The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

away before you finish, will you?’ She waved an arm to encompass the various bits and pieces which were scattered about.

‘Oh aye. It’ll all be moved, like. You’ll be wanting to get at the wine rack, likely.’

Wendy laughed. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever use it. We don’t drink that much, so I expect we’ll just keep whatever we need in the kitchen.’

‘It’s a fine auld piece of woodwork.’

‘Yes, yes … it’s nice to keep things as they were originally.’

‘I’m not sure this is where it was originally.’ Peter considered the fixture with the seriousness he applied to all topics. ‘I reckon it’s been moved from one wall to another at some time. You see here …’ He stepped across and indicated a tall, solid strip of wood about six inches wide, which ran horizontally from floor to ceiling at one side of the rack. ‘That’s been put in to make it fit, and over here …’ He pointed to the brickwork of the wall which was at right angles to the rack. ‘That’s the marks of where it used to be.’

Wendy moved a couple of paces closer and peered obediently at the places he was indicating. Sure enough, there were ghostly imprints, reflecting the distinctive shape of shelves which curved in regular semi-circles, intended to accommodate the individual bottles.

‘Goodness, yes, I think you’re right. I wonder why it was moved?’

‘They must ha put the false back in at the same time,’ Peter said. ‘Thing like that would normally be flush against the wall. It must ha been like that originally t’ ha left those marks.’

‘Why would they do that? Put a false back on it?’

Peter considered. ‘I cannae guess,’ he said eventually.

‘Well, I’d never have noticed,’ Wendy said. ‘Anyway, I’d better be getting back.’ She turned awkwardly and mounted the stairs.

She did not refer to the conversation she had overheard between John and her daughter as she and Tara walked back to Jasmine Close, or later when she was alone with Bruce, but it replayed itself uneasily in her mind, troubling her although she would have been hard pressed to explain why.

Wendy had been able to do a great deal in advance of the actual removal men, ensuring that the kitchen was fully functioning, with stocked cupboards and everything in its place before any of the larger items of furniture from Jasmine Close had been unloaded. In the dining room, a new table and chairs, complete with matching sideboard, had already been delivered, so instead of the fish and chip supper eaten among a chaos of boxes which had characterized previous moving days, the family sat down to a properly cooked meal of roast chicken at a table laid with a snowy cloth. To mark the meal as an occasion, Wendy’s silver-plated candelabra formed a centrepiece and two bud vases of freesias (arranged by Katie) stood to either side of it. The best wine glasses (a wedding present from Bruce’s well-heeled aunt) were filled (three with wine, two with raspberry-flavoured pop) and raised to toast future happiness in their new home.

‘I can’t believe we’re actually living here,’ Tara said. ‘I mean, to start with it all seemed utterly preposterous. In fact, when they first started work, everywhere was such a mess that it didn’t look as if anyone would ever be able to live here again.’

‘Well, we are here. And I know we’re going to be happy.’ Wendy glowed in the fulfilment of an ambition achieved.

‘Do you know what would be really useful?’ Bruce said, as they began to clear the table at the end of the meal. ‘A little trolley on wheels. I know we’ll mostly eat in the kitchen, but when we do use the dining room, it wastes a lot of time, carrying everything along the passage to and from the kitchen. It’s not like Jasmine Close, where we could just pass everything through the serving hatch.’

‘That’s a good idea—’ Wendy was never sure afterwards how it happened, but perhaps in half turning to respond to Bruce on her way to the kitchen, she lost her concentration and missed her footing. Maybe she was a little bit unsteady after the wine, but at any rate she felt herself stumble, collided with the doorpost, and in a hopeless attempt to save the tray of wine glasses, ended up sprawling across the hall floor.

Voices came from all directions.

‘What’s that noise? What’s happened?’

‘Look out, Jamie, don’t tread in that broken glass!’

‘Mam, are you all right?’

For a moment, Wendy was not at all sure. She had come down hard. Tentative movements reassured her that all limbs appeared to be functioning.

Bruce took command. ‘Stand back, you two. Tara, find the dustpan and brush. Wendy, be careful! Don’t try to stand up without me helping. There now, you’ve put your hand down on some glass and cut yourself. Just stay still a minute. Let’s make a safe space for you to get up.’

‘Oh, Bruce! I’m so sorry. Every one of your aunt May’s glasses is broken.’ She could hear her voice shaking, in spite of her attempts to be brave in front of the children.

‘Never mind the glasses, they’re not important. Here now, give me your hands, I’m going to help you get up without leaning or kneeling in all this mess. Katie, go and fetch the first aid kit – oh, damn it, where will it be?’

‘Kitchen cupboard, bottom right,’ Wendy supplied.

‘Damn,’ said Bruce again. ‘No one else knows where anything is in this place.’

Bruce and Tara chivvied Wendy and the younger children away, while they set about clearing up the broken glass. Wendy’s wounds turned out to be superficial. There was only one actual cut, but it was on the ball of her thumb and bled profusely until it was finally stemmed with kitchen roll and then covered with a plaster, eagerly provided by Katie, the appointed first aider for the occasion.

In spite of Bruce’s assiduous care, when Wendy came downstairs next morning, the first thing she noticed was a speck