Pack Up Your Troubles (45 page)

Connie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Then it’s still there,’ she gasped.

The graveyard was in pristine condition apart from one overgrown area where the yew tree crowded out the sunlight and created a dank atmosphere. The ground was uneven and Eva was afraid Connie might trip. There was one stone leaning against the flint stone wall and a few broken bits of headstone scattered among the brambles. The broken stones were pieces of headstones which had been erected in the path of the prevailing wind and had eventually come off.

‘It’s got to be that one,’ said Eva, pointing to the large stone against the wall.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Connie, ‘or this has all been in vain.’

It was only with great difficulty that they managed to move the heavy stone. Eva wanted to wait until they could find some strong men to lend a hand bearing in mind Connie’s condition but she was far too impatient. They had to pull away the grass and get rid of some brambles but at last they uncovered the inscription which had caused Little Mac to be ostracised by the whole village and the two families to stop speaking to each other.

Eva began to laugh first, but Connie seemed puzzled. One line had obviously been defaced and the last line looked like an afterthought.

‘That “gl” was once an “s” wasn’t it?’ said Eva pointing to the inscription. ‘Sadly has been changed into gladly.’

‘So it has,’ said Connie beginning to chuckle.

‘I suppose it’s a bit tame by today’s standards,’ said Eva, ‘but back in Victorian times it must have been quite shocking.’

‘So this was the start of it,’ said Connie. ‘By the time Arthur married your Gran, the families had been at loggerheads for more than twenty years.’

‘It’s got to end,’ said Eva. ‘It’s not our fight.’

‘We should get everyone to come here for a picnic,’ said Connie, suppressing a grin.

‘I can’t see your great aunt agreeing to that,’ said Eva.

‘Well, she’s going to have to,’ said Connie. ‘Perhaps if she sees this, she’ll realise how ridiculous it is to hold grudges.’

They both giggled. ‘When shall we do it?’ said Eva.

‘How about Bank Holiday Monday?’ said Connie.

Unusually for a Bank Holiday, the weather was perfect. Mandy burst back through the open door, with all the exuberance of an over-excited eleven-year-old. ‘Hurry up, Mummy. They’re all going to go without you!’

‘Nobody’s going without your mother, Mandy.’ Connie was relieved to hear Clifford’s calming voice coming into the room behind her. He walked towards Gwen and beamed, ‘Come on now, my lovely. Take my arm and we’ll be off.’

Connie couldn’t have been happier. Just a few years ago she had dreaded that her family would be twelve thousand miles away and that she might never see them again. If the incident with Aggie and Stan had a positive side, it was that it had brought the family closer together. Once Ga realised how devious Stan had been and how manipulative Aggie was and the terrible things she had done, she was utterly repentant. It took Gwen a while to forgive Ga but things were a lot better now. Aggie’s name was linked to the thefts as well. She’d obviously done it because she was so miffed that Eugène and Isaac hadn’t given her logs during the winter of 1947 and had done her best to blacken his name. Having seen Reuben’s caravan, one gypsy home was much the same as every other and so she had planted the watch. A search of the cellar revealed Mrs Wright’s pearl brooch.

Ga was still awkward around Cissy Maxwell but with Roger and Eva being such an integral part of family occasions, her tongue was gradually becoming more civil. The thought of poor Leslie’s body hidden all those years in the trunk in Aggie’s cellar was almost too much for Ga.

‘I said such awful things about him,’ she lamented. ‘May God forgive me.’

As for Roger, he’d been upset that things didn’t work out for Connie and him but not for long. He may have been disappointed, but Roger wasn’t the sort of man to hold grudges.

Ga and Kenneth had had a tearful reunion and she had helped him and his new wife to set up a small business and find a flat of their own. Clifford was a changed man too. Ever since Ga signed the nurseries over to him and moved out, he’d had the place buzzing. There was a proper shop now and a small café where Gwen served teas. A new start in Australia was forgotten. They had all they wanted in Worthing.

Outside in the yard, already baked in August sunshine, friends and family waited patiently. Roger had collected Cissy and Vi from Durrington. He looked a lot more relaxed now that he’d come out of bomb disposal. He was working as a military advisor for the government now. He blew Connie a kiss as she emerged through the door. Kenneth and Pearl were behind Roger in their Ford Prefect, with their two children, Dick and Johnny in the back seat. It was unusual for Kenneth to leave his cabinet making business but he had given himself and the three disabled servicemen who worked with him the day off. Ga sat in the back of Clifford’s car and Gwen sat next to her husband.

Connie made her way to a battered Humber and gazed into the face of her beloved husband. There hadn’t been a day since he’d held her in his arms in Aggie’s kitchen that Connie hadn’t thanked God for Eugène Étienne. Things had finally looked up for him when the boggy wasteland he’d bought along the seafront fell under the watchful eye of three developers. Eugène held on until the price had almost doubled. He used the cash to buy a cottage and had it done up before selling it on. Having done it more than once, by the time Connie finished her training, he had enough money to buy a house with an outhouse which he converted into a studio. With the Festival of Britain sweeping the country, Eugène’s paintings were selling like hot cakes.

‘Ready sweetheart?’ he said softly.

‘Ready,’ she grinned.

The picnic was wonderful and later, when the children were all tuckered out, Connie and Eva explained why they had brought them all back to Patching.

‘We’ve found the reason why our two families fell out all those years ago,’ Connie explained. ‘When I heard Peninnah telling the story of the tattooed lady, I realised that must have been Aunt Gertrude.’

Gwen took in her breath. ‘Not the same Aunt Gertrude who ran off with the chap from the fairground?’

‘Only she didn’t join the fairground,’ Connie nodded. ‘She became the wife of a gypsy. Aunt Gertrude was Pen’s grandmother.’

‘So our family and Kez’s family are related?’ cried Ga incredulously.

‘’Fraid so,’ Connie grinned. ‘And it gets better.’

She told them how Abraham Dixon had made the edifice for a Maxwell tomb. She pointed out the masterpiece, complete with crowns, trumpets, exotic plants and the inscription, which was magnificent but it seems that Abraham wasn’t paid. And when he wasn’t paid for another tombstone, that of the man’s widow, Tobias Maxwell’s mother, he was very upset.

‘When Pen tells her oracle,’ Connie went on, ‘she says Abe, that’s Abraham Dixon gave Little Mac, that was Tobias Maxwell, a piece of bread and a quart of ale but there was none for him and so he died …’

Gwen frowned. ‘So, what does that mean?’

‘On the day they struck the deal,’ Eva explained, ‘the two men shared a meal.’

‘But Abraham Dixon wasn’t paid,’ Connie continued, ‘and shortly after he’d completed the work he died.’

‘But that’s so sad!’ cried Vi Maxwell. ‘I feel terrible now.’

‘I think he may have known his time was coming,’ said Connie, ‘because he had time to exact his revenge.’

They took the family into the churchyard and showed them Abraham Dixon’s handiwork. It took a few minutes to sink in and then everyone was laughing.

‘In loving memory of Margaret Maude Maxwell.

b. June 21 1813 d. Jan 31 1883.

Gladly missed by her son.

What is life without you?

Peace, perfect peace.

Connie watched them laughing, all the people she loved most in the world, together and happy. Best of all, Ga and Cissy stood together, arm in arm.

Acknowledgements

I should like to thank my agent Juliet Burton, my editors Caroline Hogg and Helen Bolton, and the wonderful team at HarperCollins Avon for their encouragement and above all their friendship.

Read on for two exclusive short stories from Pam

A Girl Called Emilie

The letter had come as a bit of a shock.

Of course he knew he had been there. It was the place where they’d stayed in that amazing old manor house. He’d been with a crowd of mates on a so-called cultural exchange to Poitou- Charentes in France, organised by the local council. The idea was to foster relations with the people of the area as part of the twinning of their two regions.

Jason worked in the Parks department and his older brother, Tom, worked in the electoral registration department.

‘There’s a whole crowd of us going, Jase,’ Tom had said. ‘You should come too. It’ll be a laugh.’

‘What, boring civic dinners and a load of OAP coach trips?’ Jason had laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘One civic dinner,’ said Tom holding up a single finger, ‘followed by a trip to the local brewery, a prize-winning vineyard, and a newly opened flying school … Oh, and the area is famous for its cognac.’

Jason could feel himself being reeled in. ‘But would they really want someone from the Parks department,’ he began.

‘Just give me the word and I’ll wangle it somehow.’

Yeah, that’s about right, Jason thought. You could wangle just about anything.

He’d gone, and of course, Tom was right. It had been a blast. He’d loved every minute of it; the scenery, the hospitality and the locals. After his painful break-up with Tanya, it had been exactly what he’d needed. It was even better when he’d got back. Tanya had contacted him and they’d made it up. They were back together again now, and once they’d saved enough for a deposit on a house, they’d get married.

Tom was getting married tomorrow. This was his stag night. Why did the letter have to come today of all days? Jason didn’t want to spoil anything but he had to know. He turned it over in his hands and looked at the name on the back of the envelope … Emilie Grosjean, followed by the address. He had a hard job remembering her. Yet if what she was saying was true, he must have been there. How could he have forgotten doing a thing like that? And more importantly, how was he going to explain this to Tanya?

Bringing it up in the pub probably wasn’t the best idea, but Tom might know something. Jason glanced at his watch. The others would be here soon but there was still time to quiz his brother.

Tom came back from the bar with two brimming pints. ‘Get that down your neck,’ he said, spilling one glass as he downed his own. ‘My last night of freedom and I intend to get plastered.’

‘Do you remember when we went to Niort last year?’ said Jason, wading in.

‘Was that the place with the Roman dungeons?’

Jason nodded.

‘I remember you getting trolleyed.’

Jason cringed. He didn’t recall how he got there but they’d found him the next morning, fast asleep and curled up on the lap of a big statue in the town’s square.

Tom roared at his discomfort. ‘Wish we’d had the camera.’

Thank God you didn’t, thought Jason. If Tanya had seen … he frowned. Was that why he couldn’t remember being with Emilie? Was it because he was too drunk?

Tom leaned towards him. ‘Why do you ask? What’s up?’

‘I’ve had this letter,’ he began. ‘From a girl called Emilie.’

Tom sat back in his chair and took a long swig from his glass. ‘Emilie. Emilie who?’

‘Emilie Grosjean. Do you remember her?’

‘I might do,’ said Tom.

Tom was stalling and that’s when it struck Jason. He’d never been with Emilie had he? It was Tom. Tom must have spent the night with her. And afterwards, when she said, ‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’ Tom, suddenly remembering his fiancé back home, had said his name was Jason.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tom, this is important. Did you go with her?’

His brother shrugged again. ‘Dunno, might have done. Can’t remember.’

‘Come on Tom,’ Jason insisted. ‘It was only nine months ago.’

Even though the light in the pub was dull, he could see his brother had gone very pale.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Like I told you, I’ve had this letter,’ said Jason. ‘And…’

Tom leaned forward again. ‘Listen Jase,’ he interrupted, ‘this is my stag night. I’m getting married tomorrow. Whatever she says it’s nothing to do with me, OK? It was only a bit of fun. Don’t mess up the rest of my life, please.’

The door burst open and the rest of the lads came in. There was a lot of shouting and plenty of distraction as they hustled their way to the back of the pub where Jason and Tom were sitting, and from then on, the drinks flowed like water.

Tom was almost legless when they handcuffed him, just in his boxer shorts, to the lamp post outside the police station. As the rest of the lads made their way noisily down the high street, Jason came back.

Tom rattled his chains. ‘Don’t leave me here, Jase,’ he slurred helplessly. ‘They’ll come out and arrest me. If I spend the night in the cells, they’ll take me to court in the morning.’

‘Answer my question then,’ said Jason.

‘What question?’

‘Did you tell Emilie your name was Jason?’

‘You’re a hard man, Jase,’ said Tom, his teeth chattering with the cold. ‘Yeah, all right. I was with her. Proper little goer she was and all.’

‘You had a good time with her then?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘So,’ said Jason, the relief sweeping over him. ‘You’ve had your fun and left me with the consequences.’

‘Just forget her, Jase,’ said Tom.

‘I can’t do that, Tom,’ said Jason unlocking the handcuffs. He threw his coat over his brother’s shivering body. ‘You see,
you
gave her such a good time, she entered
my
name in the town lottery. I’ve just won a fortnight’s holiday in a chateau in the Poitou-Charentes.’

The Wedding Suit

Dee couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when she decided to take the suit back. It could have been when she saw the creases in the back of the jacket after Mark had sat down for a ten second photograph. Or maybe it was when she hung it up and saw the state of the trousers. Each leg looked like a dance band concertina. How could she let her one and only son get married looking like that?