The Twisted Way (16 page)

‘Oh, a letter from Canada and the usual junk mail. Those stupid advertisements really do waste a lot of paper! Green planet ... huh!’

There was one person Janet wished she could hear from but knew she never would, a girl she remembered still despite her memory lapses, someone she had known when she was young and whose sweet face she had thought of so many times over the years. She had not received any news about her for some time but prayed that she was well and happy. There was little else she could do. Her hands were tied.

Joyce passed the letters to Janet. Janet looked at them with a sigh and opened the one from Canada with her silver tea knife. A single sheet of cream paper emerged from the envelope. She glanced at the signature and saw the words ’I have booked a flight ... I am so looking forward to seeing you once again. Your loving niece Felicity.’ She groaned.

Joyce looked at Janet’s face but did not comment. She hoped the letter did not contain bad news but feared it did. She did not wait to find out but scurried back to her chores in the large old-fashioned kitchen at the back of the house. Some of the worn pine units had been modernized but the ancient tiles that were on the floor when Janet came to the house as a young bride were still in place, patched and repaired but twinkling and glistening following numerous coats of polish. Joyce was quite proud of her efforts. The old Aga too still chugged along emitting steady and comforting warmth.

Joyce was anxious to finish her work because she was looking forward to enjoying a meal in the Green Man that evening where she would be celebrating her husband’s birthday with him and a few of their close friends. She didn’t want to be late getting home and was looking forward to wearing the purple dress and imitation pearl necklace she had purchased for the occasion. Fred would be surprised and she knew that he would be wondering first and foremost how much the dress had cost. ‘Meanie!’ she thought uncharitably and chuckled. That was something he was not going to find out. But she knew that he would be pleased that she had made an effort on his behalf and would soon forgive her extravagance. She glanced at her newly tinted hair in the old cracked pine-edged kitchen mirror and beamed with satisfaction. A few dark roots still showed and irritated her but the carefully applied blonde highlights were quite becoming, after all she was only fifty and deserved to pamper herself sometimes. What was it called? Retail therapy, yes that was what it was. Jolly good it was too. It always worked for her.

Young Lily Jones, gormless and spotty faced, who hailed from the Vicarage, had offered, or rather been coerced by her father, to keep Janet company during the evening, assisting her to undress, though Janet preferred to do that herself, and helping her get into the bed that was made up by Joyce with the crisp fresh lavender-scented sheets that she enjoyed. Spotty-faced girls of Lily’s ilk Janet did not want or like but Joyce had persuaded her that she would be good company though she had stressed that she did not need her.

‘You must learn to help the less fortunate,’ Lily’s father lectured her earlier that day, stretching to his full height and fingering his stiff white dog collar. ‘Gadding about with those layabout friends is not good for the soul!’ He cleared his throat and waited for her response, which was not forthcoming.

‘Silly old man!’ Lily scoffed behind his back as soon as she got out of his hearing range but knew that, for the time being at least, she had must make an effort to keep on the right side of her pompous and pious father. One day she would be free of his ridiculous religious ranting and that day could not come fast enough for her. No one believes that rubbish these days, she’d told herself when quite a small girl and she had not wavered from that opinion for one moment since that time. She was far too intelligent to be deceived by that all that stuff. She chuckled to herself when she thought how, together with several of her friends, she had refused to sing a hymn in assembly the week before. The headmaster’s face had turned beetroot red with frustration and Lily had giggled with delight. The detention she had received was a mild punishment and in no way dented her joy.

Nevertheless she turned up at Primrose House promptly at five o’clock as arranged, neat and meek, a stance in which she revelled. She wore a plain cheap cotton skirt and simple homemade blouse, which were both sober and innocuous. She didn’t have anything very pretty; most of her clothes were purchased in the local charity shop by her mother to ensure her humility. There was little chance of looking like the Jezebel-type girls in the village that she admired but she played the part of the innocent little vicar’s daughter well; something that had stood her in good stead on many occasions, which was some kind of compensation. Her long dull blonde hair which fell down her back reached almost to her waist and was cut into a wispy ragged fringe above her forehead. One day she would dye it orange or deep red and buy clothes that would enhance her figure, which she considered was quite good.

A substantial supper of salad, cold chicken, fresh fruit and cold white Chardonnay had been left in the fridge for Janet and Lily had been instructed to serve that up on a tray, using one of the best fine wine glasses, the ones etched with a grape-like pattern which were Mrs Lacey’s favourites, at about seven in the evening.

‘I’ll pop back at about half past ten to see all is well, it’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from my cottage,’ Joyce said to the reluctant and subdued Lily. ‘What a kind girl you are to offer to sit with Mrs Lacey, she doesn’t have much company in the evenings. You could go home once she is tucked up in bed. She usually goes to bed at about nine. She’ll be all right, no need to worry about her, she has a cord round her neck with an emergency button she can press if she needs help when she’s on her own. There’s plenty of milk for you to drink, or fruit juice, if you want it, dear,’ Joyce continued. ‘Help yourself to biscuits or cake. Don’t worry about Mrs Lacey. Her memory is getting worse, she has started to suffer from Alzheimer’s disease you know, it’s not too bad yet but she keeps talking in her sleep about her schooldays and someone called James. At least she still has her dreams. Just humour her, Lily. She’s quite harmless. The dreams are probably not doing her much good but that can’t be helped. I’m afraid even those will disappear soon, poor soul.’

Lily smiled sweetly and exposed a row of small and even white teeth between pale lips that had never, at least in public, been smeared with lipstick (‘something only whores wear,’ her father impressed upon her), but her eyes remained bleak and expressionless.

‘It’s OK,’ she said smoothly, ‘we will be fine, I’m happy to stay here until you come back. Doubtless Mrs Lacey will enjoy a little company.’

She glanced at Joyce with innocent round pale blue eyes fringed with pale yellow lashes, which looked like enormous empty blank blobs in her young bland face. She thought with avarice about the ten-pound note she had been promised for her trouble, it would be worth waiting around for that, and she looked forward to watching the large new television in the lounge. Her do-gooder father had pressed her into helping Joyce but had not been informed about the cash incentive. She smiled at the thought, though it would be more fun if she could go out with her teenage friends and just ‘chill out’. It was a nuisance being a vicar’s daughter because the expectations pressed upon her to be helpful and kind to others were onerous and she looked forward with increasing fervour to the glorious day when she would achieve freedom from that pressure. With any luck she could leave home the following year and attend a college course some way away, the further the better. However, she expected the supper left for her and Janet in Primrose House would, as usual, be delicious. Lily was always hungry and her mouth began to water. The old woman probably would not notice if she helped herself to an extra slice of cold chicken and a sip or two of wine. Drinking wine, except the odd quick drop of communion wine, was taboo at home and she looked forward to tasting the crisp white liquid. She would have something to boast about to her friends when they next met. The evening she had been so reluctant to participate in was not going to be so bad after all. The ghastly old-fashioned red armchairs in the lounge looked comfortable. The wretched dog Jack was a smelly and growly old thing but she liked dogs and she would get round him again with a biscuit or two or a succulent piece of chicken.

Janet did notice that there was not so much chicken as usual on her supper plate and she only had a half glass of wine. It was unfortunate that she could no longer struggle up the stairs to her bedroom to get away from that gawping girl. Perhaps she should not have been so stubborn and agreed to have had that stairlift installed.

‘They are dreadful clumsy new-fangled things,’ Janet had said to Joyce when the idea of installing one had been suggested by her old solicitor friend Peter Mace. ‘Peter is too keen to spend my money!’

If only she could be independent and not have to rely on daft girls like Lily for the odd snatch of company.

Joyce left Jack his tea in the kitchen but the smell of cold sliced chicken was enticing, better than boring tinned dog meat and dry biscuit. He sniffed the air expectantly and remained alert, keeping a beady eye out for the supper tray. His efforts were rewarded when he obtained a nice chunk of chicken breast from Janet when Lily was not looking.

A new single bed, graced with a modern memory foam mattress, had been strategically placed under the dining-room window, which was on the side of the house that faced the river so that Janet could enjoy the view. A modern walk-in wet shower room and low toilet with rails had been installed nearby which cost more than any stairlift but that was her choice and she was, despite the memory lapses, still determined to remain in her own home, on her own terms, for long as possible.

Janet loved the large sweeping green fields dotted with old oak trees that adjoined her garden. She could see them clearly where they joined a large orchard that swept down to the winding river in the distance to provide a stunning vista. The trees in the local orchards were covered with pink and white blossom in the spring, which attracted many visitors to the area and was aptly called the Blossom Trail. The River Brinton could only just be seen from her window but at times when it burst its banks after a period of heavy rain it would creep nearer to form a large untidy lake. She loved to watch the ducks and swans but was not sure she liked the Canada geese. Flocks of the noisy creatures flapped over Primrose House on most days, and their wretched loud cackling voices invariably disturbed her afternoon nap. ‘Tough as old boots some of those,’ a neighbouring farmer hold told her, ‘they are inedible, at least the old ones are, and the numbers of the wretched things are increasing.’

Lily cleared away the supper things and Janet leaned back in her chair and started to dream. Confused snatches of happenings from her past often merged together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, difficult to decipher and often forgotten immediately she woke up. Her mother and father, their evacuee Tom, friends whose faces were becoming strange blanks, would intrude for a moment then disappear. She could hold on to the distant past with greater ease than recent events but she moved slowly in her dreams, much slower than she had in real life, and she was often left with a disturbing sensation that made little sense to her.

Janet stirred as she was propelled back into time. ‘James,’ she said.

‘I wish she’d shut up,’ Lily muttered under her breath. ‘She’s spoiling my television programme.’ She reached out and turned up the volume.

Janet slept on. She had promised her mother to look after her evacuee Tom when her parents were no longer able to. Eleven years old, he was a quiet and timid boy, though very intelligent. Tom’s face often came to mind when she was dreaming, thin and peaky with a dimple in his chin, deep-set hazel eyes, winsome and appealing.

Janet stirred. She could hear James shouting, the shouting became louder, she fidgeted and her heart beat faster. She turned in her chair.

‘He’s a child of very little value, certainly not worthy of being treated as my son,’ he grumbled. ‘He should be made to work and pay his way. Burnt crusts and leftovers are good enough for that brat.’

The nightmare continued as it had so often, coming back to haunt her although it was becoming less vivid. Her deteriorating mind made sure of that.

She woke up with a start and remembered how earnestly Tom had expressed an interest in learning to play a musical instrument. His school had provided him with a violin and offered tuition for a reasonable fee but James would have none of that.

‘Awful noise, I cannot stand that caterwauling. Screech, screech, screech scratch. Whoever invented that ghastly instrument should be shot!’

Janet had tried many years later to trace Tom. What a weak idiot she had been. She did discover that an older couple had adopted him and after that the trail ran frustratingly cold. All she could do was hope that he had been treated with kindness and was happy. Where was he now? It was a question she had asked herself many times over the years although now, like her personal possessions, Tom’s whereabouts were becoming less important. She no longer felt the cold hand that had gripped the pit of her stomach the day he left clutching his small battered brown suitcase, which held all his worldly belongings. She no longer despised herself for being so feeble and giving into her husband’s wishes though the boy’s departure had caused her considerable pain at the time. It was entrenched in a past that was fading.

She dozed fitfully again in her chair. ‘James,’ she said again out loud several times as Joyce had said she might. Lily took no notice and returned to the kitchen to see if she could find a few more dregs of wine in the bottle. ‘Silly old woman, dreaming. It will be a good thing when she gets into bed, it’s nearly nine, thank goodness!’ she said out loud. ‘I might, with luck, be able to watch the next programme without her daft mutterings spoiling it! At least she didn’t drink all the wine, though I’ll tell Mrs Skillet that she did.’ She grinned.