‘Past the farmyard. Third, no fourth left. Yes, it’s Willow Lane. But none of the houses numbered…’
‘Nothing quite so vulgar. This is Surrey, remember!’
‘Jacastar. Swan Song. Avalon. But look, there’s 57. So, by a process of deduction…’
‘… 52 must be three back on the opposite side.’
Twisting in his seat, Peter reversed the car. Back past the well-trimmed hedge, to a gate that stood half-open.
‘52 it is.’ He eased himself from the driving seat. ‘Unless someone’s switched letter-boxes.’
‘Or we’ve got the wrong lane entirely.’
Our mission had got off to a disappointing start. A full month gone by since the Roadshow; several weeks since we’d begun the preliminary research, but still no response from Chunky, Andrew, Tim and the rest of the gang. Howard, now a successful banker in New Zealand, had little to contribute. Nor had my own efforts via the library network proved any more successful. The breakthrough came via ‘Floral Lady’. We’d approached the television company and drawn another blank. Hardly surprising, when the only information we could supply was Peter’s two-word epithet and a ham-fisted description of her pictures. Nor was it their policy to divulge personal information. They’d contact the lady should she be traced, but up to her whether or not she responded. As for Frank Murgatroyd, he was off filming in Jamaica, followed by a book tour in America.
Lateral thinking was obviously required, which was Peter’s department. He began with the facts as we knew them. The programme had been broadcast from Guildford. Recorded during the summer months if Floral Lady’s dress was anything to go by; had contained several references to a royal visitation, which pinpointed the date even more precisely: June. Presumably the target of our research lived in the vicinity, or was visiting it at that time; a lady of uncertain age but, with neither name nor address, either married or single, giving us precious little to go on. So why not place a ‘missing persons’ advertisement in the papers? Not the nationals; it hardly merited the expense and would attract just the kind of fortune hunters the television company was attempting to avoid. As would any suggestion of a reward. One of the locals then. If displayed prominently enough the lady or her friends might see it; if plaintively worded, she might even respond. The Writers and Artists Year Book was consulted for local newspapers serving the area, a telephone call made, and we struck lucky first time. Annabelle, duty receptionist, was not only aware of the event, she’d been there herself.
‘Along with my boyfriend, Ted. Lovely two-page spread they made of it, pictures and all. Back-copies? No problem. Yes, a cheque will do nicely.’
The feature was better than we’d dared hope. More photos than text, mostly in colour and all of them helpfully captioned. The cathedral a spectacular backdrop to this popular series, shots of the public streaming in, attics ransacked, heirlooms retrieved from storage, Frank himself, the Murgo moment caught in vivid close-up. Best of all, a half-page portrait of those selected to appear in the programme, with Floral Lady tucked away to one side, clutching Fiddlers Three protectively to her bosom. Miss Mildred Jamieson according to the caption. A further call to Annabelle was all that was required. Our luck held out. She’d worked in the correspondence department at the time, was certain the lady concerned had ordered a copy of the photo, but:
‘More than my job’s worth to give you the address.’
Not even to Dr Rayner? The lady his long-lost aunt? At death’s door?
‘Well, in that case…’
We had the address but attempts at telephonic communication proved unsuccessful. Directory Enquiries came up with no one of that name in the Guildford area, so perhaps she was ex-directory. Which explains how a few weeks later, en route south to Bereden and with the help of local residents, we’d pushed open the gate, crunched our way up the gravel driveway, and were knocking, unannounced, at number 52, Willow Lane, Tilswick.
Floral Lady appeared much the same as she had done on television. Shorter perhaps and no longer dressed for the occasion. Somewhat older – well into her forties/early fifties I’d say – wearing a green smock-type dress, with slate-grey hair drawn back into a bun and spliced with a tortoise shell comb. She seemed happy enough to see us, peering cheerfully through glasses hung about her neck on a beaded chain. All of which changed the moment she learnt of our mission. The pictures were not that important; might well be fakes. She’d taken them to the Roadshow on impulse; the producer had no permission to divulge her whereabouts. Sensing that the door was about to be slammed in our faces, I pitched in as well. My husband was a university lecturer, celebrated in the field, awarded a doctorate for his studies; he’d known the artist as a child. All to no avail. Peter was about to place his foot in the doorway, I’d taken his arm to drag him away, when there were footsteps advancing from the interior; the sound of a stick beaten briskly on wooden floor.
‘Don’t stand there all day, Mildred. Can’t you see they mean us no harm. For Heaven’s sake, let them in!’ The voice from the interior was querulous yet sharp.
‘Mildred’ visibly swayed, torn between the strangers who’d arrived unannounced on her doorstep and the elderly lady who appeared behind her, leaning heavily on a stick.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ She’d turned her attention to us. ‘Come in now, before I change my mind, and make sure you wipe your feet. Better still, take your shoes off. Can’t have half of Surrey over my carpets!’
Mildred stood reluctantly aside as we were ushered into the front room and settled down to introduce ourselves. Our hosts were unrelated, so we discovered; Floral Lady – I still thought of her that way – the companion (‘more of a friend, really’) to Mrs Geraldine Leapman, catering for her every need in return for board, lodging and a small stipend. They were not listed in the telephone directory and had no independent postal address, explaining why she’d been so difficult to trace. Meanwhile, I was taking stock of our surroundings: flock rose-burst wallpaper, faded carpet of oriental design, heavy curtains that dropped ceiling to floor. A corded bell-pull, and two large winged armchairs had been drawn up to face the velvet-covered settee on which we lounged. Large oak beams ran wall to wall above our heads. Embers smouldered in an open grate. What light there was came from a number of lamps set into the walls. And between them hung the pictures: a florid version of Tennyson’s Lotos-Eaters; quite obviously a ‘Saintley’, directly facing us; beside it a painting in the same style with two illuminated scripts to our right. These were interspersed with a number of embroideries, whilst there, above the mantelpiece, largely in shadow but instantly recognisable, was Fiddlers Three.
‘Go on, have a closer look.’ Geraldine realised that our attention had wandered. ‘I know you’re dying to.’ Peter needed no encouragement. He was on his feet in an instant, striding about the room from one picture to the next.
The old lady followed his progress with interest. ‘A great improvement on that ghastly television man. Margo, Mingo, whatever. Made quite an impression on some of us, though.’ The companion, who’d retired to a corner, flinched, her eyes darting between the three of us. ‘Yes, it was Mildred here you saw playing the starring role. With my pictures. Sharing them with the likes of him, and God knows who else once my back was turned.’
‘But I thought you’d be pleased. I’ve told you that a million times. A nice surprise waiting when you got out of hospital.’
‘Nice surprise? Anyone, but anyone, might have come knocking on our door! And what’s this they’re telling me? About their interest in the programme? Explains those letters from the television company, doesn’t it? The ones you mislaid. Those telephone calls as well. From the hospital, concerning my recovery so you said. The perfect cover up.’
‘None of this would have happened if you’d been open with me. Told me the truth.’ Mildred dabbed at her eyes with a miniscule handkerchief.
Gera
ldine softened. ‘Well, I suppose you’re right there. I’ve only myself to blame.’ She turned to Peter. ‘Go on, have a good look. There can’t be many of us around who appreciate them. A university man especially. Might have known you’d grow up that way. One of the “experts” Jimmy hated so much. He’d have disowned you in a second.’
‘You knew Jimmy?’ Peter swung round to face her. ‘Myself as well? Is that what you’re suggesting?’
‘Forgotten me have you? Well, I don’t think I’d have recognised you, either.’ The old lady shook her head. ‘Not after all these years. Absent-minded I may be; sometimes unable to recall what I did or didn’t do an hour ago. But years, they’re different. Ten, fifteen, twenty go by and the memories stay put, clear as a bell. Jimmy’s bell, in fact. Saint wasn’t it? Used to sign his pictures that way. And don’t look so put out, Peter. It’s me that should be shocked. Forgetting me like that when we were so close. Quite led him astray I did.’ She’d turned to me, her tone playful, coquettish almost. ‘If he’d been just a tad older, a little more experienced, you might well have had yourself a rival, my dear. So, do get him to sit down, won’t you?’ She moved along the settee and thumped on one of the large cushions beside her. ‘And, don’t you slope off, Mildred. The poor man looks quite put out. A cup of our special brew, if you please, to restore his memory.’
From the speed with which Mildred regained her composure I guessed upsets of this kind were not unusual in the Leapman household. Putting away her handkerchief, she produced a small mahogany box from one of the cupboards. The kind I’d come across in antique shops, or on show in National Trust properties, but never seen put to any practical use. Compartments on either side contained Chinese and Indian tea; a glass bowl fitted snugly in between them. Mildred removed the silver spoon slotted into the lid and mixed the leaves in roughly equal portions.
In the meantime Geraldine chatted on. ‘Quite a ritual, isn’t it? Rather more refined than Jimmy’s tea-bomb version, but just as effective don’t you think? The wonder is you didn’t die of food poisoning, the lot of you. Still, there was rationing then, which gave him some excuse, I suppose. What was it, two and a half ounces a week? And stop looking so surprised, Peter. The wind will change and your face will stay fixed, as that schoolteacher would have said. Quigley, Quantock, whatever her name was. And don’t go thinking I’m following in her footsteps, poor soul. Like I say, the older one gets, the sharper one’s long-term memories.’ She tapped her head. ‘All the same, it’s not very flattering for a lady not to be recognised. You tell him, dear.’
Her last comment was addressed to me. Peter had taken his place, as instructed, cup balanced precariously on knee, beside her. Wondering, he told me later, if this was a dream. Whether it was he, Geraldine, or both of them who’d lost their mind. Now, the mention of Miss Quintock brought him forward in the seat, suddenly all attention.
‘Coming back to you now, is it?’ Geraldine’s tone was conciliatory. ‘Just like the old days, in fact. So eager to help you were then, remember? When there was no one else I could rely on. All fifteen years of you. So willing to please.’
‘Wait a minute! Just give me time to think.’ Peter slurped down the rest of his tea and Mildred sprang forward to rescue cup and saucer as he slumped back, eyes closed, vigorously massaging his forehead. ‘The reporter. On the track of Jimmy’s paintings. Tricked me into believing in her. Got me into all sorts of trouble. Jimmy too. Trusted every word you said when all along…’
‘… I meant you harm?’ The old lady shook her head. ‘Believe me, Peter, if anyone had a secret, something to hide, it was Jimmy not me. I never meant to hurt him. Why else do you think I’ve kept his pictures all these years? And I’m sorry, really I am, if I got you into trouble, but think back, honestly now. Did any harm come from it? Isn’t the truth of it that you were getting just the tiny bit tired of all those stories? You weren’t all that complimentary about them, you know. Not the way I remember it. Quite the little grown-up in fact; condescending about his popularity with the ‘little ones’ – yes, that’s really what you called them! High-minded about the need to protect him, but no holding back. Not once I turned on the charm.’ She reached out, depressed a switch, plunging her part of the room into semi-darkness. ‘One of my “tricks of the light”. Remember?’
Peter made no reply. No need. He remembered alright. And I could tell that, just as certainly, took no pleasure in doing so…
* * *
She’d appeared one evening. A lonely figure, muffled against the March wind, there at the bus stop. Meeting someone from town, I’d assumed from my vantage-point on the top deck, except that I knew everyone in the village – their friends, and their relatives; in those days Bereden was that sort of place – but she was a stranger. I gave it no further thought, until:
‘It’s Peter, isn’t it?’
She’d stepped aside to let the few late shoppers pass; was smiling down at me and, as she spoke, the street lamp overhead flared suddenly into life. Later it became a joke between us. One of her tricks of the light we called it. That part I did remember – and being instantly on my guard. We were a close-knit community in those days and wary of strangers. Came with the territory, I suppose, or a legacy of war-time stories carried over into the peace: foreign agents and German spies, poisoned apples left for children to eat along with booby-trapped toys. The fact that she knew my name made me doubly suspicious, so it must have been her confidence that won me round.
Together with the flattery. She treated me as an equal, unlike my parents or the teachers at my new school where all the questions, so it seemed, were designed to catch you out. Quite the ‘little grown up’ as Geraldine said, distancing me from childhood and everything associated with it. She was right about my attitude to Jimmy as well. Only a few years had passed since I’d been enthralled with his stories yet already they’d been relegated, along with nursery rhymes and fairy tales, to the realms of infancy. I’d humoured Howard by listening to his re-telling of the Jutish saga in a patronising sort of way whilst dismissing it, as did my teachers, and as all good GCE students should.
All of which I’d chosen to forget – until Geraldine appeared and brought it back to my attention.
I’d not have recognised her otherwise; never have taken the angular bird-like figure eyeing me from across the room, silver haired, chair-bound almost, for the attractive, well-proportioned creature who’d waylaid me all those years ago. Thirty by a quick estimation: the same, approximately, as the difference in our ages. That gimmick with the table lamp was typical, though, as was the smile accompanying it, the slight shrug of the shoulders, the way she held her body. Shrunk into herself now, dependent upon her stick, but the personality remained intact. Except that in those days she was calling herself Veronica – Veronica Flack.
Just passing through the village, she said. As if anyone ‘passed through’ Bereden. Interested in local history she was: the church, Amberstone Hall, Toll Booth Lane, the Tanneries. She even had a map of sorts. Had tried all the usual sources, but the vicar had been away, they’d been uncommunicative at the Jugged Hare and she didn’t feel up to disturbing Sir Desmond. No one, in fact, had been willing to talk to her; well, that figured. Then someone had mentioned my name. Too busy to spare the time themselves, but young Master Rayner was her best bet. ‘Young Master’ – a brilliant stroke that, elevating me several rungs up the social ladder whilst playing to my vanity. It had a splendid ring to it as well, Dickensian almost; I imagined the unknown villager – I never did get round to asking her who it was – doffing his cap as he spoke. It was only later, months after she’d gone, that I reflected on the improbability of such a scenario, the skill with which she’d baited her hook. But she’d not won me over yet. Not quite. For all the naivety there was still an inborn distrust of strangers lingering down there beneath the surface.
She’d picked up on this almost immediately and changed tack; rummag
ed through her handbag, shook loose a cigarette from the packet and – the very last thing I expected – offered me one! I’d never yet smoked, let alone been invited to; was flattered beyond measure, yet had no idea how to respond. I’d seen it done a thousand times on screen: the casual selection from the pack, the tapping of the cigarette on the back of one’s hand, a single flick of the lighter, better still, the shared intimacy of a single match. As for me, I stood dumb, wide-eyed, no doubt jaw-sagging, for what seemed an eternity. Veronica appeared neither to notice nor to care. Cradling her fingers against the breeze, she lit up, green eyes narrowing above high cheekbones as she inhaled, settled down on one of the benches beneath the glass canopy, indicating that I should join her. By now she’d removed her beret, releasing an auburn-red cascade that danced about her shoulders, down onto the tightly belted, pleasantly bulging raincoat, as she spoke. This she did in a straightforward, uninhibited manner whilst I, unaccustomed to such treatment, merely sat, half-listening and admired. It was love at first sight.
My knowledge of the village was her first concern, she said, whilst my fervid imaginings conjured up what the others might be. They’d told her I was the person to ask, and good advice, no mistake about it; wasn’t that a St Hugh’s badge on my blazer? So kind, as well, prepared to talk like this to a perfect stranger. Prepared to talk? I would have granted her anything. The hook well and truly baited, she now proceeded to reel me in.
The information she required appeared straightforward enough, nor was there anything suspicious about her being here. Bereden was an attractive village; church, turnpike, hall and mill were of historic interest and quite obviously there were stories to be told. And it was the telling as much as the content in which she seemed interested, which again should have put me on my guard when, for all their distrust of outsiders, there were others older and more knowledgeable who might have been persuaded to oblige. Naturally, I did little to solicit such help, leaving her delightfully in my charge. A difficulty was my being at school all day with her needing to be at home in the evenings and at weekends. If, however, I caught a later bus one afternoon, we might find a mutually agreeable time in town. Warning signs again. Such enthusiasm for a further meeting well away from the village, yet this continued eagerness to hear tell of it. All of which I neglected, convinced as to the magnetism of my personality; the brilliance of my narrative skills.
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