Winter Wood (11 page)

As the supper things were being loaded into the dishwasher, the subject of Celandine came up again,
in a roundabout way. Uncle Brian pulled open the drawer of the Welsh dresser and took out some sort of package – a brown envelope, folded, with an elastic band round it.

‘While I remember it, Midge, here are those papers I was telling you about. You know, the old farm bills and what-have-you. I had another quick flip through them myself, and can't see that there's anything that'd be of much use to you. But you never know. Might be worth a look.'

‘Oh. OK. Thanks.' Midge took the bundle and felt slightly self-conscious. Should she open it up now? ‘I'll have a look later,' she said.

‘Bet
that
'll be interesting,' said Katie. ‘Want some coffee? We can go and watch
EastEnders
together.'

‘All right.'

They sat side by side on the living-room sofa, the TV switched on, and to Midge's surprise Katie mentioned the little people – sort of.

‘I don't know why you keep picking at it,' she said. ‘You know . . . what happened. You can't tell anyone, or do anything about it. Are you up to something?'

Midge took a sip of her coffee. She half wished that she could talk to Katie about what was going on –
why
she was searching for Celandine, and how she had become involved with the Various all over again. It would be good to tell someone. And yet she knew that she never could.

‘No, I'm not up to anything. I'm just interested in Aunt Celandine, that's all.'

Yet now that Katie had acknowledged what lay between them, Midge couldn't resist going a step further.

‘It's funny how we never talk about it,' she said.

‘Not funny at all, really,' said Katie. ‘We only talk about what we think about. And I never think about it. It's easy. I just make myself not think about it and then it doesn't bother me. You ought to do the same.' She sounded tetchy.

‘Yeah, maybe you're right. Does George ever talk to you about it?'

Katie shook her head. ‘Never mentions it. Oh! That Billy makes me so
mad
. He needs to get his act together, or they'll be splitting up again – you just wait and see.'

‘What?' said Midge. But then she realized that Katie was lost in what was happening on the screen. The goings on in Albert Square were apparently far more real to her than her encounter with the Various.

Midge slipped the rubber band off her envelope and drew out the contents. There was a long slim book of some sort, with a grey marbled cover, and a few folded pieces of paper. The pieces of paper were mostly bills, by the look of them, or receipts: Lopen Feed Mills, Allen Bros., Blacksmith and Farriers . . .

J. L. Bright and Partners, Solicitors . . . veterinary bills . . .

It was strange to see everything written out in such neat sloping handwriting, the sums and figures all in the old money that they'd used before decimal came
in.
To treating a sick horse (Beamer) . . . £1 . . . 4s . . . 4d. To repairing an iron gate and making good . . . £0 . . . 3s . . . 9d
.

Quite interesting, but not likely to get her anywhere. Midge opened the book and saw that it was a farm ledger. More dry facts and figures: so many calves born, so many loads of hay sold. But again everything was beautifully written out in a rich black ink, some of the words painstakingly underlined in red. Copperplate handwriting – was that what they called it?
. . . Income for the month of August . . . Expenditure for the month of September . . . Mount Pleasant School for Girls . . . Fees: 2 guineas
.

What was a guinea? Midge paused, holding the corner of the page between finger and thumb. And what was this ‘Mount Pleasant School for Girls'?

She sat there looking at the words for a while, then glanced up at the top of the page, to where the date was written out: September 1914.

September 1914. Would Celandine have been a schoolgirl then? It seemed about right. So maybe this could be where she went to school: Mount Pleasant School for Girls . . .

‘
Do what, Peggy? You're 'avin' a larf, incha . . .?
' The telly blared on. Katie tucked her legs up onto the sofa, and Midge shifted along a bit.

Perhaps this school still existed. And if it did, then perhaps they'd have kept a record of what had happened to their former pupils. Schools sometimes did, and particularly where pupils had gone on to do things that would make the school proud of them, as
Celandine surely had. Also . . . yes,
also
 . . . there was the possibility of reunions, pupils keeping in touch with one another – an Old Girls Association, maybe. She could try one of those ‘friends united' sites! Now that would definitely be worth a stab.

Midge closed the little ledger, feeling better now that she had a new plan to work on. There was another folded piece of paper protruding from the book, inserted between the last page and the back cover. Midge began to tuck it in, but then changed her mind and pulled it out to take a look.

It turned out to be two pieces of paper – one inside the other – both headed ‘Mount Pleasant School for Girls'. But how amazing . . .

The first was a bill, addressed to Mr E. V. Howard:

Wilful damage? This didn't look good. Midge moved on to the second sheet of paper – a handwritten letter.

Wow! Midge rested the letter in her lap and gawped at the TV screen. What on earth could Celandine have done that was so terrible?

‘Find anything?' Katie yawned as the programme came to an end and the credits began to roll.

Midge handed the letter over. ‘Yeah. This.'

Katie yawned again and looked at the letter – then sat up straight as she began to read through it.

‘Yipes! I can't believe this! Sounds like she was a right little madam. Wonder what she did, though? “Disgusting and abominable behaviour . . .” Maybe
she was round the back of the gym with one of the gardeners.'

‘No. Read it again. It's actual damage. There's a bill here – forty-five quid.'

‘Doesn't seem
that
much.' Katie looked at the bill.

‘Yeah, but that would probably have been like hundreds in today's money.'

‘Suppose so. Well, well, well. Great-aunt Celandine – nothing but a hooligan! A vandal! What are you going to do now?'

‘Well, I
was
going to see whether the school still existed, and whether there was like a reunion site or something for old pupils. Doesn't seem much point now, though.'

‘Noooo. Sounds like she might have blotted the jolly old copybook. Eh what, me old sport, me old spiffy?'

‘Ha! Just a bit.'

Yes, and that was a blow. It seemed unlikely that Celandine would ever have been a welcome member of any kind of Old Girl's club after what she'd done . . . whatever it was that she
had
done.

Midge picked up the ledger and the bits of paper, and put them back in the envelope. So. That was that.

Saturday rolled round again, and Midge was getting nowhere. She'd gone on a computer search, just for the lack of any better idea, typed in ‘Mount Pleasant School for Girls', and found to her astonishment that there were loads of them. Or at least there were loads of schools with Mount Pleasant in the name, but they
were all much too far away to have been possible candidates: Switzerland, Auckland, Delaware . . . even the one in Hampshire would surely have been a non-starter.

The local paper had responded to her email kindly, but regretfully, saying that they had nothing in their files on the Tone Valley Clinic that she hadn't already seen. It was all beginning to get her down a bit. And now she had to waste her whole Saturday afternoon doing something she did
not
want to do: meeting Barry.

They were going on a shopping trip to this Almbury Mills place, to look at shrubs, of all things. Barry knew a lot about
shrubs
, apparently, and so he would be coming along to advise her mum and Uncle Brian on what to choose. Also it would be a chance to say hallo, and get to know one another. Great.

Normally she could have just said no to such a boring excursion, and stayed at home, but of course that wasn't an option in this case. Because of
Barry
.

‘Come on, Midge,' her mum said. ‘It'll be an afternoon out, and Barry's really looking forward to meeting you. And Brian, of course. Play nice, eh? I think he's a bit nervous about it, actually.'

Yeah, so he should be, thought Midge. But she just sighed and said, ‘OK.'

Well, he had a pretty flash car, that was something. She heard the toot of the horn and looked out of the sitting-room window to see a new silver Saab pulling up in front of the house. It looked very out of place,
and vulnerable, as it nosed between the diggers and the piles of rubble that cluttered the yard. Cool, though.

Midge watched as the car door opened and a man got out. Blimey. He was
ancient
. Or maybe it was just the white hair. Not very tall, either.

She stayed where she was as Barry disappeared from view, heard the knock on the front door and her mother's voice in the hallway.

‘Midge, are you ready? Come on!'

Oh well, there was nothing else for it. Midge arrived in the hallway, just as Uncle Brian came out of his kitchen door, and then there was the whole embarrassing confusion of who was to be introduced first.

‘Barry, this is Brian . . .'

‘Oh, hi . . .'

‘And Margaret – Midge. This is Barry . . . Barry – Midge, Brian . . .'

‘Hiya.' Did she shake hands? Yes, apparently she did. A quick impression of pale fingers, a very light squeeze of her hand. Then the inevitable awkwardness of everybody trying to speak at once.

‘Found us OK, then?'

‘Yes. No trouble, thanks, Brian. Well . . . ap-part from . . .' (Was that a stammer? How nervous could he be?)

‘Don't tell me – the Ilminster roundabout . . .'

‘Yes . . .'

‘What, no SatNav? I should have thought you could go to sleep in that thing and still arrive safe and sound . . .' Her mum chipping in.

‘Yes, there's just one exit too many, isn't there . . .' Brian again.

And then they were all out on the front path, and Barry looked at Uncle Brian and said, ‘I have to say, I c-can't see much of a family resemblance.'

‘Haha!' Uncle Brian laughed. ‘No. I
think
you've probably made the right choice when it comes to looks.'

‘Well, I sh-shan't argue with you there.'

He
did
have a bit of a stammer, then. Wonderful. What a catch. Midge trailed behind the grown-ups, and they all got into Barry's car – Midge and Uncle Brian in the back, of course, and her mum and Barry in the front. The happy couple. Still, there hadn't been any gruesome kissing, so that was a plus. And it
was
a very nice car. Like an aeroplane in there, with all its lights and dials.

She was glad that her Uncle Brian was coming along. He broke the tension somehow, talking easily to Barry about the plans for Mill Farm, how the old cider barn was to become a teashop, with a licensed bar, and how the former stables were being turned into holiday apartments for those who were interested in coming to see the wetlands. He made everybody laugh by saying, ‘And of course, I shall be able to laze around swigging claret all day, and getting paid for my hobby.'

At one point Uncle Brian reached across and gave her hand an understanding little squeeze. He was a pretty cool guy, thought Midge. Barry, she wasn't so sure about. She studied the back of his head, occasionally caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and
quickly looked away. She knew absolutely nothing about him. What was he – some kind of salesman? She and her mum had never had that promised conversation. There never seemed to be any time to talk.

‘So how's the music business then, Barry?' Uncle Brian apparently knew more than she did.

‘Not bad. Plenty of work, at any rate. Get a bit f-fed up with the touring sometimes. And the egos.'

‘Yes, Chris used to be the same, I think.'

‘Mm.' Her mum made a little sound of agreement but said no more. Still a touchy subject, maybe. Or maybe she regretted giving her music up to become a businesswoman.