A Death in Two Parts

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “So you’re not stupid. Well, we’ll just have to arrange for you to take the As here next year.”

  Veronica put down her cup. “You really mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. So, the first thing is to arrange to collect your things.”

  “Things? I’ve got no things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a council flat, see; Mum was the tenant. When she died, I didn’t seem to exist. And then there was one of those muddles; you know the social.” She gave a disconcerting smile. “Well, no, I suppose you don’t. But muddles they’re good at. I went to stay with friends after the funeral and got back to find they’d cleared the flat. It had all gone to the tip. And that was that. All I had was the shoulder bag I’d taken with me, make-up and bits.” She blushed, and looked about twelve. “It’s stashed away at the back of your shed. My worldly possessions.”

  “Well, you’d better go and get them,” said Patience. “And then let’s go to Brighton, and buy you some clothes.”

  Nine

  “Gruesome.” Veronica was looking with distaste at her dry clothes. “Must I wear them? They’re not mine! It was a squat, see, where my friend lived. I felt such a fool in my funeral blacks one of the girls lent me these. They were OK there, but there’s no way they are here. I bet you’ve got leggings and a shirt I could wear. I loathe these drippy skirts. Actually, I thought afterwards that the social might have been more help if I’d looked different. You know what I mean? But I wasn’t caring, then. Nor thinking, much. It was all gone, see: my past, my pictures of Mum, everything.”

  “Oh, Veronica!” Patience was not quite sure how it happened but found that she had the thin, shaking body in her arms and Veronica crying her heart out on her shoulder.

  She cried a little too, and then, presently, said, “Do you know, you’re absolutely right. I have got a pair of leggings tucked away somewhere. I bought them for yoga once, and then lost my nerve. And it doesn’t matter how big a shirt is, does it? Let’s go and have a look.”

  There is something very friendly about going through a wardrobe together. Having recently unpacked them, Patience put her hand on the black leggings at once, and Veronica, riffling through the clothes in the built-in cupboard, came up with a dark blue corduroy shirt and a devastating comment: “You dress to be invisible. Why?”

  “Goodness.” Looking over her shoulder at the neat row of greys and browns and muted blues, Patience saw just what she meant. “I suppose that’s what I want.”

  “Nutty. Tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you. You can dress me if you’ll let me dress you. It’s what I mean to do, see. Not so much fashion design as fashion advice. I’d love to get my hands on you. If you can really afford it? I reckon you must be able to, if my foul father could have rooked you of all that money and you never even noticed.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Patience said ruefully. “I feel such a fool.”

  “It’s not foolish to trust people.” Veronica pulled on the leggings, unzipped the caftan and shrugged into the blue shirt. “Transformation scene. And a lesson for you in what clothes can do.”

  “You could be a model. Fashion, not artist’s.” Patience was admiring the striking, long-legged figure in the mirror. “You’ve the twiggy build for one.”

  “I know. Too thin by half. Mum used to moan about it. But that’s how I reckoned to keep myself while I got started, only I didn’t know anyone to get me into the fashion scene. That’s what counts. And I bet you don’t either.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Patience was beginning to hope that all was going to be very well. “But we’ve a year to think about that, while you get those A levels.”

  “Must I?”

  “You know you must. You’re not a fool, Veronica, you said so yourself. Pretty soon, the way things are going, you’ll need three As to be a milkman. There’s nowhere here in Leyning but the comprehensive; I think it will have to be Lewes or Brighton. Sixth form college? Tech, maybe? You could do it by train. I don’t suppose you drive?”

  “Not officially. No car, no test. But, look, we’re going so fast. Are you sure you’re really, really serious? We won’t wake up tomorrow and find it was all a crazy dream?”

  “I shan’t.” Patience looked at her watch. “If we hurry we can catch the eleven ten to Brighton. We’ll get some lunch there.”

  “Super,” said Veronica.

  They began in Marks and Spencer, where Veronica swiftly and efficiently chose and tried on two pairs of jeans, three shirts and what she laughingly called a ‘whole trousseau’ of underwear. With these in her arms, she plucked a deep crimson blouse from a rack. “And this for you,” she said.

  “But I don’t wear red. And I’m not dressed for trying on.”

  “No need with this. It’ll fit. And you ought to wear red. I won’t have these if you won’t have that.”

  “Blackmail.” But Patience was glad to produce her charge card and pay for the lot. “Now let’s see how they are getting on with the new shopping centre,” she said, leading the way across the road.

  “I never liked them much. Full of everything you don’t want, and no air to breathe. Look at the ladders! It really isn’t open yet, you know, and I hate to say it but I’m hungry again. All that trying on! But you have to, with jeans. I bet there’s a pub round here somewhere would give us a good, thick sandwich.”

  “But I hate the push and shove at the bar. I really am invisible there. I thought of a restaurant in the Lanes somewhere.”

  “And spend a fortune to take hours? Honestly, I’d rather have time for a look at the sea. I miss it, you know. It’s all around you in St Ives. And then we’ve got to find you something to wear with that shirt. Black pants, I think. Not M and S. Not for you.”

  “But I don’t wear trousers.”

  “Well, you ought to. But we’ll get you a skirt, too, if you like. Where do you usually shop?”

  “Jaeger’s and Hannington’s. It’s the old established department store here,” she explained. “And I like it. They still treat you like a person.”

  “Right, we’ll go there after lunch. Here’s our pub.” She pushed open the door, led the way in and settled Patience firmly at a table for two. “You mind the shopping, Patience, while I get us a menu.”

  “And a drink,” said Patience, whose heart leapt every time Veronica used her name. “Shandy for me.” She found a twenty pound note in her purse and handed it over.

  Looking across the table at Veronica sipping orange juice while they waited for their cheese baguettes, Patience spoke from her heart. “I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme,” she said. “You know the one: ‘Lawks a mussy on us, this canna be I.’”

  “I know just what you mean.” Veronica smiled. “Wouldn’t he just be surprised if he saw us sitting here!”

  “Geoffrey? He certainly would. D’you think we ought to be grateful to him, Veronica?”

  Now she laughed. “No way! Hardly his doing we met … I’ve not said sorry properly for being such a clot, Patience.”

  “No need.”

  “That foul paint. Or haven’t you found it? I do hope you haven’t.” But Patience’s face answered her. “Christ, I’m sorry! You didn’t fall or anything? Hurt yourself?”

  “No, honestly, it was all right, you mustn’t mind. I had someone with me; we were going down for a bottle of wine. I won’t pretend it didn’t give us a turn, but it was all right, being two of us.”

  “Well, thank God for that. I’ll clean it up in the morning. Am I really going to stay with you, Patience?”

  “As long as you want to. Not a day longer.” She had been thinking about this.

  “Cool,” said Veronica.

  After her look at the sea, which she pronounced tame after St Ives, Veronica talked Patience into a dark charcoal skirt and very expensive pair of trousers, both from Jaeger, and they then decided they had enough to carry and headed for home. “Let’
s walk the last bit,” said Veronica as they came out of Leyning station. “It’s not worth a taxi from here.”

  “No, I always walk,” said Patience; but it was strange to walk up through the graveyard together.

  “Only twenty-four hours,” said Veronica. “And now look at us.”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “But good. I wonder what we’ll fight over first. Bound to be something.”

  “Oh, I do hope not. I hate fights.”

  “Sometimes one must,” said Veronica.

  They had turned into the High Street and were almost home when Mrs Vansittart came hurrying across the road to waylay them. “You have been busy, my dear.” She looked at their parcels as she spoke to Patience. “And this is your young friend?”

  “Yes, this is Veronica Lavolle. She’s going to stay with me for a while.” Patience moved forward, hoping to end the conversation there, but Mrs Vansittart fell in beside them.

  “One of the Cornish Lavolles, my dear?” she asked Veronica. “It’s not a common name, is it? I have an old friend lives in Penzance; she writes so admiringly of the dear old Duke. Says he’s an absolute pillar of society, the church, the lot. And quite an age, too. He must be well over eighty and still doing his bit. So sad there’s no son to inherit, take some of the load off his shoulders. You’ll be a cousin, I suppose?” Getting no response, she turned back to Patience, who had got out her front door key. “You had another caller this afternoon, by the way. I was waiting for the electrician and noticed her. Tall and thin, dark hair and dark glasses. I expect you’ll find she left a note. She certainly came back a couple of times. But I mustn’t keep you, loaded down like that. You certainly have been shopping, haven’t you?”

  “Poor Veronica lost her luggage.” Patience put her key in the lock, the description of her caller niggling at her mind.

  “British Rail, I suppose, or whatever they call themselves these days. Hopeless, inefficient lot. But I mustn’t keep you standing there. Do come in and have a drink with me tonight, both of you. I’ll expect you about six; how nice.”

  “A royal command,” said Veronica, safe indoors.

  “I’m afraid so. I don’t quite know why, but she is one of Leyning’s great ladies. What she says, goes.”

  “And you can hardly tell her we’ve a date, when she’ll be looking out the window to see what we do. But she was wrong about the note, so she doesn’t actually know everything.”

  “Note?”

  “Your dark-haired caller. Did you recognise the description?”

  “No.” Again that niggle at the back of her mind. “But, Veronica, are you really kin of a duke?”

  “Worse than that. I’m his granddaughter. Strictly illegit, of course. And it was his always being such a pillar of the state made me so hard for them to bear, see.”

  “Yes, I do see. And I’m afraid I understand the way Geoffrey behaved a whole lot better.”

  “I thought you would.” They were silent for a moment, both contemplating the unattractive truth. “He wanted the Duke’s daughter, with no illegitimate strings attached, and Mum wasn’t having that. No way. Bless her. And it’s all so absurd. Dukes are as dead as dodos. Deader. Dodos still have some shelf life in museums, but who wants a stuffed duke?”

  “Who indeed? But, Veronica, what on earth are we going to tell Mrs Vansittart tonight?”

  “Why not the truth?” said Veronica.

  “Oh! I never thought of that.”

  “It would save a hell of a lot of trouble. I mean, not about the bag of flour, please! I couldn’t bear anyone to know about that.”

  “No, no, of course not. No one ever shall. And that’s a promise. Well.” She thought about it. “You know, you might have something there. It would make things so much simpler. I’d been thinking of all kinds of stories about your being a young cousin of Geoffrey’s I’d never heard of, that sort of thing. But to have to keep it up for the rest of our lives …”

  “You’re really thinking long-term aren’t you? It’s cool. But you’re the one has to decide, Patience. I’m used to it, see. I’ve been a bastard all my life. I can wear it. It’s you it’ll come hard on, raised eyebrows all round, all that, but don’t you think it might be easier in the end?”

  “You’re absolutely right. I’ll feel God’s own fool for a bit, with everyone so sorry for me, but it won’t last for ever. Besides,” – she had had time to work this out – “I’m not sure there’s really much alternative. Once Mrs Vansittart writes to her cousin in Penzance she’s sure to put two and two together and come up with the whole story. We might just as well make a virtue of necessity. One thing – if we tell her tonight, the whole town will know tomorrow and that will save trouble.”

  “Cool.” Veronica looked at her watch. “If we’re due at six we ought to start changing, oughtn’t we? I bet the old dear expects her guests dressed up and dead on time. She won’t be writing to her cousin in Penzance anyway, phoning more likely, but she’ll wait till after six so we ought to get in first, bit of luck. Are you going to wear the trousers or the skirt?”

  “Oh, the skirt,” said Patience, amusedly aware of being bullied for her own good. Obeying instructions, she liked the result, and Veronica, joining her in new jeans and shirt, smiled her approval. “But your lipstick’s the wrong colour, and you need some eyebrows. Hang on a mo.” She went deftly to work. “There” – standing back to admire the results – “see?”

  “Yes, I do see. You’ve got an eye all right, Veronica. I never thought I could wear red.”

  “We’ll get you a suit a bit later, but I think we’d need to go to London for that. There was a place Mum used to go to off Bond Street.”

  Was there indeed? But Patience kept the thought to herself. She was beginning to get an oddish picture of Veronica’s mother, the Duke’s daughter. “It’s time we went,” she said instead.

  She had wondered which of her big front rooms Mrs Vansittart would choose to entertain them in and was not surprised to be ushered into the more elegant of the two, the one with glass-fronted cabinets full of probably priceless china rather than books.

  Responding to Mrs Vansittart’s greeting, she suddenly realised just how awkward this occasion was going to be, and caught a rueful glance from Veronica suggesting that the same thing had struck her. The curtains were drawn against the early autumn darkness, but they were sitting with their drinks in the bay window that commanded such a good daytime view of the street, and Mrs Vansittart’s question about her afternoon caller came naturally enough.

  “No,” Patience answered it, “she didn’t come back, and there wasn’t a note. I can’t think who it can have been. Not many people know my new address yet. I’ve got terribly behind with things because the Hall sold so fast and I had to move. I got the change of address cards from the man you recommended, Mrs Vansittart, but I’m ashamed to say I’ve hardly sent any of them yet.”

  “I could do that for you.” Veronica put her orange juice down carefully on the little mat that protected the marquetry table. “One thing the sisters did teach us at my school was to write what they called a good clear hand.”

  “Convent school, of course. And a very good education, too.” Mrs Vansittart approved. “So you’re a Catholic, my dear, like the rest of your family.”

  “Not any more, I’m not.” Veronica put down her glass and stood up. “May I use your loo, please?”

  “Of course.” Mrs Vansittart concealed surprise like a lady. “Down the hall and right by the garden door.”

  “Thanks.” She gave Patience a speaking look, and left the room.

  Patience took the plunge. “Sensible child,” she said. “She’s giving me a chance to explain to you, Mrs Vansittart. It’s been a shock to me. It will be a shock to you, too, I’m afraid. My first thought was to say nothing, try to cover up, but we’ve talked about it and decided it’s bound to come out sooner or later, so better sooner.” She took a steadying breath. “You asked about Veronica and the Lavo
lles, and you are quite right, she’s the Duke’s granddaughter, but illegitimate.”

  “Oh!” said Mrs Vansittart. And then: “That youngest daughter! Jessica? – No, Jennifer. I remember my cousin saying something. And she never would name the father.”

  “No,” said Patience bleakly. “He was my husband.”

  “Oh, my dear—” For the first time, Mrs Vansittart used the words as if she meant them. “I am so very sorry. You didn’t know?”

  “No. If I had I would have divorced him. Veronica is eighteen years old, Mrs Vansittart, but it had been going on much longer. Ever since Suez. Since her mother was younger than Veronica is now.” Oddly, in the catharsis of speech, she felt bound to defend Veronica’s mother.

  “What a terrible thing. Just think of all those speeches he used to make, about family values! Do you remember? – Of course you do. I beg your pardon, my dear. It hits you hardest of all and I can see you are taking it quite beautifully. How long have you known?”

  “Since Veronica came to me yesterday. I hope she is going to let me adopt her. Her mother is dead, you see—”

  “And the family?”

  “Veronica won’t go to them because of the way they treated her mother.”

  “Oh, my goodness … But here she comes!” She turned to greet Veronica. “My dear, I am so very sorry about your mother. You must let us all do everything we can to help you be happy with Mrs Crankshaw.”

  “Oh, I shall, thank you. I mean to be.”

  “Did you see how beautifully she changed the subject?” asked Veronica, back at home over an omelette. “You were dead right: she’s a great lady. With not enough to do, poor thing.”