by A J Waines
‘I can’t wait for you to meet him, Grandad. You’ll like him. He’s so warm and bright to be with. I’m so looking forward to starting our new life together.’
‘You’re a lucky girl. Way-way said he’s going to put you on the stage.’
‘Well,’ I laugh, ‘he knows the right people, so hopefully I can get my foot in the door and finally start acting. But I want to blossom as an actress in my own right, not just because Peter is behind me.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not marrying him because of his position, you know.That’s just going to be a bonus.’
He finishes his mouthful, grinning. ‘Your mum is so excited about your big day.’
I smile back. I know only too well. Giving her the job of ‘wedding-planner’ was the best thing for her in the circumstances.
‘She was in hell when that man of hers passed away…what was his name?’ he asks.
‘Russell.’
‘That’s the one.’ He nods to himself. ‘It was a beautiful gift you gave her – agreeing to marry your young man.’
I nod. ‘I knew she’d like Peter.’
‘It’s all she talks about,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen such a difference in her – totally uplifted since you set a date.’
It’s true, although Grandad doesn’t know the half of it. After Russell passed away, I used to hear Mum crying in bed every night. It was about time she turned a corner. I’d hoped that by telling her we were going to tie the knot, it would brighten up her world and it worked a treat. If Mum hadn’t been in such a bad way, I think I might have waited until Peter and I had been together for far longer.
‘Better than traipsing over to that graveyard every day,’ he says. ‘I don’t think it’s good for her, standing in the rain talking to dead people. This marriage is all about new beginnings.’
He’s making a lot of sense today, as if there’s nothing wrong with him. These days are rare. Usually, there’s something that needs sorting out. Last time, an unaccountable mound of soaking-wet towels had been dumped in the bath and he’d spilt fabric softener all over the kitchen floor. Mum and I keep a few of our things, old clothes mainly, in a chest of drawers in the box room, so we can do spur-of-the-moment jobs without getting our outfits dirty.
He asks me about plays and films I’ve seen and if I’ve got any auditions coming up.
‘I’ve got two soon from a list Peter sent me, but to be honest, I’m finding it hard to concentrate on learning my lines at the moment with…’ I stop myself just in time.
‘Yep…because of the wedding,’ he says, with a knowing smile.
I draw a breath and compose myself. Since Carl’s death, my mind has been full of holes. I nearly slipped up. I must be more careful. Once Peter and I get married, it’ll be easier. I’ll be away from here and can immerse myself in my new life. I just need to hang on in the meantime and hold my nerve.
‘Your mother didn’t think I knew about it, but I did,’ he adds.
I wait, wondering whether I’ve missed something or if his mind has reached a junction inside his head and has veered off.
He taps his nose, conspiratorially. ‘I didn’t know everything, but I knew enough.’
‘Knew what, Grandad?’
‘It was in the news.’
A shiver coils its way up the back of my neck. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘When the bad thing happened…in Southampton.’
I pat his hand. His brain must have got stuck at a signal box and his train of thought has taken a branch line towards Timbuktoo.
When I get back Mum is folding ironing. We never iron in our house. She must have been desperate to occupy herself.
‘How was he?’
‘He’s fine, mostly. He’s excited about the wedding. He went a bit vague before I left.’
‘Going on about Vera, no doubt?’
‘No. It was something else. He mentioned a “bad thing in Southampton”.’
She stops what she’s doing and stands completely still. ‘What did he say exactly?’
‘That was it. There was something bad in Southampton, he said, but then he lost the plot and I didn’t understand anything after that.’
‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to be going over to see him on your own, Beth.’
‘Why? He’s doing really well – it’s just now and again he gets confused.’
‘I don’t want you getting upset.’
‘I’m not a kid, Mum, it’s fine.’
I go up to my room and out of habit log onto social media. I haven’t felt like sharing my usual tweets and posts since ‘the accident’ and I glance at the messages that have been piling up. Hundreds of them, by now.
They all seem so inane after what’s happened, and I can’t bring myself to respond to any of them. Instead, I find myself looking up Amelia’s name to see if there’s anything I need to know, but as her page is loading, I come straight out of it. I’ve seen enough TV detective dramas to know I mustn’t leave a trail. It’s just the kind of stupid mistake the police could jump on, if we were ever suspected of being involved.
I lie on the bed clutching my phone.
Carl and I were careful, weren’t we? It was always him who contacted me and never the other way around. He made a point of using different phones – payphones on the street or at the Underground, never his work phone or personal line. No messages or emails either. It was the rule he insisted on to avoid detection. At least Mum doesn’t have to worry about that.
She insists we’re in the clear, but my stomach keeps getting flooded with waves of nausea. What if someone found out about Carl and me? What if he let something slip by accident? I just hope he hasn’t left anything lying around that might lead prying eyes to connect the two of us together.
All of a sudden, my heart bolts into overdrive. Now I’m putting it under scrutiny, I realise in horror that I’m wrong about never calling Carl’s number.
There was just that once.
16
Rachel
I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. I want to encourage Beth to see her friends and speak to Peter, so it looks like nothing’s wrong, but I’m worried about her state of mind. In a moment of weakness, might she let our terrible secret out of the bag?
I used to be concerned that she was always on social media – sharing, posting, chatting – wherever she might be. I was afraid she’d never learn how to be on her own, to enjoy her own company and relax into who she is, always turning outside herself for stimulus. In the past week, however, she’s cut herself off from everyone as far as I can tell. I have to confess, I’m relieved. It means one less thing to worry about. On the other hand, she doesn’t appear to be knuckling down to any work either, just pacing about looking miserable.
And now Adrian has made himself off-limits for another reason entirely! Why on earth is he bringing up all that old stuff now? From now on, I’ll need to be there when Beth goes to see him. I can’t allow him to give away any further details about what happened in Southampton all those years ago.
The pub reopens today, and I start work tomorrow, which is a terrific relief. Marvin’s pleased with all the refurbishments – the paintwork is ‘fennel grey’, a popular heritage colour for shabby-chic bars these days, and there’s a new logo on all our publicity. We’re rebranding ourselves as a gastropub, but we’ve still got the cask ale, old timber beams and open fireplace to preserve the traditional tavern feel. It’s got a snug feel to it now, with crates of antique books stacked in the alcoves and candles on the tables. Even ancient maps in frames on the walls, like an old sitting room.
There’s a fresh oriental rug in front of the fire replacing the one we took to wrap around Carl. The place is transformed – I love it – and all trace of him has gone.
My fellow barmaids, Gilly and Paula, have been in touch about the rotas and the sooner I throw myself into pulling pints, wiping down tables and discussing football results and TV soaps with punters, the better
. Things really can go back to how they should be.
Kate, my closest friend, calls as I’m about to start vacuuming my bedroom.
‘How are the wedding plans going?’ she asks. I can hear her chewing. She’s one of those incredibly slim women who always seems to be eating something.
‘Oh, great news – Peter is paying for everything, so that’s a huge weight off my mind.’ Kate is privy to all my deepest secrets, barring one or two.
‘Did the lunch go well? Still think he’s the bees-knees for Beth?’
I move downstairs out of Beth’s earshot. ‘He’s wonderful. He really is. He’s clearly besotted with Beth and seems clean-cut and honourable, somehow. He doesn’t try to lead or take control, but there’s something almost regal about him that invites you to put him centre stage.’
‘Cripes – sounds a bit daunting, if you ask me.’ There’s a rustle in the background; she’s either munching her way through a packet of cheese and onion crisps or chunks of peanut brittle. I make a bet with myself that it’s the latter.
‘Not at all. He’s really easy to be with. Ever so thoughtful and dripping with charisma.’
There’s an odd silence and I wonder if she thinks I’m a little too keen on him.
I ask Kate about her new job. She and her husband have just taken over a farm shop outside Winchester, selling organic vegetables and everything you need in a salad.
‘It’s seven days a week at the moment as we’re covering the Hampshire farmers’ markets every weekend.’ I picture her speaking to me from the front seat of their new delivery van, dressed in her trademark khaki dungarees.
‘You’ll do brilliantly. You always work so hard.’
Kate and I met at a Halloween party, years ago. Someone stole her bag and I gave her the taxi fare home. A day or so later, a stunning orchid arrived on my doorstep, with Thank you written in sequins and her phone number on the card. Since then, we’ve always been each other’s chief cheerleaders.
‘I’ve forgotten what it’s like to sleep in beyond 6am,’ she says, ‘and I’m stuffing my face with snacks all the time to keep me going.’
‘Peanut brittle,’ I say, pointedly.
‘Oh, blast! Am I that predictable?’ She dissolves into laughter. ‘Seriously, though, we’re hiring people to help out soon and I wondered if Beth might like to have a go at one of the market stalls. She’s so good with people and you’ve been talking lately about getting extra work.’
‘Oh…nice idea, thanks…but Beth is a bit tied up with the wedding now. And getting her to focus on anything other than bridal magazines as well as auditions is impossible!’
I hate lying to Kate, but I can’t risk Beth being around lots of people right now. Not until she’s on an even keel.
‘Is she excited about her hen do? What have you got planned?’
Hen do…
I’m caught completely off guard. ‘Oh…I think it will be a pretty small affair.’ I’d forgotten all about it. ‘Probably just a pub do.’
‘I thought Beth was going to do something wild. Last time I saw her, she was talking about a Bollywood dance spectacular or a Flamenco night.’
‘Really? I doubt it. I think she’s going for something more low-key. Besides, we’re on a budget. I can’t expect Peter to pay for the hen night – he’s paying for everything else.’
‘Even if he doesn’t, Beth can do better than a night in a pub, can’t she?’ She lets out a groan. ‘She’s not going all strait-laced and boring now she’s marrying into nobility, is she?’
‘Peter’s not nobility! Beth is…she’s just…’ I can’t find the words. As I hesitate, I hear Beth’s footsteps as she pads in her bare feet from her bedroom across to the airing cupboard. It’s such a familiar, comforting sound and a spike of guilt jabs against my breastbone. Am I expecting too much of Beth? She’s only twenty-three. What am I putting her through?
‘Rachel? You there?’
I know if I speak again my voice will break, but I’m saved by someone ringing the doorbell.
‘I’ll call you straight back,’ I tell her.
It’s Father Roland from St Andrew’s. He looks solemn, rolling his hands around each other, his shoulders hunched.
All the muscles in my face freeze. ‘Come in,’ I say, standing back. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. I wanted to see you first before you came to the church.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s about the grave,’ he says.
A rush of heat floods my face from the neck up. I’ve invited him to sit, but he remains on his feet. I sit instead, my knees suddenly incapable of keeping me steady.
‘The grave has been disturbed,’ he says. ‘It’s hooligans. They’ve vandalised it.’
I can’t breathe. ‘The grave…’
All I can see is Judy Welsh’s coffin and the uninvited guest who is now keeping her company down there.
‘Yes…Russell’s grave,’ he says.
‘Oh, Russell…’ A surge of relief makes me want to blow out a heavy breath, but I drop my head and cover my mouth to hide it. ‘What have they done?’
‘There’s graffiti on the headstone and the turf has been dug up…only a little. Thugs with nothing better to do, I’m afraid. The police said the graveyard at St Lawrence’s has also been targeted.’
I close my eyes, finding no words.
He bends over towards me, resting his hand on my shoulder. ‘Russell…himself…hasn’t been disturbed.’ I feel his breath in my hair. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. It might be best if you don’t come to the church for a day or two, until we put everything straight.’
‘Oh…okay…’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ He says, standing upright, his palms together. ‘Apart from sort it out and pray, of course.’
‘Thank you. No…I…’
He nods and makes a move towards the door.
‘Was it just…was Russell’s grave the only one?’ I say, following him.
‘Er, no. Two or three have been randomly attacked, by the looks of it.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Rachel. In a day or two, no one will be able to tell there’s been any problem.’
After he’s gone, I hesitate about calling Kate back until I see that, for once, it’s reasonable for me to be agitated and upset. Nevertheless, I keep my call short. What I really want to do is dash over to St Andrew’s to see if Judy Welsh’s grave has been disturbed. Father Roland will surely have reported it to the police, so they will certainly be sniffing around. It’s the one place I don’t want them to be.
Kate wants to come with me to the church, but I lie and tell her I can’t face it, right now. In truth, I need to go on my own, once I’ve primed myself in case there’s any fallout.
Beth comes down the stairs and sees the look of anguish on my face.
‘What’s happened? Who was at the door?’ she says, dropping the trainers she’s carrying.
‘It’s nothing, only Kate,’ I say, waving away her concerns. Another lie. ‘Asking about your hen night and we haven’t got anything arranged properly, have we?’
‘I don’t want one,’ she says flatly.
‘Of course, you do. You have to have one.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we already said we would and we mustn’t do anything out of character.’
‘All right, then. I’ll just hire a room and have a karaoke or something.’
‘Okay. That’ll be fine. We need to fix a venue and send out invitations.’
Beth slumps into the chair by the fireplace. Sending out invitations looks like the last thing in the world she wants to do. I go over to join her and kneel at her feet, resting my hands on her knees. As soon as I touch her, she starts to cry.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m not very good at this.’
‘It’s okay. I’m so sorry you’re having to go through it.’
‘I’m supposed to b
e getting married in a few weeks and I feel like shit.’
She’s been wearing the same jogging bottoms and hooded top for days, which is so unlike her. Usually she’s parading around in vintage or ‘statement’ outfits that she changes every five minutes.
An image of her at the age of three wearing a lime-green Tinkerbell outfit comes to mind. She used to rehearse little songs and dances to perform at Christmas and birthday parties, dressing up as cowgirls, fairies, Cherokee Indians. That sparky young thing seems a long way away, right now.
‘I know you thought I was in danger, but we should never have done what we did.’ She picks her nails and doesn’t look up. ‘I know you thought you were protecting me, but I was in shock afterwards and wish I’d never gone along with burying Carl.’
‘I couldn’t come up with anything better. We needed a place where no one would find him. All I could think was that no one would go looking for a body in a graveyard.’
‘You seemed so…ruthless. So, overbearing. It was like there was no other choice.’
I bite my tongue. She doesn’t know why I reacted so fast. She has no idea about what it triggered in me.
Not for the first time I consider what this tortuous episode has done to her mental health. In any other circumstances, if she wasn’t eating, not sleeping and spending hours in isolation, I’d suggest she see a counsellor straightaway. Beth’s a talker and finding a safe place to express her feelings would be the obvious step when she’s in such a bad way. But not in this case. Not when any counsellor would invite her to tell the truth. In our situation, the truth is not up for grabs. It’s the one path we have to avoid. For Beth and for our future. And for me.
‘Have you thought about writing down how you feel, somewhere private and safe?’ I propose, instead.
‘Not really.’
‘It’s an idea, as long as it’s totally secure – not online or a notebook under your pillow!’