The Unburied Past

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘Hello, Mum. Not at work today?’

  Louise Grenville was on the board of two companies and several charities.

  ‘Of course I am – this is my coffee break. In fact, I’m up to my eyes for the rest of the week, but I wanted to catch you before you go away. So – all packed up?’

  ‘More or less. They can only provide one cot, which is a nuisance. We’ll have to hope Adam doesn’t visit us too early in the morning!’

  Louise laughed. ‘I’ve not heard the forecast, but I hope it keeps fine for you. The weather up in the Lakes can be tricky.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re packing macs and gum boots.’

  ‘Very wise! How did Claire’s party go?

  ‘Fine; Lynne’s a great organizer.’

  ‘It was good of her to have it, so close to moving out.’

  ‘Yes. Sad to think of all the good times we’ve had there.’

  ‘I’d like to see them before they go. Perhaps we could arrange a meal when you’re back from holiday?’

  ‘That would be great, but you’d better fix it quickly; they’re receiving lots of invitations.’

  ‘I’ll get straight on to it.’ A pause. ‘No doubt Jan and Roy were there, rubbing salt into the wound? The longer they try for a baby, the more depressed she gets, and surrounding herself with children can’t help. Still, she’s only thirty-two; there’s plenty of time.’

  Emma had a flash of her sister clutching Kirsty and felt a stab of pity. ‘Fingers crossed,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed. Well, I must get back to work. Have a lovely time, darling, and send us a postcard!’

  ‘Will do. ’Bye, Mum.’

  But as Emma ticked off another task on her list, her thoughts were still on her sister. Of the two of them, it had always been Janice who played with dolls and hung over prams, while the more boisterous Emma preferred tree-climbing and kicking balls around with the boys next door. It seemed so unfair, the way things had worked out. But as her mother said, there was still time.

  With a sigh, Emma picked up the phone to cancel the newspapers.

  TWO

  Their first sight of Penthwaite came as they crested a hill to see it nestling in the valley below them. From that vantage point it looked larger than they’d expected – a sizeable cluster of slate roofs, a church with a squat Norman tower and, in the centre, a large green space. Some distance beyond it, sunlight shimmered on a gleaming expanse of water.

  ‘Lake Belvedere,’ Mark commented. ‘I hadn’t realized it was so close.’

  Emma folded her sunglasses. ‘Never mind the view, let’s get to the cottage. We’ve been cooped up in the car for quite long enough.’

  It had been a long and tiring journey, not helped by the fact that both children had been fractious. It was typical, she reflected, that just as they’d finally fallen asleep they would soon have to be woken.

  As they followed the road downhill and into the village, some of her tiredness fell away and she exclaimed with delight at its winding cobbled streets, the little courtyards and alleyways leading off them, the riot of colour in the cottage gardens. Though the houses were stone-built, the majority had been whitewashed, and in the summer sunshine their brightness was almost blinding.

  It had been arranged with the owner of the cottage that the key would be left for them at the post office opposite the green, and Mark accordingly drew up outside it. The upper half of its stable door was open, but little could be seen of the interior from the brightness of the street.

  ‘It seems to double as the village shop,’ Mark commented, indicating the window display. ‘Shall I stock up while I’m here?’

  ‘What we’ve brought should see us through the weekend, but a local map would be useful.’

  As he pushed his way into the post office, Emma turned to look at the green across the road. On its far side a game of cricket was in progress and an exultant shout reached her as one of the players was caught out. Nearer at hand, family groups sat on the grass, children played, and an ice-cream van was doing a brisk trade.

  ‘It’s the first house down a lane at the end of the village,’ Mark reported, returning with the key and an Ordnance Survey map, which he tossed on to her lap.

  The lane was, indeed, at the end of the village, and beyond it fields bordered both sides of the road. The cottage itself was separated from its nearest neighbour by a field where sheep grazed, and opposite it were several allotments. The gates stood open and Mark drove in and parked on the gravel drive.

  Emma glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping children. ‘Let’s leave them here while we scout out the land.’

  The front door opened directly into a large living space furnished with a sofa and easy chairs. There was a bookcase of assorted paperbacks, a shelf containing a pile of board games and what looked like an amateur painting of the village over the fireplace. At the far end, near a door leading, presumably, to the kitchen, stood a dining table and chairs, and in one corner a steep staircase led to the floor above.

  ‘I wish we’d thought to bring the stair gate,’ Emma said anxiously.

  Mark snorted. ‘Along with the kitchen sink? The car’s packed to the gunnels as it is.’ He looked round. ‘No sign of a phone and no TV.’

  ‘All to the good,’ Emma replied. ‘We can have a holiday from both. Right, let’s see how much unloading we can do before the kids regain consciousness.’

  They worked quickly and quietly, removing suitcases and a folded buggy from the roof rack and boxes of provisions and household linen from the boot. Emma discovered a pint of milk, a loaf and a pack of butter awaiting them in the fridge. Emergency rations, she thought.

  Up the steep stairs they found two bedrooms and a small bathroom. Not exactly palatial, as Mark commented, but enough for their holiday needs. The promised cot had been set up in the smaller room.

  ‘If we make up the beds now,’ Emma said, ‘they’ll be ready for us when we’re ready for them.’

  They’d just completed their task when the first wail reached them from the car, and they hurried downstairs to release their children.

  Lynne stood on the landing of her home and watched it being systematically dismantled. Every room, every corridor was suddenly throbbing with memories – the kitchen, scene of so many family meals, the sitting room where Charlotte had taken her first steps, the extra-bright patches where familiar pictures had hung.

  She turned abruptly and went into the bathroom – blessedly unchanged – where she locked the door and allowed herself a few silent tears. If only she could wave a wand and wake up six weeks or even six months from now, when they’d all be happily installed in their Canadian home.

  ‘Mrs Carstairs?’ The foreman, Joe, was calling from downstairs. Lynne hastily dabbed at her eyes and went on to the landing.

  ‘What do you want doing with this box? Are we to take it, or is it going with you? There’s no label on it.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s some of the children’s toys – we’ll keep it with us. Would you ask my husband to put it straight in the car, so it doesn’t get mixed up with anything else?’

  Joe wandered off, muttering to himself and, brief respite over, Lynne again took up her job as removal supervisor. She’d never have believed there was so much to be sorted out, to be put in piles for charity shops or the tip. It was a wonder the floor of the loft hadn’t collapsed under the weight of all that had been stored in it.

  ‘Lynne?’ Harry this time. ‘The men want to know what to do with the buggy?’

  She closed her eyes against the assault of more memories. ‘The charity pile,’ she called back, her voice commendably steady. ‘Claire’s almost grown out of it.’

  She glanced at her watch. Four thirty. The children would be with Janice now. Only another hour before the men knocked off for today, then a welcome break till tomorrow morning, when they’d be back here for the final rites. In the meantime, she needed to check one more time what they’d need for the next four weeks,
and make sure she’d not overlooked anything.

  Trying to remember where she’d left it, she went in search of the list.

  ‘For pity’s sake, darling!’ Thelma Franklyn exclaimed. ‘What in heaven’s name do I do with all this?’

  It was three hours later and she was staring aghast at her transformed kitchen. On the floor a stack of bulging freezer bags leaned perilously against a couple of boxes containing the contents of the Carstairs’ fridge, while the surface of the table was submerged beneath opened bags of flour, rice and sugar, tins of coconut milk and jars of tahini and green curry paste.

  ‘I don’t even know what half of it is!’ she added plaintively.

  Lynne gave her a tired smile. ‘Sorry, Mum, but we can’t take it with us, and we’ll be working our way through a lot of it while we’re with you.’

  ‘But in the meantime we need somewhere to put it,’ Thelma said distractedly.

  ‘I’ll help you clear some space in the larder. It won’t look so daunting once it’s neatly stacked.’

  Bob Franklyn came into the room with his granddaughters, both in pyjamas and dressing gowns. ‘Two tired little girls, ready for bed!’ he said.

  ‘I’m not tired!’ Charlotte declared and, indeed, her face was flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. ‘Anyway, I don’t go to bed at the same time as Claire!’

  Lynne brushed back a stray wisp of hair. ‘Sweetheart, it’s a bit different while we’re here. You’ll be sharing a room, and—’

  ‘But it’s not fair!’ Charlotte cried. ‘I’m twice as old as she is!’

  ‘You won’t be able to say that next year, young lady!’ Bob teased her.

  Harry, returning from locking the car, caught the end of the exchange and picked up his elder daughter.

  ‘Suppose Mummy puts Claire to bed while I read you a story in our room? But you must promise not to wake Claire.’

  ‘Shan’t be asleep,’ Claire said decidedly.

  For a wild moment Lynne wished she’d allowed Janice to keep them overnight, but it would only have postponed the problem.

  ‘Let’s do what Daddy suggests for tonight,’ she said, ‘and we can work out something for tomorrow.’

  And before there could be any more arguments, the children were led out of the kitchen. Bob and Thelma exchanged a wary smile.

  ‘OK, love?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I could do with a G and T, though!’

  Bob laughed. ‘I’ll join you!’ he said.

  In Penthwaite, Mark and Emma’s days had fallen into a leisurely and pleasant routine. Each morning they set off with the buggy, sometimes to play with the children on the green and sometimes to explore the village, plunging from sunshine to cool shadow as they followed the twists and turns of the little side streets, while Mark paused on every corner to capture on camera an ancient market cross, a cat in a sunlit courtyard or a wagon wheel against a wall.

  When Adam began to flag they’d return home, swap the buggy for the car and, armed with their Ordnance Survey and a picnic lunch, drive off to spend the rest of the day in various beauty spots where Mark could spend an hour or so composing more formal photographs while Emma and the children paddled, or played ball. Lake Belvedere particularly appealed to him and, marvelling at how dramatically its appearance changed under cloud or sunshine, he resolved to take a series of photos at varying times of the day. With luck, one of these shots would become his entry for the competition.

  On the west side of the village stood the church of St Oswald, surrounded by its ancient cemetery, and on one of their excursions they wandered among the weathered tombstones, jagged as broken teeth, their inscriptions for the most part illegible. ‘“And of Louisa, his spouse …”’ read Emma. ‘Promise me you’ll never call me your spouse!’

  To their surprise, the heavy door was unlocked and they ventured inside, shivering at the change in temperature. The smell of polish and old hymn books filled their nostrils as they read the inscriptions on brass plaques set in the floor to commemorate Penthwaite’s long-dead residents.

  ‘I wonder if they allow brass rubbing,’ Emma mused. ‘Jan and I did a lot of that in our teens.’

  In the side aisles, sunbeams shining through stained glass lent colour to the marble cheeks of ancient squires and their ladies lying side by side, hands devoutly folded, and a board on one wall listed the names and dates of previous incumbents, the earliest dating from the sixteen hundreds.

  ‘The tower is the oldest part of the building,’ Emma said, reading from the explanatory leaflet on a table by the door. ‘Most of the original wooden church was destroyed by fire in the fifteenth century.’

  Adam tugged at her skirt. ‘Want to go now,’ he whined, and his parents, their attention forced back to the present, reluctantly complied.

  Most days involved a visit to the shop, where, despite repeated requests not to, Mrs Birchall the postmistress plied the children with sweets.

  ‘Annual fête’s on Saturday,’ she informed them early in the week. ‘Merry-go-round and brass band and all sorts. Folks come from miles around.’

  ‘We saw the posters,’ Mark replied. ‘It should be fun; let’s hope the weather holds.’

  Towards the end of that first week they visited the nearby town of Hawkston, finding it odd to be back among traffic, large shops and busy pavements. That evening, when Mark came down from reading Adam’s bedtime story, he was surprised to see a bottle of wine on the table. Normally they drank only at weekends, and had not so far bent this rule during the holiday.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked.

  ‘I bought it at the supermarket,’ Emma said offhandedly.

  ‘Are we celebrating something?’

  ‘Just being on holiday!’

  It wasn’t until the meal was over and they were relaxing on the sofa that she said suddenly, ‘As to the wine, there was a reason for it.’

  ‘I thought there might be. Are you going to enlighten me?’

  She reached for his hand. ‘I bought it because it’s the last I’ll be able to have for a while.’ And, as he looked puzzled, she added with a smile, ‘I’m pregnant, Mark!’

  He drew in his breath, his hand tightening on hers. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘I bought a testing kit in the pharmacy while you were getting the sun cream. I tried it before dinner and it’s positive.’

  ‘Sweetheart, that’s wonderful! What date are we looking at?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very early days. Not till the spring.’

  ‘Will you tell the family?’

  ‘I’d have preferred to wait a while, but I’d like Lynne and Harry to know before they leave.’

  Mark nodded. ‘And hopefully the prospect of another grandchild will help both sets of parents over the gap left by Charlotte and Claire.’

  The day of the fête dawned warm and sunny, and their al fresco breakfast was punctuated by bursts of music as the sound system was tested.

  ‘Loud!’ Adam complained, covering his ears.

  ‘Almost as loud as Daddy’s sweatshirt!’ Emma agreed with a laugh.

  ‘Hey! Are you criticizing my attire?’

  ‘Red, green and white stripes don’t really do it for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nor me, to be honest, but it’s the one Harry brought back from Mexico, and since I daren’t be seen in it at home, this is the first chance I’ve had to wear it.’

  Emma smiled and patted his hand. ‘Then make the most of it, darling! Just be careful not to frighten the horses! Now, we won’t need a packed lunch because Mrs Birchall assured me there’ll be all kinds of food at the fête and they’re sure to cater for children. And today, my love, you can content yourself with taking family photos, such as Adam’s first ride on a merry-go-round.’

  ‘And you on the Big Dipper?’ Mark asked with a grin.

  ‘In your dreams!’ she replied.

  As soon as they left their gate they were engulfed in a stream of people making their way to the fête – fami
lies for the most part, parents with excited children dancing at their side, but young couples too, hand-in-hand and giggling, and the occasional grey head. Both sides of the road were solid with parked cars, and as they neared the green the volume of music increased to the point where speech became virtually impossible.

  The green itself was a seething mass of humanity. Dotted round the perimeter were coconut shies, a tombola and stalls selling bric-à-brac, home-made jams, cakes, potted plants and garden ornaments. There was a face-painting tent where a queue of children had formed, and in a roped-off area three-legged races were being organized.

  Their progress was necessarily slow, stopping as they did at stall after stall to buy toffee apples for the children, a ceramic pig for Lynne’s collection and a Le Carré paperback Mark hadn’t read. There was a penned-off area containing baby animals, where children were admitted in twos and threes, but Adam, though mesmerized by the lambs and chickens, shook his head when offered the chance to go in, and it was Kirsty who struggled to free herself from the pushchair and play with them.

  The day passed in a whirl of noise and colour. After a while Adam wilted and demanded the buggy while his parents took turns in carrying Kirsty, but he quickly revived when Mark, trying his luck at hoopla, snared a Donald Duck toy, and vacated the buggy to claim it.

  As requested, Mark recorded each event – Adam on the merry-go-round, which he’d refused to brave without Emma; Kirsty stroking a baby rabbit, and another of her with an ice cream in one hand, dragging her teddy by its ear.

  ‘That ear’s hanging by a thread,’ Mark warned, closing his camera.

  ‘I know; as soon as I can prise it out of her grasp, I’ll sew it back on.’

  They were passing the dais when an official stepped on to it with a microphone and announced that ‘Mr Barry Ferris’, who now joined him, was about to present the prizes.

  ‘So will the winners of the egg and spoon races please come up, and we’ll start with the under sixes.’

  The crowd surged forward for a better view, pinning them against the steps leading to the dais. On a low table immediately in front of them a selection of prizes was arrayed – jars of sweets, books, a doll, a gaily-coloured beach ball. And as Mark attempted to move back to allow access, Adam freed his hand and, clambering up the steps, reached for the ball.