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

‘And what about you, my dear? What do you think?’

‘I can’t decide. And the trouble is …’ It was somehow easy to confide in Joan. ‘I don’t really want to leave The Ashes. We haven’t even lived there a year.’

‘George and I did an awful lot of moving about,’ Joan said thoughtfully. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, of course, but I sometimes used to think how nice it would be to settle down – and I always thought of this area as home.’

‘That’s how I feel.’ Wendy’s words came out in a rush. ‘The Ashes is home. The home I’ve always wanted. It’s the place I wanted to end up in, not a stop on the route. But once it’s sold, there won’t be any going back to it.’

‘I suppose you couldn’t rent it out while you live somewhere else? Have it to come back to, once you were able.’

‘We can’t afford to buy another house and keep The Ashes on, unless we take out a mortgage, and Bruce won’t hear of that now we’ve been able to pay the old one off. Besides which, I think Bruce sees the move south as potentially permanent. He’s from Leicestershire originally.’

‘Ahh … So Bruce’s direction of travel isn’t necessarily the same as yours when it comes to an eventual finishing line,’ Joan said thoughtfully. In a completely different tone, she asked, ‘How much have I told you about this book we’re working on?’

‘Book?’

‘Our history of Bishop Barnard. That’s officially what we’re going to talk to Peggy Jones about. Her married name is Jones, did I mention that?’

‘You haven’t told me anything about the book.’

‘Well, I told this Peggy Jones that we’re including a chapter on unsolved mysteries in Bishop Barnard.’

‘Are there any – apart from Dora?’

‘Of course not! Well, none that I know about anyway, but if necessary I’m going to waffle a bit about some missing medieval church plate. I didn’t get the impression that we’re dealing with an academic, or the sort of person who’s going to know about that kind of thing. Oh yes,’ Joan added, ‘I also told her that we wouldn’t be able to pay her anything for talking to us. You know what people are like … they read about the Daily Mail paying thousands for someone’s night of passion with a great train robber and imagine that some half-remembered anecdote is going to make their fortune.’

‘Am I supposed to be your secretary?’

‘Of course not. You’re my co-writer. I brought along my notepad and pencil from the record office to make us look a bit more convincing. I thought about bringing a cassette tape recorder, but that might be a bit inhibiting. People don’t always like being recorded.’

The residents of the estate where their quarry lived were divided into those who cultivated their front gardens and those who left a square of beaten earth to be fouled by the local canines. The house inhabited by Peggy Jones had a square of lawn, fronted by a privet hedge which appeared to have expired in one or two places. It was easy to pick out because the number seventeen had been painted in large, childish numerals alongside the front door. There was a smirking garden gnome on the doorstep and the net curtains at the front windows were an alarming shade of primrose yellow.

Wendy followed Joan as she walked briskly up the path. The bell, when pressed, emitted an agonized rendition of the opening bars of Greensleeves.

Joan just had time to mutter, ‘Eat your heart out, Vaughan Williams,’ before the door was opened and the frame filled by a large, plump woman whose body had been squeezed into a skirt and sleeveless jumper which appeared to be at least two sizes too small. Her freckled arms were a completely different flesh tone to her made-up face, which included lashes and brows which had been blackened until they matched the unnaturally black hair piled into a sort of plaited loaf on top of her head. However, Peggy Jones afforded them such a genuinely warm welcome that Wendy experienced more than a pang of guilt at Joan’s deceitful method of gaining entry to her home.

‘Call me Peggy,’ their hostess instructed, as she ushered them into the living room. ‘Everyone does, ever since I were a bairn.’

She insisted on making them tea, in spite of Joan’s protestations that she need not, so while Peggy was busy in the kitchen and Joan was readying her notebook, Wendy occupied herself in looking around the room. There were lots of photographs of small children, all displayed in cardboard frames, some of them faded through long exposure to the light, and all having a slightly jaundiced appearance thanks to the effect of the net curtains. There was a very large television set and a number of china and glass ornaments, but not a single book, or even a newspaper. She could not help concluding that Joan had been correct in her assumption that Peggy would not detect them in their fraud.

‘Do either of yous take sugar?’ Peggy appeared in the doorway to enquire.

Neither of them did.

A moment later she appeared again, this time carrying a plastic tray on which three cups rattled in their saucers. The tea was incredibly strong and unmistakably laced with sterilized milk.

‘Now then.’ After handing round the teacups, Peggy slid herself into a black vinyl armchair, which received her with a sound somewhere between a squeak and a sigh. ‘Tell us all about this book you’re writing.’

To Wendy’s astonishment, Joan launched into a potted history of Bishop Barnard – how much was made up and how much genuine, she had no idea – quite quickly reaching a point which implied that they had stumbled on the story of Dora Duncan pretty much by accident. ‘Although,’ Joan said, favouring Peggy with a winning smile, ‘I would love to know more about it because I’m distantly related to Dora Duncan.’

‘But you never knew she was murdered, like?’ Peggy seemed surprised.

Ha! Wendy