Marnie gulped. She couldn’t think of what to say to that. Then she saw Derek’s mouth change from a tight moue of contemplation to a tentative twitch of a smile then on to a cavernous open mouth of delight.
‘I’d love that. I’d bloody love that. When? When can I have the keys?’
Oh shit, thought Marnie.
HISTORY OF WYCHWELL BY LIONEL TEMPLE
Contributions by Lilian Dearman.
Emelie (Taubert) Tibbs came to live in Wychwell on 6th August 1941 with her parents Katerin and William and her elder brother Fred. They took up residence in Clementine Cottage (then Woodfield). Fred emigrated to New Zealand after the war and, following the deaths of her parents, Emelie moved into Little Apples on Kytson Hill. She was a modern languages teacher for many years at Troughton Grammar school and cites writing poetry, gardening and bird-watching as her hobbies.
Chapter 30
It appeared, from what Derek gabbled excitedly in the aftermath of the offer, that he’d wanted to leave Una for years but she was in charge of all the money. At least the little money they had, seeing as they’d lost a lot of their savings investing in a get-rich scheme. ‘The bloke’ had said that they’d been really unlucky, because no one had ever done so before. It didn’t need a genius to work out who ‘the bloke’ was. Derek was under the impression that he alone had been caught out. Marnie didn’t enlighten him. She’d keep her powder dry about that one for the time being.
Marnie had made a list of all the payments which came out automatically from the manor’s accounts and scythed the dubious ones immediately. The so-called loyalty bonuses and Titus’s ridiculous wage and his extras were top of her list. She didn’t stop the stipend that Griff had been getting paid since his stroke; it was a piddly amount but taking it away would impact on the Oldroyd budget. There was more money in the estate account than she’d anticipated, but it wouldn’t last the year. Marnie couldn’t wait for the Suttons to find that the usual monthly standing orders hadn’t gone in to their bank. Bring it on, she thought.
As she was cutting across the green on the way home, she heard an unholy commotion happening near the church. She saw Derek with a suitcase and a spring in his step walking away from his wife, who was yelling at him from her doorstep.
‘You’ll be sorry, Derek Price. You ungrateful, boring, useless shit.’
She could have called him any name under the sun and Marnie bet that it wouldn’t have wiped that grin from his face. Of course, Una would hold her responsible and come gunning for her before too long. Great.
There was a bottle of Lionel’s apple wine on her own doorstep when she reached Little Raspberries. She smiled, picked it up, walked into the cottage, locked the door, kicked off her shoes and headed to the kitchen for a glass. She was tired and ready for an early night. The forecast was good for the following day and she thought she’d take Emelie up on her offer to go strawberry picking in the woods. She intended to soak them in Pernod and black pepper then crush them and swirl them into the body of a cheesecake mix. She’d send a sample up on Monday with the driver and knew that Mrs Abercrombie would love it.
She opened the back door to let in some fresh air, poured herself a glass of Lionel’s wine and picked up her new book: Country Manors Part Two – The Wrong Side of the Blanket. She needed something to dive into and lose herself. Manfred Masters had gambled and lost the manor to the arrogant Sir Titan Sonnett on a single game of poker, though it was obvious he cheated. So Manfred was going to take his revenge by seducing Titan’s wife Lara. By page fourteen, it was looking rather as if Lara wouldn’t take much persuading to exchange bodily fluids with Manfred. Whoever Penelope Black was, she certainly knew how to increase the heartbeat with a few well-placed verbs and definitely had a handle on village life. And there were some interesting euphemisms and innuendos as well. (If you were my woman, Lara, I’d have pleasure licking you into shape.) Marnie needed a cigarette after Chapter Four.
She’d had good intentions of having a rummage in the red box which she’d brought from her mother’s garage, but she couldn’t put the book down. Plus she needed a cheer-up and she knew she wouldn’t find anything spirit-lifting in a box of memories attached to her family. Better to spend the evening in the company of fictional people who couldn’t hurt her.
*
She woke up the next morning with sunshine streaming through the curtains bathing the room in a blush pink light. It was going to be the perfect day for a walk in the wood, she thought, if Emelie was up for it. She had a coffee and read another couple of chapters of her book and wondered if the author knew this area. It was too much to believe that the so-called fictional village of Wellsbury and its cast of characters had nothing to do with Wychwell and its inhabitants.
She bumped into Derek as he was coming out of the shop. He had a grin on him so big, it had its own moon. Marnie was almost embarrassed to ask him how he was, but felt obliged to.
‘I’ve just had the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had. No one snoring like a pig at the side of me, no one nudging me with their elbow telling me to go and get them a cup of tea,’ he beamed and Marnie had to check that his feet were on the ground, because he looked taller, as if he were hovering above it.
‘And . . . how is Una?’ She winced as she said her name.
‘Don’t bloody care,’ came the reply. ‘I feel like I’ve been let out of a windowless prison. Will you let the new owner know that they’ve done me the best favour in the world please, Marnie?’ He grabbed her hand and began shaking it vigorously. ‘I’m not sure I would ever have been brave enough to leave her if I hadn’t been given this chance.’ And off he strolled with his newspaper under one arm and a box of cornflakes under the other.
Marnie crossed the green and headed towards Little Apples. Outside Peach Trees, Dr and Mrs Court were standing with a young woman Marnie didn’t recognise. As she neared, she saw that Mrs Court was holding a baby, patting its back with a gentle rhythm. Mrs Court was grinning even more than Derek had been.
‘Morning,’ Marnie said to them. It would have been impolite not to ask about the baby, but Mrs Court beat her to it anyway.
‘This is our first great-grandchild,’ she said, pride warming her voice. ‘And she’s called Sophia after me.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Marnie.
‘Would you like to hold her?’
‘I’m not . . . sure . . .’
But Mrs Court was already putting the baby in Marnie’s arms. ‘There’s nothing like the scent of a newborn is there?’
Marnie breathed her in as her hand touched the butter soft skin on her head and the downy fair hair.
‘Is she good?’ she dredged up a standard question.
‘So far,’ said the young woman. ‘Drinks like a horse. I can’t produce fast enough for her.’
The baby’s legs were tucked up, resting on Marnie’s chest. Her hand a perfect small-scale curled around Marnie’s index finger, but it was the tiny nails that drew Marnie’s eyes the most. There were fine lines at the tips as if they’d been French manicured by a master miniaturist.
‘Hard to imagine that this time last week she was inside your tummy, isn’t it Jasmine?’ Mrs Court was saying.