The Tuscan Child(16)

I wasn’t sure I’d find her at home mid-afternoon, but the phone picked up after several rings.

“Yeah? What do you want?” said the grumpy voice. It sounded more like “Waddayouwant?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Did I wake you?”

“Oh, Jo, it’s you, love. Don’t worry about it. I had to wake up anyway in ten minutes. Dress rehearsal tonight. New play. Ten women on a train going to Siberia. Bloody depressing if you ask me. They all end up committing suicide. And talking of depressing, how was the funeral?”

“Very nice as funerals go.”

“And how are you coping?”

“Keeping my head above water describes it best. The lodge is about the bloodiest gloomy place you could find. But I’ve got to go through my father’s things and get it cleared out for the next tenant, so I won’t be back for a while.”

“No problem. I’m not planning to rent out your bed. Not planning to invite anybody into my own, either. I’ve had enough of men.”

“That new actor didn’t turn out the way you hoped? I thought he was taking you out to dinner.”

“He bloody didn’t turn out to be anything. We went out to dinner. I invited him back to the flat, and he started showing me pictures of his partner, Dennis.”

I started to laugh. “Oh, Scarlet, do you think we’re both doomed?”

“It’s too bad we don’t fancy each other, isn’t it? Do you think someone could learn to become a lesbian?”

“I don’t think so.” I was still laughing. “It is good to hear your voice. I’ve had to be polite to people I don’t know all day. And tomorrow I have to have lunch with a very earnest young solicitor.”

“There you are, then. Someone your type.”

“No more lawyers, thank you. Actually, no more men, thank you. I’ve learned my lesson. From now on I live a quiet life. No men. No sex. Study and books and the occasional lonely meal at a good restaurant.”

“And cats. Don’t forget the cats.”

I laughed then. “I need to get back to London as soon as possible. If the solicitor tells me I can do what I like with the things in the lodge, I’ll have an auctioneer come and pick up anything worth selling. Then the rest goes to a charity shop, and goodbye, Langley Hall.”

When I put the phone down, I realised what an effort it was to sound bright and cheerful. Keep busy, I told myself. That’s what I had to do. So I got a large rubbish bag and started filling it with my father’s clothes. I wasn’t sure if anyone would want handkerchiefs with a monogram on them, but you never know. Then I filled a box with books, setting aside a few that had been my childhood favourites—the ones that my father had read to me. By the end of the day, I had cleaned out the bedroom and the linen closet. Then I went through my father’s desk, carefully this time, in case there was a will or some other surprise hidden in a secret drawer. There was a post office savings book with five hundred pounds in it. A receipt for some shares in a building society. A bank book. That was about it. It seemed my father was probably worth a little over a thousand pounds. Better than nothing.

I opened a tin of soup for my supper. As I stood stirring it at the stove, I was suddenly overcome by a memory of my mother standing at this same stove and stirring a big pot. “Chicken stew and dumplings,” she said, beaming at me. “Your father’s favourite. This will cheer him up if anything will.”

The memory of that warm, friendly kitchen with its good smells and kind words was too much for me. I turned the stove off, left the soup, and went to bed.





CHAPTER EIGHT





JOANNA


April 1973

The next day, I was about to leave to catch the train to Godalming when there was a tap at the door. Two burly men stood there carrying a trunk between them.

“Where do you want it, miss?” one of them asked.

Seeing my surprise, the other added, “It’s from the attic. Miss Honeywell told us to bring down your things.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you. This way, please,” I stammered. I led them through to the sitting room.

“There’s some pictures, too. We’ll be back,” the one who spoke first said.

“I have to leave now to catch a train,” I said. “Just put them in the sitting room with the trunk, would you?”

And I left. Barton and Holcroft’s offices were in an elegant Georgian building at one end of Godalming High Street. Nigel Barton appeared from an inner office before I could announce myself.

“We’ll be back in an hour, Sandra,” he said to the receptionist. He ushered me out of the door, down the street, and into The Boar’s Head. It was one of those quaint old pubs with leaded panes in the windows and a quiet hum of conversation from the few people standing around the bar. Good smells came from the kitchen. Nigel found us a high-backed oak booth and went to order our drinks. He came back to report that there was roast lamb or fish pie. Normally I would have selected something lighter at lunchtime, but I found I was starving and willingly accepted the roast lamb. As he had predicted, it was excellent. I suddenly realised how long it had been since I’d had good food—not really since my mother had died—and how much I enjoyed it.

When our plates were clean, Nigel stacked them to one side. “Now to business,” he said. “I take it you found no will.”