Slated for Death (6 page)

“All our products are sourced locally,” Rebeccah said. “That lavender was grown almost within walking distance.”

“How much are you asking for it?” When told the price Mrs. Lloyd opened her handbag and handed over a banknote, commenting, “Better make it two. I expect Florence will want one, too.” She accepted her change and then dropped the little sachets into her bag and snapped it shut. “Well, again, I'm very sorry for your loss. I expect I'll see you at the funeral.”

They watched as she moved on to the next stall, took cursory note of a display and walked on.

When she was out of earshot, Peris let out a low laugh.

“‘Walking distance'! Yeah, right, if you don't mind walking to China.”

Rebeccah gave a tight, wan smile.

“Be off with you,” she said. “And don't forget to drop in on your
nain.
You don't have to stay long, but she'll be glad to see you, I'm sure.” The boy made some sort of snorting noise that was meant to signal he was leaving. “Oh, and Peris, it's just occurred to me and I'm sorry I didn't offer sooner. I should have realized. If you don't feel like going home just now, because of what happened to your mum, you're more than welcome to stop with me for a few days. Or as long as you like, really.”

For the first time that day he smiled.

“I'll go home and get a few things, and be back to pick up the key to yours,” he said. “It's been awful at home. Thanks!”

“Welai di yn fuan,”
said Rebeccah.

“Yeah,” said Peris. “See you soon.”

A few moments later his lean figure rounded a building at the corner of the square and then disappeared from view.

Rebeccah turned back to her stall. She wasn't that familiar with death. The last person of real significance in her family to die had been her father and that was so many years ago she could barely remember him. Her memories of him were hazy and no matter how hard she tried to bring them to the surface they remained indistinct, like something lost and forgotten at the bottom of a river, seen through fast running water, in wavy, out-of-focus lines. She could dimly recall bits and pieces of family life when her father was alive. She remembered the shouting downstairs that woke her up and her big sister, Glenda, wrapping her arms around her, holding her close, providing a little comfort. Soon the sound of their mother crying would set off the two little girls and they'd cry as well, although they tried to do it quietly, so their father wouldn't hear. They trembled at the sound of his boots mounting the staircase, pulling their mother behind him when the fights were going on. Most nights he just went past their bedroom without looking in to speak to them. They held their breath until they heard him close the door of the room he shared with their mother.

And then one day something bad happened at the mine and he never came home again. People dressed in black gathered in their rarely used front room and women passed around plates of little sandwiches and biscuits that were really very good. Gallons of tea were drunk and everyone spoke in hushed voices.

Her mother never mentioned him again. Life went on. She and Glenda went back to school and to make ends meet, their mother started selling goods from a stall every market day. This stall. This market.

Rebeccah knew her mother was drowning in a tidal wave of grief over the loss of her daughter, but she didn't know what to say to her. What do you say to a mother who has lost her favourite child? What words of comfort are there? Especially when the unspoken words between them are, “Why her? Why couldn't it have been you?”

*   *   *

“Hello,
Nain.
” Peris approached his grandmother, placed a hand on her bony shoulder, and bent over. He hated the feel of her papery cheek beneath his lips and the distinctive unpleasant smell of her breath that he couldn't describe, but his mother had always insisted that he greet her with a kiss. And then, when he realized his mother wasn't here anymore to tell him what to do and then watch while he did it, he straightened up without touching her with his lips.

His grandmother raised red-rimmed, sunken eyes to meet his. He was startled by the change in her appearance since he had seen her just a few days ago. Her white hair looked thinner and she seemed to have lost weight. He turned his attention to the woman sitting with her.

“Peris, this is Penny Brannigan. She owns the Spa. She knew your mother, a little. I asked her to come and see me this morning.” The two exchanged nods and Penny told Peris how sorry she was for the loss of his mother. He shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to do. “Oh, for heaven's sake, sit down,” said his grandmother.

“Sit here,” said Penny. “I was just leaving.”

“You don't need…” began Doreen, but stopped. She was looking over Penny's shoulder, toward the corridor that led from the front desk into the lounge. Her eyes seemed to brighten and widen and her mouth opened slightly. She sat forward in her seat and started to raise her right hand, but instead touched her chest. Her hand then slowly lowered and for a moment she gripped the arm of her chair. She then put her hands together and began shredding the tissue she had been holding in her left hand.

“What is it Doreen?” Penny asked. “Are you all right?” Penny followed Doreen's gaze, but saw only a uniformed carer walking down the hall, her back toward them. Penny turned her head quickly and looked behind her, but saw nothing unusual about the residents scattered about the lounge, reading, talking quietly amongst themselves, or nodding off in their chairs. She leaned closer to Doreen, and met her dazed eyes.

“It's nothing,” Doreen said in a halting voice. “I'm fine. But if you don't mind, I think it might be best if you left now, after all. I'm feeling a little tired.”

“Of course. I'll see you soon.”

“They're having a little birthday do for me tomorrow afternoon. There'll be cake. Drop in about two if you can.”

“I will,” said Penny. “See you tomorrow.”

She took one last look around the lounge before leaving, but saw nothing unusual. As she walked toward the exit, a familiar voice in the hall made her turn around.

“Whoa, missy, not so fast.”

“Jimmy, how good to see you! How've you been?”

“Oh, you know. Mustn't grumble.” He pushed his wheelchair a little closer to her. “Haven't seen you in awhile. Been busy?”

“Sorry, Jimmy. Haven't been out much. I did pop in a couple of days ago to see Doreen. I guess you heard about her daughter.”

Jimmy nodded. “We were all very sorry to hear about it. She's taking it really hard, as you'd expect.”

In his younger days Jimmy Hill had been a small-time thief and fence. Now, although his legs no longer worked as well as they used to, his mind was sharp and not much got past him. Penny had met him when he'd been living in a seniors' home in Llandudno but he'd been lonely there, so he'd moved to High Pastures in Llanelen to be closer to his friends, and Florence Semble in particular. Penny liked and trusted him.

“Jimmy,” she said, lowering her voice, “I think Doreen just saw someone who startled her. Have you noticed anyone around here who doesn't belong?”

He shook his head. “No. But I'll keep my eyes open.”

“Why don't you come along to reception with me? There's something I want you to do.”

So while Jimmy, who was very good at that sort of thing, distracted the receptionist, Penny read the sign-in sheet on the reception counter. Doreen's grandson, Peris, had been the last person to sign in.

*   *   *

“I'm telling you, Victoria, she looked like she'd seen a ghost.” Penny took a sip of tea and reached for a biscuit. “I've heard that expression before but never actually seen it. Now I have.”

“Could she have remembered something that startled her?”

“She was looking in the direction of the doorway and I got the feeling that she saw someone.”

“She saw someone. Okay. So, someone who didn't belong there? Someone she wasn't expecting to see.”

“Someone who didn't make himself…”

“Or herself,” interrupted Victoria.

“Right,” continued Penny. “So this person looked into the lounge, but didn't make herself known to Doreen. Maybe she didn't see Doreen? Maybe she wasn't there to see Doreen but there to see someone else and Doreen knew that person and was surprised to see her.”

“Surprised to see her … after all these years, maybe? Someone from her past she never thought she'd see again?”

Penny nodded slowly. “That would make sense. Someone from her past she wasn't expecting to see again.” She thought for a moment. “Or the past. Someone from
the
past, not necessarily
her
past that she wasn't expecting to see.”

“And didn't want to see,” Victoria said slowly.

Penny thought that over. “Yes, of course, because if it had been someone she'd wanted to see, she would have smiled and waved and said something like, ‘Oh, look, there's so-and-so. Haven't seen her for ages.'”

Victoria made a noncommittal kind of noise.

“In fact,” said Penny, “seen in that light, I think now the look on her face had a flash of fear in it.”

“So whoever this person was, Doreen did not want to acknowledge her and might even have been afraid of her,” Victoria said.

“Exactly. She might have been afraid of her in a ‘here comes trouble' kind of way, or…”

“Or, maybe the trouble's already happened.”

“You mean Glenda?” Penny asked.

“Maybe.”

*   *   *

Florence Semble turned the little sachet over, noted the border of lavender flowers and printed name and then gave it a tentative sniff. She then held it away from her with a look of distaste.

“How do you spell lavender, Evelyn?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Humour me, Evelyn, for just a moment. How do you spell lavender?”

“Let's see. L-a-v. Lav-end. L-a-v-e-n-d … I can never remember if it's ‘er' or ‘a-r'. I get the
e
s and
a
s mixed up in ‘marmalade,' too.”

“It's ‘e-r',” said Florence, spelling the word.

“Oh, right.”

Florence turned the sachet over so Mrs. Lloyd could see the name printed on it.
WELSH LAVENDAR
.

“Oh, look at that!”

“What kind of company doesn't know how to spell its own name?” Florence asked.

“What are you getting at?”

“If this is made with authentic Welsh lavender, I'll eat my hat,” said Florence. “It's the sweepings off some factory floor stuffed in a little muslin bag with a drop or two of some inferior lavender oil, if you ask me. And then a third-rate printing job.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. I worked my whole career at the Liverpool College of Art. Lavender is also a colour. It's many colours, actually. I can spell the names of more colours than you've ever heard of: burnt umber, sienna, chartreuse, cerulean…”

“All right,” snapped Mrs. Lloyd. “You've made your point.” She thought for a moment. “Er, what exactly is your point?”

“My point is that unless I'm very much mistaken, this lavender has about as much claim to being Welsh as the Man in the Moon.”

Florence handed the little bag back to Evelyn.

“Well, here you go. Going to tuck it away in your drawer with your smalls?”

“Drop it in the bin, more like. And to think I paid good money for that, too.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Down the market.”

 

Ten

A few residents had gathered in a corner of the High Pastures' lounge where a small cluster of helium-filled pink and white balloons tied to the wall announced Doreen's birthday party. A small party was held to mark each resident's birthday, whether they wanted it or not, but the home's management didn't take too much trouble over arrangements, assuming correctly that people of that generation didn't want a lot of fuss. Cups of lukewarm, watery tea were dispensed in plastic cups; small slices of vanilla cake from the local supermarket served on paper plates to be eaten with plastic forks were handed round; and a quick verse of “Happy Birthday” was sung by a few members of the staff who then hurried back to whatever they'd been doing. Still, a birthday party didn't happen every day and it broke up the monotony for the residents, many of whom derived great vicarious pleasure from the little gatherings.

Penny, carrying a modest bouquet of cut flowers wrapped in cellophane from the local florist, entered the lounge and spotting the balloons, made her way over to them. She was pleased to see Jimmy and sat beside him.

“Doreen not here yet?” she asked.

“No,” Jimmy said. “She's late for her own party.”

“I wonder what's keeping her,” Penny said.

Jimmy leaned in closer and whispered, “Her other daughter hasn't arrived yet. Wouldn't you think she'd be here for her mother's birthday?”

“Yes,” Penny whispered back. “You would.”

They waited a few more minutes with a growing sense of unease and then Penny stood up. “Perhaps I should have a word with someone.” She looked around the lounge and seeing no staff member, turned to Jimmy. “I'll just go and check on her. See if she needs a hand with anything.”

“Give me a push, Penny, and I'll come with you,” Jimmy said. “Her room's just along the corridor from mine. I'll show you the way.”

She wheeled him out of the lounge and down the corridor. “This is my room,” Jimmy said, gesturing at a closed door. “Keep going. Doreen's is just here.” They stopped in front of a green door with a narrow, lit cabinet with two shelves alongside the door frame. Displayed were a large piece of slate and a colour photo in a frame of a typical couple from the 1970s holding hands with two little girls, one a few inches taller than the other. The girls wore matching coats and small hats. A few daffodils were sprinkled across a small garden; Penny thought the photo might have been taken at Easter time.