CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Have you seen Owen?” Anne asked Charley Briggs, who had returned from her foray into the garden and was now ensconced in an armchair that had seen better days, making suggestive gestures at Spence. He was lounging on a shabby sofa opposite, a wicked grin on his face. Anne felt inclined to agree with the dumpy woman from the charity shop. These two had no sense of occasion. Unlike the latter, though, she was amused rather than offended. “Have you seen Owen?” she repeated. Reluctant though she was to intrude, she sensed something was wrong. She had never seen Owen so visibly shaken and disturbed.
“He went in there,” Spence told her, indicating a door that she knew led to Owen’s bedroom.
“To lie down I shouldn’t wonder,” Charley added, “He looked terrible, poor man. I dare say it’s all proving too much for him. Much as I love a good burial, at least a cremation is short and sweet.”
Anne hesitated. “Perhaps I should make sure he’s alright…”
“I’d leave well alone if I were you,” said Charley. “Let him have a good cry. It’s the only way to deal with grief. Let it all hang out, that’s what I say. Men, of course, need to smash their way through the macho barrier first. Let him be for now, Anne. Believe me, it’s for the best.”
Anne sat down on a hard chair. “The trouble is,” she began to confide, and then began to have second thoughts, but pressed on anyway, “I’m not sure it’s grief that Owen needs to deal with. Oh, that too of course, but…” Still turning the queer business over in her mind, she related her brief encounter with Fern McAllister and how Alice Shepherd had mistaken her, Anne, for the other woman on what had, in effect, been poor Alice’s deathbed. “Poor Owen... Seeing her again was obviously a nasty shock. I can’t help wondering why?” she finished lamely.
“I need a pee,” Spence announced abruptly and left the room.
“He means, excuse me, I need to go to the toilet,” said Charley, half apologetically and the other half tongue in cheek, “No finesse, that boy!”
“You seem good together,” Anne remarked.
“Do you think so?” Charley seemed genuinely pleased, “I think so too. But about this McAllister woman, what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean, do?”
“Well, you can’t leave things as they are. Obviously, this woman has had a very distressing effect on Owen, as if the poor man doesn’t have enough to contend with! No, we can’t leave it there. We must find out what’s going on if only so we can lend Owen our support. That’s what friends are for, after all, to support each other in times of need.”
Anne was about to attempt, tactfully, to tell Charley it was none of their business when Spence burst into the room waving a piece of paper. “Look what I found in the loo! “
“It looks like an envelope,” observed Charley dryly.
“Right first time, and guess who it’s addressed to?”
“Should I care?” Charley heaved an impatient sigh. Spence ould be such a pain in the neck sometimes.
“Mrs Fern McAllister, no less. What’s more, there is a letter inside.”
“Then you should give it to Owen at once or at least leave it on the table for him to find,” Anne declared in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
Spencer refused to be intimidated. “Guess who it’s from?”
“You haven’t read it?” Anne was appalled, “It’s personal.”
“They’re the only kind worth reading,” Charley declared flatly, “Come on, Spence, put us out of our misery.”
Spence sat down and took a single sheet of paper from the envelope. “It’s from Mrs Alice Shepherd,” he revealed with the air of a magician saying ‘Hey Presto!’
“This isn’t right,” Anne complained bitterly.
“We all have Owen’s best interest at heart, don’t we?” Charley demanded.
“Of course we do, but…” Anne stammered.
“No buts. Buts just get in everyone’s way. Mark my words, Armageddon will be down to some idiot saying ‘but’ and a whole lot more idiots hanging on to his every word. It has to be a man, let’s face it. A woman would have more sense. Now, read on, Spence, before curiosity has our guts for garters.”
Anne wrestled with her conscience, lost, and was all ears as Spence read:
Dear Fern
What can I say? There are no words, so I will not insult us both by looking for any. By the time you read this, I will be gone. I know you will understand and agree it is for the best. Sadly, we will never meet again in this world. Hopefully, the next will be kinder to us all. In my heart, we will always be best friends and I like to think that, in spite of everything, you will continue to feel the same way. You can have no idea how that will help me through the years ahead.
Take care of yourself, dear friend.
Love,
Alice
Spence paused then, “There’s an intriguing postscript too,” he added and read:
PS We are using my maiden name. Please keep this to yourself. I have no right to ask any favours of you but am telling you because we have never kept secrets from each other and I cannot bear to start now.
“What about that then? Interesting, eh?” Spence was visibly excited. “Now, there’s a mystery for you, my sweet,” he said to Charley “What's the big secret, eh?”
“Whatever, it is none of our business,” Anne snapped. “We must return the letter to Owen as soon as possible.”
“Strange, isn’t it, that she doesn’t mention his name once?” Charley murmured pensively.
“Stranger still that Shepherd isn’t their real name,” Spence pointed out, “I wonder what they’ve got to hide, eh? Something juicy, I bet.” He replaced the letter in the envelope.
Anne leapt to her feet, crossed to where Spence was sitting in two swift strides and snatched the envelope from Spencer’s grasp before either he or Charley had time to catch their breath.
“Hey!” Spence protested.
“This is a personal letter from a dead woman to a friend. You should never have read it. In the circumstances, it’s even worse than an intrusion into someone’s private affairs. It’s a sacrilege. I suggest we leave the envelope and its contents on the mantel where Owen will find it, and forget the whole thing.”
“Why not just give it to him?” Spence wanted to know.
Anne felt increasingly uncomfortable. “Because then he might suspect that someone may have read it and is privy to its contents. The McAllister woman is bound to contact him as soon as she realizes she’s mislaid it. She, too, has every right to expect her privacy will be respected.”
“Owen is sure to read it though,” Spence was quick to point out.
“So he reads it, so what? Alice was his mother, after all. Whatever she may or may not have meant Fern McAllister to read between the lines, it’s family business and none of ours.” Anne went to the mantel, placed one corner of the envelope under a handsome carriage clock and returned to her seat, glaring first at Spence then at Charley, plainly expecting an outcry of sorts. On the contrary, however, Spence looked somewhat sheepish while Charley struck Anne as a woman searching her conscience.
“I think it’s time we were leaving,” Charley announced and stood up, tossing Spence a glance that plainly said, “I told you so.”
Spence groaned inwardly. He knew that look, only too well. Even so, he was glad to be leaving. He’d been on tenterhooks in case Charley spilled the beans to Anne about her discovery of a grave in the shrubbery. He had a shrewd idea how Charley’s mind would be working now with regard to Owen Shepherd. Anne would be horrified if she had the slightest inkling. So the Shepherds had a skeleton in their cupboard, by the look of things. What family doesn’t have one, for heaven’s sake? It’s no big deal. He had only read the letter for a laugh. How could he have been so stupid? Charley would really have the bit between her teeth now. She’s not someone easily persuaded to let up, that’s for sure.
He chuckled. One thing’s for sure, he had to admit if only to himself while hiding a wicked grin behind a discreet cough, no one could be more predisposed to making suspect mountains out of suspect molehills than Charley Briggs. He continued to ponder ingenuously and coughed again. Who knows? It might even be fun…
Anne was relieved to close the front door on the pair. Nor did she linger on the steps to wave them off. She was furious about the letter. At the same time, she couldn’t deny that she was intrigued, not least because she hadn’t quite known what to make of Fern McAllister. It was as if the grey silk and hair had conspired to give the woman an indefinable, almost ethereal quality. One might have been talking to a ghost, she reflected, and then laughed aloud at her own fancifulness. Even so, she felt increasingly uneasy as she went in search of Owen.
After knocking gently but firmly at his bedroom door, Anne opened it and peered inside. Owen was lying on the bed, fully clothed, in a foetal position. He was snoring loudly. Reassured that he was not in any distress, she closed the door, and made her way downstairs, collected her things and was glad to be out of the house and strolling back to the hotel. There was a slight breeze and the late afternoon sun was warm on her face. She glanced up at an azure sky, clear but for a smoky finger of cloud drifting her way. Her thoughts turned, inevitably, to the Taylors, especially Cathy and little Lynette. Such a sweet child, and so very much like Patricia…
For no apparent reason, she began to fret about Owen. Alice, she recalled vividly, had said she was frightened for him. By that, Anne took her to mean that she was concerned how he might cope without a maternal presence in the old house providing all the advantages of a live-in counsellor as well as chief cook and bottle-washer. She knew only too well that Owen relied heavily on his mother for support as well as home comforts most of his life. Yet, he appeared to have managed surprisingly well during the latter months, when Alice had been so ill.
In his own way, Owen had always struck her as a very capable man. Perhaps, in the absence of a domineering mother, he might feel free to show his true colours. Or would Alice continue to haunt him from beyond the grave?
Anne shivered, in spite of the cloying heat. “It seems to be an afternoon for ghosts,” she told a passing butterfly and laughed aloud. She pursed her lips and quickened her step. She did not want to think about Owen or his mother. Certainly, she had no wish to give Fern McAllister a second thought. She wanted to concentrate on Cathy and Lynette. It would be wonderful to see them on Sunday if not before. Lynette would love feeding the hens. She must make sure Owen did not forget. Poor Owen, she couldn’t expect him to be thinking too clearly at the moment. It occurred to her that she must find out what Lynette’s favourite foods were too. “I just hope that Steve stays away,” she told the butterfly who seemed intent on keeping her company.
The prospect of seeing Steve Taylor again made Anne’s heart sink and ruined her pretty reverie. Glancing up, she saw that the finger of cloud had grown to hand size and others had appeared. What is it, she wondered irritably, about British summers and weather? At the same time, she could hear Alice Shepherd’s distinctive voice in her ear, “We are reverting to my maiden name.” For years now she had thought she knew the Shepherds well. Yet, she hadn’t even known their name. It certainly was the queerest thing. But she would keep faith with Owen. “Or what are friends for?” But the butterfly had disappeared and a passer-by gave her a strange look.
Anne walked even faster, desperate for a cup of tea.
………………………………
“What address?” Spence yawned as he emerged from a long, hot shower with a standard hotel towel wrapped around his middle.
“The address on that letter of course, Fern McAllister’s address.”
“Oh, that. Somewhere in Bristol I think.”
“That’s no use to us. Where in Bristol? You must have noticed. You were practically devouring every word.”
“Upon which you were hanging like a bat, my sweet.”
“Never mind that now. What was the address? Think hard.”
He came and lay down on the bed, next to her. “I don’t need to think at all. I only have to close my eyes and there it is, as clear as day.”
“So?”
“14 Fennimore Street, Downend, Bristol,” he recited, “But why do you want to know? And why should it be of any use to ‘us’ anyway? You can’t possibly think she’ll still be living there after all this time? That letter was dated July 31st 1983 for heaven’s sake. She’ll be long gone."
“It’s a start. If we set off early tomorrow morning, it will only take a few hours in the car. We can be back by late evening. Mind you, it may take longer if we have to sift through the local archives. But we can always stay overnight if necessary, just so long as we’re back in time for Sunday at the Shepherds.”
Sunday at the Shepherds…?”
“Owen invited Anne’s friend and her little girl to lunch. I couldn’t help overhearing and he mentioned that we would be more than welcome to join them. You know how I love hens. Besides, I need to do some digging.”
“You’re not going to dig up that grave?”
“Of course I’m not. Don’t be silly. Well, not yet, anyhow. But first things first, and hopefully we’ll have a much clearer picture after our little trip to Bristol.”
“Okay, I’m game if you are. But don’t be too disappointed if Bristol turns out to be a dead end.”
You really don’t mind?” Charley had been expecting howls of protest.
“If it makes you happy, it makes me happy.”
“You do say the sweetest things. All lies, of course, but I love to hear them anyway.”
“Lies…? As if…” protested Spence, adopting a hurt expression he couldn’t sustain. With one accord, both burst into peals of laughter. She leaned across and kissed him, ripping the towel from his body as she did so and revelling in the thrust of naked muscle against her skin.
Below, Anne sat in the lounge drinking tea.
Meanwhile, at Hillcrest, Lynette, was running excitedly into the garden, bursting to tell a boy she had befriended at the hotel all about going to feed the hens on Sunday.
“Do we have to go?” Steve growled.
You don’t have to come. It was me and Lynette who were invited.”
“So you’d rather I didn’t come?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you meant though.”
“Come if you want. If you don’t want to, don’t…Whatever... Frankly, Steve, I don’t give a damn.”
They were sitting in the lounge, drinking cappuccinos. Cathy was in despair. On her return, both Lynette and Steve had been laughing and smiling. Steve had even cracked a few of his corny jokes. It had begun to feel like the old days. For a while she could believe they were a normal, happy family.
“So what do you want to do tomorrow?”
Cathy took a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I want to go and see mum and dad.”
“Tomorrow?” he stared at her in disbelief, “We’re supposed to be on holiday, for heaven’s sake!”
“You don’t have to come. I can take the car. We can be back by late evening.”
“We…?”
“Naturally, I’ll take Lynette.”
“Naturally,” he growled.
“You know how mum and dad love to see her. “
“And what am I supposed to do on my own? Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You don’t give a damn, right?”
“It’s only for one day, Steve. We’re here for a bloody fortnight. What’s one day?”
“I know what brought this on It’s that Gates woman, isn’t it? She’s getting to you, filling your head with all sorts of stuff. She’s not your mother, Cathy. You know that and I know it. What’s the betting she knows it too, eh? She’s pathetic and like most pathetic people she’s a menace. Pathetic people live on another planet, Cathy. They like nothing better than to lure other people there too.”
“How can you be so heartless? That poor woman has been through hell.”
“And that’s just where you’ll end up too if you’re not careful.”
“So? I’m halfway there already. Why not go the last bloody mile?”
“You’d do that to Lynette?” He was genuinely shocked.
“This isn’t about Lynette. Nor is it about you. It’s about me. Why can’t you see that I need to know who I am?”
“You’re my wife, Lynette’s mother. What more do you want?”
“I want to stop feeling like half a person.”
“Now you’re talking rubbish.”
“That’s right, scoff at what you don’t understand.”
“How can I understand when you won’t talk to me? All you ever do is throw words at me. Most of the time I haven’t a clue what you’re on about, and I don’t think you do either. I need to know how you feel, Cathy. Maybe that’s your problem. You’re not even in touch with your own feelings, let alone Lynette’s or mine. We’re supposed to be a family, for fuck’s sake. Fat chance of that while you’re busy looking for Peter Pan. I know it must be hard for you, love, but you have to let it go or else...”
“Or else, what?” she demanded icily.
He shrugged. “We might as well go for a divorce. And don’t you think for one minute I’ll give up Lynette. No way. Go and see your mum and dad if you must. Take the car, Lynette too, with my blessing. But get it sorted, Cathy.” He stood up and towered over her. “This is more than a holiday, right? It’s the Last Chance Saloon for both of us.”
“You should know,” she retorted, “You’re drinking enough!”
Steve spread his hands in a despairing gesture. “Like I said, there’s just no talking to you.”He walked away.
“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is,” she called after him but not until he had already entered the bar and was out of sight. Cathy would have dearly liked to hide herself away somewhere and have a good cry. But she put on brave face as Lynette emerged from the garden and came running up to her.
“Where’s Daddy?” the child wanted to know.
To be continued on Monday
