Secrets and Lies (8 page)

‘Try and be a bit quieter. Mummy isn’t well and your grandfather has come out to see her.’

They looked up from their game, the expression in their eyes more alert than alarmed as they searched her face for clues.

‘I’m sure she’ll be all right. Stay here out the way. I expect Grandma Elliot will stay and look after us till Daddy comes home.’

They relaxed and went back to their game, believing her because she was older, and because they didn’t want the insecurity of worrying about their mother’s health.

She went through to her parents’ room, and laid out all the things her mother had told her to. Spare nightwear and underwear, toiletries and slippers – where were the handkerchiefs kept?
The Sittaford Mystery
by Agatha Christie was next on the list. Her mother had received the book for a Christmas present, and had kept it for her lying-in time with the new baby. It was on a shelf in the wardrobe.

Only now there might not be a lying-in, and her mother would be terribly sad if something bad happened to the baby. Meggie wouldn’t know how to comfort her, for they’d never had the ease of physical closeness that her mother enjoyed with the boys, and besides, she never knew what to say when other people became emotional.

The handkerchiefs were in the other dressing table drawer. As she lifted them, a photograph was revealed underneath. It was Richard Sangster. Her father was tall and handsome in an army uniform, his cap tucked beneath his arm. Her stepfather stood beside him, equally handsome and slightly taller.

She gazed at Richard Sangster, taking in his direct gaze, his smile and his fair curls. His smile was like sunshine, and there was a little stirring feeling inside her. Why couldn’t it have been Denton Elliot who’d died, and Richard Sangster who’d lived?

Immediately she felt guilty. She adored her stepfather. Gently, she kissed the images of both men and put the photograph back.

Helen Elliot was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She looked harassed as she took the items from her. ‘Goodness, girl, I was just about to come looking for you. Stop dawdling now; go and wait at the crossroads for the ambulance to come, in case they take the wrong turning.’

‘Will my mother be all right?’

‘Well there’s a silly question; how would I know? We’ll just have to wait and see.’ Her expression softened. ‘Try not to worry, dear. It won’t help.’

‘Who will look after Adam and Luke?’

‘I’ll stay here until their father comes home.’

‘I can get the dinner ready if you like,’ Meggie offered, determined to be helpful, because after all, she was nearly grown up. ‘We’re having beef casserole and dumplings. The casserole just needs warming through with the dumplings on top. There are carrots and sprouts, and I can boil some potatoes and mash them.’

‘Goodness, you are little miss efficiency, but let’s get our priorities right. Off you go now to keep a lookout for that ambulance. We’ll worry about dinner later.’

Meggie’s face heated. Grandmother Elliot was good at using sarcasm to dilute a compliment. She didn’t like her much. But then, she wasn’t her real, flesh and blood grandmother.

And later, Helen took over the dinner, and then reorganized the kitchen to her liking, cleaning the shelves and tut-tutting over the task.

‘You needn’t do that,’ Meggie said. ‘You’re puffing yourself out, and Mummy always leaves it to the cleaning lady.’

Helen awarded her observation with a frown, and a terse, ‘As I see. My son was brought up in a clean home, young lady, and I’ll be the judge of whether or not I’m . . . how did you put it . . . puffed out.’

Their father didn’t come home for dinner, and the boys were so worried they ate their sprouts and carrots without complaint. Meggie told them a story about angels, to prepare them in case their mother died.

Afterwards, she helped her brothers say their prayers, which would save her having to say her own separately, later on. ‘Bring Mummy and the baby home to us safely,’ she prayed, her eyes teary.

The boys started to sniffle.

‘Amen,’ she said loudly, and they copied her. Because she felt holy at that moment, she thought she might become a nun when she grew up. Remembering the sober black robes they wore, the next second she abandoned the idea.

When she went down Grandmother Elliot was asleep in a chair.

Making her a cup of tea, Meggie served it with a slice of Madeira cake.

Grandmother Elliot woke with a start. Her fuddled glance fell on the tea. ‘Thank you, dear. Are the boys asleep?’

‘Yes.’

The telephone in the hall rang.

‘I expect it’s your stepfather.’ Grandmother Elliot was the only person who referred to him that way, at least, to her face. ‘I’ll get it, dear.’

‘Denton . . . is everything all right?’

‘I see . . . yes, the boys are organized and settled down in bed . . . Meggie is still up. No, it was no trouble. Would you like to speak to the girl?’

Meggie nearly tripped over the edge of the carpet getting to the phone. ‘Hello Daddy, is everything all right?’

‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Meggie love. Your mother has lost the baby. He was too small to survive.’

So, she would have had another brother. It was sad that he hadn’t survived, but she hadn’t seen him as a person so he didn’t seem quite real to her. ‘And Mummy? What about her . . . she’s not going to die, is she?’

‘Good Lord no.’

An image appeared in Meggie’s mind of the three of them standing round Mother’s grave with their father. Their mother flew overhead in floating, filmy white garments. She had a spread of luminous wings and her hand clasped the podgy fist of a cherub. As a final touch, her imagination placed a golden trumpet in her mother’s mouth, so she could blow a fanfare to order St Peter to open the gates to heaven – if he happened to be on gate duty. On second thoughts she removed the trumpet. Her mother wasn’t very musical.

Meggie didn’t want her mother to go to heaven yet, so she stopped that train of thought and concentrated on what her stepfather was saying.

‘Mummy’s a bit tired and sad, but she’ll be all right in a day or two, and should be home in about a week if all goes well. I won’t be home tonight. Can you manage?’

‘Yes . . . Grandmother Elliot is here. I’ll make the bed up in Aunt Esmé’s room for her, and put a hot water bottle in the bed to warm it. Give Mummy my love, and from the boys, as well. They’ve been really soppy, but ever so good.’

‘Tell them, well done. Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep tight.’

‘Goodnight, Daddy. I’ll do my best to be helpful.’

She made the bed, filled a hot water bottle and found a nightgown for Grandmother Elliot to wear.

The woman sniffed the air in Esmé’s room like a bloodhound, and announced, ‘This room smells damp.’

‘It’s just cold, I think. There’s a radiator, and I’ve opened the valve to let the hot water fill it, so it’s beginning to warm. It will take a little while longer to warm the room, though. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. The room hasn’t been used since Auntie Es left, you see.’

‘Well, yes, as one would imagine.’

‘I’ve put a hot water bottle between the sheets, and the blankets and eiderdown are warm and cosy; straight from the top of the airing cupboard. If you’d prefer, you can sleep in my bed, but Shadow has learned how to open the door and sometimes he makes himself comfortable on the bed and wakes me up. He’s jolly clever.’

‘No . . . this room will do,’ Grandmother Elliot said hastily. ‘Besides you’ve been sniffing all evening and your bed will be filled with cold germs.’

‘My cold is nearly better.’

Grandmother Elliot ignored the snippet of information. ‘We’d better make sure the windows and doors are locked, and the fireguards are in place. There are too many people wandering about the countryside these days.’

‘Daddy said they’re looking for work. It’s the Depression.’

‘Some people use it as an excuse. Our hen house was raided the other day and two of my best layers were stolen.’

‘We lost some cabbages and potatoes from the garden; they were probably taken by someone with children to feed. If they’d knocked at the door Mummy said she would have given them something. Daddy agreed with her.’

Grandmother Elliot snorted. ‘Goodness. Thieves are thieves, whatever the circumstances. Livia would be better off making them work for it. The windows need cleaning, and the garden gate is hanging off its hinge.’

‘All the same—’

‘If these people are encouraged you’ll wake up one morning to discover you’ve been murdered in your bed.’

Meggie giggled, because Grandmother Elliot must surely have meant it as a joke.

But she hadn’t, for she said quite severely, ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Well . . . how can you wake up if you’ve already been murdered?’

‘Ah . . . yes . . . well of course, it goes without saying, doesn’t it. I was making a joke, and you’re being too clever by far. Off to bed with you, now.’

The thought of intruders kept Meggie awake and alert to every crack and creak until after midnight. When the clock in the hall chimed midnight she pulled the eiderdown up around her ears, so if someone sneaked in to murder her she wouldn’t hear them coming. Even so she jumped when Shadow pushed the door open and settled on the end of the bed with a heavy sigh.

‘Pest.’ Drawing her knees up to give him the room he required, she felt thankful she had someone to guard her. She just wished her bed was bigger . . . or that Shadow was smaller!

Meggie got the opportunity to visit her father the following weekend.

Grandmother Elliot had upset the cleaning lady by insisting that the house be cleaned from top to bottom. The cleaner worked sullenly, making aggrieved little remarks when Grandmother Elliot was out of earshot.

‘I’m only staying because your mother’s sick, poor lady. Very polite, Mrs Elliot the younger is, and she never criticizes my work. That old biddy says, “Clean this, scrub that, iron this, polish that,” as though I don’t know how to do my own job. She’s an old fusspot, and I don’t get a moment’s peace from her.’

Meggie sympathized, since she got the same treatment, but she didn’t think it wise to encourage the cleaning lady by agreeing out loud. Just as well because Grandmother Elliot appeared.

‘Make your bed, dear. And don’t leave the sheets all creased. I must teach you how to do neat hospital corners. When you’ve finished you can make the boys’ beds and pick up their clothes.’

‘My mother wants the boys to learn to keep their own room tidy.’

‘Boys aren’t very good at domestic chores.’

‘Mother said that’s an excuse, and they’ll never be good at anything domestic if they don’t practise it.’

‘Did she now? As far as I’m concerned the men are the breadwinners, and the women stay at home and provide a comfortable environment for them to relax in.’

‘Times are changing, Grandmother Elliot.’

Meggie was subjected to a long stare that would have been intimidating, had she been easily intimidated. ‘Yes, they are, but answering back is still a tiresome trait, especially when it comes from a child. It must be the Sangster in you coming out.’

Meggie’s ears pricked up. Any information was better than none, even if it was of a mean and gossipy value. Grandmother Elliot didn’t disappoint her.

‘Richard Sangster always had a smart tongue on him, right from when he was small. But then, his mother came from a long line of Scottish aristocrats and the Sangsters always thought they were a cut above the rest of us. You would be aware of your Sinclair inheritance, I suppose?’

Meggie learned a lot from listening to gossip, and she’d heard the Sinclair inheritance mentioned a couple of times, when she wasn’t supposed to be listening to the adults’ conversation. She muttered in a vague, casual manner. ‘Oh yes . . . the inheritance.’

Her curiosity was gnawing a hole through her skull now. What about the inheritance?

‘Foxglove House used to be such a lively place when Margaret Sinclair Sangster was alive. That was before the last war, of course, though goodness knows, we seem to be heading for another one. After Margaret’s accident the inheritance went downhill, I understand. Now the house is shuttered tight. Goodness knows, you’d think the Sinclair trust would let the place instead of allowing it to run down. When it becomes yours, you’ll never be able to afford to keep the house up as it should be kept up.’

When it became hers?

The phone rang. ‘That’s probably the gardener. I want him to take that lilac out and plant a tree in its place.’

Drat Matthew Bugg for ringing at such an inconvenient time, just when she was learning something new! ‘My mother loves that lilac, you know. The fragrance drifts into her bedroom when it’s in bloom.’ Grandmother Elliot wasn’t listening, and anyway, her mother would sort it out in her own way, once she was home.

When Foxglove House became hers? The snippet of information stuck in her mind. Should she ask Grandmother Elliot to tell her more?

But she had gone to answer the telephone, and Meggie heard her say, ‘Oh, it’s you, Barbara. Thank goodness I can sit down and have an intelligent conversation. I’d forgotten how tiresome children can be.’

‘So could grandmothers,’ Meggie whispered darkly under her breath.

Shadow appeared, carrying his leash in his mouth, his tail wagging, and not in the least bit shamed by his beggarly behaviour.

‘Sit,’ she said, and went up to see the boys, the dog following closely after her in case she forgot him. He wagged his tail when she frowned. ‘I thought I told you to sit.’

He sat.

‘I’m taking Shadow for a walk, boys . . . coming?’

Her brothers were busy, engrossed in what they were doing, which was carefully pasting bits and pieces on a card . . . a welcome home gift for their mother. It would join the other cards they’d made her over the years, their felicitations carefully captured in a box that once contained her mother’s favourite Oxfords . . . little scraps of love hoarded in a shoe box.

The boys looked up at her, saying together, ‘Must we?’

‘It’s not compulsory.’ In fact she’d rather have the freedom of going out alone. ‘Leave some space on that card for me to write a message, if you would.’ She fetched the letter for the major and headed out into the day, Shadow still carrying his leash.