An Affair to Remember (17 page)

“As to Tavey, she didn’t care for the child; she wanted to forget him and his father, get away from Browns and see a bit of life. Brian could marry one of his own people, she told herself, better that way. By giving him his marching orders she’d be doing him a favour. But it seems that after all the nanny didn’t send the boy away. She killed him – none knows why, perhaps she couldn’t find anyone to take him – one night when he were asleep in his cradle, and buried him and his little cup in the place where the ash trees at Browns grow now, and told her mistress he had caught ill and died.

“Brian had been banished from Browns, so she went to his house and told him the baby had died, that it was nobody’s fault and they’d done all they could to save him. Brian didn’t believe her, but there was nothing he could do. Then Brian’s mum, who had turned Christian a few years back, sent word that she and her son wanted the child to have a Christian burial, so he might be sent on his way properly according to their custom. But Tavey gave orders they mustn’t be told where the grave was, as they might make trouble and upset her marriage plans. The wedding was to be in some town far away, Tavey’s dad was to accompany them for part of the way and preparations for the journey were already in hand…”

Mrs Bogg’s narration had already started to slow down, and at this point her eyes closed and she seemed to drop off. Sel and Beatrice remain silent, not wishing to break the spell. Sel sighs and looks at his watch. However, Maureen saves the day with a knock on the door and the promised tray of tea. “Alright then?” she asks brightly, casting a quick glance at the half empty glass of whisky on Mrs Bogg’s table. Sel jumps to his feet solicitously to help with the tray. Beatrice pours tea and Mrs Bogg, refreshed from her nap, takes another sip of whisky. Maureen leaves them at last, shutting the door carefully behind her.

“What happened then?” Beatrice asks, afraid that the spell has been broken and the old lady won’t tell them any more. But she does.

“On the day they were to leave, a fine summer’s day it were, Tavey’s dad and her intended had ridden on ahead and Tavey herself, all dressed up in her best, was saying goodbye to the servants and farm people in the great yard at Browns, when out from behind the barn comes Brian’s mum. She’s dressed like a queen in a long blue robe with a circle of gold round her neck. The servants fall back in fear, for she truly looks like someone from another world. She walks up to Tavey standing by the litter that is to carry her away and shouts, loud enough for all those present to hear, that she is a murderess. That the baby Marcus had not died of an illness, he had been a fine, healthy child; it was she, Tavey, who had ordered him to be killed. She knew this to be true, there were witnesses to the deed, and because of it Tavey and her descendants would be cursed for ever more. It were a dreadful curse too, and the servants and slaves, all except the nanny who stayed by her mistress’s side, were struck dumb with fear and ran away into the fields to hide.

“But Tavey weren’t frightened. Just stands there, hands on her hips, smiling. Tells Brian’s mum she doesn’t care about the curse, not at all, nor does she care what happened to the baby. He had been a mistake and was better dead. As for the baby’s father, her son, Brian, it would be well for him if he grew up, stopped behaving like a moon calf and found a wife from his own people, when he could then have as many sons as he wished. ‘I’ll go my way and you go yours, old woman,’ she says, ‘and let that be an end to it.’ Then she turned away climbed into her waiting litter, and began her journey, leaving Brian’s mum standing there.”

Mrs Bogg pauses in her story, wondering perhaps how best to end it. “And then?” Beatrice asks, trying not to sound impatient.

“And then… well then, she makes the sign of the cross, falls down in a fit and dies. But just before she does – or some say that’s what happened – she commands the rooks – there’s always been rooks at Browns even in them days – to be the guardians of the baby’s grave.

“Of course there’ve been lots of stories over the years, nowadays most people have forgotten, but there were when I were a girl. One of ‘em is that one day Tavey will come back to find the grave and give the baby proper burial and that her spirit won’t rest until she does.”

“But what about Sam? Where does he fit in?” Beatrice is beginning to sound agitated again.

“Eh?” There’s genuine bewilderment in Mrs Bogg’s voice. “Who be Sam?”

“Brian, the father of the baby? What happened to him?”

“Some say he disappeared after his mum died and was never seen again, but no one really knows; those that wrote the story down later didn’t say.”

“But he’s come back, he…”

This time it’s Sel who shakes his head; Granny Bogg too is becoming agitated, it’s plain no further questions can be asked that afternoon. He gets to his feet: “Mrs Bogg, you’ve been so very helpful, we can’t thank you enough, and do hope my secretary and I haven’t exhausted your patience too much. Perhaps we might look in on you again in a day or two, if you’re feeling up to it?” He bends down and takes the old lady’s hand, who remains with her head bowed muttering to herself. “We are most grateful, Mrs Bogg, we really are.”

Beatrice bends forward and kisses her; as she does so Mrs Bogg whispers something inaudible, but before Beatrice can ask her to repeat it, she’s dropped off to sleep again, and despite Sel’s promise of another visit, something tells her they won’t be seeing Mrs Bogg again.

*

Sam is alone in the shop, wondering what to do. Emmie’s still out, must have stayed and had a snack in Belchester, and it’s Karen’s lunch hour. He’d thought of ringing Beatrice again, but each time he picked up the phone, something seemed to hold him back. He simply couldn’t stand the thought of her screaming at him again or, indeed, slamming down the receiver. If only there was someone he could talk to. He’d wrapped the precious little cup in one of his sweaters and placed it in a drawer in his desk, hopefully out of harm’s way. Anyway, the sight of it brought such anguish he could hardly bear to look at it.

“Here I am then, Major.” Karen bursts through the shop door. “Bet you was wondring where I’d got to.”

“No.”

“Well I was held up see, and guess what? I met a friend of yours in the posh bar at The Trojan – not exactly met him, he was busy chatting up Vera, but he did say hi.”

“Did he give his name?” Sam wasn’t really interested, but he had to say something.

“Told V. his name was Sidney Parfitt, and he’s been out in Oz for the last eight years, but he be back now and looking for your shop.”

“Must be a friend of Mrs Mallory’s; I’ve never heard of him.” Probably an old flame of Emmie’s, he thinks, and then forgets about him.

Karen settles down on her stool behind the counter, rummages in her shoulder bag, gets out her tube of Polos: “I’ll take over, Major, if you want a break.”

Sam puts the receiver back on its cradle – he’d removed it earlier, wanting time to think – and wanders away upstairs. He’s had no lunch but doesn’t feel like eating anyway. Karen pops a polo into her mouth and settles down to her magazine.

*

“It’s yours, isn’t it, this baby? You’ve been carrying on with her all the time you and I –”

“Give it a rest, pet.” Jack and Emmie are seated in the bar of The Roman Centurion in Belchester, a pub Jack sometimes frequented at lunchtime. After a miserable morning spent wandering round Belchester, wondering what she should do about the scene over breakfast, knowing she should end the affair here and now; that Jack Fulton didn’t care tuppence for her whether he’d been carrying on with Clarrie Woodhead or not, but unable to bring herself to do so, Emmie had decided to offer an olive branch and had managed, not without difficulty, to track him down there.

“Just tell me, that’s all I want, just for you to tell me.”

Jack takes a gulp of lager. “Look, pet, I simply do not know where you got this story about Clarrie, Mrs Woodhead, expecting. It’s the first I’ve heard of it, and she is married, you know. It’s not uncommon for married women to have babies.”

But Emmie isn’t having it: “Sarcasm will get you nowhere Jack Fulton. I do happen to know she’s married, but I also happen to know her husband’s been doctored –”

“You make the guy sound like a bloody Tom.”

“I don’t care what I make him sound like. It can’t be his baby, so it must be yours.”

“Oh no it can’t?” Jack takes a bite of sausage roll. “It can’t be mine either, because I’ve been doctored too…”

Chapter 11

“What a perfectly heavenly spot,” Philippa Cardew rhapsodises over the view from her bedroom window.

“It is, isn’t it,” Beatrice tries but fails to put some enthusiasm into her voice. “The bathroom’s next door, and there’s a kettle for hot drinks in the cupboard.”

Philippa Cardew is tall, in her late thirties. Her outfit – white, broad-shouldered suit, trailing blue chiffon scarf and a little hat with a veil made popular by the Princess of Wales – is more suitable perhaps for opening a garden party than a weekend in the country. She plonks herself down on the bed; reaches for her cigarettes.

“Dinner is at eight,” Beatrice continues, making for the door, “and Sel would like a briefing session afterwards. Drinks in the sun room seven thirty.”

“Dear old Sel, so efficient; one wonders sometimes, doesn’t one, whether he ever lets up.” Beatrice bristles in defence of her boss, but is too tired, overwrought, and bemused by the interview with Granny Bogg, to think of a suitable reply. Where was Sam, she wonders. Why hadn’t he rung?

“You look tired, darling,” Philippa, removing the little hat and running her fingers through her streaked blonde hair, gives her a sharp look, “all this business must be somewhat of a strain. Fun for us of course, but you’re caught in the middle, and our Sel can be a bit of a slave driver. Clarrie and I, you know, go back a long way, we both worked for Sel in the old days at the Beeb, and by God he kept us at it. I remember –”

“Look, Miss Cardew, I’m awfully sorry, but I must go, Mr Head’s still waiting downstairs to be shown his room; what with Mrs Woodhead not feeling well…”

“Of course, darling, of course, do please rush…” Beatrice, happy to be rid, hurries away. Outside in the passage, however, she bumps into Ron Head, who, tired of kicking his heels downstairs, has come in search of his room himself.

“Ah, Miss Thomson.”

“Travers, actually, Mr Head, but do please call me Beatrice.”

“Any connection with Marcus Travers? If ever a man was into Romans he is, and –”

“My father.”

“Good God! Does Sel know this?”

“No.”

Ron Head, unlike his opposite number, is dressed for the country, or perhaps more accurately, a walking tour in the mountains. His outfit – shorts and an orange T-shirt –is snappy and to the purpose. Currently he’s shoeless. “I think we need to tell him. Old Marcus, as I’m sure you know, is –”

“I don’t see why; we’re not in touch,” Beatrice says, dismissing Marcus and giving Ron one of her ice maiden looks. In point of fact she feels like bashing the little squirt over the head with a blunt instrument, but the job comes first, or so she supposes. Tavey’s pushing her, however, already the forces of anarchy are beginning to take over and she won’t be able to contain them much longer.

“Actually, I was on my way to show you to your room, Mr Head, but you seem to have pre-empted me –”

“Don’t worry about that – I’m a whizz at finding my way round other people’s houses! However, as we have bumped into each other, would you mind having a look at the shower in my bathroom; it seems to be on the blink. First things first, I always say – we can talk about the other business later.”

Once in the bathroom, a replica of Beatrice’s, only in blue, giving her rump a friendly squeeze, Ron propels her into the shower cubicle. She shudders; tries to stay calm. Ron Head’s face flannel, she notices, like his T-shirt, is orange. On a small shelf by the loo there’s a pile of what appear to her already fevered mind, to be porn magazines (actually, they’re back copies of the
Archaeologist
’
s Weekly
).

“I think you must be pressing the wrong button, Mr Head, it’s that little nob on the dolphin’s back, not the one in the corner. You may have to lean forward a bit to reach it.”

“It would be handy if they were labelled. How I hate all this modern technology.” Leaning forward, Ron pushes the nob, ice cold water gushes forth, enveloping him in a cloud of spray. “Bloody hell! Is this some kind of a joke?”

“It could be,” says Tavey/Beatrice, smiling contemptuously at him, and without another word, stalks out of the bathroom. Ron, grabbing one of the super fluffy bath towels from the heated towel rack, looks after her, an arrested expression on his face.

“Christ, what a bird! Now I wonder…” The towel draped round his skinny body in the manner of a Roman toga, leaving a trail of damp footprints on Clarrie’s new Axminster, he hurries down the passage in search of Philippa.

Her bedroom door ajar, Philippa, clad only in yellow satin cami knickers, stands by the window doing her breathing exercises. “Watch it, ducky, there’s a guy getting an eyeful from that field.”

Philippa jumps. “I suppose it would be too much to expect you to knock?”

“Far too much, love, you know me.”

“And don’t sit on the bed, you’re soaking.”

“I could have told you that.” Ron strips off the orange T-shirt and shorts, drops them in a soggy pile on the floor and clad only in his Y-fronts, climbs on to Philippa’s bed. Bereft of his obnoxious apparel, it’s easier to understand the fascination he holds for the many women who, although ignorant of the difference between Stone Age and Neolithic, let alone Samian and Tupper Ware, are nevertheless glued each week to his popular archaeology programme. In his late thirties, his face, with its snub nose, wide mouth, black curls a halo round his head, is that of a slightly lascivious cherub, but his eyes sparkle with intelligence, humour and a zest for life. He is also – and this he likes to think of as his secret weapon – the possessor of a voice both melodious and sexy. He and Philippa are mates from way back.