The Unburied Past (3 page)

Trying to remember where she'd left it, she went in search of the list.

‘For pity's sake, darling!' Thelma Franklyn exclaimed. ‘What in heaven's name do I do with all this?'

It was three hours later and she was staring aghast at her transformed kitchen. On the floor a stack of bulging freezer bags leaned perilously against a couple of boxes containing the contents of the Carstairs' fridge, while the surface of the table was submerged beneath opened bags of flour, rice and sugar, tins of coconut milk and jars of tahini and green curry paste.

‘I don't even know what half of it
is
!' she added plaintively.

Lynne gave her a tired smile. ‘Sorry, Mum, but we can't take it with us, and we'll be working our way through a lot of it while we're with you.'

‘But in the meantime we need somewhere to put it,' Thelma said distractedly.

‘I'll help you clear some space in the larder. It won't look so daunting once it's neatly stacked.'

Bob Franklyn came into the room with his granddaughters, both in pyjamas and dressing gowns. ‘Two tired little girls, ready for bed!' he said.

‘
I'm
not tired!' Charlotte declared and, indeed, her face was flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. ‘Anyway, I don't go to bed at the same time as Claire!'

Lynne brushed back a stray wisp of hair. ‘Sweetheart, it's a bit different while we're here. You'll be sharing a room, and—'

‘But it's not
fair
!' Charlotte cried. ‘I'm twice as old as she is!'

‘You won't be able to say that next year, young lady!' Bob teased her.

Harry, returning from locking the car, caught the end of the exchange and picked up his elder daughter.

‘Suppose Mummy puts Claire to bed while I read you a story in our room? But you must promise not to wake Claire.'

‘Shan't be asleep,' Claire said decidedly.

For a wild moment Lynne wished she'd allowed Janice to keep them overnight, but it would only have postponed the problem.

‘Let's do what Daddy suggests for tonight,' she said, ‘and we can work out something for tomorrow.'

And before there could be any more arguments, the children were led out of the kitchen. Bob and Thelma exchanged a wary smile.

‘OK, love?' he asked.

She nodded. ‘I could do with a G and T, though!'

Bob laughed. ‘I'll join you!' he said.

In Penthwaite, Mark and Emma's days had fallen into a leisurely and pleasant routine. Each morning they set off with the buggy, sometimes to play with the children on the green and sometimes to explore the village, plunging from sunshine to cool shadow as they followed the twists and turns of the little side streets, while Mark paused on every corner to capture on camera an ancient market cross, a cat in a sunlit courtyard or a wagon wheel against a wall.

When Adam began to flag they'd return home, swap the buggy for the car and, armed with their Ordnance Survey and a picnic lunch, drive off to spend the rest of the day in various beauty spots where Mark could spend an hour or so composing more formal photographs while Emma and the children paddled, or played ball. Lake Belvedere particularly appealed to him and, marvelling at how dramatically its appearance changed under cloud or sunshine, he resolved to take a series of photos at varying times of the day. With luck, one of these shots would become his entry for the competition.

On the west side of the village stood the church of St Oswald, surrounded by its ancient cemetery, and on one of their excursions they wandered among the weathered tombstones, jagged as broken teeth, their inscriptions for the most part illegible. ‘“And of Louisa, his spouse …”' read Emma. ‘Promise me you'll never call me your spouse!'

To their surprise, the heavy door was unlocked and they ventured inside, shivering at the change in temperature. The smell of polish and old hymn books filled their nostrils as they read the inscriptions on brass plaques set in the floor to commemorate Penthwaite's long-dead residents.

‘I wonder if they allow brass rubbing,' Emma mused. ‘Jan and I did a lot of that in our teens.'

In the side aisles, sunbeams shining through stained glass lent colour to the marble cheeks of ancient squires and their ladies lying side by side, hands devoutly folded, and a board on one wall listed the names and dates of previous incumbents, the earliest dating from the sixteen hundreds.

‘The tower is the oldest part of the building,' Emma said, reading from the explanatory leaflet on a table by the door. ‘Most of the original wooden church was destroyed by fire in the fifteenth century.'

Adam tugged at her skirt. ‘Want to go now,' he whined, and his parents, their attention forced back to the present, reluctantly complied.

Most days involved a visit to the shop, where, despite repeated requests not to, Mrs Birchall the postmistress plied the children with sweets.

‘Annual fête's on Saturday,' she informed them early in the week. ‘Merry-go-round and brass band and all sorts. Folks come from miles around.'

‘We saw the posters,' Mark replied. ‘It should be fun; let's hope the weather holds.'

Towards the end of that first week they visited the nearby town of Hawkston, finding it odd to be back among traffic, large shops and busy pavements. That evening, when Mark came down from reading Adam's bedtime story, he was surprised to see a bottle of wine on the table. Normally they drank only at weekends, and had not so far bent this rule during the holiday.

‘Where did that come from?' he asked.

‘I bought it at the supermarket,' Emma said offhandedly.

‘Are we celebrating something?'

‘Just being on holiday!'

It wasn't until the meal was over and they were relaxing on the sofa that she said suddenly, ‘As to the wine, there
was
a reason for it.'

‘I thought there might be. Are you going to enlighten me?'

She reached for his hand. ‘I bought it because it's the last I'll be able to have for a while.' And, as he looked puzzled, she added with a smile, ‘I'm pregnant, Mark!'

He drew in his breath, his hand tightening on hers. ‘
Really?
Are you sure?'

‘I bought a testing kit in the pharmacy while you were getting the sun cream. I tried it before dinner and it's positive.'

‘Sweetheart, that's wonderful! What date are we looking at?'

‘Oh, it's very early days. Not till the spring.'

‘Will you tell the family?'

‘I'd have preferred to wait a while, but I'd like Lynne and Harry to know before they leave.'

Mark nodded. ‘And hopefully the prospect of another grandchild will help both sets of parents over the gap left by Charlotte and Claire.'

The day of the fête dawned warm and sunny, and their al fresco breakfast was punctuated by bursts of music as the sound system was tested.

‘Loud!' Adam complained, covering his ears.

‘Almost as loud as Daddy's sweatshirt!' Emma agreed with a laugh.

‘Hey! Are you criticizing my attire?'

‘Red, green and white stripes don't really do it for me, I'm afraid.'

‘Nor me, to be honest, but it's the one Harry brought back from Mexico, and since I daren't be seen in it at home, this is the first chance I've had to wear it.'

Emma smiled and patted his hand. ‘Then make the most of it, darling! Just be careful not to frighten the horses! Now, we won't need a packed lunch because Mrs Birchall assured me there'll be all kinds of food at the fête and they're sure to cater for children. And today, my love, you can content yourself with taking family photos, such as Adam's first ride on a merry-go-round.'

‘And you on the Big Dipper?' Mark asked with a grin.

‘In your dreams!' she replied.

As soon as they left their gate they were engulfed in a stream of people making their way to the fête – families for the most part, parents with excited children dancing at their side, but young couples too, hand-in-hand and giggling, and the occasional grey head. Both sides of the road were solid with parked cars, and as they neared the green the volume of music increased to the point where speech became virtually impossible.

The green itself was a seething mass of humanity. Dotted round the perimeter were coconut shies, a tombola and stalls selling bric-à-brac, home-made jams, cakes, potted plants and garden ornaments. There was a face-painting tent where a queue of children had formed, and in a roped-off area three-legged races were being organized.

Their progress was necessarily slow, stopping as they did at stall after stall to buy toffee apples for the children, a ceramic pig for Lynne's collection and a Le Carré paperback Mark hadn't read. There was a penned-off area containing baby animals, where children were admitted in twos and threes, but Adam, though mesmerized by the lambs and chickens, shook his head when offered the chance to go in, and it was Kirsty who struggled to free herself from the pushchair and play with them.

The day passed in a whirl of noise and colour. After a while Adam wilted and demanded the buggy while his parents took turns in carrying Kirsty, but he quickly revived when Mark, trying his luck at hoopla, snared a Donald Duck toy, and vacated the buggy to claim it.

As requested, Mark recorded each event – Adam on the merry-go-round, which he'd refused to brave without Emma; Kirsty stroking a baby rabbit, and another of her with an ice cream in one hand, dragging her teddy by its ear.

‘That ear's hanging by a thread,' Mark warned, closing his camera.

‘I know; as soon as I can prise it out of her grasp, I'll sew it back on.'

They were passing the dais when an official stepped on to it with a microphone and announced that ‘Mr Barry Ferris', who now joined him, was about to present the prizes.

‘So will the winners of the egg and spoon races please come up, and we'll start with the under sixes.'

The crowd surged forward for a better view, pinning them against the steps leading to the dais. On a low table immediately in front of them a selection of prizes was arrayed – jars of sweets, books, a doll, a gaily-coloured beach ball. And as Mark attempted to move back to allow access, Adam freed his hand and, clambering up the steps, reached for the ball.

There was a burst of laughter from the crowd as Mark, red-faced, hurried to retrieve him, and Adam's roar of protest was cut off by the swift presentation of a lollipop. Placated, he allowed himself to be carried down.

The prize-giving lasted about ten minutes as children of varying ages, flushed with triumph, came up to receive their trophies. When the last of them had been reclaimed by their parents, a round of applause was requested for the presenter, after which the brass band struck up again, its amplified music once more drowning out conversation.

‘I think we've all had enough,' Emma shouted in Mark's ear. ‘Shall we make tracks for home?'

‘Agreed,' Mark replied fervently. ‘After all this, a cup of tea in the peace of the garden would go down a treat.'

After the uninterrupted sunshine of the previous day, Sunday dawned cool and cloudy. Mark surveyed the grey day from the kitchen window.

‘There's a cool breeze today; it won't be much fun wandering around.'

‘Let's go back to Hawkston,' Emma suggested. ‘There'll be more to do there – something for the children, perhaps. It's on the tourist map – they're bound to provide options for rainy days. Which,' she added, joining him at the window, ‘this is now turning into.'

So they drove through the wet countryside where cows stood passively with bent heads and summer foliage drooped under the weight of rain, and once in the town were able, as Emma had hoped, to locate an indoor play area, where the children spent the morning taking turns on the swings, slides and sandpits.

By the time they emerged after lunch the rain had stopped and a shaft of sunlight was pointing a finger at the Norman castle on the hill above the town.

‘Let's go up and have a look at it,' Mark suggested. ‘It's mentioned in all the guide books.'

‘Provided you'll push the buggy up the hill,' Emma stipulated.

It was a steeper climb than they'd anticipated, but from the summit there was a spectacular view not only of the town but of miles of the surrounding hills and countryside. Little remained of the castle itself other than groups of weathered stone arches and walls, jagged against the purple storm clouds.

‘We can read up on its history when we get back to the cottage,' Mark said.

The sunshine stayed with them during the drive back, and they reached the cottage just after four.

‘Would you mind if I played truant for an hour or so?' Mark asked diffidently. ‘I've only about a dozen shots left on this film and I'd like to start out with a new one tomorrow, added to which I haven't any of Lake Belvedere under these weather conditions.'

‘You go,' Emma said. ‘I'm putting the kids to bed early anyway; they're both exhausted after all that playing, and once they're down I'll take the opportunity to write some postcards; the family will be wondering how we're getting on.'

Halfway through the holiday, Mark reflected, settling down to the fifteen-minute drive; this time next week they'd be back home, and then it would be only a couple of weeks till Lynne and Harry left. And suddenly, unwillingly, he remembered his presentiment after Claire's party, that their departure heralded a more significant ending. He shook his head impatiently, turning on the radio, but his sense of unease persisted, not helped by the lowering sky. There was more rain on the way.

There were only a couple of cars in the usually busy parking place. The uncertain weather must have deterred visitors. So much the better for some atmospheric shots.

Having locked the car Mark paused, considering where to position himself. The lake was surrounded by a semicircle of hills rising quite steeply from its banks. On earlier visits the presence of the children and the buggy had limited them to ground level, but now he had the chance to search out a new angle – one that, from a height, would give an extended view of the lake.