The Unburied Past (2 page)

She turned as Emma came into the room. ‘Don't think so, thanks. How far have they got with the parcel?'

‘Depends how small the prize is!'

‘It's a set of felt tips. They're water-soluble, so I hope they won't be too unpopular with the parents.' Lynne hesitated. ‘Is Janice OK? She seems a bit quiet.'

‘She's fine. She came to the rescue a few minutes ago, when someone had to be stopped from opening more than one layer and promptly threw a tantrum. Jan sat on the floor with her and peace was restored.' Emma slipped an arm round her sister-in-law. ‘We're going to miss you, you know – having you just on the end of the phone and those spur-of-the-moment picnics.'

‘Frankly, I'm trying not to think about it. I know it will be great once we're there, it's the in-between bit I'm dreading – particularly, though it sounds ungrateful, the last four weeks with Mum and Dad. When we've been more or less in each other's pockets, the wrench when we go will be all the harder.'

‘We'll do all we can to fill the gap,' Emma promised. ‘And I give you fair warning, we'll be out next summer to see you!'

‘It's a date,' Lynne said.

The game had ended, the prize was claimed and Janice returned to her chair. A room full of little girls! Her eyes moved fondly over them – crumpled party frocks, flushed faces, bows askew in their hair. Even fifteen-month-old Kirsty was enjoying herself.

As Janice watched, the baby started unsteadily across the floor, intent on a discarded ribbon from one of the presents. But as she bent to claim it one of the children, unaware of her proximity, turned suddenly and knocked against her. For an agonizing moment Kirsty teetered, before falling sideways and banging her head on a chair leg.

Janice jumped from her chair, scooped her up before the first roar and held her close, her face in the dark curls. ‘All right, darling, Auntie Jan's got you. It's all right!'

‘What happened?' Emma had appeared in the doorway.

‘It's nothing,' Janice said quickly. ‘She just banged her head.'

Her arms tightened round the child, but Kirsty, hearing her mother's voice and still crying lustily, twisted in her hold, reaching out her arms, and Janice was compelled to surrender her. Bereft, she stood for a moment looking at mother and child before, catching Roy's anxious gaze, she summoned a reassuring smile.

So it was over. Mark had taken a succession of photographs – of the cake, of the little guests, of the entire family, and of the four who were emigrating. Duty done, he, Emma and their children were driving home.

‘Pity there wasn't a little boy for Adam to play with,' he commented.

‘I doubt he even noticed,' Emma replied. ‘And your mother didn't cry, bless her!'

‘No, that was a relief. When are they moving in with them?'

‘The removal van's booked for a week on Monday. Jan's collecting Claire from the childminder and taking both girls back to her house for tea. I feel guilty not helping, but of course we'll be away.' She paused. ‘Poor Lynne – she's not looking forward to the next few weeks. It's not even as though they'll be in another part of this country; the customs, the climate, the whole way of life will be different over there. She's bound to feel lost at first, even with Harry's parents nearby.'

Emma was right, Mark reflected as he turned into his own gateway. The extended family all lived within a ten-mile radius of the country town of Westbourne, and the departure of Lynne and Harry would leave a noticeable gap. A sudden sense of foreboding washed over him, as though their going signalled the beginning of the end of their comfortable, integrated life, and bigger, more sinister changes lay ahead.

He got out of the car and, still unaccountably uneasy, waited for Emma to liberate the children from their car seats, taking Kirsty from her as she bent to release Adam. Then, as his daughter smeared a chocolatey hand down his shirt, he impatiently dismissed such fancies.

‘Bath time with Daddy tonight,' he announced and, with his son trotting at his side, he led his family into the house.

‘It's beginning to look like rain,' Roy remarked as they, too, reached home. ‘I was hoping to give the lawn a quick once-over; with luck, I'll just make it.'

They went upstairs together, Roy to change into his gardening clothes, Janice into something less formal than the dress she'd worn to the party. Then, as he clattered back down the stairs, she turned on impulse into the little room that, ever since they'd bought the house, she had thought of as the nursery. It was warm and bright in the evening sunshine, though beyond the window the massing clouds that had alerted Roy were piling up.

Her eyes moved over the primrose-painted walls, the white wooden cupboard and neat single bed that had been her own before her marriage. It was ready made up with yellow blankets and a white cotton spread. She'd tried her hardest to persuade Lynne to allow her to keep the children overnight on removal day. ‘Your parents' house will be going like a fair – it'll be much quieter and more restful for them here, and I can take Charlotte to school with me the next morning.'

But Lynne, though she'd accepted the offer of tea, had rejected an extension of the visit – unnecessarily sharply, Janice felt. So Charlotte wouldn't be sleeping in that little bed, nor Claire in the inflatable one, and all too soon they'd be leaving for good. Thank God she'd still have Kirsty.

She closed her eyes, reliving the moment she'd held the child close, smelt her baby smell of talc and damp nappy, felt the hot tears against her own face.
Why
had her sister come back at just that moment? Perhaps, she thought, brightening, when Kirsty was a little older Emma would let her spend a weekend with them. But by then, Janice reminded herself, irrepressible hope resurfacing, there might be another occupant in this little room, one who really belonged here.

And as a handful of rain rattled against the window, she closed the door behind her and went downstairs.

‘Emma?'

‘Hello, Mum. Not at work today?'

Louise Grenville was on the board of two companies and several charities.

‘Of course I am – this is my coffee break. In fact, I'm up to my eyes for the rest of the week, but I wanted to catch you before you go away. So – all packed up?'

‘More or less. They can only provide one cot, which is a nuisance. We'll have to hope Adam doesn't visit us too early in the morning!'

Louise laughed. ‘I've not heard the forecast, but I hope it keeps fine for you. The weather up in the Lakes can be tricky.'

‘Don't worry, we're packing macs and gum boots.'

‘Very wise! How did Claire's party go?

‘Fine; Lynne's a great organizer.'

‘It was good of her to have it, so close to moving out.'

‘Yes. Sad to think of all the good times we've had there.'

‘I'd like to see them before they go. Perhaps we could arrange a meal when you're back from holiday?'

‘That would be great, but you'd better fix it quickly; they're receiving lots of invitations.'

‘I'll get straight on to it.' A pause. ‘No doubt Jan and Roy were there, rubbing salt into the wound? The longer they try for a baby, the more depressed she gets, and surrounding herself with children can't help. Still, she's only thirty-two; there's plenty of time.'

Emma had a flash of her sister clutching Kirsty and felt a stab of pity. ‘Fingers crossed,' she said.

‘Indeed. Well, I must get back to work. Have a lovely time, darling, and send us a postcard!'

‘Will do. 'Bye, Mum.'

But as Emma ticked off another task on her list, her thoughts were still on her sister. Of the two of them, it had always been Janice who played with dolls and hung over prams, while the more boisterous Emma preferred tree-climbing and kicking balls around with the boys next door. It seemed so unfair, the way things had worked out. But as her mother said, there was still time.

With a sigh, Emma picked up the phone to cancel the newspapers.

T
heir first sight of Penthwaite came as they crested a hill to see it nestling in the valley below them. From that vantage point it looked larger than they'd expected – a sizeable cluster of slate roofs, a church with a squat Norman tower and, in the centre, a large green space. Some distance beyond it, sunlight shimmered on a gleaming expanse of water.

‘Lake Belvedere,' Mark commented. ‘I hadn't realized it was so close.'

Emma folded her sunglasses. ‘Never mind the view, let's get to the cottage. We've been cooped up in the car for quite long enough.'

It had been a long and tiring journey, not helped by the fact that both children had been fractious. It was typical, she reflected, that just as they'd finally fallen asleep they would soon have to be woken.

As they followed the road downhill and into the village, some of her tiredness fell away and she exclaimed with delight at its winding cobbled streets, the little courtyards and alleyways leading off them, the riot of colour in the cottage gardens. Though the houses were stone-built, the majority had been whitewashed, and in the summer sunshine their brightness was almost blinding.

It had been arranged with the owner of the cottage that the key would be left for them at the post office opposite the green, and Mark accordingly drew up outside it. The upper half of its stable door was open, but little could be seen of the interior from the brightness of the street.

‘It seems to double as the village shop,' Mark commented, indicating the window display. ‘Shall I stock up while I'm here?'

‘What we've brought should see us through the weekend, but a local map would be useful.'

As he pushed his way into the post office, Emma turned to look at the green across the road. On its far side a game of cricket was in progress and an exultant shout reached her as one of the players was caught out. Nearer at hand, family groups sat on the grass, children played, and an ice-cream van was doing a brisk trade.

‘It's the first house down a lane at the end of the village,' Mark reported, returning with the key and an Ordnance Survey map, which he tossed on to her lap.

The lane was, indeed, at the end of the village, and beyond it fields bordered both sides of the road. The cottage itself was separated from its nearest neighbour by a field where sheep grazed, and opposite it were several allotments. The gates stood open and Mark drove in and parked on the gravel drive.

Emma glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping children. ‘Let's leave them here while we scout out the land.'

The front door opened directly into a large living space furnished with a sofa and easy chairs. There was a bookcase of assorted paperbacks, a shelf containing a pile of board games and what looked like an amateur painting of the village over the fireplace. At the far end, near a door leading, presumably, to the kitchen, stood a dining table and chairs, and in one corner a steep staircase led to the floor above.

‘I wish we'd thought to bring the stair gate,' Emma said anxiously.

Mark snorted. ‘Along with the kitchen sink? The car's packed to the gunnels as it is.' He looked round. ‘No sign of a phone and no TV.'

‘All to the good,' Emma replied. ‘We can have a holiday from both. Right, let's see how much unloading we can do before the kids regain consciousness.'

They worked quickly and quietly, removing suitcases and a folded buggy from the roof rack and boxes of provisions and household linen from the boot. Emma discovered a pint of milk, a loaf and a pack of butter awaiting them in the fridge. Emergency rations, she thought.

Up the steep stairs they found two bedrooms and a small bathroom. Not exactly palatial, as Mark commented, but enough for their holiday needs. The promised cot had been set up in the smaller room.

‘If we make up the beds now,' Emma said, ‘they'll be ready for us when we're ready for them.'

They'd just completed their task when the first wail reached them from the car, and they hurried downstairs to release their children.

Lynne stood on the landing of her home and watched it being systematically dismantled. Every room, every corridor was suddenly throbbing with memories – the kitchen, scene of so many family meals, the sitting room where Charlotte had taken her first steps, the extra-bright patches where familiar pictures had hung.

She turned abruptly and went into the bathroom – blessedly unchanged – where she locked the door and allowed herself a few silent tears. If only she could wave a wand and wake up six weeks or even six months from now, when they'd all be happily installed in their Canadian home.

‘Mrs Carstairs?' The foreman, Joe, was calling from downstairs. Lynne hastily dabbed at her eyes and went on to the landing.

‘What do you want doing with this box? Are we to take it, or is it going with you? There's no label on it.'

‘Sorry, it's some of the children's toys – we'll keep it with us. Would you ask my husband to put it straight in the car, so it doesn't get mixed up with anything else?'

Joe wandered off, muttering to himself and, brief respite over, Lynne again took up her job as removal supervisor. She'd never have believed there was so much to be sorted out, to be put in piles for charity shops or the tip. It was a wonder the floor of the loft hadn't collapsed under the weight of all that had been stored in it.

‘Lynne?' Harry this time. ‘The men want to know what to do with the buggy?'

She closed her eyes against the assault of more memories. ‘The charity pile,' she called back, her voice commendably steady. ‘Claire's almost grown out of it.'

She glanced at her watch. Four thirty. The children would be with Janice now. Only another hour before the men knocked off for today, then a welcome break till tomorrow morning, when they'd be back here for the final rites. In the meantime, she needed to check one more time what they'd need for the next four weeks, and make sure she'd not overlooked anything.