by Jean Hill
Lily smiled sweetly and exposed a row of small and even white teeth between pale lips that had never, at least in public, been smeared with lipstick (‘something only whores wear,’ her father impressed upon her), but her eyes remained bleak and expressionless.
‘It’s OK,’ she said smoothly, ‘we will be fine, I’m happy to stay here until you come back. Doubtless Mrs Lacey will enjoy a little company.’
She glanced at Joyce with innocent round pale blue eyes fringed with pale yellow lashes, which looked like enormous empty blank blobs in her young bland face. She thought with avarice about the ten-pound note she had been promised for her trouble, it would be worth waiting around for that, and she looked forward to watching the large new television in the lounge. Her do-gooder father had pressed her into helping Joyce but had not been informed about the cash incentive. She smiled at the thought, though it would be more fun if she could go out with her teenage friends and just ‘chill out’. It was a nuisance being a vicar’s daughter because the expectations pressed upon her to be helpful and kind to others were onerous and she looked forward with increasing fervour to the glorious day when she would achieve freedom from that pressure. With any luck she could leave home the following year and attend a college course some way away, the further the better. However, she expected the supper left for her and Janet in Primrose House would, as usual, be delicious. Lily was always hungry and her mouth began to water. The old woman probably would not notice if she helped herself to an extra slice of cold chicken and a sip or two of wine. Drinking wine, except the odd quick drop of communion wine, was taboo at home and she looked forward to tasting the crisp white liquid. She would have something to boast about to her friends when they next met. The evening she had been so reluctant to participate in was not going to be so bad after all. The ghastly old-fashioned red armchairs in the lounge looked comfortable. The wretched dog Jack was a smelly and growly old thing but she liked dogs and she would get round him again with a biscuit or two or a succulent piece of chicken.
Janet did notice that there was not so much chicken as usual on her supper plate and she only had a half glass of wine. It was unfortunate that she could no longer struggle up the stairs to her bedroom to get away from that gawping girl. Perhaps she should not have been so stubborn and agreed to have had that stairlift installed.
‘They are dreadful clumsy new-fangled things,’ Janet had said to Joyce when the idea of installing one had been suggested by her old solicitor friend Peter Mace. ‘Peter is too keen to spend my money!’
If only she could be independent and not have to rely on daft girls like Lily for the odd snatch of company.
Joyce left Jack his tea in the kitchen but the smell of cold sliced chicken was enticing, better than boring tinned dog meat and dry biscuit. He sniffed the air expectantly and remained alert, keeping a beady eye out for the supper tray. His efforts were rewarded when he obtained a nice chunk of chicken breast from Janet when Lily was not looking.
A new single bed, graced with a modern memory foam mattress, had been strategically placed under the dining-room window, which was on the side of the house that faced the river so that Janet could enjoy the view. A modern walk-in wet shower room and low toilet with rails had been installed nearby which cost more than any stairlift but that was her choice and she was, despite the memory lapses, still determined to remain in her own home, on her own terms, for long as possible.
Janet loved the large sweeping green fields dotted with old oak trees that adjoined her garden. She could see them clearly where they joined a large orchard that swept down to the winding river in the distance to provide a stunning vista. The trees in the local orchards were covered with pink and white blossom in the spring, which attracted many visitors to the area and was aptly called the Blossom Trail. The River Brinton could only just be seen from her window but at times when it burst its banks after a period of heavy rain it would creep nearer to form a large untidy lake. She loved to watch the ducks and swans but was not sure she liked the Canada geese. Flocks of the noisy creatures flapped over Primrose House on most days, and their wretched loud cackling voices invariably disturbed her afternoon nap. ‘Tough as old boots some of those,’ a neighbouring farmer hold told her, ‘they are inedible, at least the old ones are, and the numbers of the wretched things are increasing.’
Lily cleared away the supper things and Janet leaned back in her chair and started to dream. Confused snatches of happenings from her past often merged together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, difficult to decipher and often forgotten immediately she woke up. Her mother and father, their evacuee Tom, friends whose faces were becoming strange blanks, would intrude for a moment then disappear. She could hold on to the distant past with greater ease than recent events but she moved slowly in her dreams, much slower than she had in real life, and she was often left with a disturbing sensation that made little sense to her.
Janet stirred as she was propelled back into time. ‘James,’ she said.
‘I wish she’d shut up,’ Lily muttered under her breath. ‘She’s spoiling my television programme.’ She reached out and turned up the volume.
Janet slept on. She had promised her mother to look after her evacuee Tom when her parents were no longer able to. Eleven years old, he was a quiet and timid boy, though very intelligent. Tom’s face often came to mind when she was dreaming, thin and peaky with a dimple in his chin, deep-set hazel eyes, winsome and appealing.
Janet stirred. She could hear James shouting, the shouting became louder, she fidgeted and her heart beat faster. She turned in her chair.
‘He’s a child of very little value, certainly not worthy of being treated as my son,’ he grumbled. ‘He should be made to work and pay his way. Burnt crusts and leftovers are good enough for that brat.’
The nightmare continued as it had so often, coming back to haunt her although it was becoming less vivid. Her deteriorating mind made sure of that.
She woke up with a start and remembered how earnestly Tom had expressed an interest in learning to play a musical instrument. His school had provided him with a violin and offered tuition for a reasonable fee but James would have none of that.
‘Awful noise, I cannot stand that caterwauling. Screech, screech, screech scratch. Whoever invented that ghastly instrument should be shot!’
Janet had tried many years later to trace Tom. What a weak idiot she had been. She did discover that an older couple had adopted him and after that the trail ran frustratingly cold. All she could do was hope that he had been treated with kindness and was happy. Where was he now? It was a question she had asked herself many times over the years although now, like her personal possessions, Tom’s whereabouts were becoming less important. She no longer felt the cold hand that had gripped the pit of her stomach the day he left clutching his small battered brown suitcase, which held all his worldly belongings. She no longer despised herself for being so feeble and giving into her husband’s wishes though the boy’s departure had caused her considerable pain at the time. It was entrenched in a past that was fading.
She dozed fitfully again in her chair. ‘James,’ she said again out loud several times as Joyce had said she might. Lily took no notice and returned to the kitchen to see if she could find a few more dregs of wine in the bottle. ‘Silly old woman, dreaming. It will be a good thing when she gets into bed, it’s nearly nine, thank goodness!’ she said out loud. ‘I might, with luck, be able to watch the next programme without her daft mutterings spoiling it! At least she didn’t drink all the wine, though I’ll tell Mrs Skillet that she did.’ She grinned.
Chapter 9
The Visitor
It was a cold and damp autumn day when Felicity arrived in Enderly. ‘Heaven help me,’ she muttered, ‘Enderly village looks as uninteresting as ever.’
There were a few new box-like houses with minuscule gardens that formed a small estate just where the road from Everton entered the village and the old dull grey stone Victoria
n school nearby had been expanded; some decent prefabricated classrooms had been erected and a well-designed playing field added at the back. No wonder Uncle James made himself scarce all those years ago, she thought. Ugh, it still looks a boring dump. A mist rose up from the grey streak in the distance that was just recognizable as a river and she had a dread of the cold dampness it exuded creeping into her bones when she reached her destination. The same tatty little village shop and post office in the centre of the small main street, same dingy window display too. She grimaced and gave it a surreptitious glance as she was driven past on her way to Primrose House, which was about half a mile out of the village on the other side. There was a SPAR notice in the door of the shop which she estimated meant some progress had been made. Separated from the shop by three old terraced cottages that had been renovated with care, stood the Green Man pub; the black and white façade had recently been painted and two large oak flower tubs, planted with a collection of bright winter pansies, had been positioned either side of the old oak door. That is one place that may be worth a visit, she told herself with a flicker of genuine interest.
She looked with increasing anticipation at the Enderly scene from the windows of the taxi. The driver had looked at her with disdain when she had flagged him down outside the Everton railway station twenty minutes earlier and merely grunted as he opened the door for her to get in. Felicity was determined to arrive in style but was reluctant to spend her money. A few days before leaving Canada she had purchased what had been described as a ‘fairly new’ camel wool coat from a second-hand shop. The coat would have been expensive but had seen better days; the cuffs were somewhat faded and worn and it had been necessary to repair a couple of small holes near the hem. To appear poor and impoverished was not an impression she wished to convey when she arrived. Her feet ached. She had crammed them into her best leather shoes that were a size too small because she could not bring herself to splash out on a new pair, despite the fact that they pinched her feet without mercy.
She heaved a sigh of relief when they arrived outside Primrose House and leaned forward from the back seat to give the taxi driver a meagre tip together with the fare. He responded with a scathing look, causing her to scowl.
‘Sorry the tip is not more, I’m short of change,’ she said in a belligerent tone, as she opened the door nearest to her and got out. She pulled her case out on to the ground, slung her cheap plastic handbag over her shoulder and wondered why the oaf of a driver had not made any effort to assist her.
‘You OKwith that bag?’ the driver asked in a broad Russetshire accent. It appeared to her to be a miserable afterthought.
‘Yeah, nice of you to ask! It’s a bit late to think of it.’ A peevish tone crept into her voice.
It was quite out of character for, the driver not to get out of the car to open the door for her. The gravel drive was quite short and from that a pitted and uneven brick path led to the front door. The gates had been left open so he had no need to get out of the car to open them. The man usually prided himself on his polite manner but something about this woman caused him to be rude. His usual courteous behaviour deserted him although he normally assisted his passengers without question. For some inexplicable reason he could not force himself to be polite. He knew Janet quite well and thought the new arrival looked like trouble. The strange Canadian accent tinged with some odd northern English tones irritated him. She has only one fairly small bag, he noted, and decided that she could darn well keep it on the seat next to her and carry the bloody thing herself. She looked brawny enough although she was no doubt getting on a bit. He guessed that she was a spiky tough old bird and quite spirited and that he did admire, but not enough to assist her.
He returned to Everton Station without a backward glance in the hope that a more lucrative and agreeable fare would present itself. What a lousy tip she had given him!
Felicity struggled up to the front door with Roberto’s battered leather case and stood for a few moments looking around. The view of the River Brinton stirred memories of walks along the reedy banks when she was young. The mist was deepening and threatened to cover the surrounding fields with long damp fluffy fingers. It was possible to make out the outlines of the old willow trees, still in need of pollarding, as they bent their droopy branches over the low banks. Orchards of apple and plum trees were just visible, the trees arranged in neat rows like regimented crooked fence posts. Their dark twisted branches were now mostly bare, but there was still unpicked fruit amongst the yellowing leaves. Beyond them the narrow grassy fields which once contained plump Herefordshire beef cattle swept down to the edge of the river. The mist was now becoming thicker and would soon hide the fields from view. She remembered that a public footpath straggled from Primrose House to the river bank and then turned along the edge of the river until it reached the other end of Enderly village. It was difficult to see through the mist in the fading light and she wondered if it was still there.
‘What a bleak old place this house is,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘but it must be worth a penny or two now.’ Her spirits rose. Money was her god, to obtain it was her greatest aim in life, and there could be some here if she played her cards with care. Her excitement mounted. The windows, she noted, had been replaced with double-glazed units. Well that is interesting, she thought. The old draughty sash windows were neck stiffeners when one had to sleep near them as she had soon found out as a small child. The trees had grown. Good heavens, huge birches and firs had sprung up, tall and imposing, and large branches creaked in the slight wind, stirring a vague memory of a young Aunt Janet planting small wispy saplings and bushes. The old oak front door was the same, grainy and scratched, but boasted a proud new black iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and an electronic bell at the side with a notice above it – PRESS HARD. Felicity sighed audibly and pressed the bell. The journey to Enderly from Canada had been long and she was tired. Her back ached and her neck was stiff following her efforts to sleep in an awkward position during the long flight.
She heard some brisk steps approaching the door which was opened with caution by a thin sharp-looking woman who did not look more than fifty. The housekeeper or maid, Felicity surmised. What a miserable looking biddy, she thought. Gracious, what a rotten welcome after all the years I have been away.
‘What do you want?’ asked the woman, her tone exuding suspicion as her glance swept over the stranger with obvious dislike. ‘If you are selling something …’
Felicity bridled. ‘I’m Felicity Brown and I’ve come to stay with Mrs Lacey. I’m her niece. Aren’t you expecting me?’ The wretched woman’s face would crack if she smiled, Felicity thought.
The woman’s nose wrinkled with disapproval. ‘Of course, madam,’ Joyce Skillet responded with difficulty and almost choked on on her words. ‘Come in, I’ll tell Mrs Lacey you are here.’
Joyce ushered Felicity into the spacious hallway. ‘Leave your case in the hall, we can see to it later.’ She gave it a derisory glance and emitted a loud disapproving sniff.
What a mean old cat, Felicity thought. It’s not as though my case will make a mess anywhere.
The woodwork, painted a wishy-washy eggshell blue, just as it had been when Felicity was a child, looked faded. The wallpaper with the strange gooseberry pattern had been removed and the walls covered with a pale blue emulsion to match the woodwork. The floor was covered with a good imitation wood patterned vinyl and an expensive looking Persian rug had been deposited with aplomb in the centre. A large elegant crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling.
Huh, Felicity thought. I don’t think much of the decor. With all her money, too! The only decent thing is that rug, though the chandelier is not bad, it was probably expensive. I’ll get rid of that dreadful blue if the house is mine one day, and it could be with some luck. A good oak floor would be much better than that vinyl. Her mind started to race as she considered the possibilities.
‘Mrs Lacey will see you now,�
�� cut across her thoughts and Joyce led her into the large dining room at the back of the house where Janet had her bed installed under an imposing double-glazed picture window. Janet sat in an armchair supported by well-stuffed soft velvet cushions. Her grey hair was twisted into a bun at the back of her head and she was dressed in a fine pink cashmere twin-set and well-cut black trousers. A heavy expensive-looking gold necklace hung round her thin neck and the imposing large links caught Felicity’s eye. The thick gold necklace glinted and for a moment Felicity was mesmerized.
Janet took pride in her appearance and liked to look chic and smart, even if she was over eighty years old. She could afford to look elegant although she could not always remember the time of day or what happened yesterday. Joyce would help her dress and make up her face with expensive cosmetics, including the soft pale Italian lipstick she liked, purchased in her favourite chemists in Brinton. Good well applied make-up was a habit she had developed and maintained over the years.
Her old dog Jack sat at her feet. His hackles rose when he saw Felicity and a low rumbling sound emerged from the back of his throat.
Felicity was surprised. She thought that old Auntie did not look too bad and probably she had got a year or two of life in her yet, though that might be remedied if need be without too much effort.
Felicity stepped forward quickly and gave Janet a warm hug but avoided kissing her. She shuddered when she saw the deep wrinkles on her face and a couple of large hairy moles on her chin. She made a determined effort to ignore the low growling and showing of Jack’s unhygienic yellow teeth. I would like to give you a swift kick, she thought, but it might upset Aunt Janet. That would not be an auspicious start. What a dreadful dog you are!