The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

  Mabel swiftly dropped it and nursed it in her lap as if it had been scalded. ‘I think Gracie liaised with the undertaker and he had them printed,’ she informed them helpfully. ‘But I’m not sure who she used for flowers.’

  ‘Did Gracie organise the flowers too?’ Flappy turned to Sally. ‘I thought you were in charge of the flowers,’ she said in a tone that made Sally’s teacup shake on its saucer.

  Sally looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I was, but then my son had to go abroad on business and his wife decided to accompany him and they asked me to look after their children. I couldn’t very well refuse, so Gracie came to my rescue . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she thought of Gracie in Italy with a pang of envy.

  ‘Well, that is very like Gracie, isn’t it,’ said Flappy approvingly. ‘She’s always there when one needs her—’

  ‘Except when she isn’t,’ Esther cut in.

  Flappy sighed. ‘Except when she isn’t,’ she repeated, a little impatiently. How could Gracie have gone abroad now, when she needed her the most? ‘Sally, you must rise to the occasion and adorn the church with flowers. It must look like we’ve made a great effort for Harry. I’d hate anyone to think that we cut corners or scrimped just because he was . . .’ She searched for the word without success. ‘He fought in the war so we must honour him as a hero,’ she added with passion. Then her busy mind stilled suddenly and a brilliant idea popped in. Harry was a war hero which gave her the perfect excuse to invite all the local grandees: the mayor, for one, and Sir Algernon Micklethwaite, the local landowner, and his wife Phyllida, Lady Micklethwaite, who chaired the Women’s Institute.

  ‘Perhaps you can find a big model plane and arrange the flowers in that,’ Madge suggested to Sally, pleased with her idea.

  Flappy’s reverie was abruptly interrupted. ‘A model plane?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘Really, Madge, have a sense of decorum. This is going to be a tasteful funeral.’ Madge glowered into her china cup. ‘I will host the tea here at Darnley afterwards and everyone is welcome. With any luck the sun will shine and we can use the garden, Lady Micklethwaite has always been very kind about my garden. I will put up a marquee in case of rain. I don’t want people wandering in and out of my house in wet shoes! Of course the mayor and the Micklethwaites must use the facilities inside. Kenneth plays golf with the managing director of Berry Brothers so we’ll get the wine and hire glasses from there. Big Mary can make cupcakes . . .’

  ‘We could perhaps put planes on those,’ said Madge, not to be deterred. The other women thought it a splendid idea, but hid their opinions until Flappy had given hers.

  ‘Well, if you do insist on having a theme, I can’t stop you, though I honestly feel it’s a little common.’

  ‘But Harry was common,’ said Sally – and so are we, she thought, glancing at Madge, Mabel and Esther for support.

  ‘He was ordinary, for certain, but he had dignity.’ Flappy sipped her tea. An awkward silence fell over the small group as they considered Harry’s ordinariness. ‘Very well, Sally, you can tell Big Mary to make cupcakes with pictures of planes on them in icing and arrange the flowers. Esther, you can help Big Mary organise the tea and the hiring of crockery. Mabel, you can organise the marquee and find some young men to serve the wine and tea. Madge, you can liaise with the undertaker and organise the service sheets.’

  ‘And what will you do?’ Madge asked.

  Flappy inhaled through dilated nostrils and gave a supercilious smile. ‘I will decide what goes on the service sheets,’ she replied. After all, she was the only one with any taste in music and literature. ‘And of course Kenneth and I are only too happy to pay for it,’ she added, which reminded everyone in the room not only of the Scott-Booths’ superiority but of their right to call the shots. How apt was the proverb, ‘He who pays the piper calls the tune.’

  The four women left with their assignments, anxious that, without Gracie’s help, they might not rise to the challenge as Flappy had instructed them to do. Flappy, happy to leave them to do all the work, though a little apprehensive of their abilities, closed the front door behind them with a sigh. As she walked back through the hall she admired the extravagant display of white lilies that swamped the antique round table and hoped that the women had been impressed. She had claimed the flowers came from her greenhouses, but in reality Karen had driven into Barnstaple to buy them. Flappy dallied a moment in front of an enormous mirror suspended on chains between a pair of portraits of herself and Kenneth by the famous artist Jonathan Yeo. She compared her reflection in the mirror to her likeness in the painting, completed five years before, and studied her skin for signs of age. Jonathan had omitted her hair, gorgeously thick and glossy though it was, and rendered her face looming out of the canvas like a medieval Madonna on an unfinished fresco. He had given her skin a golden glow – she recalled they had just been around the Aegean Islands on a yacht that summer, so her suntan was real – and her eyes a patina of indigo blue, like the sea. She examined the real thing, which she nurtured with expensive products and treatments, resisting the temptation to succumb to cosmetic surgery because she was yet to find a surgically altered face that didn’t betray the surgeon’s knife. She looked natural and beautiful still, she thought; a paragon of the gracefully ageing face. Satisfied that time had been generous – and secretly thrilled that it hadn’t been so generous to Esther, Mabel, Madge and Sally, nor Gracie, for that matter – Flappy wandered into the library and pulled down a box file of old service sheets from funerals she had attended. In there she would find her poems and readings, her hymns and prayers. She would invite the vicar to lunch and tell him what she wanted then Madge could arrange with the undertaker for it to be printed. Would it be too much to put at the end of the service sheet, in small yet visible print: With thanks to Flappy Scott-Booth for generously giving Harry this beautiful send-off?

  She took the box into the drawing room and sank into an armchair. It wouldn’t take long to find a few appropriate poems for Harry’s friends to read – though, if the mayor and Sir Algernon and Lady Micklethwaite were going to attend she’d have to be careful to choose the most suitable among them to have the honour of standing at the lectern. She knew Harry had liked to prop up the bar at the Bell and Dragon and shoot the breeze with the other codgers who frequented that place. He’d also whiled away the hours at Big Mary Timpson’s. Flappy had asked around and no one knew of any relations. He’d never married or had children and, as far as Flappy could tell, had lived a solitary and lonely life in his tiny seafront cottage in Badley Compton, where he’d settled after the war. He’d enjoyed telling stories of his heroics over the English Channel and was once featured in an article that Gracie’s late husband Ted had written for some obscure local magazine. She wondered how Harry had earned a living, but judging by his modest home and simple needs he’d clearly required very little to survive. She’d found out with a bit of subtle digging that he’d left a will and appointed a solicitor called Mr Banks to be the executor of it. She didn’t think it would take very long to sort out Harry Pratt’s affairs. What a sad life he’d lived, she thought smugly, reflecting on the full and colourful life she led. Well, I’ll give him a good farewell party, she thought, opening the first service sheet. The poor old thing deserves nothing less than that.

  Kenneth returned from the golf course in time for dinner. A pompous, portly man with a full head of grey hair swept off a low forehead and small, weaselly eyes, Kenneth Scott-Booth was a man with a very high opinion of himself. He loved golf more than anything and believed that, after having worked hard and made his fortune, he was well within his rights to play as much golf as he liked. Flappy didn’t complain, as long as he wrote the cheques enabling her to live like a queen, she was happy. ‘Flappy!’ he shouted as he strode into the hall in a pair of primrose-yellow tattersall breeches and matching yellow cashmere V-neck sweater stretched over a ballooning stomach. ‘Flappy!’

  ‘In the drawing room,’ she shouted back, reluctant to get out of the ar
mchair.

  A moment later Kenneth marched in. ‘There you are!’ he boomed.

  ‘Yes, here I am,’ she trilled.

  He kissed her upturned cheek. ‘Why are you wearing black?’

  Flappy, who had changed into mourning clothes after lunch in preparation for her meeting, replied, ‘For Harry Pratt, darling. I have to set an example.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘Nothing sombre about your attire.’

  ‘I’m not the one setting an example.’ He helped himself to a glass of whisky at the bar he had designed specifically for that purpose and perched on the edge of the club fender, knees wide, belly bulging, a man who was very much king of his kingdom.

  ‘Did you have a good game?’ she asked.

  ‘Bloody marvellous, darling! I’m not one to boast, but I played a blinder. Two birdies, one eagle and thrashed Paul Biddling four and three. I bumped into Reg Halliday and Jimmy Brennan on the second hole, d’you remember them?’

  ‘Of course, Reg Halliday made a fortune in packaging then lost half of it when he divorced Glenda, and Jimmy Brennan’s done rather well for himself building car parks, if I remember rightly. He has a rather sweet wife called Trudy or Tilly or Tiggy or something.’

  ‘Tamsin,’ Kenneth replied, swirling the ice round his glass. ‘Thought we might invite them over for dinner one evening.’

  ‘Lovely, I’ll throw something together, nothing grand, just a little soirée. I might get that quartet from Exeter again. They were terrific.’

  ‘Reg has a new wife.’

  ‘Really?’ Flappy didn’t imagine he’d gone for another old trout like Glenda.

  ‘She’s thirty-five, young enough to be his daughter, dirty devil.’ Kenneth chuckled.

  Flappy’s lips pursed. ‘How very inappropriate. I’m not going to be seen condoning that kind of relationship. I think we’ll just have Jimmy and whatever she’s called. You can keep “dirty devil” to yourself.’

  Kenneth swigged his whisky. ‘I see you’re organising Harry’s funeral.’

  Flappy sighed as if she was really much too busy to take on yet another chore. ‘I fear I am the only one in town who is capable of doing it, and willing to do it. Dear Harry had no relatives and his friends aren’t up to putting together something like this. Once again, it falls upon me to see that things are done properly.’

  ‘You’re a saint,’ said Kenneth, without any hint of irony. ‘What would Badley Compton do without you?’

  ‘I don’t think they’d do very well at all.’ Flappy closed the box, keeping out a few useful service sheets. ‘Though I do wish Gracie were here to help. Extraordinary that she, who’s never been anywhere, goes somewhere at the very moment she’s most needed.’

  ‘Do you have to give him an elaborate funeral? Can’t you just leave the vicar to say a few appropriate words?’

  Flappy’s face crinkled into a compassionate smile. ‘Darling, you know me. I’m much too generous-hearted for my own good. Harry was a war hero and beloved by the whole community. It’s only right that we celebrate his life with a beautiful service. I just won’t feel good about myself if I allow his life to be dismissed without any sort of ceremony.’

  ‘My darling, you are indeed right. And you’re so good at arranging these things.’

  ‘I’m not one to boast, but I do have good taste. Goodness, if I were to leave it to those hopeless women we’d have flowers in model planes and God knows what other tackiness besides. If only Gracie hadn’t gone to Italy. At least she could be relied upon to get things done.’ Then her face crinkled again into a worried smile. ‘I do fear for her so far from home. People like Gracie Burton ought never to stray too far from the hearth.’

  The following morning dawned bright and sunny. Seagulls glided beneath puffs of vaporous cloud and Flappy watched them for a moment from her bedroom window and thought of Harry, flying his Spitfire in the heavenly sky. Dressed in black with a sorrowful expression worn heavily upon her face, she drove into town in her shiny green Range Rover. She wanted to give the locals the benefit of her grief, and buy a few essentials at the chemist at the same time. Her first port of call was Big Mary’s, because that was where Harry was always to be found, either there or in the Bell and Dragon. To her delight the café was full of locals. John Hitchens was at the counter in a pair of faded Bermuda shorts and polo shirt, his grey hair wild as if he’d already been out on a boat. His granddaughter, in a floral sundress and flip-flops, was busy deciding which pastry to choose, while Big Mary was making a cup of coffee and a hot chocolate and managing to hold a few conversations at once. Every table was occupied, the air pleasantly sweet and stuffy, and a couple of scruffy dogs lay sleeping on the wooden floor, their fur wet and salty. There was an atmosphere of gaiety and laughter in the café, until Flappy walked in looking like the grim reaper and the gaiety deflated like a soufflé and the laughter fizzled out. All eyes watched her walk slowly to the counter.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Scott-Booth,’ said Big Mary, putting the cup of coffee and hot chocolate on the counter for John Hitchens. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘I wish it were a good morning,’ said Flappy, pressing a hand to her heart. She paused for effect, delighted to have the attention of everyone in the café. ‘Wherever I turn I expect to see dear Harry.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Big Mary exclaimed, suddenly working out why Mrs Scott-Booth was dressed in black and adopting a mournful air. ‘We’re all very sad at his passing,’ she said, which was true, she’d known Harry all her life and in recent years, since she’d owned the café, barely a day had gone by when he hadn’t popped in for a double espresso with whipped cream.

  ‘He used to sit on that bench out there, watching the boats. I think I’m going to dedicate a bench to him,’ Flappy decided, already picturing the inscription: In loving memory of Harry Pratt, from Kenneth and Flappy Scott-Booth. ‘It would be a lovely way for the community to remember him, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, that would be nice,’ said Big Mary.

  ‘However, as sad as it is, there is always a silver lining to every grey cloud. At times like these the community is brought together. There is strength to be found in sharing one’s grief.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Big Mary agreed. ‘Why don’t I make you a strong coffee? That’ll lift your spirits. And a croissant? Freshly baked this morning.’

  ‘I won’t have anything, thank you, Mary. I just popped in to find out whether Sally has been in to discuss the cupcakes for his funeral.’

  Big Mary smiled excitedly. ‘Oh, he’s to have a proper funeral, is he? With cakes and tea?’

  Flappy frowned. ‘Hasn’t Esther spoken to you yet?’

  ‘No, I’ve not seen her.’

  ‘Really, that is very frustrating.’ If it were Gracie’s duty, she’d have spoken to Big Mary first thing, Flappy thought crossly.

  ‘Would you like me to do the tea and cakes? Harry was especially fond of my cakes.’

  ‘Well, Esther is meant to be in charge of that. I’m just the conductor, my ladies are the orchestra, but I fear they’re not concentrating terribly well on the score!’ Flappy didn’t realise that somewhere after ‘conductor’ she had lost Big Mary.

  ‘How lovely that Harry’s going to get a proper funeral with tea and cakes and all,’ she said, ignoring the confusing metaphor.

  ‘I thought it only right that a war hero, such as Harry was, should be celebrated. Kenneth and I are opening the doors of Darnley for the occasion and Harry’s friends are welcome.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of people then. We were all friends of Harry Pratt.’

  ‘That’s why I felt it my duty to give him a proper send-off.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to make the tea and cakes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to step on Esther’s toes. She’s arranging all of that. So, can I leave you both to it? Esther knows the score. I’m sure she’ll be in later today to talk it over with you.’

  ‘I could make cakes in the shap
e of boats.’

  Flappy looked doubtful. ‘Planes, you mean.’

  ‘No, boats. Harry loved boats. That’s why he sat on that bench. He liked to watch the boats coming in and out of the harbour. He made model ships. His house was full of them.’ Anyone who knew Harry knew he liked boats, Big Mary thought. ‘Are you arranging the service?’ she asked. ‘Because I’d love to read something. A poem or a prayer, anything. I’d like to honour him in some way, if I may.’

  Flappy lifted her chin. She didn’t think it appropriate for Big Mary to stand at the lectern. Her platinum-blonde hair was quite a sight, and as for her size . . . If the mayor and Sir Algernon and Lady Micklethwaite were going to come Flappy would need to find someone with more class. Someone who knew how to read in front of a congregation, someone who spoke the Queen’s English. Then it struck her. Of course, why hadn’t she thought about it before? She, Flappy Scott-Booth, was the perfect person to deliver the poem and do it justice.

  ‘Thank you for offering, Mary, but cakes will be more than enough. You can honour him with those.’ With that she left the café.

  ‘Grandpa,’ whispered the little girl.

  ‘Yes, Lara?’ said John Hitchens.

  ‘Was that lady Cruella De Vil?’

  Chapter 17

  Italy, 1963

  It snowed in December. The Tuscan hills were instantly transformed by a smooth coating of ever-changing colour. Pinky-grey in the mornings, golden in the afternoons, indigo in the hollows where the sun didn’t reach and midnight blue in the light of the moon. Gracie never grew tired of the beauty and every morning, when she opened her shutters and threw wide the windows, she filled her lungs with the crisp, cold air and the sheer joy of the landscape.

  The studio at La Colomba was full of Bruno and Livia Montefosco’s paintings, including Tancredi’s The Temptation of Eve. Gracie knew she would have to wait for Uncle Hans to go away again in order to copy it. She didn’t think he’d approve of her plan. That wasn’t the kind of criminal activity he was used to and she knew he’d dissuade her if she confided in him. However, Uncle Hans had no intention of travelling before Christmas. The Temptation of Eve and Tancredi would have to wait.