New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  I grab my mobile and after making a reservation for three, I dial Benni’s number.

  ‘Hello!’ She answers immediately.

  ‘Don’t make any arrangements for tonight. I’ve found the perfect present for Ruth.’

  Benjamina

  ‘Who?’ I ask, having never heard of the woman Ruth and Emma are eagerly discussing in the rear of the taxi.

  ‘Oh dear, the young of today . . . I can’t believe that you’ve never heard of her,’ says Ruth condescendingly. I feel a bit miffed, especially given that I’ve paid for half of her birthday treat.

  ‘She was known as the Queen of Crime,’ says Emma. ‘Seriously, half my teenage years were spent with my nose buried in one of her crime novels, trying to work out who’d done it and how.’

  ‘Me too. I’m sure I’ve read every one written, some probably twice,’ adds Ruth excitedly to Emma before turning to me in the back of the taxi. ‘Maybe you should try one – I’d suggest Miss Marple to begin with.’

  ‘No, it’s Poirot for me,’ says Emma. ‘Though you’re probably better off making up your own mind rather than us influencing your choice.’

  I glance at the two of them, convinced that they’ve lost the plot somewhere between Brixham and here, a place called Greenway. I opt out and stare at the greying short back and sides of our taxi driver. I bet he’s heard it all before, two excited women wittering on about something that belongs in an era long before my day. How am I supposed to know about things that happened before I was even born?

  ‘It’s a film, right?’ I say, interrupting the conversation.

  ‘No . . . well, a novel turned into a film, then a hosted dinner party,’ explains Emma for the umpteenth time. Emma had relayed a half-garbled message whilst I was at the stables earlier in the day but still I haven’t got my head around the last-minute arrangements. I was happy to chip in though.

  ‘Has he got a moustache?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes!’ they chorus.

  ‘Is he the French detective with a middle-aged male sidekick?’

  ‘Nooo!’ wails Ruth. ‘Belgian.’

  ‘That’s pure sacrilege,’ Emma says. ‘I reckon we should kick you out and make you walk back to the cottage. You are not worthy to enter Christie’s house having mentioned the F word.’

  They begin to giggle. It’s going to be a long evening if they keep up this ridiculous double act. I’ll need the patience of a saint if the rest of the people at the dinner party have a similar attitude or there may well be a murder.

  I give an unexpected snort at the very idea.

  ‘What?’ asks Ruth.

  ‘Nothing . . . honestly, you’ve nothing to worry about on your birthday,’ I retort, supressing the urge to giggle more.

  Emma

  ‘Seriously, give it a bloody rest, will you?’ I hiss at Benni as discreetly as I can, as the waiter delivers lemon sorbet to the table of fifteen diners and one vacant chair. An additional sideways glare reinforces my meaning and pretty much confirms my mood too.

  ‘I’m just saying, that’s all,’ snipes Benni between clenched teeth. ‘They all look like extras from a drama. The colonel, the vicar, the obnoxious rich lady, the meek and mild companion, the mystery blonde and the lawyer type . . . Need I continue?’

  ‘No, you’ve complained a million times in the last two hours, so please get over yourself and suck it up.’

  ‘I’m by far the youngest here, surrounded by old people,’ she mutters, digging crossly into her ball of frozen sorbet, causing it to slide and nearly escape over the upper edge of the glass dish.

  She has a point, but she’s managed fine for nearly a week with me and Ruth, so why the sudden concern about age?

  I glance about the dining table, dressed in its finery with extravagant crystal candelabra, gleaming cutlery and fine porcelain. Benni’s not wrong: each diner does define a certain element of Christie’s society. I wonder if the people sitting opposite could say the same about us three.

  Next to me, Ruth’s in her element, happily chatting to an elderly chap on her right.

  As I watch the waiter deliver sorbet to the far end, there’s a touch on my forearm. I’m greeted by Ruth’s smiling face.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks, peering at me.

  ‘Just taking in the atmosphere really.’

  ‘Me too. I can’t believe we’re dining in Agatha Christie’s actual holiday home. She used to sit there,’ Ruth points her tiny sorbet spoon towards the top chair, which remains empty out of respect to the great woman.

  I nod, trying to hide my smugness.

  I’m glad we’ve made the effort, though it wasn’t a cheap present, but how can you put a price on guaranteeing someone a birthday to remember? It’s not as if Ruth has received anything from her son, and her mother wouldn’t be capable of sending a present even if she wanted to.

  Ruth

  I could cry with happiness. I can’t remember the last time someone went out of their way for me. I’ve only known Emma and Benni for a matter of days, yet they’ve given me such a wonderful birthday surprise. I enjoyed the cinema viewing of Dead Man’s Folly, especially as some of the scenes were filmed here at Greenway. Even though I’ve seen it numerous times before, it was still an indescribable treat to experience the 1950s-style cinema evening hosted in an airy marquee within the spacious grounds.

  This is simply the best birthday I have ever had. I’m a little sad that Jack can’t be here, but it’s not his scene, possibly even less so than Benni’s, though at least he would know whose house we’re at, having been brought up with me watching the various adaptations of each novel.

  I have to pinch myself as Derek, sitting to my right, talks knowledgeably about our absent hostess. He knows everything there is to know, from her favourite tipple of fresh double cream down to her collection of family board games stored in the lounge. I listen in awe as he explains how she managed to be so creative and produce such intriguing crime novels whilst being a thoroughly good egg throughout her whole life.

  Throughout the meal I keep glancing at the vacant seat at the head of the table, imagining her sitting there scrutinising us as potential characters. My spine tingles as the vacant seat also reminds me of her novel Sparkling Cyanide, in which a small party reminisce about their dearly departed friend. There are far too many of us here this evening to re-enact the scene precisely, but still, the very thought is thrilling.

  I sit patiently as a waitress enters the room carrying a silver coffee pot and starts serving the far side of the dining table. I wish she’d begun with our side. I’m dying for a decent coffee: strong Arabian beans is my hope.

  Suddenly the overhead lights go out, plunging the dining room into near darkness, apart from the table’s candlelight. Women gasp, a door opens and a shuffling sound is heard. Then:

  Boom!

  The sound of gunfire ricochets around the dining room. I’m startled and hope the young waitress doesn’t spill hot coffee on herself or a guest in the ensuing confusion.

  The lights return momentarily, flicker and remain strong.

  I grab at Emma, who is holding Benni’s arm. All eyes are staring in my direction. I have no idea why. Slowly I follow their shocked expressions to where Derek is slumped, his head lolling towards my shoulder, his eyes wide. My gaze drops to the open wound that has appeared across his chest, an oozing red injury that wasn’t present moments before.

  I scream, my hands releasing Emma to clutch at my face in an attempt to cover my eyes from the murderous scene.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we would appreciate it if you would stand and step away from the dining table and make your way towards the lounge, where your coffee is awaiting you,’ announces the waiter, his white serving cloth draped over his forearm.

  I peer around the table, shocked that his announcement is so calm, so calculated, so cold.

 
‘What the hell?’ I say, clutching Emma’s arm for support as she helps me from my seat.

  ‘Oh Ruth, your face is a picture,’ says Benni, struggling to speak through her laughter.

  ‘What the bloody hell just happened?’ I ask, looking frantically around the room as the other guests calmly depart for coffee.

  I stare from Emma to Benni, then glance down again at the slumped body of Derek. I can do nothing but point in disbelief from one to the other, open mouthed and mute.

  ‘Happy birthday, Ruth! Isn’t this simply the best setting for a murder mystery night?’ gushes Emma, her excitement overflowing.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday 24 August

  Benjamina

  We browse the shops on the busy street in a zigzag fashion, crossing the steep road as our interest is caught and snagged: craft shops with artful window displays, music shops selling every instrument imaginable, and gourmet food stores offering us samples of cheese, olives and chutney in tiny dishes from their countertops.

  This wasn’t my plan for today, but when Ziggy suggested a day out in Totnes during my early-morning walk along the harbour, I couldn’t refuse him.

  And now I’ve fallen in love with the town.

  I want to browse inside each and every shop, but I know we have limited time given Ziggy’s need for sleep before a busy night of fishing.

  ‘There’s a great music shop towards the top,’ says Ziggy. ‘It’s retro stuff, a proper record shop where you stand and flip through the wooden boxes of vinyl albums. Do you fancy taking a look?’

  I don’t particularly – vinyl’s not my thing – but I’ll happily wait while he browses. He was kind enough to invite me, so I’ll be patient.

  It’s a fair trek up the steep hill, but as soon as we near the shop, I can tell it’s something special. Nestled amongst the other shop frontages, it looks entirely different; the window is dark and moody, with lots of collector’s items and music paraphernalia. As we step through the doorway, we’re greeted by a row of backs and lowered heads, each person quietly flipping through the boxes of records displayed alphabetic­ally. Ziggy moves to the end of the alphabet, while I wander amongst the browsers. A calmness envelops me, the rhythmical flipping sound acting like a lullaby. Once in a while, an album cover is pulled from its home, inspected, turned over and the song list read, before being tucked carefully under an arm or returned to the box.

  I like it in here. This is how a music shop should be.

  The waistcoated woman behind the counter gives me a polite smile. She can see I’m a fish out of water filling time, but unless I disturb the tranquillity, I’m sure she’ll allow me to pace.

  The music overhead is by an artist I couldn’t name, a song I’ve never heard before, and yet it feels right to be hearing new material in here.

  That’s when I see him.

  I daren’t move for fear of distracting other people.

  He’s quietly but carefully stacking album covers into a plastic carry case. His head is bent, his long, sinewy neck bare, as he replenishes stock amongst the vinyl-hunters.

  And I know. It’s instant. Instinctive. There’s been one huge lie told within my family.

  I stand and watch his mannerisms, his stance, his hands busily working. He is totally unaware that I am taking in every inch of him. His name dances upon my tongue but I hold it back, waiting for the right moment. The moment when my heart stops racing, my breathing returns to normal and an inner voice suggests the correct manner in which to handle this situation.

  To everyone else in the store he is just a middle-aged man dressed in dark jeans and a baggy over-washed T-shirt; a man simply doing his job. Given the way he handles each record, it is a job he loves.

  I’m frozen to the spot with fear. Fear about my reaction. His reaction. Definitely my mum’s reaction.

  I glance sideways in search of Ziggy, who has his back to me and is casually flicking through the wooden boxes like everyone else in the shop. There’s no chance I can call or beckon to him without alerting everyone that I am having a major life crisis.

  I’m on my own. Aren’t I always?

  I suddenly become aware that I’m standing stock still like everyone else but without a selection of vinyl to flip through. I need to move, seize my chance and introduce myself.

  I take a deep breath.

  Here goes.

  He continues to stack the albums, neatening and aligning the edges, sporadically reading a back cover when his interest is caught. I take five steps towards him. Before me stands an older version of my brother.

  ‘Dad?’

  He casually glances up, looks away, then instantly returns his gaze to me, the ‘dad’ label obviously throwing his train of thought.

  ‘Sorry?’ He holds a Neil Young album in mid air and peers at me.

  ‘Hi, Dad . . . I’m Benjamina Hammond.’

  I watch as my words hit home. His blue eyes match Dan’s, his mouth is uneven with a full bottom lip, again like my brother’s. But his chin and his peering stare are definitely mine.

  I don’t need a second opinion, a DNA test – I simply know with every fibre of my body. Someone has some explaining to do.

  ‘Hi . . .’ I offer again, filling the lengthy silence, as I take the album from his hands and place it on top of the plastic case. Then I wait.

  Emma

  I open the front door expecting a charity collector or a housemate pleading a forgotten key. What actually greets me is a six-foot youth with three days of stubble growth and an oversized kitbag.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask, peering at him.

  ‘I’m looking for Ruth Elton.’ His accent takes me straight back home to the Midlands. I stare past the rugby shirt and the masculine features to pinpoint those belonging to Ruth: her light brown hair, her delicate cheekbones and her green eyes.

  ‘You must be Jack,’ I say.

  ‘Yes . . . Mentioned me, has she? Hello, nice to meet you . . .’

  ‘Emma. I’m one of the others holidaying here. Would you like to come in?’

  He doesn’t answer, but steps inside as soon as I move backwards into the hallway, bringing the kitbag with him. I eye it and my heart sinks.

  ‘Your mother’s out painting at the moment – would you like tea, or are you heading out to find her?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ He kicks off his large shoes, and plods after me towards the kitchen.

  Not the answer I was hoping for. I push aside the mountain of ingredients for a sumptuous batch of peanut butter and jam ice cream, then turn off the happy radio channel and switch on the kettle.

  Jack leans against the fridge door and surveys the galley kitchen.

  ‘And?’ I ask, trying to sugar-coat my tone but failing miserably.

  ‘It’s not what I expected, that’s all . . . It’s more substantial than the kitsch cottage I imagined.’

  I nod, taking on board his surprise.

  ‘Sugar? Milk?’

  ‘White with three sugars,’ he says, adding, ‘Has my mum settled in OK? No panic attacks about my nan?’

  ‘Not since the seventeen-hour scare the other day. She’s been a bit anxious since, but apart from that, she seems to be enjoying herself immensely.’

  ‘Really? My mum?’

  His remark hits the bull’s-eye of my annoyance. What a cheek! He belongs to Benni’s generation, yet she is years ahead of this youth in terms of life skills and attitude.

  ‘Actually, you’ll probably find it difficult to understand how much your mother needed a break, given the relentless stress she endures.’ Arsey is my chosen tone whilst spooning sugar into a clean mug.

  ‘I thought you guys were all strangers?’

  ‘We are . . . well, we were a week ago, but it only takes a matter of days to appreciate a person’s true worth and morals.’ I pause before contin
uing. ‘We’re friends, and I’m sure it’ll continue that way once we return home to the Midlands.’

  From the corner of my eye I see Jack shrug as if my comment lacks substance, much like the Rose Cottage he originally imagined.

  Benjamina

  I stare at the large bowl of carrot and coconut soup in front of me. I never choose vegetarian food and yet it smells gorgeous and tempting. But my spoon remains on my folded napkin. My stomach is spinning faster than a fairground waltzer; one mouthful and I’ll be sick. In the busy café, where every table is filled with chattering diners, I sit in emotional turmoil, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

  My gaze lifts to the familiar features of the stranger sitting opposite me.

  I don’t have a father. So what the hell am I doing sharing a bite to eat with him?

  ‘Eat up, it’s good,’ he says, dipping his hunk of rye bread into his own soup before taking a bite.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  He nudges the bowl closer to my hands, a parental move that offers instruction rather than suggestion.

  As I tentatively slurp the thick creamy soup and attempt to grasp a new set of family facts, my mind replays the highlights of the last thirty minutes of my life, much like a cinema trailer of forthcoming attractions.

  After I announced who I was, my father froze, much like I had earlier. Eventually he began to breathe again, and I watched the cogs in his head whirring as his gaze scanned my features. He stopped when he reached my chin – protruding somewhat whilst pinched on either side. An exact double of his.

  ‘Benjamina?’

  ‘I think we need to talk,’ I said, conscious that we were drawing attention in this intimate setting.

  He nodded, whispered a hasty instruction to the waistcoated woman serving and grabbed his wallet from behind the counter.

  Ziggy was wide-eyed on hearing my brief but rushed explan­ation, as I interrupted his browsing. ‘I’ll catch you in an hour,’ I told him. ‘OK?’