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

sitting room. The younger children had been put to bed, though Tara remained in the sitting room, half-watching a television documentary about a North African nomadic tribe.

‘She said she liked it.’

‘I know she wasn’t being genuine.’

‘Each to their own.’ Bruce stretched his legs out in front of him, flexing his feet. ‘You can’t expect everyone to like your house.’

‘Did she say why she didn’t like it?’ asked Tara.

‘Not as such. It was just carping, I suppose. “You must have to walk miles every day in this kitchen” … “I’m surprised you find time to manage this enormous garden” …’

Tara laughed. ‘You’ve got Gran’s voice off to a tee.’

‘I’m sure she was only making conversation,’ Bruce said.

‘I saw this wonderful white dress today, on my way home from college,’ Tara said.

‘By itself?’ asked Bruce. ‘Or was it out with its owner?’

‘It was in a shop. It was only eleven ninety-nine.’ Tara gazed wistfully at a couple of turbaned men who were herding goats.

‘You’ve had your pocket money for the month,’ said Bruce.

‘Couldn’t I take it out of my building society account?’

‘No, that’s for special items only.’

‘This is a special item,’ Tara wheedled, focussing her attention on Bruce. ‘It’s an absolutely gorgeous dress and I’ve been invited to that eighteenth at the Cons Club next month …’

‘How much was it again?’ asked Bruce.

‘Eleven ninety-nine. That’s a really good price for a dress, these days. It’s not like when Mam was young and you could get them for one and ninepence or something.’

‘I’m forty, not four hundred!’ Wendy exclaimed in mock outrage.

‘All right then.’ Bruce pretended to capitulate reluctantly.

‘Thank you, Dad.’ Tara grinned. She knew that her mother would not have given in, if necessary marching her upstairs to examine the contents of an amply-filled wardrobe and pointing out all the perfectly suitable dresses she already owned.

‘Now that your mission for the evening is successfully accomplished, I suppose you’ll be off upstairs to listen to The Flying Reptiles,’ Bruce said.

‘You know they’re called The Flying Lizards,’ Tara said, rising to go, as he had anticipated. ‘And they are so last summer. Actually, I’m going to play Blondie.’

‘Oh well, they’re all right,’ Bruce said.

‘All the dads like Blondie.’ She tipped him a cheeky wink as she skipped out of the door.

‘You know,’ Wendy said, after Tara had gone, ‘I’ve been wondering who lived here before we did.’

‘Some old lady, wasn’t it?’

‘Mrs Duncan,’ Wendy said. ‘I meant before that. She can’t have lived here since the house was built. It’s well over a hundred years old.’

‘If you really want to know, you could have a look at the deeds of the house. There must be earlier documents than the ones we signed. Do you mind if I turn over? That play is starting on the other side.’

‘The deeds are with the bank.’

Bruce’s attention was on changing the television channel. ‘Ring them up and ask them if you must. But they’re sure to charge you for any information.’

‘OK, I will.’

The last few days of the school holidays were marked by a spell of glorious weather. On the final Monday, Tara went to spend the day with friends on the beach at Redcar, Jamie had been invited to play at Andrew Webster’s house, and Bruce was at work, which left Wendy and Katie to enjoy a lazy day in the back garden. Wendy had set up a pair of sun loungers with a picnic table between them where they had eaten cheese and tomato sandwiches at lunch time, before settling down to read their respective books. Katie had her well-loved copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, while Wendy was tackling a novel which had not lived up to the interesting blurb on the back cover. She had just allowed the novel to slide down into her lap and was relishing the luxury of doing absolutely nothing, when she heard a voice coming from the direction of the house.

‘Hello-o-o … hello-o-o …’ It was a woman’s voice, rather posh, calling out as though trying to make herself heard down an uncertain telephone line.

The novel fell onto the grass as Wendy scrambled to her feet. ‘Who on earth can this be?’ she asked of no one in particular, as she headed towards a point where she could see down the drive. As soon as she reached it she saw that there was a woman standing level with the back of the house. A stranger who was considerably older than herself, short and rather plump, wearing a summer dress which exposed pale, freckled arms. She was carrying a large handbag, from which dangled a set of car keys on a fob shaped like a monkey. She spotted Wendy immediately.

‘I’m so sorry. I knocked at the front door but there was no answer, so I came down the side of the house. I do hope you don’t mind.’ It was definitely a well-spoken voice. Someone who’d once been to a private school, Wendy thought.

‘I was sitting in the garden,’ Wendy explained. ‘You can’t hear the front door from there, I’m afraid. We’ll have to rig up a much louder bell for when we’re outside.’

The visitor paused, then said, as if slightly embarrassed, ‘You will probably think this is the most dreadful cheek, but … well … I knocked at the door to ask if I might see around the house. You see, my aunt, Elaine Duncan, used to live here when I was a girl. I used to spend quite a lot of my summer holidays here.’ She hesitated again, then hurried on. ‘I knew that Aunt Elaine had died and the house had been sold, and when I drove past today and saw how it had been done up, I couldn’t resist coming up the drive, even if I was given my marching orders when someone answered the front door.’

‘Of course you can see around the house. I’d love to show you what we’ve done.’ Wendy all but grabbed her visitor by the hand, for here, surely, was an opportunity