“Until you have fulfilled my erotic purpose…” Dad said, his voice trailing off.
“Yes.”
My mother shook her head.
“That was for our father,” Rosa said. “Wasn’t it?”
My mother laughed. “And how did it last forty years if that’s the case? Still hanging in the trees for all and sundry to see?”
Marion was glaring so hard at my mother I don’t know how she withstood it. The air was electric. But still my mother was shaking her head, looking at her sisters as if they were certified lunatics.
“The bandage is lint – of the sort used by doctors pre-World War One.”
“This is such a load of disgusting rubbish. Some people in this village hold grudges. They go into the woods and light fires, probably wish ill will on others, I don’t know. How you can possibly lay this at our door? It’s unbelievable. If Annie were alive today she’d have your guts for garters—”
“Annie died?” said Dad. “When did that happen?”
The silence hissed. It went on and on and on.
Everyone was staring at my mother.
The clock’s ticking was deafening.
I felt like I was dreaming because the atmosphere was as if we were all caught in the still-frame of a camera. No one moved and no one spoke.
And then it was as if my mother couldn’t help it. I know that now. This sly smile just slid over her face like oil oozing across the surface of a well.
I was watching my dad, though. A strange understanding seemed to lighten his expression. His jaw slackened and when he spoke his voice was slurred and syrupy as if he’d had a stroke. “When? When did she die exactly, Vivien, because Agnes said she was looking after her when I called just a few weeks ago?”
“About then…”
“Where’s the body?”
“Wish Lane.”
“Embalmed?”
She laughed. “Well you taught me.”
Then my dad got his coat and walked out.
***
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hazel Quinn. On the night of the blizzard
After replacing the receiver, Hazel Quinn hurried back upstairs, swished shut the curtains and switched on a bedside lamp. Inside her custom-made wardrobes, row upon row of well-made dresses and coats hung categorised by colour. All bought from department stores in nearby Hanley or designed to order, they were mostly tweed suits or the new, fashionable swing skirts with netted petticoats underneath, along with twin-sets and court shoes. Christ, go out like that and she’d look like Sandra Dee…
It would be a painfully, unflattering comparison were she forced to stand next to Grace Holland in a demure full-skirted gown. No doubt the other woman would be wearing a tight wiggle-dress with a plunging neckline, complete with starlet red lipstick and winged, black-eyed liner.
She yanked from the hanger a classic forties dress her mother had once worn – a Dior pencil style in silver-grey wool she’d bought in Paris after the war, along with a fox fur coat. She didn’t either agree with or care for real fur but it had been bought now and the night was freezing; she may as well wear it. Grace would certainly be wearing hers.
The sound of snow smattering on the window keened her sense of urgency. Soon the roads would be impassable. Still, she was only going to Danby and back on what were flat roads; and not for long – purely to hear what this dreadful tartar of a woman had to say.
The first pair of stockings she pulled on ripped straight through. Rifling through the bottom drawer for a spare pair, she took care not to repeat the disaster because annoyingly it seemed there were no more. What about underwear? No, there wasn’t time to change or fuss about that and besides it was unlikely she’d take off the coat. A petticoat then, at least…and which shoes?
Once dressed, she regarded herself in the cheval mirror. And almost cried. Her eyes, still red-rimmed and puffy seemed to have sunk into the sockets, and her hair badly needed washing and setting, not to mention the roots touching-up. Frantically she set about back-combing it into a chignon, clipped and sprayed it into place then applied the brightest red lipstick she had, followed by face powder and a slick of eye-liner. Max didn’t like her wearing make-up but then he wasn’t here, was he? She smiled slightly at the thought and applied a little more; then pressed the lipstick in place with a tissue. Finally, she spritzed on some Chanel No. 5 and reached for her handbag. Better. There, yes, that looked more sophisticated, more in control.
Right, well it was now or never.
***
The Plug and Feather Hotel, or The Feathers as it was known locally, was on the High Street in the centre of Danby, its bar open to patrons of the hotel and diners in the restaurant. On a night like this however, there would be few customers, which was probably for the best since wherever Grace Holland went there was gossip - and two women having a drink on their own in a bar would definitely be noticed.
The prospect of being talked about was not one to be relished. It churned her up inside – all those people she barely knew referring to her as, ‘that poor woman.’ It played on her mind as she drove along the snow-covered road with the windscreen wipers on full. The tyres were skidding and she gripped the steering wheel, snow coming down thick and fast. She must be crazy to have come out in this. Why had she anyway? Because bloody Grace Holland told her to? Because anything was preferable to sitting home alone? Because there may be information that would help her divorce?
Something felt wrong, though. Should she turn around? Was this a huge mistake?
The high street was pretty deserted as well it might be, and after parking she sat for a few minutes outside the hotel in the tomb of the Jaguar, snowflakes flying onto the windscreen. Her hand hovered over the key to the ignition, the walnut dashboard gleaming under the streetlamp. If she turned the key she could be home again in twenty minutes, locking herself inside and Max out. A divorce would be in her favour. Her father’s businesses had been left to her and despite Max selling it on, the money was legally hers. She could start again. She didn’t have to be ridiculed in this way and made a fool of. Tears sprung into her eyes and she blinked rapidly to clear them. Come on now, Hazel, get out of the car and get this done. Then it will all be over. You’re a Danby and you are worth more than this – more than the pair of them put together. You can do this and you will do this.
Decision made.
Inside the hotel, Grace was already in the bar, cloistered in one of the booths by the fire.
She sat cradling a glass of brandy, swilling it round and round as if mesmerised. The draft from the door made her look up sharply and the two women locked stares, each taking in the other’s appearance. After several seconds too long for comfort, Grace indicated she should sit down opposite her in the booth.
Hazel turned instead towards the proprietor. “Would you mind awfully, bringing over a port and lemon, George?”
George, a portly gentleman of middling years who sported a girth befitting one well fed by the hotel kitchen and partial to a glass of ale, nodded amiably enough. “Right you are, duck.”
Her shoes resounded conspicuously on the floorboards as she walked, openly and fully observed by the other woman. A good thing, she thought to herself, that she hadn’t dashed out dressed sensibly for the weather after all, as the Parisian elegance of her mother’s outfit had given her some much-needed confidence. And besides, Grace Holland was in full evening dress as expected, clearly fresh from the performance she’d just given in Ludsmoor. An emerald gown flowed from beneath a fur coat similar to her own, and her black hair was coiffed into an elaborate mass of loops and coils on top of her head. With the lamp behind her, however, she had the advantage over Hazel, who would have the light dazzling in her face.
She pulled the chair around a little so that her back was both to the room and to the door. Fortunately, the lounge was devoid of any other clientele and with luck would stay that way. As far as she was concerned, the fewer people who saw them together, the better.
“Oh, thanks awfully,” she said to George, who set the port on the table in front of her, his pudgy hands trembling. He was not looking at herself though, Hazel realised, but gawping at Grace’s copious cleavage.
“Will that be all, ladies?”
“Yes thank you, George,” Hazel said, wishing he’d go away.
After taking a reviving sip, she pulled off her gloves and unclipped her handbag. “So,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice steady. “You called.”
“Well, I won’t beat about the bush, duck,” said Grace. Opening a packet of cigarettes she put one between her lips and offered one to Hazel. “Smoke?”
Hazel’s mouth dropped open. That night in Bakewell she’d barely heard the woman speak – the men had done all the talking; Vivien’s children had been playing up, and because she was so full of flu and so miserable, the all-consuming focus had been on Max and how entranced he was with this woman… this… She struggled to slot Grace into some kind of mould, to rationalise how she felt right here and now in this moment… and then it clicked in a heartbeat and she almost laughed. Grace Holland was, as her mother would have said, as common as muck – a trollop! Oh, it was nothing to do with her accent or how much money she did or didn’t have. Rather it was entirely to do with her manners.
She took a cigarette and allowed Grace to light it for her. She rarely smoked, but now and again it was a little pleasure and besides, it would give her something to do with her hands, keep the nerves at bay. “I ought not to stay long. Max might be home soon. He’s probably delayed with this frightful weather.”
Grace leaned forwards in a conspiratorial manner, blew smoke to one side, then stared at her long and hard.
In her mid to late thirties, Hazel thought, and close up she’s starting to look it. The ruby lipstick from her upper lip had bled vertically in spidery lines; and underneath her eyes the skin had caved into the orbit a little, giving the haunted look of an insomniac. Rings glittered on every finger of both hands; a gold locket shone around her throat, diamanté twinkled in her hair, more gold jangling at her wrists. Like a gypsy, Hazel thought – a beautiful, wild exotic gypsy. She’d still be the same in twenty years, thirty… or more…but wizened and weathered - someone who wouldn’t be playing by any rules.
“He won’t be back tonight, duck,” Grace said, watching her every thought.
She fought to keep self-control, picked up the port to stop herself from shaking and took a deep drink, letting it course heat down the funnel of her throat. “And how would you know that, Ms Holland?”
There was no answer and she took another drink. Put down the glass.
“Look, why have you asked me here? Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“You surely can’t be immune to the gossip, Hazel? About me and Max?”
Again she fought with her self-control. She took another drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out. “Look here, since you’ve asked me come out on this dreadful night I think the least you can do is tell me what it is you want. Is it to ask me to divorce Max? If it is you can jolly well have him, you really can—”
Grace shook her head. “No. I knew you’d be thinking that and that’s what I said to ’im, as like—”
“Oh, you’ve discussed it, then, the pair of you?” Glancing over her shoulder she noticed George hovering nearby, polishing the next table to a high sheen. She glared at him until he took the hint then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Like I said, you can have him. Just don’t expect a wealthy man because he’s stony broke without me. He’s a jobbing salesman and nothing more. You do know that, of course?”
The flicker of a ghost passed behind Grace’s eyes. “I won’t deny as he’s asked me, and I won’t deny I were tempted – yes, he does want to leave you for me - but I dunna want ’im, duck. A man like that – I don’t know as ’ow you put up with it. I feel sorry for you.”
Despite her palms itching to slap the other woman’s face, Hazel swallowed the rest of her port in one and prepared to stand up. “Now look here, it seems to me we’ve nothing more to say to each other. Like I said, darling, I intend to divorce him so you can have him.”
“And like I said, I dunna bloody want ’im.”
“Well, that’s rather up to you, isn’t it? I’m going home now. I really don’t know why you asked me here. Why did you, Grace? Just to say you could have my husband if you wanted him but you don’t? To try and humiliate me even more than you have already?”
“No. I wanted to tell you where he is and who he’s with tonight, so you know as who to put on th’ divorce papers.”
“Oh, I see. You want me to do your dirty work. You get Max but you don’t get named on the divorce petition? And while I’m here you can make sure I’ll go ahead with it by painting him as even more of a heel. How dim do you think I am?”
Grace stubbed out her cigarette. “You’ve got it wrong, duck. I’ve told you – I don’t want him. But I do think he should be taught a lesson, a man like that – ruining th’ reputations of women miles around, including mine. I thought you and I might, you know, be the ones to do it?”
With her gloves half on, Hazel paused. “How do you mean, taught a lesson? What have you got in mind?”
Grace smiled, leaned over and pressed her hand.
Hazel snatched it away.
“Alright, ’ave it your own way. But don’t tell me it wouldn’t give you a nice warm feeling to make sure he doesn’t get a penny? And to have evidence of what ’e’s doing and how ’e’s cheating on you? It’s about self-respect, really, isn’t it, Hazel? I’ll not deny it would give me a bit o’ satisfaction an ’all.”
George was hovering again. “More drinks ladies?” he asked Grace’s chest.
“If they’re on the house, duck,” said Grace, smiling up at him.
Hazel covered her glass. “No, I’m driving home in a minute and it’s treacherous out there.”
George came back with a bottle of brandy and filled both glasses to the brim. “That’ll warm you up nicely, ladies.”
Grace wriggled a little more and smiled from under her eyelashes. “It’s doing just the job is that, George.”
The moment he returned to the bar, however, Grace’s smile vanished in an eclipse. She leaned close. “I’m going to come clean with you now, duck. I said as I felt sorry for you but that’s not the ’alf of it. It’s because he’s done th’ same to me. I know as you’re ’is wife and I shouldn’t ’ave got involved with a married man but I did. I fell for the bugger and now ’e’s with someone else so I know as ’ow you feel, I really do. I can tell you who, and I can tell you where. And then there’s also that young lass he knocked up in Leek who—”
“What?”
“Oh aye, duck, and thems just th’ ones as I know about.”
A dull, sickly thud slammed into her chest. He had a child somewhere!
“I’ll tell you something else, an’ all.” Grace finished the brandy and beckoned George over for a refill, indicating Hazel should do the same.
“Drink it up, duck, it’ll help with th’ shock. Anyhow, the way I see it we’ve both been well and truly shafted. We’ve been hurt, both of us. But I’ve thought of a way t’ give him a taste of his own medicine and I think as you should ’ear it.”
Still reeling, Hazel downed the brandy, accepted the next one and downed that. Grace’s face blurred and a fire in her head ignited. It seemed her husband had been courting other women not just over the last few months but the last few years. With every word the stab of realisation bore deeper. Everyone in town must know. He had come home to her with the stain of other women’s sweat still on his skin.
Another brandy swilled before her and the ceiling started to spin. God, her face was hot. Who was it laughing so loudly? Herself?
A bell rang. An arm under her elbow. A blast of icy air in her face. Stumbling drunkenly into the oddly phosphorescent light of the snowy street, she found herself linking arms with Grace, the ground slipping underneath her heels.
Grace took her Osprey handbag and rooted through it for the keys. “Don’t worry, duck, I’ll drive. I need a lift ’ome anyway.”
Hazel leaned against the car. “Don’t you live up at Ludsmoor? I’d have to get back.”
“Stay th’ night with us, duck. You’re too drunk to drive and besides, you’ll not want to be on your own tonight.”
“I expect that’s not too bad an idea, actually. If you’re sure your mother won’t mind?”
“And I’ve those photos t’ show you. That ’usband of yours inna goin’ t’ get a penny by th’ time you’ve finished with ’im.”
It was funny, she thought, as Grace started up the car, how swimmy her mind felt, at the same time as something scalpel sharp jabbed in her guts: a feeling – for the second time that evening – that this was all wrong.
***
The journey up to Ludsmoor was perilous, with the Jaguar swerving from side to side, its back end sliding. Through far more of a stupor than Hazel thought the three drinks had merited – or was it four? – apprehension goosed all over her skin. There was a look on Grace Holland’s face as she clutched the steering wheel that seemed to her to be unnaturally calm; a steely determination quite at odds with the conspiratorial, tipsy friend from earlier in the evening. With the windscreen wipers flipping rapidly back and forth and visibility down to a matter of inches, the car whirred and skidded, skating horizontally across the lane.
“We’ll not make it,” said Hazel. God, the heat in her face was insufferable. She was going to be sick.
“Yes we will. Did you put a spade in th’ boot?”
“Yes.”
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