“The two women spoke and the housekeeper handed something to Margaret

Ann went to sit beside Margaret on the sofa. “I do hope Bridie is safely home now?” “Yes, she is. It was as if she was emulating the cat, prowling around at night, trying to find a male to mate with.” Ann’s eyes opened wide. She had never heard Margaret be so base. “Well, that is good she is home, the children do love the dog.”

The door swung open and Mrs Baxter shuffled in with the tray.

“Leave it there, Mrs Baxter. And shut the door tight.”

Ann reached to pour the coffee. “You like just one spoon of sugar, do you not, Margaret?”

Margaret nodded; Ann noticed that she was strumming her fingers on the side of the brocaded armrest. She took the coffee and turned to Ann so they were face to face.

“Ann, first I hear my husband is not at home in the middle of the night. Then I find this!”

She delved into the carpetbag at her feet and pulled out a mustard-yellow waistcoat.

Expectant

“What is it, Margaret?” Ann tried to speak normally but found her voice was croaky.

“It is my husband’s silk waistcoat. His favourite.” Ann looked at her, expectant.

“Smell it,” Margaret said, a disdainful look on her face. She thrust it into Ann’s hands. She took it and sniffed. Dear God, it was too obvious.

“The aroma – no, I must call it an odour – is one of jasmine with a hint of bergamot, the stench of someone who wears more perfume than a common whore.”

Ann gulped.

“It has a strong and lingering smell and my husband’s waistcoat is reeking of it. Do you have any suggestion as to how this might have happened? While I was away?”

“I have no idea, Margaret. Perhaps when I saw him last week I had too much perfume on and it lingered on the fine silk.” She stroked the material.

“Take your hands off it, woman!” Margaret yanked it from her. Ann blinked and looked deep into Margaret’s eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

“I am not suggesting anything. I am confirming what I know happened during my absence.”

“I do not seem to be following you, Margaret.” “Then let me spell it out so you are in no doubt. You and my husband were cavorting together during the nights I was away.” Ann gasped. “Oh, such accusations, Margaret!”

“Your girl Jessie told my Aggie that there were blankets and hot water bottles in the summer house at the weekend.

“Why would you, in January, wish to heat the summer house? My contention is that you and Archibald were in there.” She looked away, eyes narrowed. “Together!”

Ann’s heart hammered against her ribs but she sat quite still. “I am sure there is some misunderstanding, Margaret.” She thought fast. “What does Dr Donaldson say about this nonsense?”

“He is out at work. I have not yet seen him but he will return at teatime, overjoyed no doubt to see us back. But he will not be overjoyed when I confront him.” She stood up.

“Margaret, please do not go, let us talk further. There has been some misunderstanding. You know how servants talk. I am sure . . .”

Margaret was already at the door and flung it open to find Mrs Baxter there, stooped down at the keyhole. The housekeeper straightened up and hurried to open the front door for Margaret.

Ann watched Margaret sweep down the path then stop and cross the lawn to the summer house, where she tried the door. Thankfully it was locked.

But then she saw Margaret look enquiringly towards the back of the house, as if she had heard something.

Ann peered round and saw her walk round towards the kitchen where Mrs Baxter stood, beckoning. The two women spoke and the housekeeper handed something to Margaret.

She held it, whatever it was, in her hand for a moment as if examining it, then stuffed it into her carpetbag before stomping down the path.

Ann slumped down onto the window seat as the realisation sunk. It was the bloodied handkerchiefs from last night.

2015

“What on earth are you doing, Mum?” Fiona had just returned from the school run and heard harrumphing from the study.

A huge pile of papers and documents surrounded Dorothy as she sat in the middle of the floor.

“Sorting Dad’s things. I know he has a will, we both did that about 20 years ago, so it’s just a matter of locating it. But do you know, I have no idea where his birth certificate is.”

“Why do you need that? “

“He was always funny about his real age and I reckon he might have been older than he was.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mum, we’ve been through this. He’s the same age as Mark and that Bunty woman at the funeral. Born in 1944.”

“But there was no one who knew him from his infancy. They all knew him from age six. I need to know the date.”

“Why? Why the bloody hell does it matter? He’s gone.” Fiona was exasperated.

“Watch your language, Fiona. Just because your father’s gone doesn’t mean you have to take up his swearing mantle.”

She sighed. “I have to write the birth date on the plaque thing at the crematorium and I don’t want to just invent the year he was born.”

Addicted

Fiona shook her head and sat down on the floor beside her mum. “What are you going to do with his clothes and his things. What about his pipes?”

“Well, the pipes can be flung, the constant inhaling of noxious fumes can’t have helped his health one bit.”

“I may hold onto that one pipe, you know the one he always had in his pocket, I’ll chuck the others. And clothes?”

“Let’s wait a bit,” Dorothy looked at her daughter, eyes full of tears. “No rush on those.”

Fiona nodded. “How did you sleep?” “Terrible, tossing and turning all night, but I’m determined to come off those pills for good. Like I said, they made me cranky and not quite with it.

“I felt as if I was hovering, not quite landing in real life. Think I was becoming a bit addicted actually.”

Fiona peeked up at her mother whose face had softened. She was back to old Mum, Fiona thought.

“Mum, if I tell you something, will you promise not to get angry?”

Dorothy put down the paper she was studying and peered over her glasses. “What?”

“Well, I’m off this afternoon to meet Pete. Now, don’t get mad and . . .”

“Pete? Pete Gibson? Fancy that.”

Fiona stared at her mother. “That all you’re saying? Aren’t you going to make more of a fuss?”

Dorothy shrugged. “Is he back in town, then?” She continued to study the sheet of paper in her hand.

Fiona’s mouth opened wide. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he was back and you knew he was at the funeral and . . .”

More tomorrow.