Authors: Marjorie Eccles
Untimely Graves (5 page)
A few years later Dorrie, with who knew what compulsion, had set about making a wild garden of the ugly, empty space which had once been the Victorian coach house and stables. She’d employed workmen to cart the rubble away and to create a randomly shaped pond over the shallow crater, had tons of topsoil dumped around its edges, then dismissed everyone and set to work planting the wild plants she loved: now teasel, red clover, wild sorrel and yellow rattle grew among the pluming grasses. Self-woven into a wattle fence were dog roses, blackthorn and elder, within it in season there grew bluebells, wild scabious, white wood anemones and celandines. A substantial part of her days in the summer was spent on her knees, happily grubbing in the earth, talking to her plants and coaxing small seedlings to grow, aiding nature by art. Blackbirds, tits and pond life colonised what had become a small miracle. The side of the house had become a secluded, sheltered, scented haven, screened from both the road and the next house by sweet-smelling hedges, a living and beautiful thing risen from ashes and destruction.
No, Sam wouldn’t like to be the one who tried to prise her away from it. Once Dorrie set her mind on anything, she could be as stubborn as a mule, and this time Sam found himself in sympathy with her. More than that, he couldn’t help feeling that Dorrie without her garden was likely to lose even more hold on reality.
When Cleo announced, after having worked for her father for just two days, that she was going to work for Maid to Order, Daphne lifted her eyes to heaven. And well she might, she told herself. As a teenager, Cleo
had
occasionally been known to tidy her room, under duress, and now it had to be admitted that she kept it in order – more or less – saying off-handedly that life was made easier if you knew just where to put your hands on a clean pair of knickers when you needed them. Daphne saw to it that she helped with the housework when she was around, though truly she found her daughter more of a hindrance than a help to her own efficiency. And nowadays, Cleo occasionally cleared the table after meals and put the dishes in the dishwasher without needing to be reminded. But dedicated to domesticity she was not.
had
occasionally been known to tidy her room, under duress, and now it had to be admitted that she kept it in order – more or less – saying off-handedly that life was made easier if you knew just where to put your hands on a clean pair of knickers when you needed them. Daphne saw to it that she helped with the housework when she was around, though truly she found her daughter more of a hindrance than a help to her own efficiency. And nowadays, Cleo occasionally cleared the table after meals and put the dishes in the dishwasher without needing to be reminded. But dedicated to domesticity she was not.
‘Val must be desperate,’ was all Daphne allowed herself to say, in a jokey sort of way, as she whisked around, getting ready to go out. She’d learned to hold her tongue, and sometimes her tight-lipped disapproval. She did try, she really did. As she did now, by changing the subject. ‘Do you like my new bowling skirt?’
It was important to Daphne that she always looked exactly right, even just playing bowls with her friends, a game they were all currently mad about. She’d have liked George to go with her and had been at pains to explain that it wasn’t just a game for the wrinklies, and what great skill it required, but George only rolled his eyes.
‘Mmm, yes,’ said Cleo. ‘Very stylish.’ Like all Daphne’s clothes, the skirt was well chosen and perfectly fitting. She’d kept her figure and the natural strands of silver in her well-styled fair hair only served to give it a fashionably streaky look. People often took her and her daughters for sisters. ‘Nice for me,’ Daphne would say with a light laugh, ‘but poor you. Unfair.’
‘It isn’t Val that’s desperate,’ Cleo said now, ‘it’s me. Now that
Muriel’s come back, Dad doesn’t need me. I have to find another job.’ In fact, she rather suspected that Muriel’s sudden return wasn’t unconnected with her own unexpected arrival on the scene.
Muriel’s come back, Dad doesn’t need me. I have to find another job.’ In fact, she rather suspected that Muriel’s sudden return wasn’t unconnected with her own unexpected arrival on the scene.
‘Oh, now, look –’
‘Don’t, Mum.’
Cleo began to rummage through the stacks of CDs on the rack. There was nothing to be ashamed of in living on the Social if there weren’t any jobs around. Or living at home with your parents. But she’d been independent during the last three years and she’d no intention of going back on that. She’d thought that maybe the best solution would be to buzz off and find somewhere to live in London, like Jenna, who was flat-sharing there, and where a lot of her friends were, but she couldn’t even begin to think of affording that without a job, even if she was sharing, which for one important reason she didn’t want to do.
‘That Muriel!’ Daphne was saying, as if what Cleo had said had just registered. ‘And that Hermione! Anybody would think nobody had ever had a hysterectomy before.’ She sniffed. Even she thought of Hermione as a person. Then she looked at Cleo more closely, her eyes worried. ‘Cleo, you could get yourself a good position anywhere, if only you’d …’
Be content with what there is, she’d been going to say, but she bit it back just in time, seeing the expression on Cleo’s face, which said that was just what she
wasn’t
going to do. If she couldn’t get the sort of job that demanded a good degree, then perversely, she’d said more than once, she didn’t care what she did. One day she might, Daphne fervently hoped, she just might be persuaded to go back to university and begin again where she’d left off, because, contrary to what recent events had shown, Cleo was every bit as bright as Jenna. Jenna was just more clever at passing exams. On the other hand, Daphne sighed, it was more likely Cleo might not. She seemed to have changed and, in some way, grown older, even more secretive than usual. Certainly more independent, and stubborn. Well, university apart, there were plenty of other opportunities open to clever girls. But going out cleaning wasn’t one of them.
wasn’t
going to do. If she couldn’t get the sort of job that demanded a good degree, then perversely, she’d said more than once, she didn’t care what she did. One day she might, Daphne fervently hoped, she just might be persuaded to go back to university and begin again where she’d left off, because, contrary to what recent events had shown, Cleo was every bit as bright as Jenna. Jenna was just more clever at passing exams. On the other hand, Daphne sighed, it was more likely Cleo might not. She seemed to have changed and, in some way, grown older, even more secretive than usual. Certainly more independent, and stubborn. Well, university apart, there were plenty of other opportunities open to clever girls. But going out cleaning wasn’t one of them.
‘Oh, Cleo!’ she said helplessly. ‘Maid to Order – I ask you!’
‘Mum, I haven’t signed my life away! It’s only
temporary
! Just until Val gets herself sorted.’
temporary
! Just until Val gets herself sorted.’
Having disarranged all her mother’s carefully ordered CDs and not found anything worthy of playing, Cleo knew exactly what Daphne was thinking. But she was never ever going to settle for being somebody’s secretary. That seemed to her more like an admission of failure than taking a job with Maid to Order. And once there, she’d be trapped. She couldn’t say this to her mother, however, who was very proud of her own job as part-time secretary (almost full-time, the hours she put in) to the Bursar at Lavenstock College. The Maid to Order job wasn’t going to do anything to reinforce the impression that she was serious about getting herself together, yet how could she explain that this was something more than just a silly whim? That doing something undemanding would give her a breathing space while trying to do the one thing she really wanted to do?
‘There’s a letter from Jenna on the mantelpiece, she’s going to take the job with that big law firm,’ Daphne said at last with a sigh, realising she’d lost the battle yet again. She patted her already immaculate hair in the mirror before going out, looking neat and trim in her white skirt and navy blazer. ‘She might be coming home next weekend.’ She fluffed up a few cushions and blew some imaginary specks of dust off her Lladru collection on the display shelves. Cleo half expected the same treatment, but Daphne only looked at her, then left, with instructions about what time to switch on the oven for the evening meal, and how to peel the potatoes.
Cleo didn’t read the letter for an hour and a half – an hour and thirty-four minutes, to be precise. She let it sit there, while she gazed out at the semi-detached houses opposite, a mirror image of their own, then back at the neat, familiar script on the envelope, telling herself she wouldn’t read it. In the end, of course, she did. If she’d known what it would contain she could have saved herself one hour and thirty-four minutes biting her nails.
What had she expected? That Jenna was going to pour it all out, how she’d gone across to visit Cleo at Norwich, met her lover and stolen him? No, she wouldn’t. Not Jenna. Well, not many people would, Cleo had to admit. No one would willingly admit to such perfidy. Perhaps she’d thought Jenna was simply writing to say she’d met this perfectly wonderful man, Toby Armitage, and was going to marry him and could she bring him
home and please would Cleo keep out of the way? Preferably for the rest of their lives?
home and please would Cleo keep out of the way? Preferably for the rest of their lives?
Cleo would keep out of the way, all right. She’d seen Jenna only once since that spectacular fight. Toby she hadn’t seen at all. He’d dissolved like Scotch mist when all the trouble arose, leaving Jenna to face the music.
Oh Lord, thought Cleo. Never mind they weren’t alike, she and Jenna did understand one another, there was a special sort of sibling bond between them whatever they said; until this last thing had happened, they’d always been best friends. Until that night when Jenna had admitted that on those weekends Toby had told Cleo he was going home to see his parents, he’d been seeing her in Cambridge, that they’d developed this grand passion.
Cleo’s work had already suffered during the last year when she and Toby had no time for anything else except each other, and after he was gone and her exams loomed she was too miserable to apply herself to catching up at that late stage. She’d sort of been running backwards for a long time, anyway. Fighting against the admission that perhaps she wasn’t really university material, which was something just too hard to swallow. You don’t need a degree to be a writer, she’d told herself fiercely, think of all those famous names who’ve never been near a university. Think of Shakespeare. Think of Charlotte Brontë. Think of almost anyone. All the same, it was mortifying for someone who’d intended to be a writer for as long as she could remember to fail in Eng.Lit.
She was glad that nobody – except Jenna – knew about her ambitions. Still unconfident, unpublished, she wasn’t sure even George would have understood. She knew despondently that her biggest battle was against her own lack of confidence. Why should anybody be interested in what she had to write? With so little experience of the world, did she even have the right to think she could be a novelist?
She knew that her parents knew perfectly well that, exam results apart, there was something else wrong, too. She was almost certain Daphne suspected some sort of broken love affair, and thought that was why she was moping around like a lovesick cow, though Cleo had never told them about Toby, wanting to keep him to herself for as long as she could. But her mother
was wrong. Splitting up with Toby had hurt like an abscessed tooth, of course it had, but several months later, she knew the condition wasn’t terminal. It was just that losing him had left her feeling so
empty,
hollow with unsatisfied longings for … she didn’t know what. Well, she could always write.
was wrong. Splitting up with Toby had hurt like an abscessed tooth, of course it had, but several months later, she knew the condition wasn’t terminal. It was just that losing him had left her feeling so
empty,
hollow with unsatisfied longings for … she didn’t know what. Well, she could always write.
She wasn’t due to start with Maid to Order until Monday, so she went out and spent the morning once more looking for somewhere to live — a flat, or a bed-sit, anything. By now she wasn’t all that fussy as long as it afforded her some privacy. Not that she was anti-social, but if she was going to be serious about writing, she needed her own space.
Near Birmingham, or Coventry, there was plenty of student-type accommodation available near the universities, but that absolutely wasn’t what Cleo was looking for. She felt very definitely that she’d left that scene behind, to get involved in it again, however peripherally, would be a markedly backward step. But she found nothing else she could remotely afford, and after a depressing sandwich in a pizza bar (she should have stuck to the pizza) she wandered down to the agency, to give in her notice to her father, so to speak. He hadn’t heard about her alternative proposals for employment yet.
He wasn’t as rude about her qualifications for the job as Daphne had been, but he wasn’t thrilled with the idea, even when she pointed out that there was nothing for her to do at the agency, now that Muriel was back.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I wish she’d made up her bloomin’ mind to stay away. It was good of her to think I’d be needing her, but I’m not mad about having Hermione around the place.’
Who would be? The little dog had been spoiled to death before her major op, and was worse now, enjoying the rewards of being an invalid without any of the disadvantages. Cleo had noticed her trotting around the back yard on her short legs without a care in the world, not to mention chasing the butcher’s cat from next door, but she was canny enough not to push her luck by letting Muriel see her doing this. She even stayed curled in the little basket at Muriel’s feet when anyone came in, gazing at them with soulful eyes rather than snapping as was her wont, when there was nothing she enjoyed more than seeing people shrink back in fear of her sharp little teeth. She’d been tyrannising her mistress for years. Muriel had always sworn that her
previous bad temper was due to the poor little thing having had hot flushes for years, and how could anyone prove she hadn’t? True or not, the dog obviously knew she was on to a good thing now. Minced fillet steak and Choccie Chews. Warm milk to drink. Hottie bottles in her basket. Hermione had obviously become power drunk, with every intention of spinning this out indefinitely.
previous bad temper was due to the poor little thing having had hot flushes for years, and how could anyone prove she hadn’t? True or not, the dog obviously knew she was on to a good thing now. Minced fillet steak and Choccie Chews. Warm milk to drink. Hottie bottles in her basket. Hermione had obviously become power drunk, with every intention of spinning this out indefinitely.
‘I wish I could give you some real work here,’ George said, ‘but you know how it is.’ There was barely enough work for Muriel, never mind Cleo into the bargain. ‘You’ve done well,’ he added, and she felt a certain amount of pride, despite herself.
Muriel, it had to be said, though well-intentioned, and capable in her own way, was a muddler, and the office was in better order than when Cleo started. Maybe she could have made a good secretary after all. Perish the thought.
It didn’t take her long to turn over everything back to Muriel, and before she left, she assured her father she’d done this – including the Sara Ruby case. She’d wondered at first if the woman who’d drowned could have been Sara Ruby, but the dead woman had been several inches too tall and many years too old. How terrible such a death was, thought Cleo, haunted by a sadness she couldn’t explain whenever she thought about her, the fact that no one yet had claimed to have known her. How lonely.
‘Don’t you worry about me, Dad,’ she told George when she was ready to leave. ‘It’s just that I have to earn some money, I can’t go on living with you and Mum indefinitely.’
‘Why not? It’s your home, and always will be,’ he said, but he was just being kind. Strained politeness had ruled at 26 Ellwood Street for the last few weeks, but they all knew that it was only a matter of time before Cleo and Daphne began to have some very real differences of opinion. Her mother, thought Cleo, expected too much. They got on fine, when they were apart. It was living together they couldn’t stand.
‘All right,’ George said suddenly, with the air of a man coming to a decision. ‘I might as well tell you now. I wasn’t going to mention it until your mum and I had given it a bit more thought. But we’ve already decided, really. Phoebe’s house has just come vacant.’
‘The Honeybuns are leaving?’ Cleo could never remember
their real name, a lovey-dovey married couple, Americans who’d come to live in her great-aunt’s house after she died. The one time she’d met Mrs H she’d thought her a silly, wilting sort of creature who looked as if she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. What was her name? Oh yes, Angela. Mr Honeybun had called her Angel.
their real name, a lovey-dovey married couple, Americans who’d come to live in her great-aunt’s house after she died. The one time she’d met Mrs H she’d thought her a silly, wilting sort of creature who looked as if she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. What was her name? Oh yes, Angela. Mr Honeybun had called her Angel.
‘They’ve already gone. Back to America. The people at the place he worked for over there suddenly decided they wanted him back, urgently, and the college agreed to let him go. I don’t know the details.’
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