Jean looked pleased at this.
“Jamie’s a nice lad. He does seem to have found his way back to some degree of normality. I wondered for a while if he would go the same way as Simon, but he pulled himself together. Helped to have his sister there, and Didi really did sterling work with him, for a long time. She nursed him for months without help. Daphne and Bob did what they could for Simon, but it wasn’t the same. At the very least, Hendra was quiet. Visick House is a bear garden at the best of times. When Simon came home from France there were already five boys in the nursery there, and another on the way. His problems were not physical, not really. It was his mind that was so unstable.”
She sighed, then collected the empty cups and took them to the sink. She put together the things she had mentioned, wrapping them in a piece of brown paper and tying the lot up with a scrap of string, scribbling a message on the top.
“You know, William didn’t always have that beard,” she said thoughtfully. “He grew it to hide the awful pockmarks he was left with after suffering from chickenpox, of all things, when he was twenty. It’s the same with the scars we can’t see. Some people can grow defences, to hide their scars. Others are left without. Simon has never learnt to cover his, poor soul.”
“And Jamie?” asked Juliana, gathering up the parcel as she readied herself to leave.
Jean clucked under her breath.
“Jamie learnt fast,” she replied. “He had to. It was the only way to win his mother back.”
This was something that Juliana could fully understand. Damaris’ dislike of her mother made more sense now too. She had nursed her brother when he had returned sick, in the same house as a woman who wrote off his illness as an annoyance and an embarrassment. Jamie’s desire for maternal love could be seen as a direct result of the trauma he had witnessed during his formative years. Emotionally he was still a boy, despite his age and his independence. The way he clung to his sister, and to his friend; that need was what kept him here.
Juliana turned at the door.
“Adrien seems more balanced about it all.”
“He was older when he went. He was already a man. He had his problems too, but he was more equipped to deal with them.”
Jean looked at her guest, and seemed about to say something else. Juliana waited. There was something about her time here that was not being said, by anyone. She got the feeling that they all knew it, or suspected it, but no one wanted to break the silence. Finally, Jean gave a weak smile.
“There is nothing else we can do now about them. Just give them love and support. And understanding, when needed.”
Juliana knew that was not what she had intended to say, but knew also that she would get nothing further out of Jean. She thanked her hostess again, and said goodbye. Outside she stooped to retie her shoelaces, then set off from the house, intending to go straight back through the town and up the cliff path. The walk would do her good. Her mind was spinning, sticking on each rotation on what was not being said. Jamie had mentioned something that had happened in the autumn of that year, then changed the subject. Now Jean had done the same. What had Jean been about to say about Adrien that caused that look of concern?
Chapter 8
Walking briskly past the harbour, Juliana saw David Roskelly by his boat. He waved at her, a great smile splitting his face, and she waved back gladly. It was good to see someone so content with life. She was dreading another silent luncheon like the day before, when the rain had thrummed down relentlessly, the noise clear even inside the house. Adrien had obviously been thinking of something else and had been practically dumb during the meal, and Fancy had been in one of her sweetly caustic moods, a situation that Juliana already recognised was more easily coped with by remaining silent herself.
Juliana found that she had plenty of time before she had to go back home. Lunch was still two hours away, so she tucked the parcel under her arm and decided to make the most of the weather. She would continue past Trevennen and take the parcel up to Jamie’s friend right there and then. With luck Simon would be out, and she could simply leave the package somewhere safe and not see him again.
Turning at the point where Jamie had left her the other day, the path lead almost due south, into the midday sun, making her blink and raise the parcel to shade her eyes. Remembering her previous ramble and Jean’s instructions, she carried along the rough track, which cleaved to the hills as it wound this way and that. Pushing past a granite outcrop chinked with thick furze, she found a small copse of trees, with a rocky bank that gave some protection from the path of the wind over the moor. Between the trees and rocks was what had to be Simon’s hut.
The shepherd’s hut was old; long exposure to the elements had contracted the planks from which it had originally been constructed, and there were signs of repair work in the chinking between boards. It had been painted various colours over the years, red and green visible under the final flaking outer coat of blue. One of the wheels was missing and the structure rested instead on a pile of rocks, carefully built up underneath the axle. Juliana walked around it, hesitating.
“Mr Cundy?”
There was no answer, and as she peeped through the door she could see that the inside was empty. She put the parcel from Jean onto the top step, wondering how he managed, alone out here on the edge of the moor. Against her better judgement, she started to look around. The open door showed a spartan interior to the hut, with a simple box bed at the far end, covered neatly with a faded pink blanket. A plank table and stool sat to one side, the tabletop covered with books. There was a shelf holding cups and plates, a blackened frying pan and enamel milk pan hanging underneath. A tin chest completed the furniture, topped with a faintly scorched blanket and a flat-iron.
Brushing past a washing line of thin rope, along which were pegged a couple of damp shirts, she circled to the back of the hut. Sheltered under the eaves, two rabbits swung gently by the ears, their black eyes sunken. On a second hook hung an ancient tin bath, misshapen round the edge with one end heavily notched, as if an axe had struck it.
On the other side of the hut there was a small spring that gushed from the hill, and someone had placed an enamel pail next to it. An incongruously gay striped towel made a spot of colour against the surrounding rock, along with a chunk of yellow soap, still with a froth of suds upon it. A short distance away was a fireplace next to a neat pile of turf squares, along with several bundles of bracken and dry furze. The fire had not been banked, and as the kettle that hung there began to steam, Juliana knew that Simon was close by.
Even with the valid excuse of her delivery of Jean’s parcel, she knew that she was intruding, and had nothing to say for herself when she straightened up to find Simon standing by his home, fists balled at his side. The snares he had been carrying dropped to the ground, thin strings of wire coiling and waving against his boots, the pegs bobbing slowly. He was so tense that his shoulders were raised like an animal readying itself against attack.
She felt her face flushing and tried a smile, but it faltered at the ferocity of his gaze.
“I brought you something,” she said quickly, indicating the steps next to him. “From Jean…”
Her voice tailed off. Simon said nothing, raising his right hand slowly and biting at a ragged thumbnail. His face was perfectly still, apart from a vein in his forehead, which pushed rapidly against his skin from the inside, pulsing even as his body stilled. Finally his eyes left her face and flickered to the parcel. Recognising Jean’s pretty handwriting, his shoulders dropped a little, and his hands relaxed as he looked back across the grass.
“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice a deep one, with Yorkshire overtones.
Juliana remembered that he had come from the North, that he had spent the first part of his childhood up there, before he was orphaned. His accent still reflected that part of his history.
“I was down at Vickery House,” she chattered, desperate to fill the silence. “Jean said she had promised you those things,
but you left before she had a chance to put them together for you.”
She flushed, still embarrassed. Then, with relief, she remembered Jean’s children and their request.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. Joly and Lintie sent you something too.”
She dug deep into her pockets, solaced that she had remembered the sweets. Out came her hat, one child’s glove, a handkerchief, and a handful of old chestnuts and pebbles, along with two lead soldiers and a doll’s dress. The children must have been using her coat pockets in their game. Finally she found the paper twist and produced it with a flourish, to find that Simon was watching her performance with something like interest on his face.
“They’re a bit sticky, I’m afraid,” she said, holding out the paper bag.
She looked at it askance.
“I’m actually not sure that Joly didn’t try some of them out first.”
Simon walked over, like a cautious dog approaching a stranger. He came only as close as he had to, and pinched the paper neatly with his fingertips. Cupping the bag gently, he smelled the liquorice, and his mouth twitched into a half-smile.
“I am Julian—” she began, but he stopped her.
“I know who you are,” he said.
He looked down at her with a strange expression on his face. She had difficulty in making it out, and decided she was wrong. Why would Simon Cundy be jealous of her?
“You live at Trevennen. Mr Creed’s wife,” he continued.
He smiled, not an entirely nice smile.
“Jamie told me about you. You’re the dead woman who lived.”
Juliana looked at him with her mouth open as the breath caught in her throat. In one sentence, this unknown man had summed up exactly how she felt here. The dead woman who lived; the ghost who had come back to life to find that she no longer fit in her space. She opened her mouth to speak, but with those unsettling words, Simon evidently considered the conversation at an end. He picked up the paper package and swung himself up the wooden steps and into the hut. The lower half of the door shut abruptly and the ragged curtain flicked over the open space at the top; she heard a creaking as though he had thrown himself down on the bed, and then there was silence from the interior.
Juliana was more than happy to turn and walk from the copse. Unnerved by the encounter, she walked home swiftly, a feeling of panic assailing her. She felt that her cover had been blown and that with a few careless words Simon had torn her mask apart. In London she had constructed a world where her missing memories did not play a part. Now she was ripped from the frame she had constructed. She was back where she was apparently meant to be, but she was unsure if she still fit into the jigsaw puzzle that was life at Trevennen. Discussions over the past week had led her to believe that everyone here thought her to have changed. She sensed that kid gloves were being worn. Conversations were taking place, but not everything was being said.
Adrien was a particular mystery. Juliana was bewildered by him. His sudden changes of temperament were confusing. At times he was kind, solicitous, a man who was delighted that his wife was returned to him. And others he withdrew, stood off to the side and watched. There was also the question of what else he had not told her about their life before. There was more to be discovered there, she was sure of it.
Each night Adrien came to say good night to her, and then he left her and went to his dressing room, and she heard him lock his door. She was grateful that he did not suppose immediately that she would want to share her room and bed, although she admitted that there was attraction between them. She felt it, clear as sunlight at dawn. And on some subconscious level, her body recognised him. When he kissed her goodnight, his breath warm on her cheek, his hands gentle on her shoulders, she felt the response deep down. She had known intimacy with this man, in this room, in the bed that she now slept in alone. And she had seen in his eyes that he remembered too.
But that was as far as their physical relationship went. The odd touch, the brief kiss on the forehead or cheek. She admitted that she was not ready to move forward with him too fast, but there seemed to be something else in the way, something else between them that was not just her memory loss. And what if it never came back? Would the ritual continue, with each of them on the other side of the wall, the door between them forever locked?
With that she arrived back at the house and realised with a start that the trip up to the hut and the resultant meeting had taken less time than it had seemed. It had upset her so much that she felt hours ought to have passed, but it was still only just twelve thirty. The church bell, chiming the half hour, was faintly audible as she rounded the side of the house. Another half hour to pass before luncheon—she wondered how to fill it.
It turned out not to be a problem. For once, both Adrien and Fancy had called to say they would not be home until later. On the step by the side door, Florence sat crying. It was her birthday, her first in service, and because Fancy had arranged that all the staff take separate afternoons off, she had no one to celebrate with. Juliana forgot her own problems when faced with her maid’s unhappiness. This was the sort of problem she had been called upon to solve often in London, and she was a little shamed at the fact that she enjoyed it so much.
It took less than half an hour. She gave them all the afternoon off, to be spent in Mawnaccan at the cinema. Sending all three of them to get ready, she called Margaret and booked the taxi for the afternoon. While waiting in the hall for the motor to arrive, she passed a ten-shilling note to Mrs Fennell.
“Please take the girls for a good tea before you go to the cinema. Wherever you think nicest. And get some chocolates, too, for the show. Miss Margaret will bring you back afterwards.”
“Are you sure you can cope, Mrs Creed? I don’t want to leave you in the lurch,” the cook replied with an anxious glance at her employer. She paused. “Mrs Evans won’t be pleased.”
“I can make my own lunch—my husband and Mrs Evans are out, apparently. And I can make tea, and cope with dinner too. You have organised everything so nicely. Now, please go with the girls and enjoy yourselves. I will deal with Mrs Evans.”
After the taxi had gone, she ate her lunch in the kitchen and then did the washing up, although she had been told to leave it for later. Splashing the suds in the sink, she rather enjoyed it. Washing up had been one of her least favourite things about living on Brewer Street, but she found that she had missed it. As she did so, she thought about what Fancy was going to say. Her housekeeping had been on the old-fashioned side. Damaris had told her that the house had trouble keeping maids for any length of time, and Juliana began to understand why.
Fancy arrived home mid-afternoon. The first intimation Juliana had of her return was a peremptory ring on the bell from the library. She had already filled the kettle with fresh water, and set it to boil. Once the tea had been made, she set the pot and the hot water jug on the tea trolley Florence had prepared earlier and made for the library, hearing the bell ring again as she did so. She set her jaw and prepared for battle.
Fancy was cross at the amount of time it had taken for anyone to show up. She was dumbfounded when Juliana turned up with the trolley, although she quickly found the sharp side of her tongue.
“Where on earth is everyone! I rang for tea ages ago!”
“Ten minutes, Fancy. Hardly ages,” Juliana replied, pouring out a cup and handing it to her companion.
“How do you know?” Fancy asked sharply, reaching out for the lemon she preferred.
“Because I was in the kitchen waiting for you. I boiled the kettle myself and I know it was exactly ten minutes until I appeared. No one could have done it quicker.”
“You might have sent one of the girls to tell me,” Fancy grumbled, then her eyes narrowed. “Why were you boiling the kettle? I know you like to pretend you are a modern woman, but we keep servants for a reason, Juliana!”
“Ada and Florence, and Mrs Fennell too, are in Mawnaccan enjoying an afternoon of leisure together. Would you like a sandwich, Fancy?”<
br />
She took the cloth from a plate of tongue sandwiches. The other woman was flushed with anger.
“I have arranged the household so that this does not happen, Juliana! For goodness’ sake, you can’t have all of them gallivanting off whenever they like!”
“Hardly gallivanting.” Juliana poured and drank some tea, and forced herself to eat a sandwich with nonchalance. “And it was my decision, not theirs. It is Florence’s birthday today, so I gave them leave to go out together.”
Fancy’s eyes narrowed and her mouth became, if possible, even thinner. Juliana continued.
“No wonder we can’t keep maids, Fancy. They need to be able to enjoy their time off, and there is precious little around here to do on one’s own. I have told Ada and Florence that they may take Wednesdays off together, and Mrs Fennell is at liberty to take whichever afternoon she wants.”
“And who is going to serve lunch and tea? And prepare dinner?” Fancy scoffed.
“It looks like it will have to be one of us,” said Juliana, taking another sandwich.
Part of her was enjoying the look of rage on Fancy’s face, although she knew she would have to pay for it.
“All that is required is boiling water and making a pot of tea. And we can serve dinner ourselves. It’s all ready to go, except for the soup, and that’s easily reheated. Not difficult.”
“May I remind you that I have charge of the housekeeping,” Fancy shot back, “and have done ever since you… left us. I can’t have you countermanding my orders without asking me.”
Juliana realised that Fancy always alluded to her disappearance as something that she, Juliana, might have prevented. She had a sudden flash of her nightmare, the scrabbling on the cliff edge, and her resolve grew. She was tired of the sly insinuations.
“I agree,” Juliana replied coolly. “So I shall be taking over from today. Thank you for all you have done to help Adrien since my accident. It is appreciated by everyone. But I am back now, and will be more than happy to relieve you of those duties. Think of all the time you’ll save!”
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 14