in a circle of plastic flowers. Christmas decorations, I thought, but it isn’t Christmas. I looked around. There was no one here but us.
‘There’s no one here but us! Where is everyone? This is too weird.’
‘Sit down, young lady, and do as you’re told. Remember your manners. No one wants to hear your booming voice. We’re in a restaurant, and this is a hotel. Now shh!’
I climbed onto a plastic chair and yelped. The plastic was cold and the legs squeaked. Peter and Paul grinned and sank slowly down the backs of their chairs. Michael clung to Mum’s hand.
‘Shh!’ Mum said, frowning. ‘And sit up straight. Stop slouching, for goodness’ sake!’
I could see the lines on her face in the candlelight. Dad was sitting opposite, scratching his head and looking nervous. Mum was about to launch into one of her speeches again. He put his hands on the table and turned them over and over.
‘Well, Laurie, what are you planning to do? The children need new clothes … Peter’s shooting up like a beanpole … I don’t have enough on the child benefit.’
Talk of benefits was a bad sign, and Mum’s face was steaming up.
‘I get £68 a week, Laurie, for everything. Michael is starting school this September. He’ll need a uniform.’
‘I can’t go back to the Zachary Merton, Angela, not after Saudi. I didn’t qualify.’
‘Well, we can’t go on like this, Laurie, can we?’
When Mum started her ‘can we’s I knew there was trouble. Her face went white as a ghost and her lips thin. Dad stared out across the table, into blank space. He was beginning to regret the whole thing.
‘Can I take your order?’ The man with brown skin was standing with a notepad and grinning again.
‘What would you like to order, dear?’ Dad looked at Mum.
‘Dear, is it? Well … we’d like grapefruit for starters and then the chicken for the main. The children can eat grapefruit and bread and butter.’
‘Perhaps some hot soup, madam?’
‘Soup is for convalescents and old people. The children will do fine with the starter. Thank you.’
Maze sometimes ate grapefruit in the mornings, sprinkled with brown sugar. No one ate grapefruit at night.
‘Grapefruit? For dinner?’
‘Shh! You’ll do what you’re told. It’s a special treat.’
The grinning man came back with a white napkin thrown over his shoulder.
‘Fresh grapefruit from the morning market.’
‘I don’t suppose that is true,’ said Mum with her thin lips on. ‘But never mind, grapefruit is grapefruit. It’s very refreshing.’
‘You can’t get grapefruit in Saudi, Angela.’
‘What a shame, Laurie. Worth coming back for, then!’
I stuck my spoon in and the grapefruit jumped. It flipped across the table and smacked my brother Michael in the face.
‘Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhh! It’s freezing … it’s freezing cold.’
‘Pack it in! Pack it in all of you. That noise is disgraceful! This is a special treat, coming out lik
e this. I think you need to go home right away. You don’t have the manners for sitting out in a restaurant. I’m ashamed of you. You’re behaving like animals! Laurie and I are talking!’
‘No you’re not.’ Peter was in a bad mood now. ‘You’re not talking at all.’
‘Right, I think it’s time you all went home. Peter, take yourself home … take all of them home. Sally, you too. Hold Michael’s hand across the road. Get yourselves into your pyjamas and straight into bed.’
‘Can we make some toasted cheese?’
‘No! Straight to bed. All of you!’
‘We can’t eat the grapefruit. It’s frozen, and it’s too cold to eat. Who eats grapefruit at night?’ Peter slammed his spoon down on the table.
‘Right! Off, now! All of you!’
So we left our freezing-cold grapefruit behind and crossed the main road in the dark.
The next morning Mum told us that Dad had gone back to Saudi Arabia to find money.
16
A Murder is Announced
People kill for money, even genteel ladies. Mum would say it’s the devil in her, but once you start, you can’t stop. Murder is a runaway train.
Genteel ladies are usually kind. Letitia Blacklock in A Murder is Announced is kind to her old friend Dora Bunner, but Letitia Blacklock doesn’t quite trust Bunny, because Bunny has a way of letting things slip.
Poor Bunny! The trouble is that she can only remember Letitia Blacklock as Lotty, her school friend Charlotte Blacklock. Once upon a time they held hands and walked around the village together. They were inseparable. ‘Just like an old couple,’ said Mrs Blount, the postmistress. ‘Inseparable … when they grow up they’ll probably marry!’ So, no matter how hard she tries, Bunny can’t erase Lotty Blacklock.
But she must try harder! Lotty is now Letty: Letty Blacklock, Letitia Blacklock, the woman who will inherit her father’s estate, the woman who has no huge goitre (lump) on her neck; the woman who doesn’t have to wear a large pearl necklace in order to hide her ugly past, her ruined future.
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Sometimes it’s easier to announce a murder in a newspaper; that way you can put people off the scent and turn it into a game. Then the whole village begins to play.
In Chipping Cleghorn, where Letitia Blacklock lives, everyone knows it’s Johnnie Butt who delivers the papers. Every morning, except Sunday, Johnnie pushes a copy of the Telegraph, The Times, the Daily Mail and the local Gazette through the front door of Little Paddocks, where Letitia Blacklock and her old friend Dora Bunner are having breakfast with Miss Blacklock’s naughty nephew and niece, Patrick and Julia. In Chipping Cleghorn, people read the Gazette mainly for the announcements; they read them because it is the quickest way to learn something about the contents of their neighbours’ houses, their habits and routines, their obsessions.
That morning, the morning of 29 October (1949, let’s say), Dora Bunner suddenly spies, among the offers of used Morris Minors and old Daimlers, garden equipment and pleas for a better maid, an announcement of murder. Lotty look, look, look at this!
A murder is announced and will take place on Friday,
October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6.30 p.m.
Friends please accept this, the only intimation.
(A Murder is Announced)
‘Well, blow me down!’ my aunt screeched one afternoon. ‘Listen to this, Ange: “We can do business together”: Margaret Thatcher strikes business deal with Mikhail Gorbachev. Dressed like that she certainly can. That’s a smart woman – she knows what she’s doing, facing Russia in red and gold. Ange, look at this. Thatcher dressed like a tin soldier!’
Mum glanced up from her coffee. She looked weary and pale.
‘“It’s a deal!” she says. She’s a good businesswoman, Thatcher. Listen to this, Ange: “I like Mr Gorbachev.” Well, perhaps not “like” … she needs to be careful with her terms of affection, Ange. You don’t want to emphasise that point too hard. Not with the Russians. They have dark souls. You can’t really like a Russian, Ange, can you? No, I don’t think “like” is quite what she means. What she means is perestroika!’
My aunt pronounced the word and it sounded like a firework going off. We jumped.
‘Perestroika! Do you know what that is, Ange?’
Mum blinked. ‘Remind me, Dice. I’ve written it down somewhere, but I can’t quite recall. I get all those Russian words muddled. ‘Perestroika … Lebensraum. What’s the other one … glas-y-nost?’
‘Openness!’ My aunt grinned. ‘She’s going to open up Russia to itself. Throw open the doors, make things transparent, brush away the cobwebs, force them out of their corrupt and seedy ways. Russia is steeped in corruption. Those Communists muttering in dark corners … the secret police, plots, plots, plots. Remove the taint of Stalin, the mass murderer. Exorcise a few demons. It’s about time too that Russia got to grips with its murky past.’
‘But which is which, Dice? Which is for Russia, and which for Germany? I can’t remember. Which words are for which place? I’m in a muddle … I can never quite remember … they move about so much.’
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The newspaper was a serious business in my house. After reading it out loud in her reading voice, my aunt sat on her bed with her legs folded and cut out the most important articles, then stuck them carefully in her scrapbook. With a blue ballpoint pen she scrawled dates over the top of the headlines. March 1979, February 1980, January 1981, winter 1983, spring 1984. Arthur Scargill in busted anorak; Michael Heseltine has his hair done; trade unions set to ruin the nation; Thatcher tells naughty boys to stop messing about; Arthur Scargill on blowy hillside in Barnsley; Nigel Lawson turns us all posh; Denis Thatcher: handbag holder; Morning Margaret tells Denis to put the toast on; Denis holds her handbag wrong; Wet, wet and wetter; Thatcher: holding out for a hero.
Snip, snip, snip, her scissors went through the paper. Soon the newspaper was a mass of oblongs and squares. With a quick dab of glue she pressed the oblongs and squares tightly between her blue and purple pages. Snap! And the drawbridge went down, the page turned over, the lid was closed, and all the documents of the newspaper world were stored away inside my aunt’s paper castle.
When one book was filled she sent us to the newsagent’s to get another.
‘It must be blue and purple,’ she announced loudly. ‘Blue and purple … the colours of the papacy and the monarchy. If you’re going to keep documents, you need to give them a proper home! Now off you go, I’m a day behind as it is!’
After a while, her scrapbooks became too fat to slip beneath her bed. Then she called for one of us. ‘Hey, one of you, come here now! I need some help with my scrapbook. Get under the bed and push it towards me. I need to look something up … No, that side, that side. You can’t get at it from there, for goodness’ sake!’
And so one of us crawled around the side of her dusty bed through cigarette ash and bits of old tissue to push her bulging book from behind.
‘Careful! I don’t want anything torn! There’s important history in there … history in the making! Keep your dirty little hands out of there!’
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It was at London University in the 1960s that my aunt learned to document. This is what she told Mum anyway; Mum, who believed everything she said.
‘Everything happened in the sixties, Ange. Everything. If you weren’t in London in the sixties you missed one of the great moments in World History.’
‘But I wasn’t there, Dice. I was here in Sussex. I was taking my art class.’
‘Well, never mind. The point is that one of us was. I was there and I can tell you all about it now. But you really had to be there. I mean really be there, be in the thick of it, all that energy swirling about waiting to land … I was just so glad to be there, right there, Ange, when it all came through.’
At London University, my aunt sat down in a quiet library with tweezers and white gloves and carefully t
urned the pages of Tudor letters. The pages were as thin as old skin, as thin as Elizabeth I’s skin when she was very old (she died aged sixty-nine, I think, which for back then was more like ninety-nine).
The Tudors loved secrets; they liked to poke and pry. Poking and prying was what Cardinal Wolsey did best, because Wolsey had the king’s ear (Henry VIII, that is).
Wolsey whispered secrets into the king’s ear, dark secrets from the bottom of his deep, dark well. Wolsey was the king’s chief adviser, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, the king’s bigwig monster.
‘Veni vidi vici. Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant’: the sound of Latin words swam through the king’s ears, down through his nose and throat (they are all connected, and if they’re blocked then you’re in trouble. ‘Ears Nose and Throat,’ Mum says, and the queues go on all afternoon). Latin words swam up through the king’s blood, towards his lungs. Wolsey had the king’s heart too, at least until Anne Boleyn came along. That is just how history works.
‘Wolsey, Wolsey, Wolsey.’ My aunt loved Cardinal Wolsey so much I sometimes thought he lived with us. Well, she loved and she hated him, but quite where we would put him, I don’t know. There was no spare bunk bed for Cardinal Wolsey and his ego.
We heard a lot about Cardinal Wolsey’s ego. Egos take up a lot of space. Egos are balloons with air pumps.
Cardinal Wolsey wouldn’t fit beneath my bed, because Maze slept on the bottom bunk and the bunk beds upstairs were full now with cousins. Wolsey would have to sleep in the cellar, and he wouldn’t like that much; Wolsey thought himself fit for a king. Wolsey believed he was the king, especially when it came to queens.
‘Wolsey overstepped the mark. He went as far as he could on his ego and then he exploded, like a turkey in the oven. Pop, pop, pop, bang!’
Cardinal Wolsey’s ego ran everywhere; it was like the tide creeping up over the sea wall. His ego didn’t know when to stop, and before long it was spilling over the green and into the Beach Hotel, and everyone in the hotel was forced to evacuate to the beach. Soon the lifeguard would come along and tell us that to be properly safe from Cardinal Wolsey and his ego, we should set sail for France.