Winter Wood (12 page)

Nobody spoke for a while, and Midge stared out of the window as the miles passed. So Barry was a musician. Another orchestral player probably – although hadn't her mum said something about all this months ago, hinted then that she was seeing someone, but
not
someone from the orchestra? Yes. She'd forgotten all about that. Maybe this was serious, then, if it had been going on since the middle of last year.

The town, when they finally got there, was packed with shoppers. It took ages to get through, and Midge felt more resentful than ever that she'd been dragged along on this trip. What a waste of a Saturday afternoon. The traffic crawled along nose to tail, and even when they'd got past the town centre and out onto the road to North Perrott, it didn't ease up.
Everybody
seemed to be on their way to Almbury Mills.

‘Not far now,' said Uncle Brian. ‘It's just at the top of this hill, on the left.'

They'd stopped yet again, caught in the long queue of cars that would be turning off to the garden centre. Midge leaned her elbow against the car window, her chin resting on her hand. She found herself staring up at a big old building, set back on a hill, with shrubs and spiky palm trees and neat lawns that swept down towards the road. That couldn't be anything to do with the garden centre, could it? No, far too old. The building was very imposing, with high windows, and a central clock tower. 3.20. Could that be right? By the time they arrived it would be time to go home again.

‘See,
they
look nice,' said her mum, looking up at the place, ‘those shrubs there. Don't they have yellow flowers later on? What are they again?'

Barry glanced across. ‘Forsythia. They're OK. Bit b-boring.'

But then the traffic began to move again and Barry had to look away. They picked up speed, and as they passed the driveway to the building Midge caught a quick glimpse of a sign – ‘Mount Pleasant Residential Apartments'. Large black letters on a white background, and then in smaller letters underneath: ‘A
caring
home.'

Midge spun round in her seat and tried to look out of the rear window, but the sign was no longer visible. She faced front again, and now the car was pulling into the broad entranceway to Almbury Mills, following the stream of traffic heading for the car parks.

Midge blinked as she tried to remember the details of what she'd seen. Mount Pleasant Residential Apartments . . .

Could
it be possible?
Might
that big old building have once been a school?

‘There!' said Mum. ‘Just over there, Barry – a space.'

‘Yes!' Barry swung the car into the vacant space, and turned off the engine. ‘Brilliant. The p-parking fairy is smiling upon us.'

As they entered the crowded and echoey complex – all glass domed roof and potted palms – Midge felt Mum's arm go round her shoulder.

‘You're very quiet, love. Everything all right?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine. Can I have a drink, though?'

‘Um . . . well, shall we go and have a look at some plants first? It's taken a bit longer to get here than we expected, and we do need to get a few things sorted out. We can stop for tea in an hour or so.'

‘Tell, you what, Chris,' said Uncle Brian. ‘Why don't
you and Barry go on ahead and make a start, and I'll get Midge a lemonade or something? To be honest, I'm going to be about as much use in the shrub department as a duck in a desert, and I could do with a cup of tea myself. Also, I wouldn't mind a nose around the bookshops. We can catch up with you later.'

‘Well, you lazy old b . . .' Mum's voice was loudly indignant, but Midge could see that she wasn't seriously angry. ‘So
we
do all the hard work, while you loll around the cafés scoffing buns!'

‘Ooh – hadn't thought of that,' said Uncle Brian. ‘But now that you mention it, I
could
go a bun. What do you think, Midge?'

‘Well I might be able to force myself.' Midge looked up at Barry, and saw that he was laughing.

‘Come on, Chris,' said Barry. ‘It doesn't have to be a p-penance. I don't mind.'

‘Sure? Oh . . . all right, then. We've all got mobiles, I suppose. Let's aim to meet up at five, then, if we don't bump into each other before then. See you later.'

‘Ruddy plants,' said Uncle Brian, once Mum and Barry were out of earshot. ‘Don't see why we need 'em in the first place. I'd be happy to tarmac the lot, frankly, but there you go. I suppose that's the difference between having good taste and not. Come on, let's see if we can bag one of those tables.'

They sat at one of the little café tables that spread out into the busy main concourse, and ordered up drinks and a couple of cakes.

Uncle Brian said, ‘What do you make of Barry, then?'

‘Um . . . don't know, really. Seems OK, I suppose. A musician, is he?'

‘Yes. Quite well known in the business, I think. He puts backing bands together for when big American artists come over here to tour. It's cheaper than bringing their own musicians across if they can use local guys, so I gather they call on Barry to pull in the right people for the job. How's your cake?'

‘Good.' Midge took a bite of her chocolate muffin and leaned over her plate to catch the crumbs. She looked up as she did so, and saw someone coming towards their table – a tubby man in a waxed jacket, creeping up behind Uncle Brian. The man winked at her, raised his hand and then slapped it down onto Uncle Brian's shoulder, as though he were a policeman nabbing a convict.

‘
Howard
, you old layabout! What the devil are you doing here?'

Uncle Brian spluttered into his teacup, and looked round at his attacker.

‘
Clifton
, you appalling specimen! Well, I was enjoying a peaceful spot of tea with my favourite niece, but I can see that it's goodbye to all that. Come and join us, why don't you.'

They spoke to each other in a jokey old-fashioned language, as though they had once been fighter pilots together, or something. Probably just schoolfriends, thought Midge.

‘Excellent idea!' The man took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘I think I might try
one of those chocolate muffins, as it seems to be having such a health-giving effect on your young companion here.'

‘Midge, this is Cliff Maybank,' said Uncle Brian. ‘Old chum of mine. Shocking type. Well, we've come to buy plants, Cliff, believe it or not. What are
you
doing here?'

‘Running a bookshop.' The man looked around for a waitress, waved a stubby finger at one of them, and then sat down. ‘Though God knows why I bother. The rates in this place are criminal.'

‘Imagine they would be. Given up on the antiques business then?'

‘Given up the premises, at any rate. Got a shop on ebay now, selling all sorts.'

‘Have you really? Hm. Well, this could be good timing, then, finding you here. We might be able to help each other out. I've got a stack of old stuff on the farm that I could do with getting shot of. Now then . . .'

And away the two of them went, chattering like a couple of schoolboys, so that within half a minute Midge had given up listening. She finished off her muffin, and the last of her lemonade, and then said, ‘Uncle Brian, is it OK if I go and have a look in one of the shops? They've got an Accessorize here, and I need to think about getting Katie something for her birthday.'

‘Oh Lord, is it that time of year again?' said Uncle Brian. ‘I'd forgotten. Um . . . well, yes, I suppose that'd be all right, love – as far as I'm concerned,
anyway. Would your mum let you go if she was here?'

‘Yeah, she wouldn't mind. It's only just down there.'

‘Well, all right, then. I imagine we'll be here for a while yet – I'm not desperate to go wandering through the heathers, that's for sure, or whatever it is that Chris and Barry are doing. Got your mobile?'

‘Yeah. It's switched on.'

‘OK. See you back here in a bit, then. Don't get lost, or I'll be lynched!'

‘I won't.'

Midge made her way back towards the main entrance. She did what she'd said she was going to do, and walked into the little accessories shop that she knew Katie liked. But although she spent a few minutes looking at the bangles and the beads, she wasn't really concentrating on those things at all. She was thinking about that place she had seen just down the road – the Mount Pleasant Residential Apartments. The building
did
look as though it could have once been a school, with its high mullion windows and its parapets and its clock tower. And the distance from Mill Farm would have been reasonable, if it had been a boarding school. A far more likely bet than Hampshire, at any rate. Or the States. How could she find out more about it? Maybe there was a phone number on that signboard, or a web address.

Midge looked at her watch. Four o'clock, not even that. She could be there and back in a few minutes. And her mum wasn't expecting to see her before five, anyway. It would be awful to drive home and then find that the place wasn't in the phone book or on the web.
But if she went now, without any dithering, then nobody would even miss her. It was only just around the corner, and there wasn't even a road to cross. There couldn't be any harm in that, could there?

She went over to the shop doorway and looked back towards the café. There were so many people about that Uncle Brian and his friend were only occasionally visible, and both of them had their backs to her in any case. Come on, then, let's do it.

It felt cold out in the car park after the warmth of the shopping complex, and Midge stuffed her hands into the pockets of her fleece as she hurried along the zig-zagging pavements. She got down to the main road, turned right, and kept on going. The traffic had eased up a bit, but there were still plenty of cars and lorries about and she was glad that she didn't have to try and cross over. Only another hundred yards or so to go. She glanced at her watch again as she reached the driveway that led up to Mount Pleasant. Barely five-past. Good.

But this
wasn't
so good: the painted sign had no telephone number on it, and no web address either. ‘Mount Pleasant Residential Apartments. A
caring
home,' it said. And then in quite small letters at the very bottom: ‘Strictly Private. Residents access only'. That was it.

Drat. Midge stared up at the big building, and now she felt more certain than ever that she was on the right track. It looked
so
much like a school. She could just imagine Celandine cooped up in there with hundreds of other girls, toiling away. And maybe those
higher windows would have been dormitories, where they all slept . . . or wept . . .

It
had
to be the right place. But what was she going to do now? Just forget it and hope that she would be able to phone or email, in order to learn more?

No. She wasn't going to risk it. She'd go in and ask – right now – whilst she was here on the spot. It wouldn't take a minute, and at least she'd know whether she was wasting her time or not. If she only came away with a phone number, that would be something.

It was daunting, though, walking up that steep curving driveway. Midge felt that the eyes of the building were looking down upon her, asking her what business she thought she had being here, accusing her of trespassing. When she got to the top, the drive flattened out, and there was a green-and-white sign that said ‘Reception' pointing left towards the main entrance. She felt very small, climbing the steps up to the high arched doorway. There was an intercom system, too modern-looking in its ancient surroundings – and another test of Midge's nerve. She hesitated for a moment, but then pressed the button and waited.

‘Yes?' A crackly female voice.

‘Er . . . Margaret Walters.' Midge didn't know what else to say.

The buzzer went, and Midge pushed at the door. It wouldn't open.

‘Pull.' Another burst of static from the intercom.

Midge pulled at the big brass handle – which, as she now realized, had a very clear sign right next to it saying ‘Pull'. The door swung back, and Midge
stepped inside. She saw the reception desk immediately, but it was right on the other side of a large open space, which she would have to cross. The girl behind the desk was already looking over at her in surprise. There was a big staircase, a square spiral that seemed to go right the way up through the building, and some lifts, obviously quite new. Midge wiped her feet on the mat and walked towards the desk, feeling very conscious of her grubby trainers on the thick blue carpet. She was aware too of the silence, and of a vague aroma – a mixture of air-freshener and cooking.

‘Yes? Can I help you?' The girl behind the desk had lots of make-up on, but she actually looked quite young. Perhaps she'd be friendly.

‘Um, yes. I was wondering – did this place used to be a school?'