by Noel Virtue
Jean shuddered.
After that it wasn’t easy for Jean to get away. Most of the others, even Gracie, didn’t seem all that impressed, and Jean suspected a few of them had never heard of her, which was much more comfortable to deal with, when Gracie’s sister talked non-stop, breathlessly, as if she was, and had been for years, an intimate friend. In a very short space of time Jean learnt every possible fact about the entire family, from where they’d been born to christenings and weddings to the day poor Mervyn had to wear a (‘huge!’) colostomy bag after a serious operation – ‘down there’, the woman confided, leaning forward and loudly whispering, pointing vaguely towards Jean’s lap. He had worn the bag for five weeks, much to his shame and was ‘not the same man now, if you get what I’m at, poor Merv. He suffered for years.’
When Jean did finally manage to escape, Gracie and her sister came out to wave her off. None of the others followed. Some had fallen asleep. Those who were still awake stood up and shook her hand. The baby was awake and crying loudly but was ignored. Gracie’s sister – Jean never learnt her name – warbled on even as Jean made her way over to the car, just as she had done all the time she sat beside Jean on a sofa, smiling confidingly and grinning with the gaps in her teeth every time Jean glanced at her. Jean signed several battered albums, produced from a plastic carrier bag, then an old programme. She baulked at signing Gracie’s sister’s grubby sweatshirt.
It was growing light as Jean drove back the way she had come. The day promised to be sunny, the sky almost completely clear of cloud, the green quality of the surrounding woodland and pasture rich and refreshing and uplifting as the light brightened. It was so quiet. Jean thought of the days ahead. She yearned for sleep. She was relaxed and sanguine from the company of friendly, ordinary people.
The cottage was still burning fiercely after she had driven down the track and reached it. There were two ancient-looking fire engines, a police car and one ambulance parked outside. There had been another police car up on the road, inside of it two policewomen who had clambered out, rushed over and flagged her down as she turned into the track. Most of the cottage had gone by the time Jean saw it, fallen in on itself, the top floor completely collapsed down on to the ground. Smoke rose in thick dark plumes into the ever-lightening sky. Firemen were still using hoses. On the gravel drive lay five bodies covered in black plastic sheeting. They were not easily identifiable, Jean was eventually to be told. She was spared being shown them until much later. There had been one other male adult who had still been alive but had died, not regaining consciousness, on the way to the nearest hospital, miles away.
Jean remained outwardly calm and in control during the next few weeks, much of which she was never to remember clearly. She was driven to the nearest village, sat in a dark green-painted room for several hours, questioned, drank tea, wept, even slept, was in shock so that the following events passed by as if it were a film she was watching in a darkened cinema. She was driven back up to London in the family car by a policewoman she never thanked. The bodies of Jared, Gemma and her parents were driven back up to London once they had been officially identified. The other two, both males, were never to be identified at all, despite extensive investigation.
Facts were revealed over time with a sensitivity that Jean, even within the greyness of that period, was impressed by. Her parents’ bodies had been found bound and gagged in their bedroom underneath the double bed. Jared’s body had been found lying on the kitchen floor. He had been severely beaten around the head and was also tied up. Gemma was lying in the hallway downstairs, close to the bodies of the two unidentified males, one who was rushed off by ambulance but who died soon after. It seemed reasonable to assume, Jean was told, that Gemma and the two men were making their way towards the front door when the flames, or smoke, had engulfed them. The remains of two rifles were also found there. The two large gas cylinders in the cottage had, some time after the fire had been deliberately started – by whom no one knew – exploded and escalated the rapid, complete envelopment of the cottage by the fire. There was evidence that the cottage had been occupied for some time, probably by the two men. The local handyman, four miles away, who had been paid to keep a check on the property, eventually confessed to not having been near for over three months. For a time he became a suspect, but was eventually cleared.
The weeks that passed after that morning revealed, along with the facts and suppositions, implications that Jean refused to deal with. Both Gemma and Jared had been sexually assaulted before they had died. Isobelle had also been beaten and had had her right arm broken, facts that Jean banished from her mind for months. There was never to be any full explanation about what happened. Only speculation. Despite the bodies being examined thoroughly, forensic evidence and all the meticulous, detailed investigation and reports, it was never to be known why the events had occurred. Whether the two men were already inside the house when the family had entered remained unknown. There were no witnesses. A local woman, hearing two distinct explosions, reported that to the police from some distance away. There was evidence of violence. Furniture and doors inside the house had been smashed. The case went on for months, speculated about and written about in the press with varying degrees of taste.
Jean was protected from the press to an astonishing degree, protected from television reports and from those who came forward offering her help. The one funeral was held quietly in a small chapel in north London, the details of which were mostly suppressed by Jean’s solicitor with the help of the police. Jean was unable to attend. Jared, Gemma and her parents were buried in Scotland on land that Jean’s father owned. Jean, with Freida, drove up there much later to inspect the graves. They never went back. Jean created a private fund to pay for the care of the grave site and the small area of land where her father’s ancestors had once farmed. For two months Jean remained, secretly, in an exclusive private nursing home, mostly under sedation. William, unable to cope with his grief, eventually flew to New York where he was, almost a year later, to seek divorce. Aunt Dizzy, with Freida’s help, had stood by Jean and taken care of everything. Months later Jean absolutely insisted that they were never to speak about what happened, never to talk to her or to others. Any details, even small, that had not been publicly released should remain unspoken. Once Jean was back at Acacia Road she made the decision to give up her singing career entirely, against all advice. It was to be a long time before she agreed to attempt an autobiography, then to lose interest and allow Anthony into her life. By then life had become almost bearable because she continued to drink heavily and Freida, never judgemental, remained with her almost constantly until Jean was able to cope on her own.
‘Auntie was nothing less than magnificent,’ Jean whispered to the wall, still lying on Anthony’s bed. ‘I never thanked her. Not once. I never wished to talk about it, to anyone. I never have, until now. I never imagined I would. I don’t know why I’ve spoken of it to you.’
She slowly rolled over to face Anthony and, reaching out, pulled him to her, burying her face into his shoulder and clinging to him, breathing in gasps, shuddering every so often. Eventually she drew away.
‘I won’t talk about it again,’ she said, almost whispering. Then she added, ‘I must go home. I can’t stay here. Will you take me?’
‘Of course. I’ll call for a cab. You’re sure? You can spend the night.’
Jean shook her head. She said nothing else. After a long silence the telephone rang again. It had rung all during the time Jean was speaking, but Anthony ignored it. It was Freida. Anthony talked to her for a long time.
Freida was waiting for them in the morning-room when Jean and Anthony arrived back at the house. She was alone. She stepped across the room and took Jean in her arms and over her shoulder raised her eyebrows at Anthony, and he smiled sadly and shrugged and then nodded, mouthing that he would leave them for a while.
‘I’ll call back later,’ he said in a whisper.
It was Freida who helped Jean upsta
irs and put her to bed, Jean barely responding. Yet she did not want Freida to leave the room and held on to her for a long time, neither of them speaking. Freida had sent the others out as soon as she’d got through to Anthony and heard that Jean was returning to the house. Freida sat on the bed stroking Jean’s hair until she fell asleep. Anthony returned several hours later. He remained there overnight.
They were all gathered downstairs – Ivan and Mr Harcourt, Christopher and Freida and Anthony – when she awoke the following morning. Christopher knocked on her door just after ten.
‘I’ve made breakfast,’ he said, carrying in a laden tray. ‘Toast. Marmalade. Scrambled egg. One sausage. It’s burnt. I’ve brewed good coffee.’
His face, eyes diverted, was a deep carmine red as he crossed the room to her bed. His large ears, the same colour, were like oval beacons. His hands trembled as he placed the tray down on the table beside her bed. And when she reached out and took both of his hands and pressed them briefly to her lips he did not snigger or say anything at all but stood there gazing away from her, out through the window, his hands still but his features twisted into an expression of terrible pain which he had managed, until then, to conceal.
SEPTEMBER
Autumn has been delayed, the weather forecasters are cheerfully claiming on radio and television. The long summer still holds court over London, though the heat has lessened. There have been one or two days of welcomed rain.
The house looks peaceful from the outside. Perhaps it is asleep, as it is still relatively early in the morning and the day is to be special. All inside are asleep. On the pinnacle of the slated roof pigeon and starling and sparrow deposits have set and hardened into small crusty mounds so that the roof appears to be grey along the top instead of charcoal black. In Ivan Fitz-patrick’s rooms the hidden mural of Jean on the main wall is slowly beginning to show itself through the layers of applied paint. Ivan has been examining it. Without mentioning it to Jean or anyone else, he sits there on awakening and wonders whether he is discovering a lost masterpiece.
At nine o’clock on this Saturday morning, along Loudoun Road near by, two women walk close together in deep whispered conversation. They are plotting. Neither Mrs Meiklejohn nor Nellie Harcourt know that on the same street a long, long time ago lived a woman called Mary Baker, who eventually became known as Mrs Meres. It is said that she was the inspiration for Thackeray’s scheming and manipulative Becky Sharp. Nor do the plotting women, who are mostly ignorant of history, realize that the very ground they walk on was once, in the Middle Ages, forest and woodland where wild pigs and sows roamed; that a man called Anthony Babington, who plotted to murder Queen Elizabeth and put Mary, Queen of Scots on to the throne, hid in this same area with his conspirators. Mrs Meiklejohn and Mrs Harcourt have not been, it must be stressed, plotting murder. But they have been plotting, nevertheless, heading towards the house of one of their own conspirators for morning prayers and final discussion on a particular event; an event that Mrs Meiklejohn has gleefully discovered, from eavesdropping, is to occur later in the day.
On the lawn at Acacia Road stands a small, pink-and-white striped marquee. It is more of a tent, rather medieval in its shape: decorative, tapering from the square top and open at the front. Leading down into the garden from the french windows stretches a length of dull-red carpet – pink not being available – all the way to the entrance of the tent. Sitting inside the tent on the grass is the black cat, using its right paw, which it occasionally licks, to wash its face. Beside it, half eaten, lies a dead headless sparrow. The cat enjoys a varied diet.
All is arranged for a modest, brief blessing of Christopher’s and Fergus’s union. It has been thought that the ceremony, which is also to be, after the blessing, a late celebration of both Jean’s and Christopher’s birthdays, should go ahead as Aunt Dizzy would have wanted but in an altered form. Weeks have passed. Recent wounds are warily healing. Jean and Freida have been to the grounds of the crematorium and officially laid a plaque in Aunt Dizzy’s memory and planted a tree which will, they hope, grow and spread its branches. Eventually the tree should scatter petals of pink blossom down on to the plaque. Elizabeth Barrie’s ashes rest inside an urn, now standing unobtrusively in the corner of the Green Room, alongside a vase in which fresh roses are placed at regular intervals. Jean sits in the Green Room in the early mornings, sometimes reading, sometimes just sitting and gazing out through the windows at the all-too-soon-to-be autumnal sky. When she is not taking care of her remaining guests she is usually with Anthony Hibbert, whom she now loves with a quiet but uncertain devotion that few understand. As she makes little effort to look younger than she is and Anthony dresses in an almost juvenile style, he could well be mistaken for her son. Just as Freida could be mistaken, with applied imagination, for a daughter.
The three are often out together, at the theatre or attending an occasional concert at the Festival Hall. Freida, for the time being and since Aunt Dizzy’s death, has given up on her promiscuous quest for a soulmate. She has in fact become, surprising herself, rather domestic. She helps Jean take care of Christopher and Ivan and Mr Harcourt, and Fergus when he is at the house. Freida and Jean have discussed asking someone else to move in but do not wish to advertise for fear of inheriting another Fallen Nun. There is the possibility, of course, that Fergus might wish to live at Acacia Road; he is considering the idea, which Jean has suggested to him. But he shall not decide until he and Christopher return from their honeymoon, visiting the Florida Everglades followed by a tour of South Carolina. Fergus has distant relatives in Savannah whom they will visit.
Christopher is alone in his room on the first floor. He is awake now and sitting on the edge of his bed examining his knees, dressed in fresh, newly bought underpants and vest. He has had his hair cut at a stylish male barbershop off Baker Street where Mr Harcourt has an account. He has been fitted for a new suit which now hangs in a sealed polythene bag from the curtain rail. He noticed that his knees were red and possibly a little swollen on awakening, as he spent time on them weeding the flowerbeds so they would look tidy on the day. He has also planted several species of daisies in neat rows. Fergus has spent the night at his own apartment off Long Acre so that he and Christopher will both be refreshed and calm on the day. Fergus is to arrive at the house just before noon, when the blessing will immediately take place. Christopher, perhaps unwisely, has sent a card to his mother telling her of the blessing but not when it is to occur. At the bottom of the card he wrote, I love you, Mother. Mrs Meiklejohn, through eavesdropping, has of course informed Mrs Harcourt of the date and even the time when the ceremony is to take place and is to be richly rewarded, she has been promised, by Mrs Harcourt as well as by Jesus.
The house creaks. Christopher listens, his head at an angle. He believes the house is waking and that it is happy at the prospect of the day. In the background he is certain he can hear a contented humming, emanating from inside the walls, that implies the house is not only alive but is much more contented than it was when Christopher first moved in. The walls were utterly silent for several days after Aunt Dizzy died. The unused electricity did not chatter, the floorboards did not creak of their own accord, foundations did not shift. He sometimes still hears mice when he creeps downstairs into the kitchen during the night, but he has not set another trap. On the evening of the day Aunt Dizzy was cremated the lights flickered at seven o’clock and then at ten and then at midnight. No one, except for Christopher, noticed. He sits, having ascertained that his knees are merely tender from the time he spent weeding and planting in the garden. He sits and stares at the opposite wall and smiles. A warmth, like a ghost of pleasant promise, immediately passes through him and he continues to smile. His father is running a bath. Murmuring voices reach his hearing coming from the Green Room, where Freida is with Jean.
‘Happy birthday, Lady.’
‘Don’t be silly. It was weeks ago.’
‘So,’ Freida said, ‘we never celebrated it. So it’s today. And
Christopher’s, as you well know. As we all decided last week, in the garden. Remember? No secret plans or surprises. Well, almost none. We shall all have a barrel of fun and cry if we want to.’
They sat on cushioned chairs either side of Aunt Dizzy’s urn, sipping mugs of coffee that Jean had brewed. They were still dressed in their nightclothes, Jean in pink and Freida in blue. Freida spent the night in Jean’s bed, as she did now, occasionally, when Anthony was not at the house. Anthony did not mind, when Jean told him. He is a little jealous, he told Freida, as he thinks Freida is beautiful. Freida told him she was still in mourning for Aunt Dizzy but would probably continue her promiscuous pathway, only with carefully chosen younger women, once the time of mourning was past.
‘I’ve never said until now,’ Freida told Jean, ‘but I’m ever so relieved you talked to Anthony. About the past. I only wish it had been me you chose to talk to.’
‘He told you.’
Freida nodded. ‘On the day. He was deeply upset. All these years, you keeping it inside you, insisting Doo Lally and I say nothing. It was hard, Lady. Hard for both of us. To stay quiet. Especially for Doo Lally. Edward was her only brother.’
‘What was it Mr Harcourt said only a while ago? Something about talking of what has gone, that it doesn’t solve anything. He’s such a sweet man. I’m pleased he’s here. I’m pleased you’ve all stayed on. Really.’
‘Will you marry Baby Tony?’
Jean shook her head and sipped from her mug. She glanced down at Aunt Dizzy’s urn. Reaching out, she touched it with the tips of her fingers. ‘He keeps asking, bless him. It’s become a contest to see who will give in first. He shan’t win. I suppose I do love him. That’s enough.’