CHAPTER NINETEEN
Anne loved every minute of that afternoon in Lewes. Lynette was lively and intelligent company. Even Owen perked up after an initial period of pensive silences, punctuated by long, weary sighs.
Lynette sat next to Anne on the bus, appearing not to notice Owen’s behaviour chattering away to them both practically non-stop. It struck Anne that the little girl demonstrated surprising maturity by making sure Owen did not feel excluded, in spite of his oppressive mood. At the same time, she couldn’t help recalling how Patricia had been much the same. She smiled. Lynette smiled conspiratorially back. An ability to seize the moment and draw everyone around them into it too was, Anne concluded, a natural talent most children seemed to enjoy.
Unable to resist the child’s innocent charm, Owen resolved to make an effort. By the time the bus arrived, the trio were all set for a fun afternoon.
They had just sat down on a bench in the castle garden when Lynette announced that she needed to go to the loo. “You might as well wait here for us Owen,” Anne told him, “We’ll try not to be too long.” Owen was about to suggest they should stay together. But Lynette was already on her feet and tugging impatiently at the sleeve of Anne’s light, summer coat. Flinging a mock grimace at Owen, Anne allowed herself to be dragged away in search of the nearest toilet.
Owen watched them go with a rueful smile. The child was delightful company. Moreover, Anne was clearly in her element. It had been a long time since he had seen her so relaxed and animated. As usual, though, he resisted any train of thought that might lead to examining the extent of his feelings towards someone he had looked upon as his dearest friend for so many years. Although Anne only visited Brighton during the first two weeks in August, they had long since fallen into the habit of chatting on the telephone all year round. She had even invited him to visit her in London. That bustling metropolis was, after all, only an hour’s journey on a fast train. But he’d always politely refused. He hadn’t mentioned this to anyone, not even Mel Harvey, although he wasn’t sure why. Mother had known, of course. Naturally, she disapproved. She had once answered the phone to Anne and told her he wasn’t at home. He’d overheard and there had been an almighty row. She had implied there must be something ‘going on’ between them. Nor, he was certain of it, had she been satisfied by his enraged denial. Strangely, she had let the matter drop and never mentioned it again. He had often wondered why? Alice Shepherd was not a woman to let matters drop.
Owen chuckled. She may have been something of a tyrant, his mother, but he had loved her dearly. I did love her, didn’t I...?
His only regret was they rarely talked, Mother and he. Oh, small talk, yes plenty of that. Sometimes, too, they would exchange views on the world as they saw it. “A mess, to put it mildly,” he mused aloud. “Poor mother...” A tear formed in one eye. He brushed it away with his finger. It had been hard, not to mention scary, watching her suffer so during those last awful weeks of her life.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Owen Shepherd. It’s a small world and no mistake.” A vaguely familiar voice broke into his thoughts.
While welcoming the interruption, he did not instantly recognize the tall, bearded figure regarding him with frank curiosity. Not until his glance settled on the woman standing next to him did his memory connect the two. He froze. Trust Fern McAllister to come along and ruin things. It had been such a lovely day too. Ignoring her cobra-like expression, he remained seated and addressed her companion. “Hello Bob. Long time, no see, eh?” He looked pointedly at Fern and back again. “The last I heard you two were long-time persona non gratis as far as each other were concerned.”
“Yes, well, you can’t stay daggers drawn forever, can you?” observed Cartwright in the same hail-fellow-well-met manner that had always made Owen’s hackles rise. Now was no exception. “As it happens, today is the first time we’ve seen each other in years. Isn’t that so, Fern?”
Fern cringed inwardly. She hated the voice, the accent, everything about the man. How could she ever have believed she loved him? “It’s true,” the rich, silky voice confirmed.
“It’s a small world, eh?” Cartwright repeated.
Owen ignored him. Even after all these years, it remained a source of incredulity that someone like Bob Cartwright should have chosen to become a plumber. With his toothpaste smile and overall patronizing manner, one could be forgiven for mistaking him for a local councillor or even a mainstream politician. Hadn’t there been some talk about a political career being on the cards once, he seemed to recall? Better a good plumber than a bad politician, I suppose, he mused uncharitably, and turned to address Fern. “You dropped a letter at my house the other day,” he told her, alert to her every expression.
“Did I really? How silly of me. I must call by and collect it before I return home. I’m only in Sussex for a few days. Not wanting to miss your mother’s funeral I thought I’d treat myself to little holiday at the same time. We have a lot to catch up on so it will be a good excuse. One doesn’t like to rake over old coals at a funeral, does one?” she treated Owen to a disarming smile. “I have to say, by the way, it was a charming affair. Very cosy, I thought. Not too many people. Just as I imagined it would be in fact.”
“I’m glad you weren’t disappointed,” Owen responded coolly, determined not to let her superior expression get to him.
“Well, much as we’d love to stay and chat, we haven’t visited the Anne of Cleves house yet,” said Cartwright breezily, tugging at Fern McAllister’ sleeve in a manner that reminded Owen of young Lynette. “Good to see you again.” He stuck out a hand. In spite of the sweat on his own palm, Owen decided it would be churlish to refuse, and was pleasantly surprised by the other man’s firm, steady handshake.
“Well, hello again!” Anne approached with Lynette holding one hand, an ice cream cone in the other. Still regarding Fern McAllister a trifle warily, she thrust the ice cream at Owen. “We’ve already had ours,” she explained, looking questioningly at Cartwright. “Why, you’re Bob Cartwright!” she exclaimed with a gasp of recognition. “I recognize you from the photograph at your mother’s house.”
“I’m flattered. I’ve put on a few pounds since then, not to mention the grey hair!” He had a pleasant, easy laugh that Anne warmed to. They shook hands.
“I’m Lynette,” the child declared, “I’ve been farmed out for the day. It’s so the parents can have a heart-to-heart. But I suppose I shouldn’t say that, should I?” She turned an impish grin on her audience.
Everyone laughed, albeit uncomfortably.
“It’s time we were off,” Cartwright told Fern who smiled graciously at them all, eyes shielded by sunglasses lingering on Lynette.
Declining the offer of her companion’s arm, Fern McAllister walked briskly on ahead, anxious to give the lie to any first impressions that might place herself and Cartwright in the same category as other couples taking in the sights. She wished Jessie had warned her he was in the area so she could have taken the first train back to St Alban’s.
Anne watched them go, wondering why she should feel a faint sense of unease. Almost immediately, the sound of cheeky laughter rushed to her aid. She looked round to see Owen and Lynette, each with a pink tongue out, taking turns at licking Owen’s ice cream. Both had white smudges dripping from their chins. “Lynette, come here and let me wipe your face. If you stain that pretty top, your mother will kill me!” she cried in dismay, and only half-jokingly. “As for you, Owen Shepherd, you should be setting a good example, not encouraging a lack of respect for hygiene.”
Owen looked suitably abashed, and they all laughed in the way of people who are pleasantly comfortable with each other.
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Meanwhile, in a small room at the Argus newspaper offices, Charley was eagerly looking through copies on microfilm for August 1983. The case of little Patricia Gates was well covered and she printed out a photo of the whole family - Anne, husband Tom and Patricia - for no other reason than curiosity. Anne, she reflected sadly, had not aged well although, at the same time, less badly than might have been expected in the circumstances. She reeled forward, reading avidly and studying photographs that, on the whole, meant nothing to her.
“Hey, hold it there a tick!” Spence exclaimed at her shoulder. He pointed to photograph taken of a flustered-looking Mel Harvey and her husband descending the front steps of The Orion. Behind them, full profile turned to the camera, was a head and shoulders view of another man. “Why, it’d old Woody!”
“Who..?” Charley was more startled than interested.
“Old Woody, Jack Woods. He taught History at my old school. It was the only subject I was any good at. Not a clear picture, though, is it? It probably isn’t him, anyway. Mind you, as spitting images go…”
“I dare say,” murmured Charley. “Now, shall I wind on or do you want a printout?”
“Of old Woody…? Not really. Oh, why not? Yes, okay, for old times sake then.”
Charley printed out the frame before winding forward to the next one but not before studying Old Woody or his doppelganger, as the case may be, a fraction longer. Briefly, she entertained a vision of Spence in his school uniform and resisted working out how many - or few - years ago that would have been. Age, she told herself with a discreet snort, only became a problem if other people let it be, in which case it was their problem. It certainly wasn’t hers. Besides, what did any age gap between couples matter nowadays? No one would give a toss, she reflected dryly, if Spence were the older one. “Let’s go,” she said abruptly, “This is making my eyes tired.”
“Well, if you’re sure?” Spence tried not to sound too eager.
“I’m sure,” she told him with a grin, “Who wants to be stuck in a stuffy room on a lovely summer’s day, digging up times long gone, when they can be off somewhere enjoying themselves?
“We are on holiday, after all,” he was quick to remind her,
“Exactly,” she agreed, “So let’s find a charming little pub and wash down that awful beef and ale pie we had for lunch once and for all.”
“It wasn’t awful,” he protested, “Well, not too awful…”
They left, alternately arguing and kissing, similarly preoccupied in much the same vein long after they had found a suitable pub and were each on their third pint of Sussex bitter.
Spence’s relief knew no bounds. However, just as he was congratulating himself upon having humoured her thus far, Charley dropped a bombshell. “When do you think would be a good time to dig up the grave in Owen Shepherd’ shrubbery?” She did not flinch from meeting his shocked expression, but look a long swig from her glass, defying him with a piercing glare over its rim to question either her judgement or intention.
Spence, at a loss for what to say or do next, sought temporary sanctuary in the Gents lavatory.
After taking a shower together back at the hotel and changing into something different for dinner, Spence was still digging his heels in. “No way!”
“But I need to satisfy my hunch,” she explained for the umpteenth time, “It’s driving me mad.”
“You’re being ridiculous! The grave was there before the child disappeared. How can it be relevant? If the police thought there was any connection they would have looked into it at the time. It’s some animal’s grave, woman, nothing else. Besides, it will smell…yuk!” He pulled a face.
“So what was Owen Shepherd doing in the early hours before that poor child disappeared? He looked dirty, I tell you, as if he’d been…well, digging. Suppose he sneaked out to loosen up the grave and make room for…whatever.” She could not bring herself to voice her worst suspicions.
Spence had no such qualms. “Do you really think Owen Shepherd killed the Gates girl?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, let’s suppose for argument’s sake that he did. Do you honestly think he’d bury her in his own back garden?” Spence was incredulous.
“Why not…? Who would think to look in a pet’s grave? Besides, it’s so well hidden in that shrubbery, I dare say no one remembered it was there.”
“You’re mad, woman, stark raving mad!”
“Then prove it,” she challenged him. “Prove I’m start raving mad and I’ll…”
“Marry me?”
“What?” It was Charley’s turn to be incredulous. She swallowed nervously. “But we agreed. We’d just have fun while it lasted and then…”
“Ride off into the sunset in opposite directions?”
“Something like that I suppose, yes.”
“Well, I don’t want to ride off into any sunset without you. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“You really love me?” Charley was moved to tears.
“Of course I do,” He moved in and gave her a hug. “So how about it, eh, shall we get married and be damned.” They kissed. “Is that a ‘yes’?”
“It’s an ‘I’ll think about it’,” she purred in his ear and lightly tongued the lobe. “So will you dig up the grave, just for me?”
“I’ll think about it,” he told her with a wicked grin, rolling on to the bed and pulling her with him. ‘‘Ouch!” But any further protest his bruises chose to make were yet again stoically ignored.
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“Is that because Daddy doesn’t like him?”
“Well, yes…” Anne admitted.
“You’re probably right. He’ll only throw a wobbly. Why do you think Mummy likes Grandpa Owen and Daddy doesn’t?”
Anne shrugged if only to buy herself precious seconds while she tried to frame a suitable answer. “Sometimes people take a dislike to others for no obvious reason,” was the best she could come up with.
“Daddy doesn’t like you much either, does he?” Again, the directness of the question threw Anne completely. “It doesn’t matter. I do and Mummy does. Daddy will just have to get used to it, won’t he?” She gave Anne a hug.
“I suppose he will,” murmured Anne, absently stroking the child’s hair and thinking yet again how uncannily like Patricia she looked. There had been several times during the day when she had almost called Lynette by her daughter’s name, but stopped herself in the nick of time. On each occasion, she had caught Owen Shepherd giving her the strangest look. If strange, though, it was in the nicest way. She thought she detected a longing, even affection in his eyes. Unsure how to respond, she merely smiled and chose to ignore the way her heart skipped a beat.
It proved to be just as well that Anne had spoken to Lynette about Owen. Both Steve and Cathy were waiting in the lobby of The Orion as they entered. Her father stood up first. Lynette ran to him and squealed with delight as she swung her into his arms. “She adores him,” Anne murmured aloud and wondered why she should think it at all strange that father and daughter should have such a close relationship, given the circumstances. And what circumstances would they be? A still small voice enquired of her within. A broken marriage, she would have retorted earlier, but Cathy and Steve radiated such happiness that now Anne began to wonder…
Steve was more than civil to Anne. He leaned forward, gave her a peck on the cheek and thanked her for giving his daughter such a lovely time.
“She hasn’t even told you all about it yet,” protested Anne, more than slightly embarrassed.
“She doesn’t have to,” said Steve with a broad smile, “her face says it all. Doesn’t it, darling?”
Lynette nodded and gave her dad another hug. “Can we go out in the garden?”
It’s getting late.”
“Just for a little while?” the child pleaded. Steve caved in almost immediately and they wandered off towards the French doors, hand in hand.
“It looks like you’ve had a great day,” commented Cathy, standing up to give Anne another warm hug.
“It looks like you have too,” Anne responded smiling. Cathy nodded. “I’m so pleased, for both of you.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Cathy told her, “But I’m…what’s the phrase…cautiously optimistic?”
Anne nodded. “Something like that I believe.” The two women sat down. “I’ve really enjoyed myself. I was thinking…” she hesitated then, “I could take Lynette to se the sand sculptures at the Marina tomorrow if you like? That is, if you would like more time on your own with Steve. But of course you’re a family. You’ll probably want to do something like that together.”
“That would be wonderful, if you’re sure…” Cathy did not hesitate. Both Steve and I love Lynette to bits, but…well…we still have an awful lot of talking to do.”
“At least you’re talking, that’s the important thing,” Anne rejoinder was instant and emotional. “And I’m quite sure. I did sort of promise Lynette,” she added guiltily and was much reassured by another hug. She experienced a contentment she hadn’t known for years in the younger woman’s embrace. Is this how it would have been, had Patricia lived, she wondered?
Instantly, Anne felt a rush of blood to her face.
For a few seconds, she swayed as if she were on the rolling deck of a ship in heavy seas. It was the first time she had consciously acknowledged to her innermost self that Patricia was dead.
To be continued on Monday.
