Embroidering Shrouds (25 page)

‘Now then.' A fringe of crumbs had already planted themselves round her mouth, she'd been snacking in the kitchen. She dusted the crumbs off and settled back in the shabby armchair, ignoring the two hens who were clawing at the straw in their box. ‘I think I know what you want to learn,' she said wisely, fixing Joanna with her strange amber eyes. ‘You're interested in our family, aren't you? You're curious as to how it all came about.'

Joanna nodded.

‘And knowing a little of our history – and our various inheritances – you don't think Nan's death was by chance, do you? This burglary thing was a red herring, a wild-goose chase, a distraction. Call it what you will, Inspector, it isn't the answer, is it?'

Joanna shook her head almost mesmerized by the voice which had softened and was lullingly gentle. ‘I want you to help me,' she said evenly. ‘Just point me in the right direction. You have a duty not to obstruct the police, others might be in danger.'

‘You think I haven't thought of that?' Lydia regarded her steadily for a few moments. ‘Look at these photographs, Inspector, before you ask me anything more or even try to make judgements. If you're unable to read evidence I don't see why I should enlighten you.'

‘You must,' Joanna said.

‘Well ... I believe you are an intelligent young woman, Miss Joanna Piercy. Not a hack and slash sort of policewoman at all. I think in the end you will understand. You see, understanding is more important than simply knowing. It is the key after all. The why. Without that you might have a physical arrest but not a full comprehension of the case. It is complex, even I can't tell you everything and I have been close to its centre for fifty years.'

She reached behind her for an ornate, antimony box and set it on the sofa beside Joanna. ‘Go on,' she prompted, ‘open it. Take your time. It's all there if you've the wisdom to read it. And if I've judged you correctly you will only be content with the whole story.' She smiled, scratched at a reddened area on her elbow and smiled again.

Joanna glanced downwards. This, then, was the symbol of Pandora's box. What evils would be exposed when she lifted the lid? She was at once afraid yet unable to contain her curiosity. She raised the lid. It was full of photographs, black and white, or rather sepia and cream, all were old.

‘Tip them out,' Lydia directed. ‘Study them. The years are written on the back, start from the beginning, Inspector, like a good story.' She was leaning forward, eagerly, hands on huge knees, mouth very slightly open, her breathing heavy.

Joanna did as she was told, tipped the photographs out on the sofa and began to sort them through. It was easy to find the earliest, they had been at the bottom. Photographs of children, one, then two. And using the dates on the backs, by 1930 there were three. Pictures of Arnold came first, born 1920, a baby lying on a lace shawl who grew into a sturdy toddler then a small boy.

And by the time he was five years old, Arnold had a sister, Nan. No hint yet of what was to come.

First pictures of Nan showed a contented, happy little baby, jealously guarded by an older brother. If the camera was not lying Arnold had doted on his baby sister, his expression was clearly the fierce mixture of pride and protectiveness frequently seen in the attitude of an older brother to his tiny sister. As Nan grew, the bond between brother and sister appeared to remain close, the photographs still portraying them frequently hand in hand, sharing toys, a hoop and whip, a wooden horse, a toy train. And then in 1930 along had come Lydia, always a fat child, plump-legged, bursting out of her dainty dresses.

Joanna looked up through seventy years to see her reading her mind, chins wobbling as she laughed. ‘I was a right little fatty, wasn't I?' And Joanna joined her laughing before she bent back over the photographs, curious to learn more from them.

The children grew with the years, games changed, school uniforms appeared, solemn, studied shots with hockey sticks, a cricket bat, a rugby ball. The vision swam before Joanna's eyes of Arnold Patterson today, bent almost double over his stick. Not always a cripple, he sat in the centre of the school fifteen. By the time Arnold was a leggy nineteen years old in 1939 he had swapped his Oxford bags and polo shirts for an army uniform. His sisters now clung to him as though every moment spent with their brother was precious. It must have felt like that. ‘Arnie', the back of the photo called him now. Fourteen-year-old Nan and nine-year-old Lydia had still, quite obviously, adored this handsome, jaunty young soldier. Joanna peered closer and began to read emotion behind the sepia.

Arnie's eyes peered out of the photograph with desperation. Joanna could read the terror that lay behind the bold, plucky grin. Frightened? He must have hated it but been just as afraid to let his sisters know that the boldness was all a front, that behind every hero is a coward. Joanna put the photograph back in the box, on top of the other photographs, wondering just how much Arnie's two younger sisters had really understood.

She picked up more prints of the two girls clinging together, missing their brother, a bemused puzzlement now lying behind their stares into the lens. There were only a few pictures left.

Joanna stretched out her hand and picked up a couple of prints dated 1944, when Arnie must have been home on leave, fear now etching deep lines across his face. But the three had still been inseparable, Arnie had an arm around each sister, and there was no mistaking the adoration mirrored in the girls' faces as they gazed up at their older brother. Behind them, probably imagining the shot would miss him, glowered an older man, Joanna peered at a thin, hard face. Even though it was fuzzy and slightly out of focus she could still read resentment, meanness, spite. He must be the father who had died and left such a legacy. There was the vaguest resemblance to Arnie, Arnie without the brave grin. But Joanna could see no resemblance to either of his daughters.

There was only one photograph left. 1944: Nan Patterson marrying David Lawrence, neatly ascribed on the back. Joanna stared at Nan Lawrence, looking determinedly in control, staring into the camera lens, dressed in a surprisingly lavish wedding dress, her hand linked with David Lawrence, in uniform, but still looking like a farmhand, doltish, clumsy and uncomfortable. It was the last photograph. There were no more. Not one that dated beyond the end of the war. Yet they had, all three, survived. Joanna felt cheated. Something should have been here; Lydia had promised her. But whatever clue there was it had eluded her.

She looked up to see Lydia Patterson watching her with a veiled expression in her eyes, some disappointment that Joanna had not been as perceptive as she should, but there was triumph too.

‘
Now
what do you want to know, Inspector?' Her voice was soft – kind – but Joanna knew she would answer the questions she was asked, and she didn't know what to ask.

‘Why did you fall out?'

Lydia seemed to stop breathing. ‘I thought you'd ask that,' she said, but it isn't my tale to tell.'

‘Then whose is it?'

‘It
was
Nan's,' she said, even more softly.

‘Nan can't tell it,' Joanna said brutally. ‘She's dead. You must tell it for her.'

Lydia opened her mouth to speak than shook her head gravely. ‘I can't,' she said. ‘I can't.'

‘It wasn't only the will, was it?'

Lydia shook her head.

‘Was your sister happily married?'

‘That was something between her and David.'

‘Tell me.'

‘I only know a part,' Lydia said, ‘some was never told me. I was too young – only fourteen when the war ended. And girls of fourteen were considered young then. Now, well.'

‘Do the events of so long ago have any bearing on your sister's death?'

‘They had huge bearing on her life,' Lydia said quietly. ‘As to her death,' she stared straight at Joanna then shrugged her huge shoulders, ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I don't
know
.'

‘Then you must tell me all', Joanna said, ‘and let me be the judge.'

Lydia's face seemed to crumple. ‘Nan's story is not unique,' she began, ‘it happened to lots of women in those times – war times. Their menfolk were away, they strayed. Nan strayed, and Arnie never could forgive, neither could I. Arnie because he knew what men went through over there. He knew that for all their bravado they were terrified. The “girls they left behind them” sustained them through terrible times. And I – I couldn't forgive Nan because I loved David Lawrence, I worshipped the very ground he walked on. With my fourteen-year-old's clear-cut passions I couldn't see how she could have betrayed him.'

‘Who with?'

‘She didn't tell me, her kid sister, who adored ...' Lydia frowned. ‘No, idolized her. She didn't tell me.' Even now, fifty years later, Lydia Patterson still managed to look hurt, something of the adolescent resentment was visible. Her sister might have been murdered but Lydia was still cross with her over a secret never shared. Suddenly Joanna was gaining insight, seeing how lives, as one grew older, condensed so the emotions of fifty years ago were
yesterday's
hurts. And revenge? Hatred? Was that as hot today as then? As hot eight days ago as fifty years? Surely no one would wait for revenge for so long.

‘Does anyone know who your sister's clandestine lover was?'

A car drew up outside. The gate clicked open. She had not thought it possible Lydia Patterson's plump face could shrink in fright. Like a pricked balloon the fat seemed to deflate, her eyes flicked across to the gun cupboard. She was on her feet in a millisecond, her eyes wide and frightened, tea upset down her flowery dress.

Footsteps outside, Matthew calling to Eloise: ‘Mind where you step, darling. It's muddy.' They must have made up their quarrel; his voice was warm. A soft screech from Eloise. Transparent relief on Lydia's face. Matthew's hard knock on the door. The look of alarm on Lydia's face for a fleeting moment.

Joanna was swift to reassure her. ‘It's all right, Miss Patterson. It'll be my boyfriend. Don't worry.'

Lydia Patterson crossed to the door in three short strides and tugged it open.

Matthew stood there, Eloise clinging to his arm.

Lydia stared at them both before turning effusive. ‘Come in. Come in, the pair of you. You must be cold.'

Joanna had never seen Eloise act shy before. She sat still, clinging to her father, on the big, shabby sofa and stared at the floor; she looked smaller. Lydia had come alive with the two visitors. She bustled into the kitchen, produced more cake, another cup of tea, lemonade for Eloise. She must have assumed it was what
children
drank. Matthew she virtually ignored, all her questions were addressed to the shrinking child.

‘And how old are you, my dear?'

‘Fourteen.'

‘And where do you go to school?'

The formulaic questions continued, Joanna meeting Matthew's eyes with a trace of amusement. She hadn't thought his daughter could possibly be so demure. Neither had he judging by the lift of his eyebrows.

Suddenly Eloise looked straight at Lydia Patterson and the solution to her behaviour was explained. ‘I've read one of your books,' she said, flushing slightly.

Instantly Lydia looked wary. Maybe this was a penalty of writing books, meeting the readers, having to take their criticisms on the chin and still smile.

Eloise continued. ‘They aren't about animals at all, are they? You just use fur and feathers as a ploy. They're about people, aren't they? Really nasty people doing horrible things to each other. You just pretend, don't you, that they're animal stories, just to get away with being horrible about humans. But it doesn't fool people, you know, especially children. They know. What I'd like to know is where do you find such shitty people?'

‘Eloise!' Matthew's face had also turned pink. They shared this tendency, father and daughter, to colour in response to embarrassment.

‘Real life.'

Eloise was unabashed. ‘Why do you feel you have to pretend they're animals?'

‘Because I think it makes it more interesting – more fun.' Lydia's eyes seemed to have shrunk to tiny, sharp pinpoints.

‘But it doesn't.' Eloise was persistent. ‘It would be more interesting if the stories were about real people and you stopped hiding and pretending and laughing.'

‘Then what sort of stories would they be, young lady?'

Eloise stared. The silence in the small room thickened so even Sam ‘n' Ella seemed affected by the atmosphere. They stopped clawing at their straw and their duckings stilled, their beady eyes jerked around the room.

Joanna cast her mind back to the gaudy picture of a brown hen cartooned on the cover. It had been a story about a treasured possession, about pride, about destruction, jealousy and deceit.

A satisfied smile softened Lydia's face, her strange eyes were staring at a point far beyond Joanna's head.

‘I still think you should write about people,' Eloise persisted.

‘Eloise,' Matthew admonished for the second time.

Joanna stood up quickly. ‘Thank you very much, Miss Patterson. You've been a help.'

Lydia ushered them to the door, stopping to speak again to Eloise. ‘Thank you for your advice, young lady. Maybe one day I will –' her eyes locked into Joanna's ‘– do as you suggest and write a story about real people.' Her huge body seemed to shake with amusement. ‘Though what my publishers will have to say about my transfer of affections, I don't know, and they won't suit my young readers at all.'

‘They might.' Eloise's bluntness was unabated. ‘It strikes me you don't really understand children at all.'

‘Many children's writers don't,' Lydia countered swiftly. ‘Maybe it's that that makes them write such good stories.'