The Little One [Quick Read 2012] (6 page)

Barbara sank down on the sofa as Margaret went on.

‘It’s such a little house. I often went there for dinner with them. Such nice people, and very good cooks.’

‘Yes.’

There was another pause.

Barbara began to wonder if Kevin had said something else.

‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

Barbara flushed.

‘Er, yes, I am actually.’

‘And you’re planning to do a series about famous soap stars from the past, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you had an ulterior motive for coming here.’

‘No, that isn’t true.’

Margaret looked at her directly and Barbara couldn’t meet her dark bright eyes.

‘You want to write about me, don’t you?’

‘No, I really don’t.’

Margaret gave a soft laugh, then said, ‘I sort of suspected you were up to something.’

Barbara burst into tears.

‘It’s all right. Meeting James, Alan and the others that night made me even more certain. There is no way I could even think of returning to show business. The truth is, I never
really fitted in. I did enjoy the fame for a while, but then it was hideous and intrusive. Losing Armande and then my sister and . . .’

She stopped and sighed deeply.

Barbara wiped her face with the back of her hand. She felt dreadful. She didn’t know what to do or say.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Margaret went to fill the kettle.

‘Margaret, I’m really sorry to have lied to you. I’ll leave tomorrow. And I promise I won’t even consider writing anything. I have never known anyone like you. You have
been so kind.’

‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that.’

Margaret put the kettle on to the hot plate of the Aga.

‘Do you like it here?’ she asked, fetching the teapot.

Barbara went over to her, wanting more than anything to put her arms around her.

‘I do. I really do. Just before you came in, I was thinking how comfortable I felt.’

Margaret patted her cheek.

‘I know you have no work and no place to live, so it’s perfect that you like it here. Maybe you could even begin to write that book.’

She opened a drawer and took out an old Bible, which she placed on the table.

‘This belonged to my sister Julia.’

The air in the room grew charged as Margaret stared at Barbara.

‘I want you to put your hand on it, because I’m going to tell you things that no one else has ever heard.’

Margaret caught Barbara’s hand and held it tightly.

‘What I’m going to tell you must never be repeated. If you swear to do this in good faith, then your promise is binding.’

‘I promise. I won’t ever write about you, I swear.’

‘No, it’s much more than that. What I’m going to tell you will frighten you. It’s about this house. You might think I’m crazy, but I know you feel it. When you know
it all, you will have to swear never to tell another living soul.’

‘I’ll do it, I’ll swear.’

‘Not yet. Tonight. We’ll do it tonight.’

‘Let me do it now.’

Margaret released her hand and picked up the Bible.

‘But you haven’t been told the secret yet. You don’t know what you will be swearing to do. You’ll have to wait until tonight.’

Barbara felt impatient, but Margaret happily busied herself for the rest of the afternoon preparing a fish pie. She was transformed, singing, turning the radio on and finding a
programme with old music-hall songs. She even danced around the kitchen at one point. She was obviously not concerned about Barbara’s background as a journalist.

Margaret then announced she would need to do some paperwork. Sitting at the kitchen table, she put on a pair of glasses and tackled a pile of documents. Every so often she would tear up
something that appeared to annoy her. Then she would turn to a small notebook and write copious notes.

Barbara offered to make a pot of tea, but Margaret shook her head.

‘I need to have everything ready for tomorrow.’

Finally Margaret stacked the papers she’d been working on into a pile and tossed everything she’d torn up on the fire. Then she put the fish pie in the oven.

‘I’ll come down at seven and we’ll eat supper together. You can open a bottle of wine.’

‘We are going to talk this evening, aren’t we?’

Margaret turned at the kitchen door.

‘Yes, of course.’

She gave a wide smile.

‘I can’t tell you what this means to me. It’s such a relief. I haven’t felt so at peace for years.’

Barbara was left to contemplate the burning papers in the grate. They looked like legal documents of some kind, but the flames blackened them before she could make out exactly what they
were.

She checked the fish pie in the oven. She tried to read. Eventually she opened a bottle of wine and helped herself to a glass. She was sipping it when she saw Margaret’s notebook left on
the table. She hesitated, but couldn’t resist opening it.

There were pages of lists. How to light the Aga if it went out. How to check on the central heating, the hot water and washing machine. When to pay the milkman. Underlined was how to turn the
electric generator back on when the lights failed. Then, rather confusingly, came notes on homework: spelling tests, sums, multiplication tables and where to find atlases and encyclopedias.

Bored, Barbara helped herself to some more wine and tore a few blank pages from Margaret’s notebook. She started to jot down a rough outline of the article for her editor. The more notes
she made, the more she wondered just how unstable Margaret was and what the evening would bring.

At seven, the kitchen door banged open and Margaret hurried in. Barbara quickly stuffed the notes under her seat.

‘Sorry. Sometimes it’s very difficult. You’ll understand later when I tell you.’

Margaret placed the hot fish pie on the table and poured herself a glass of wine. She seemed very relaxed and drank almost the whole glass in one go.

‘As soon as we’ve finished supper we’ll talk about the future. You’re the only person who will ever know. I need you, Barbara.’

Barbara ate hungrily. The fish pie was delicious. But at the same time she couldn’t wait for the table to be cleared so that Margaret would talk.

It was so frustrating. Margaret insisted that they wash the dishes and stoke the fire first. She fetched a bottle of brandy and poured a glass for each of them. Then she opened the drawer where
she had put the Bible and brought it to the table.

‘Sit down, Barbara.’ She gestured for Barbara to sit at the table and then locked the door, pocketing the key. ‘I don’t think we’ll be disturbed, but just in
case.’

Barbara was surer than ever that there was someone living upstairs.

Margaret sat in the big armchair close to the blazing fire. She looked very composed, with her hands folded in her lap. She was silent for a while, but then she started to talk.

‘When my husband was killed I just wanted to die . . . to die and be buried beside him. Suddenly my life was in pieces. I had always longed to have Armande’s child and now that would
never happen. Can you imagine how I felt?’

Barbara shook her head. There was no need to say anything.

‘When Armande died, Julia took charge. My sister was such a strong woman. She was always the dominant one. Even though all I wanted was to be alone, she insisted that I should continue
working.’

Margaret described how terrible it had been even to contemplate a return to acting. She constantly broke down in tears. Eventually the producers agreed that she should take a few months off.

‘I couldn’t stand to be in our little house with its memories. We’d bought it together. It was just close to Ladbroke Grove. I knew I was losing control. I didn’t want to
get out of bed. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything and Julia became very worried about me.’

Margaret stared into the fire.

‘I overdosed on sleeping tablets. Julia called an ambulance and I was taken into hospital. I hardly knew where I was. She was very protective, as the press were constantly outside. I
became very unstable . . .’

Barbara stifled a yawn. Most of what Margaret was saying she already knew. She couldn’t wait for her to get to the ‘secret’.

It took quite a long time. Margaret explained how she’d been taken into a clinic in a blur. Eventually Julia had collected her and driven her back to the manor house. She was there for
Emily’s second birthday. Emily was Julia’s beloved daughter. For the first time since Armande’s death, Margaret began to feel better. She described the adorable little girl and
how just being with Emily made her realize that life without Armande was possible.

Barbara impatiently sipped her brandy.

‘My sister’s betrayal was so deep. I’d had no idea she could be so devious. I trusted him. I adored him. If I had known about it when he was alive, I don’t know what
I’d have done.’

Barbara leaned forward, wondering if she’d missed something.

‘I don’t understand. Did you say “betrayal”?’

Margaret nodded. She said that Julia had never married and never admitted who the little girl’s father was. Julia had simply told her it was a relationship that didn’t work out. It
had never occurred to Margaret that she knew him.

Shortly after Margaret married Armande, Julia sold her mews cottage in London. She’d subsequently bought the manor house to refurbish it and make some money. Armande had helped Julia move
and spent a lot of time with her at the manor. Margaret had been working on the television series then. She was wondrously happy, married to a man she adored and enjoying huge success with the
show. She never suspected for a second that Armande and Julia were having an affair.

Barbara began to understand. This was really shocking and she knew it would make big tabloid news. She poured herself another brandy.

‘My goodness, when did you find out?’

Margaret gave a long, shuddering sigh. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

‘After Armande died I continued working in London. I had by now sold my house and moved closer to the studios. It was about this time of year and I would often come out here for weekends.
The weekend it happened, I decided not to drive down as it was snowing. Instead I invited Julia and Emily up to London.’

Margaret rose and sat opposite Barbara at the table. She drew the Bible close to her and turned to the first page, where her sister’s name was written. Beside the name was a dark brown
stain.

‘This is Julia’s blood,’ she whispered. ‘Now I want you to lay your hand over the cross.’

When Barbara did so, she could feel it beneath her palm.

‘You must swear never to repeat what I’m going to tell you.’

‘Yes, I do. I do.’

‘No, I want you to say it.’

Barbara didn’t give a toss about swearing on the Bible. She was not remotely religious and hadn’t been to church since she was a child. But as she waited for Margaret’s
instructions, the handle on the kitchen door rattled. Then it turned, as if someone was trying to get in.

Margaret sprang up.

‘Stay here. Let me sort this out. She’s being very naughty. Please don’t do anything until I get back.’

Barbara couldn’t believe it. Just as it seemed they were getting somewhere! She wondered if it was Julia who was locked in upstairs. But what about the classroom? Maybe it was Emily.

She frowned, trying to think of what Alan had said. He’d told her that shortly after Armande died in the helicopter crash, Margaret suffered another terrible tragedy. What was that?

Barbara sat back. She’d always had a very vivid imagination and now it ran riot. What if none of it were true? What if Armande was upstairs? Perhaps he’d survived the helicopter
crash and was badly burned. Or what if he’d suffered terrible head injuries and lost his mind?

She felt almost feverish. Could it be that, after she discovered their betrayal, Margaret had locked Armande or Julia away? Or maybe punished their child instead?

Shaking, she gulped down her brandy. She heard a door closing above. Then the soft footfall of someone hurrying down the stairs.

Barbara’s heart was beating fast and her hands were clenched tightly together as the kitchen door creaked open.

Margaret stood in the doorway, smiling.

‘It’s all quiet now,’ she said. ‘Are you all right, Barbara? You look very agitated.’

‘I’m fine. It’s . . . it’s just the fire. It makes the room very warm,’ Barbara stammered.

Margaret leaned over and touched Barbara’s face.

‘You’re so flushed. Would you like me to make you a coffee?’

‘No, really. We were interrupted and you were just about to ask me something.’

‘You’ve had too much to drink,’ Margaret teased.

‘Look, I’m ready.’ Barbara pressed her hand on top of the Bible. ‘Just tell me what you want me to say.’

Margaret nodded and closed her eyes, placing her hands together as if in prayer.

‘Repeat these words: “I promise that I will never divulge this secret to anyone. It must remain with me and my knowing will release Margaret from all her promised responsibilities.
This I swear.”’

When Barbara had said the words, Margaret touched her hand.

‘Thank you.’

Although Barbara now did feel a little woozy, she was desperate for Margaret to continue. Impatiently, she asked, ‘Who is upstairs? I know someone is living up there.’

Margaret sipped her glass of brandy.

Then, not looking at Barbara, she resumed her story. She repeated that she’d arranged for Julia and Emily to stay with her in London. It was snowing. The roads were icy. When Julia had not
arrived by eleven, she became worried. At midnight she received a call from St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. There had been an accident and her sister was in intensive care. She rang for a
taxi and went straight to the hospital.

Julia was in a critical condition, desperate to talk to Margaret. Margaret screamed at the doctors to give her a few moments alone with her sister. At that point, Julia had clung to
Margaret’s hand and admitted that Emily was Armande’s child. She said that the affair was over as quickly as it had begun. She wept and asked to be forgiven.