CHAPTER FIVE
JOANNA
April 1973
Miss Honeywell and I parted company amicably. She even invited me to come and have a glass of sherry with her that evening if I was going to be alone in the lodge. I thanked her courteously but part of me was dying to shout out, “You old hypocrite. Do you not remember how foul you were to me?” I had always suspected she resented the fact that my father had a title and so no matter what else was taken from him she still had to call him Sir Hugo. I’m sure it rankled.
I walked slowly back up the drive, conscious of the sweet scent of the hyacinth and narcissus blooming on either side and the smell of newly cut grass that wafted from where the mower had been working. I hesitated outside the front door of the lodge, suddenly not wanting to go in and see what had become of my father’s life. I had not come home frequently after I’d left school. Father and I found conversation awkward, and things sometimes devolved into arguments or even shouting matches, so we tended to meet for lunch at a pub somewhere. We could both be cheerful for the time it took to eat a good roast and some apple pie.
I fitted the big key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open with the sort of creak you often heard when someone was entering a haunted house on radio plays. I stepped inside, recoiling at the stale odour that hung in the air—rotting food mingled with cigarette smoke and clothes that needed washing. It was clear that he had left right after breakfast. The remains of a boiled egg, toast in the silver toast rack, an empty teacup, and a milk jug stood on the table. This I actually found reassuring. If he had been meaning to kill himself he would certainly not have had a boiled egg for breakfast first. Neither would he have left the milk out to spoil. My father had always been fastidious. The state of the milk made me realise that it was not this very morning that he had died but at least a day ago, after Miss Honeywell had walked her dog yesterday morning. And this was followed by more worrying thoughts: had he simply keeled over and dropped dead? Had he lain in the grass, calling for help? Could he have been saved if someone had heard him?
“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
I found myself swallowing back tears. All my life I’d wanted him to love me. I think he did, in his own way, but not like my mum did. I don’t remember him ever hugging me. When I was little he had taken me on his knee and read books to me, but that was the extent of our closeness. I don’t think he knew how to be a loving parent. Like all upper-class boys he was sent off to boarding school at seven and had learned to lock away his feelings.
“Daddy,” I whispered again, as if he could hear me. “I did love you. If only . . .” I let the rest of the sentence hang in the air. Mechanically I picked up the remains of his breakfast, threw the eggshell and toast into the bin, and set about washing up the plate and cup as if keeping busy would hold the feelings at bay. Then I put the toaster away and wiped down the table. When I had finished, the kitchen looked clean and neat, the way it had always been when my mother had been alive. But in those days it had been warm and friendly, with clean curtains fluttering at an open window and always the good smells of her cooking in the air: freshly baked scones and steak and kidney pie and sausage rolls and Victoria sponge . . . my mouth watered now at the thought of them. My mother loved to cook. She adored taking care of my father and me. I blinked back those tears, ashamed of myself and my weakness. After my mother died I had never allowed myself to cry. Whatever mean things those girls did to me at school, however horrible Miss Honeywell was, I had always stared back at them with a look of defiance and contempt. It was only since . . . only recently that I had become so soft and fragile.
The memory of my mother’s cooking made me realise I was hungry. I’d had no lunch, and a couple of nibbles of a custard cream biscuit were not exactly filling. I went to the pantry and was horrified at the lack of supplies. A dried-out piece of cheese, some withered potatoes, a few tins of baked beans and soup. It occurred to me that during term time he had taken his main meals with the rest of the staff at school. During the holidays he was literally starving himself. I cut a slice of bread and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich. As I ate I looked around the kitchen. How bleak it looked. No wonder he had sunk into depression.
Feeling a little better with food inside me, I got up and inspected the rest of the house. Apart from the kitchen there was a living room downstairs and a tiny study that was strictly my father’s private domain. Upstairs were two little bedrooms and a bathroom. As I walked around, it occurred to me that these things were presumably mine now. I was the only child. I doubted that he had left a will—after all, he had nothing to leave but these few possessions. The title would die with him, unless a third or fourth cousin was lurking somewhere. Not that anyone would want to inherit a title that came with no property, no land, and no money.
It didn’t take me long to walk through the rooms. The one thing that struck me more than any other was that there was nothing personal in any of them. If you’d been brought to this house you’d never have been able to guess what kind of person lived there. In my mother’s day there had been cut flowers and women’s magazines and open recipe books lying on tables. There were photos of me as a baby. A sweater she was knitting lying on the sofa. But now there was not a single photograph or invitation or card. The place might as well have been inhabited by a ghost.
I went through into what had been my bedroom. Again, nothing of me remained. I had taken my few possessions when I moved out. I sank on to the bed, feeling suddenly weary. This room had been my sanctuary. Before my mother died she used to tuck me in every night. After she died I would curl up into a tight ball in this bed with the covers over my head, shutting out the world and the mean girls and the lack of love and the knowledge that nobody would ever tuck me in again.
I looked around the room. Was there anything here I wanted? I didn’t think so. And in the rest of the house? I did another quick tour. I could see that my father had rescued a couple of good pieces from Langley Hall: the satinwood bureau in his study with the inlaid marquetry and tiny drawers with their carved bone handles. I’d always admired that. And the grandfather clock that was supposedly over three hundred years old. Certainly not the sagging sofa or well-worn leather armchair he always sat in to watch television. Upstairs there was an elegant bow-fronted chest of drawers in the main bedroom and a gentleman’s armoire with drawers down one side and racks for hanging shirts and trousers on the other. It was a fine mahogany piece, but again I was struck by the contrast of the elegant furniture and the pitifully few garments hanging in it. Apart from that, a couple of paintings on the walls: a hunting scene and a framed print of Langley Hall in the eighteenth century with elegant Jane Austen figures strolling in the grounds. If I’d been born in another century, I might have been making a good match with Mr. Bingley, I thought, and had to smile.
I supposed that some of these might fetch some money at auction. I certainly had nowhere to put any furniture, and I didn’t particularly like the paintings. I’d have to find out when they would become legally mine. I knew a little bit about probate through my own work. If the person left no property or shares or other tangible assets, then probate was not necessary. But I’d need to obtain a death certificate and would have to wait until the coroner released the body. I wondered if he had a solicitor who could direct me. Presumably some law firm had been in charge of the sale of Langley Hall and the payment of death duties. I should go through his desk or, failing that, see if he had a safe-deposit box at the bank—which they wouldn’t let me open until I had the death certificate. It all seemed overwhelming and complicated, and I don’t think I had ever felt more alone. To realise that one has nobody in the world—that is a sobering thought. I knew that my mother had been an orphan, my father the only son of an only son. I might have had distant cousins somewhere, but I had certainly never met them.
“No good comes from moping around,” I told myself. Since I was not yet at liberty to start packing up his things I’d go into the village and see the vicar about a funeral. Maybe he could telephone the coroner and find out when the body would be released.
Having something positive to do, I gave myself a wash and brush-up and walked into the village. As happens so often in April, the sunny day had now clouded over with the promise of rain any moment. A cold wind had sprung up from the west, and I realised my folly of going out without an umbrella. I’d be soaked by the time I reached the village. The mile walk seemed to go on forever. I pressed myself against the hedgerow until suddenly I heard the hum of an approaching motor and almost considered holding out my thumb for a lift. As it happened, I didn’t have to. It was a delivery van and it came to a halt beside me. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door.
“It’s never Jo, is it?” he called. “Do you want a lift?”
I took in the big man with his florid face, trying to picture who he might be. When I hesitated, he added, “It’s me, Billy. Billy Overton.”
I saw then the writing on the side of the van. “Overton’s Bakery. Fine Bread and Pastries.” I gave him a grateful smile and climbed up beside him.
“Billy Overton,” I said. “I didn’t recognise you.”
He grinned. “Well, I have to admit I’ve put on a few pounds recently. I was a skinny little kid when we sat next to each other in school, wasn’t I?”
“You were. And so shy that you hardly said a word.”
He burst out laughing at this. “You’re right. I’ve come out of my shell these days. Had to, really, since I deal with the public all the time.”
“You’re working for your dad now, then?” I asked as he let out the clutch and we drove on.
“That’s right. Went straight into the business after school. We’ve opened a couple more shops now—one in Whitley, one in Hambledon—doing really nicely since they put in that big housing estate. Now Dad concentrates on the baking and I make sure the retail side is going smoothly.”
“Good for you,” I said.
“How about you?” he asked. “What are you doing with yourself?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “At least I will be when I take the bar exam later this year.”
“A lawyer. Fancy that.” He nodded with approval. “Well, we always thought you’d make something of yourself. You always were the smartest in the class.”
“You were pretty smart yourself,” I said. “I seem to remember we had a contest going for who was top in the maths test each week.”
“I did always have an aptitude with sums, I have to admit,” he agreed. “It stands me in good stead now, since I handle all the books. Dad cooks the bread and I cook the books, as my wife says.” And he gave another big, hearty laugh.
“You’re married, then?”
“Married? I’ve got a three-year-old and another on the way any day now. How about you? You married, too?”
“No. I haven’t found the right man yet,” I said.
“Well, I suppose not. You’ve been busy with your career.”
“Did you marry a local girl?” I asked, turning the subject back to him.
“Pauline Hodgkiss,” he said. “You remember her?”
“But we always hated her!” I blurted out before I realised this wasn’t tactful. “She was so snooty, going on about her dad’s nursery and the nice car they had.”
“She improved with age,” he said, turning to give me a cheeky grin. “And it’s useful having the nursery and market garden in the family. We get fresh strawberries for our tarts.” He paused, then his face grew solemn. “I suppose you’re down here on account of your dad, then? It’s true that he’s dead, then? We heard the rumour that he’d died, and my mum saw the ambulance going past.”
“That’s right,” I said. “He was found by the headmistress out in the school grounds. She thinks it must have been a heart attack.”
“That’s terrible,” he said. “I’m so sorry for you. Nothing’s worse than losing your parents. I remember when you lost your mum and how hard that was on you.”
I nodded, scared that if I opened my mouth to speak I’d cry.
“My parents always felt so sorry for your dad,” he went on. “They said it wasn’t right that he had to sell his home like that, not when it had been in the family for generations—and provided employment for generations of us people in the neighbourhood.”
“I suppose it’s happening all over,” I said. “Nobody can afford to run these big houses anymore. They’re like white elephants, aren’t they? In constant need of repair and costing too much to heat, and nobody wants to be a servant any longer.” I paused, thinking. “At least I suppose I should be glad that I didn’t inherit Langley Hall, or I’d have been faced with the death duties and the painful task of selling up.”
“So you won’t have ties here any longer,” he said as we turned into the village high street. “No reason to come down this way again.”
This struck me like a punch in the stomach. No ties to the place where I grew up, where my family had lived for so long—nowhere I belonged ever again. I looked away out of the window so that he didn’t see the despair in my face.
“So where can I drop you?” he asked.
“The vicarage, please. I’ll have to arrange for a funeral.”
“If you want cakes or sandwiches for it, just let me know and I’ll supply them. On the house.” And he smiled.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.” I heard my voice wobble as I said the words.
He came around to help me out of the van. “Are you staying at the lodge or going back to London?”
“No, I’d better stay here while I sort things out.”
“Then let me know if you need a lift back out to Langley. I should be around for an hour or so.”
“Thanks, Billy. You always were a good friend.”
He actually blushed, making me smile.
As I walked away a car drew up on the other side of the street. A window rolled down and a voice called, “Miss Langley!”
I turned to see Dr. Freeman. I went over to him.
“I’m so sorry about your father,” he said. “He was a good man.”
“Were you the one who was called to him yesterday morning?”
“I was. Poor chap. He must have been dead for a while when they found him. Massive heart attack, I’m afraid. Nothing that could have been done, even if someone had been with him.”
This made me feel a little better. At least he hadn’t lain there alone and calling for help.
“Will they be doing an autopsy, do you know?”
“No need,” he said. “I’ve submitted my report that the cause of death was a myocardial infarction—a heart attack. There were no signs of foul play. No reason to submit him to the final indignity.”
“Thank you, Doctor. So his body can be released for burial?”
“It can.” He got out of his car. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m already two hours late for lunch and my wife will not be pleased.” He gave me a friendly nod and walked toward his front door.
I continued on to St Mary’s Church. The church itself was a fine old grey stone building dating from the fourteenth century. The vicarage was less old and less attractive: solid red brick from Victorian times. I was about to walk up the path to the vicarage when on impulse I turned the other way, pushed open the heavy oak door, and went into the church instead. I was immediately enveloped in the cool stillness of the place. It still had that wonderful smell that old churches have: part damp, part old hymn books, and the lingering scent of burned-out candles. I stood there, staring down the nave to the altar window with its original stained glass of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus. I’d always loved that window as a child. The Virgin’s robe was the most beautiful blue, and when the sun shone through the glass it sent stripes of blue and white and gold on to the choir stalls in a way that had always seemed magical to me.
I watched it now, trying to recapture that feeling of peace that always came to me in that church, but the Virgin looked out past me, that chubby baby so secure in her arms, her serene smile mocking me. “Look what I’ve got,” she seemed to be saying. “Isn’t he perfect?” I closed my eyes and turned away.
I started to walk around, staring at the walls, studying the monuments and plaques to generations of dead Langleys. As I child I’d known them all by heart. Edward Langley, Baronet Josiah Langley. Eleanor Langley, aged twenty-two. And now it was as if I felt their presence. “Don’t worry,” they were saying. “You’ll get through this. You’re a Langley. We’re strong.”
It was all right for you, I thought. You had a home to go back to.
A noise behind me made me jump.
“I thought I spotted someone going into the church,” the vicar said. “Joanna, my dear. I’m glad to see you seeking comfort from the Lord.”
Actually I had been seeking comfort from my ancestors, but I let him pray with me before he led me back to the vicarage, where his wife served me tea and a big slice of fruit cake.