Before All Else Read online

  “Dear heart,” Cecily murmurs. His tail thumps twice in agreement. “Right,” she says, to no one in particular, “better get the kettle on,” although by far her greater wish would be to swing in the hammock and doze off to the busy hum of the insects. Whatever Marcus has to tell her about Major Welding and Chris Eveans had better be important.

  The kettle boils and switches itself off but no Marcus. She pulls a kitchen chair into a rectangle of sunlight shining through the opened back door and wiggles her bare toes, arching her back, arms behind her head. Recumbent yoga, perhaps? The future? Two Cabbage Whites lift from the vegetable bed and dance frenziedly around each other. Is this love or war?

  Only a few days now to the summer fair. Thank goodness, only one more meeting to finalise arrangements then they can all just get on with what they are supposed to be doing, turn up on the day, raise a packet of money, put all the bunting and trestles away and then spend six months arguing how they are going to spend the proceeds. Is the effort truly worth the reward?

  While she is waiting for Marcus, she might as well make an action plan for the cake stall.

  What is keeping him?

  Drawing a large pad of paper towards her, she begins to write up lists of who had promised cakes and buns and biscuits. She will borrow some white linen tablecloths. These she’d weigh down with cobbles, tying some bunting round the edge of the table for effect. Maybe she could ask people to bring bunches of flowers from their gardens. On a parallel list, she writes down what she will need to shop for: paper plates, brown luggage labels, plastic forks, napkins, italic pens, cake boxes, plastic bags. She’ll have to ask people to lend cool boxes to keep the confectionery out of the hoped-for sun.

  Should she check the forecast? What if it rains? A tightness bands her heart, making it beat insistently. What if rain comes down on the butterfly cakes, the princess cakes, the flapjacks, the tortes, the tarts? The hot summer’s air feels too thick to breathe. The whole blessed thing is a stupid idea from start to finish. Her hands tremble and her fingers lose their grip on the pen, which falls to the floor with a clatter. Doomed to fail. And where is that bloody Marcus anyway? She kicks the pen towards the back door.

  Calm yourself, woman, she admonishes herself, taking a deep breath. If it rains, they’ll just find a way. It isn’t all down to her to make a success of it. It is a joint effort. Just play your part. What was it Mummy used to say? “Over prepare, and then go with the flow.” Maybe next year she could excuse herself. Maybe next year she will be off somewhere having a fabulous adventure. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  The panic goes but leaves a heavy numbness within her body. This is the problem with a half-empty life. It gets filled with other people’s projects, edging out her own potential.

  At the end of her shopping list, she boxes off a big empty square. If only she knew what to put in it. Something that would change her life. Something that is hers. Hers alone. Something that justifies Cecily Marchant still being on this planet.

  Suddenly there is a noise at the front door. Her head shoots up in alarm. It isn’t Marcus, surely, because he would ring the bell. Panic twists viperously in her gut, again. Someone is trying to gain entry. Burglars? Trueman, alerted to the sound of a key scraping in the lock, hurries to her side, the hairs raised in a ridge on his back. Who could possibly be coming through the front door? She stands in readiness, scraping the chair back on the stone floor behind her.

  “Who’s there?”

  The rasping sound stops but the door doesn’t move. Perhaps the intruder has the wrong key, the wrong house – but how likely is that?

  Cecily and Trueman advance cautiously down the hallway. “I’ve got a dog,” Cecily shouts, although all too aware that Trueman’s killer instinct is set, as it always is, to nil. Through the outer door and the glazed inner door comes the reply, “I know.”

  “Amelia!”

  Cecily flies down the hall. Trueman, stirred by an access of relief into manly bravery, throws himself into a paroxysm of barking. “Oh, shut up, you stupid dog!”

  Amelia steps over the threshold, heaving an enormous rucksack off her shoulder and onto the stone floor. The two sisters stand, fingertips touching, allowing their gaze to travel over each other. Cecily mouths voicelessly, “Oh. My. God.” Amelia grins and shrugs her palms upwards. “I don’t know what to say! I, we, I thought you were an intruder! Oh my god!”

  “How about, ‘Come in. Sit down. Cup of tea?’”

  “Yes, yes, of course, come in, sit down, have some tea, oh my god.”

  “I know you don’t like surprises…”

  “I’ll make an exception at this one.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry, sis. I’ll explain.”

  “Amelia. This is the best surprise ever.”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course. What are you talking about? I just don’t know what to say. I’ve suddenly got a million questions buzzing round my head and I don’t know which one to pick first.”

  “Let’s say no questions until we’ve had a cup of tea. OK?”

  “Right.”

  Cecily grabs the rucksack by one of the straps and grapples it to the bottom of the stairs. “This is so heavy.”

  “Half a lifetime in there.”

  “Does that mean you’re…”

  “No questions. Embargo. Remember?”

  “Sure. Sit down here and I’ll put the kettle on.” The water is still warm but Cecily pours it away and draws fresh. Marcus will just have to wait. Slowly the questions marshal themselves in her mind. Was there a hint that Amelia is home to stay? What happened to Enzo? Does Tilly know? How is she? Is she ill? Why has she come here?

  Amelia places a key on the table in front of her. Cecily picks it up and turns it over and over in her hands. The key fob is a plastic globe. “I remember this. This was your key. From school days.” The channel running the length of the key has worn smooth, the teeth look blunted, the metal is matt and scratched. “You’ve kept it all this time.”

  Amelia grins, nods and reaches for a packet of cigarettes. Cecily watches her light up and consciously draws in a few clean breaths before the smoke hits her, quelling the scratchy little commentary about people obviously doing things differently on the Continent. Amelia pulls another chair towards her for her feet and blows a turbulent column of smoke towards the ceiling. “God I could really go for a cup of tea.” Cecily jumps to, in honour of Amelia’s status of esteemed visitor.

  Moving the paperwork out of the way, Cecily begins to load the kitchen table with food. Amelia looks so skinny. What can she tempt her with? What does she like to eat? There is no chatter as Cecily empties crisps into a bowl, cheese sticks into a glass, finding some fancies that she’d bought from the post office a few days ago but which curiously are already past their sell-by date, fruit, thick chocolate biscuits. “Have you got any sugar?” She hadn’t remembered that either, that Amelia took sugar in tea. Amelia loads three heaped spoons into her mug and stirs noisily and distractedly. Cecily puts her hand over hers to stay it, proffering up plate after plate, all of which Amelia refuses with a shake of her head.

  “Go on. You need to eat something.”

  “I’m fine. Fine.” Cecily feels herself slightly admonished by Melly’s sharp tone and stays her own hand. “You always were a feeder!”

  “OK. You’re right. It’s too hot to eat.” She picks a few plump grapes from the fruit bowl and nibbles round the skin, watching Amelia light her second cigarette. Why is it, within two minutes of her long-absent sister coming home, they are having a go at each other? They need Tilly to alkalise the mix, get them all smiling and laughing. “Does Tilly know you’re here?”

  “No.”

  Amelia turns the cigarette packet over and over on the table. She is looking distracted, worried, unkempt. A thought strikes Cecily. “Does Enzo know you’re here?”

  “No.” />
  Offers of food and conversation rejected, Cecily decides to take a different tack. “Right then. Drink your tea. I’m going to get your room ready and run you a bath. Come up when you’re ready.”

  Amelia nods. As Cecily leaves the kitchen to go upstairs, she looks back. Her sister, her darling sister, sits immobile at the table, her head slightly bent. Her shoulder blades jut out above her camisole top, each vertebrae moulded by sallow skin. Too much structure and not enough form. Her hair is parted into two ragged plaits, a few stray strands exposing the vulnerability of her slender neck. She seems oblivious to her surroundings. Trueman, bless his dear heart, is sitting on her feet, an agent perhaps of comfort and warmth.

  Marcus

  Marcus snatches a moment to himself to fire off a hasty text to Cecily. “Velda’s here! Unexpected. Sorry. Chat soonest.”

  Cecily

  The water is still in the bath when she goes upstairs half an hour later to check on Amelia. A couple of towels lie crumpled on the floor. A gentle evening breeze wafts through the open window, lifting the white linen blind. The room smells of lemon verbena.

  She pushes open the door to Amelia’s room. She is lying on her side, back to the door. Despite the vividness of the light outside, it is like dusk in the warm bedroom. A few items spill out of the top of the rucksack as if released from their inner press. Amelia breathes slowly and deeply, the ends of her hair lying in a damp curl on the pillow. Cecily stands and watches, arrested by the impossibly exquisite intimacy of seeing her sister asleep.

  The Village

  That same day, the following article appears in the local press and online.

  Local landowner, Major St John Welding, was delighted to find what may be an entire medieval chapel buried in the corner of a field in the village of Bullenden. As residents clear the field in preparation for their summer fair, an underground opening was unearthed. Local historian, Marcus Blatt, believes it could be either a chapel or a hermit’s cell dating back to the eighth or ninth century. Research shows that a substantial abbey called Abbeyclere stood on this land, probably on land belonging to Sir Roger de Familham. This was reputed to have been razed to the ground during civil riots and certain artefacts associated with the religious house have turned up in local buildings.

  Whilst it is still too early to say exactly what the structure is, the Long Belford Historical and Archaeological Project are undertaking further research.

  Major Welding tells the Daily Post that he is delighted to have made such a significant historical find on his land and hopes that it will be enjoyed by current residents and many future generations to come. Discussions are under way how best to preserve and exhibit this exciting find.

  All members of the local community are invited to the forthcoming summer fair at the Town Field, Bullenden on July 18th. There will be rides, entertainments, refreshments, competitions, something for all the family.

  13

  The Village

  Madge has her feet up after yesterday’s rush. She’d never seen so many people. Amazing what a bit of TV coverage does for a place. They’d never shifted so much ice cream. Trust Tony to have a go, but it is hard enough to make a living these days. Who gives a fudge for Trade Descriptions? If they want to come out on a busy Sunday in the middle of the rush for cold refreshments, well let them. If not, then they can hold their peace, and so can Tony.

  “Naff ice cream at premium prices. You’re selling a lie.” She’d not bothered to dignify his sarcasm with a reply but kept her head down filling the small tubs. “It’s just chemical gloop. How can you say it’s ‘farmhouse ice cream, fresh from the churn’?” While he made his first of three trips to the cash and carry, twelve and a half miles each way, she’d printed some labels off the Internet of a cartoon cow with a large flower in its mouth and hand-coloured the flowers appropriate to the supposed flavour – red for raspberry, yellow for vanilla, blue for mint.

  “Well, I didn’t have a green pen, did I?” Hand-coloured, so it had to be authentic stuff; stands to reason. For the raspberry, she grated some white chocolate and stuck a frozen raspberry on top before sealing the lid. Vanilla got a splodge of syrup mixed with synthetic vanilla essence and a coffee bean while for the Mint, she smeared the lid with a dab of toothpaste and chopped in some crushed Polos and some green stuff from the garden which might well have been spearmint.

  “And have you even weighed them?”

  “Oh naff off yourself.”

  To his credit, Tony had stayed all afternoon, handing over packages in posh white paper bags with string handles and taking the money, shooting her a hostile glance while she ran the spiel about artisan, hand-crafted, rural products being the lifeblood of a place like this.

  Her feet throb. Let that lazy mare Doreen run things for a while. Anyway, there are packages of sweets to be made up, some for the Lucky Dip and some to sell. She’d made sure that Chris Eveans, no easy man to negotiate with, knew what her percentage was. She is still narked with him for not giving her the food concession. Why would outside caterers do any better a job? Keep it local, why wouldn’t you? The fair is only a few days away and if she is going to make the most of it, then she needs to get busy.

  “Ton-ee! Door-eeen!”

  Marcus

  Well, that had been a shock! The last person he’d expected to see was Velda. Had the kids put her up to it? Apparently not, although she did hint that she’d been prompted to visit after watching the video on YouTube. “Thought I’d call in while I was here. Bit disappointing that it’s all locked up though.” Marcus muted the thought that she’d never shown an iota of interest in medieval architecture at any point in their married life. So why now? Funny how it all came back. He’d felt himself adopt the kind of latent good humour that, he supposed, had served him well during his years of cohabitation with this woman. It seemed to work. She’d even looked at him from under one arched eyebrow and said, “You’ve changed, you know.”

  “So have you,” he replied. He knew she wanted him to ask in what way he’d changed, but to be frank, he really didn’t want to be told that he’d lost weight, gone greyer, got coarser in his domestic habits, was missing the Tidy Fairy, had all the freedom in the world now to put his feet on the coffee table. He really didn’t want to get led down the path of listening to how she now felt empowered, more truly herself than she’d ever been, indebted to the sisterhood for their support, except for somebody who shall remain nameless who’d do well to examine her own motives before she started criticising someone else’s; how she’d found serenity; how sometimes you needed to lose love to find love. He didn’t want to – but he had.

  Two hours after she’d arrived and four cups of tea later, he stands up. “Well, it’s been nice to see you. Got to get on. Need to put together some fact sheets on our buried chapel and organise a nature trail for the kids. Fair’s next weekend.” Velda rises too, looking somewhat astonished.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “Well, you’ve got a long drive ahead of you. It’s been lovely to catch up.”

  He feels slightly cruel. It is obvious that there was some hidden pretext for Velda’s visit. Visiting a ‘mouldering old ruin’, which would have been her previous verdict, is clearly not her top priority today. At any point up until six months ago, he would probably have worked hard to find the right words to give her the opportunity to voice her concerns. But, she is right, he has changed. He, quite frankly, can no longer be arsed. He is about to disappoint her. At least there is some consistency in that.

  Showing her to the door, he makes no attempt to offer to meet up again. He issues no invitation to come again and for longer next time. He pays no compliment or pulls a mournful moue at her departure. But it is hard to break a habit of thirty years. He can’t let her leave with nothing. Velda is there on the doorstep. She seems reluctant to go. Heavens, it even seems as if her eyes are misting up slightly. “No kiss?�
�� she asks.

  He bends down to brush his lips against her powdery cheek. In a clumsy yet fluid move, Velda drops her handbag and flings her arms around him. He feels trapped within her poncho, his face pressed hard into the scratchy, unforgiving wool. “Oh, Marcus. You silly, silly man,” she moans plangently. He wants desperately to right himself. His back is bent at a most unnatural angle, and who knows who is looking. Oh, Christ, what if Cecily can see them?

  Marcus pulls himself free gently but emphatically. It seems more appropriate to pat her on the head than to kiss her. “Righto. Well, safe journey and all that.” Velda looks up at him, her eyes pleading with him. A remarkable turn-up for the books. She is giving him a chance, a chance to put what she might call this ‘silly nonsense’ behind them and begin afresh. But he has begun afresh. With a jolt, he realises that this new life in Bullenden – uncertain, unpredictable, even lonely at times – is just what he wanted. He has stopped playing the fool.

  Bending to the step, he picks up Velda’s handbag and hangs it on her shoulder. “Goodbye, old fruit,” he says and closes the door. From his sitting room window, he watches as she fumbles with her car keys, sitting for a moment at the wheel before inching her way out into the traffic. “Watch out, woman!” he calls out as Ned’s battered white van comes to a tyre tearing halt just before it collides with her. Ned is evidently in even more of a hurry than usual.

  Velda, however, is oblivious and drives off, trailing a plume of black smoke. He’ll have to message Paul and get him to check the oil.

  Still, today is another day. Carpe diem and all that. It is now time to go and speak to Cecily.

  Cecily

  Midday and Amelia is still asleep. She has been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours. Breakfast time, Cecily had taken a cup of tea and placed it by the bedside. Amelia’s face was squashed into the pillow, her body seemingly flung on the bed, abandoned, surplus, her sleeping breath guttural and slow. When Cecily had checked later, the tea had been partially drunk, leaving a brown line of fatty milk around the inside of the cup. On she sleeps, as if drugged. Cecily looks down at her, waiting for a glimmer of awareness, as if Amelia might coolly lift an eyelid and say, “Gotcha.” She represses a childish urge to pull the duvet off the bed, catching Amelia out, bouncing her into quickly snatching the upper edge and holding on. But she looks so fragile, so vulnerable, that she tiptoes out of the room; this is no place for a practical joke. Even as she leaves, she half expects Amelia to call out something, to let her know she’d been had. The hairs stand up on the back of her neck with a giggling, tingling anticipation. She turns at the door. Still Amelia dozes on, sleeping a narcotic sleep.