A Move to Murder: A Bride's Bay Mystery Page 18

  “It does” agreed Beth, gazing at the pastel pinks and lemons, contrasting with the vibrant greens.

  “You’ve certainly made it homely.”

  Grace shrugged. “It’s a beautiful room, lovely proportions and original features. Hard to get it wrong, really.”

  “Don’t be so modest” Carol laughed. “It’s stunning. And we hope you stay here, even if not in this house. And remember what I said, if you want to get involved in anything...”

  “Carol!” Beth grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the hall, opening the front door.

  “Thanks for the tea and cake, Grace. See you on Sunday?”

  Grace agreed and waved goodbye as the two women walked down the path.

  Beth walked home along the seafront, reflecting on the conversation. How awful to think Melissa may have been targeted. She shivered, felt vulnerable and scared. Wished Tom was there. No, don’t think about Tom. Forget him. Think about anything but Tom; think of Nell, school, Charlie, holidays. The school holidays were looming and Beth had no plans. She would talk to Gina about it; see if she fancied going away for a few days. It was a good idea. Get away from Bride’s Bay, away from crime and suspicion, away from unhappy friends and arguments, away from Tom. But the thought of being away from him, his kind hazel eyes, lopsided smile, floppy hair she longed to push out of his eyes, tall, muscular body, warm voice, hit her like a bullet. A pain swept through her, a physical ache. The thought of being held tightly in his arms, the smell of him, the feel of his fingers stroking her hair. How was she going to forget that?

  Chapter 13

  Beth woke up early on Saturday morning. The sun streamed through the window. What to do today?

  She needed some shopping but didn’t want to do it locally, too much chance of bumping into Tom. She knew his Saturday morning routine was to stroll into town, potter around the shops and have a coffee in one of the coffee shops or at the hotel. She knew what she would do. She would put Charlie in the car and drive out to Portchester. She would take Charlie for a good walk then do a bit of shopping. Maybe have a pub lunch somewhere. Then this afternoon she would do some gardening.

  She dressed quickly in a taupe and white floral cotton skirt and white cotton blouse with an embroidered vee neck and tiny pearl buttons and ran lightly downstairs, feeling better for having planned her day. She sat at the kitchen table, gazing out into the garden, absentmindedly eating toast and marmalade and sipping her tea. Yes, the vegetable patch would definitely go. She would replace it with another border. Maybe seasonal bulbs? It would keep her occupied planning it. And maybe she would look at evening classes for September? Working with young children was fun, exhausting, rewarding, but not exactly intellectually stimulating. Or perhaps she would join the reading group at the library? Thinking of books reminded her she still had Tom’s Ian Rankin. She had finished it but hadn’t given it back. She hated it herself when she lent someone a book and it wasn’t returned. Was he annoyed? But no, Tom rarely, if ever, seemed annoyed. The only time she could recall him even sounding irritated had been the day Nell had been startled when Frances had appeared in his garden. Her throat ached as an image of his warm, open face came into her head. He was calm, calm and reassuring. Reliable, honest, kind and considerate. And attractive. She sighed and put the cup down as she thought of his arms around her, his hands stroking her hair. Why was life so unfair? Why couldn’t she be a normal, ordinary woman? And why did this have to happen now? She had always known she would stay single and had been happy with her life, content with her job, enjoying the companionship of her friends. Now she was aching for something she could never have. She sighed again and stood up to tidy away the dishes. But it was time to stop moping and get on with the day. Get on with life. She locked the back door and gathered together the things she needed for the day, and then called to Charlie. He seemed to approve, jumping happily into the car and settling down on the back seat.

  The morning went as planned. Traffic was light and they arrived in Portchester in just under half an hour. She parked in the town centre then set off to walk down to the castle and the church, Charlie trotting happily alongside, despite being on a lead. They went to the castle first, strolling around the grounds and she admired, as ever, the amazing view over Portsmouth and the Solent. Today the sky was a deep blue, as blue as any she had seen in the Mediterranean. The forts stood out, grey and invincible, and the Spinnaker tower soared into the cloudless sky, a white sail proud and strong. Sailing boats and ships were scattered on the sparkling waters of the Solent, like toys on a boating pond. A large car ferry ploughed its way to France, small figures standing on its decks. Across the water she could see the buildings, trees, chimneys, spires of the island. She remembered Tom asking her which church he could see, leaning into her to point it out. She could still feel his hands on her shoulders, burning her skin through her top, his warm breath on her cheek; feel his solid chest against her back. Tears filled her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. Look at something else. She turned to look down the coast, at the buildings she recognised as being part of Bride’s Bay. Down there somewhere was her little cottage, her garden, church, school, her friends and neighbours, her life. All going on without her. And home. No matter how painful it would be, living near Tom and loving him so much, she wouldn’t move, couldn’t move. Somehow she would have to find the strength to cope. She looked down the slope to St Mary’s church and had a sudden yearning to go into the old, stone building, sit where hundreds, thousands of people had sat before, in joy, pain, fear, love. She was just one more, no different. She walked slowly down to the graveyard and walked through to the church, tying Charlie’s lead up for a minute, while she went into the cool dark of the old building. As usual, the peace and quiet acted like a balm on her troubled thoughts and she sat for a moment, eyes closed, praying for the courage to accept what she couldn’t have, and the strength to cope with it. She could have stayed there longer but thought of Charlie, waiting patiently outside. Or probably impatiently. She stood up and walked slowly outside, her heart still aching but feeling calmer and more resigned to her life.

  They strolled back into the town centre and she enjoyed mooching around several shops, buying wool at the haberdashery, planning to crochet a throw for Nell’s flat; then calling into the deli to treat herself to some cheeses, cold meats and olives. She had even remembered to take a cool bag with a freezer pack in it, to keep the delicacies she had bought chilled until she got home. Shopping finished, she loaded the bags and Charlie into the car and drove out of the car park, heading for home, an eye out for a pub to stop at for lunch on the way.

  She found one after ten minutes, a pub she had been to with Gina and Carol, knowing it had a large, dog friendly garden. She found a table on the edge of the garden, under the shade of a parasol, and sat down, Charlie panting at her feet. She took a bottle of water and a small dish out of her bag, and poured Charlie a drink and placed it on the grass. The dog sorted, she studied the menu and ordered a brie and bacon Panini and large lime and soda then sat back to enjoy the peace of the pub garden. It was early for lunch and only two other tables were taken; a young couple with a sleeping baby in a buggy at one and an elderly couple at the other. Beth gazed at the couple; the elderly man was hovering over the woman, small and slight, light brown wispy hair, dressed in greyish trousers with a belt and a checked shirt. She was looking up at him, laughing, thick hair haloing her head in white waves, glasses, figure stout in a pale blue summer dress, feet comfortably shod in cream sturdy sandals. Beth felt a sharp stab of envy. The way he hovered protectively, the expression on her lined face as she smiled up at him, spoke of mutual love and respect. Such an ordinary scene. But one she would never know, growing old with a soulmate, knowing the other as well as yourself, a shared history. Growing old with Tom. Her throat closed, an aching lump. Just like she had never known the beginning of a shared life, she thought, gazing now at the young couple. They were poring over something on the table between them, the menu
? Long blonde head touching short, dark, crisp waves. The baby in the buggy was chubby legged, chubby cheeked, legs spread froglike, feet bare, stomach rising and falling in a navy and white striped short sleeved bodysuit. Beth could see fair fuzzy hair, full pouting lips. She had spent plenty of time with toddlers, primary age children, teens when she had taken on Nell. And of course she remembered Nell as a baby; a blonde angel, soft curls and big blue eyes. But had never held her own child; never sat in the night, inhaling that milky baby smell, cuddling a warm soft body, feeling and hearing baby breaths, gazing down at perfect, full lips, kissing a soft downy head. Her arms seemed to ache for the child she had never borne, never held.

  Her Panini arrived, stopping her reverie. Just as well. Regrets would get her nowhere. Her life was as it was, stop regretting what you haven’t had, hankering after what you’ll never have, she chided herself, cutting into the Panini and watching the cheese ooze out, hot and delicious. Count your blessings. This introspection wasn’t like her, this deep sadness inside, a yearning for something impossible. But she had never been in love before. And it hurt. Who was it who had said “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?” But she hadn’t loved and lost. How could you lose something you had never had? But she had loved. And she wished with all her heart she hadn’t. Whoever had said it, they were wrong. She had been fine before, settled and content. Now she was hurting. Hurting and unhappy. She finished the Panini and drink and gathered up Charlie’s bowl, tipping the left over water on the grass. The elderly couple had gone but the young couple still sat, eating and drinking, while the baby continued to sleep, shaded by a parasol, under the warm sun.

  She drove home, putting music on to distract her. The CD was Lana Del Ray. No, not right for her mood, not right at all. Changed it for Amy Macdonald. That was better. Except Amy MacDonald made her think of Scotland, and Tom talking about Rebus. Was everything going to remind her of Tom? Crossly changed the CD to Train and forced herself to think about Nell, school, holiday, anything but Tom, as she drove home.

  She was in a better mood by the time she pulled up outside her cottage and went indoors, checking the doormat for letters and the phone for messages. Nothing. Went into the living room and immediately felt the heat that had built up within the old cottage walls and raised the sash window slightly. Then went into the kitchen and flung open one of the French doors into the garden. She would take a cool drink outside with her and do some gardening, keep busy, burn off some of the calories from all that cheese in the Panini.

  The garden was half in shade, half in sun. She began at the end, in shadow, and spent a happy hour weeding the vegetable plot and picking some carrots for the next day. Then moved to the trellis and tidied up the clematis and winter jasmine that smothered it, trimming parts and threading stems through the lattice.

  Charlie lay on the grass, watching her as she pottered. She should have changed, she thought ruefully, brushing bits of green off her skirt, glancing at her watch. Only half past three. Now what? She could refill her glass, sit on the swing and relax, but was reluctant, knowing she would probably nod off, then wouldn’t sleep that night. And it was hard to count her blessings at night; when a lack of distractions let thoughts and memories flood her head. Where could she go? Yes. She knew. She would walk round to Frances’s with the yoghurt pots. If she wasn’t in, she would carry on to the local corner shop, buy a magazine and take it home to read. Charlie panted in the sun and looked as though he would prefer to stay put, stretched out on the lawn, but followed her into the kitchen to have his lead put on. They walked down the road and turned into Frances’s road, parallel to Beth’s, and she knocked at the door. Frances was in. She looked surprised to see Beth but invited her inside, through the narrow hall and into the kitchen.

  “You needn’t have made a special trip. They could have waited until tomorrow.”

  “I was passing anyway. So I thought I would bring them, call in on the off chance you were here.”

  She stood at the window, gazing out at Frances’s garden. It wasn’t as long as hers but was a riot of colour.

  “Well, now you’re here, do you want a drink?” Diffident. Frances wasn’t used to people calling round, having many acquaintances but few friends. In fact, Beth could only think of one. Ali. Quiet, nervy Ali. And was she still a friend after the scene between the two women? While Gina, Beth and Carol chatted at flower arranging, helping each other, Ali and Frances had usually worked together; at least, Frances had arranged and Ali had assisted. Until the row, at least. She had also seen the two women in town, having coffee together and had heard them mention visits to each other’s houses. Two kindred spirits in some ways, both women prickly, defensive, easily offended. Though Frances had no qualms about upsetting others while Ali avoided confrontation, never offered an inflammatory remark or contentious opinion, or any opinion at all, come to that. But Ali also loved her garden, having a large plot behind their small Edwardian house on the sea front. Beth had never seen it but had heard Carol and Frances talk about it.

  “Thank you, that would be nice, tea, coffee, I don’t mind.” Beth smiled her thanks.

  There was nowhere to sit in the kitchen and Frances gestured back to the hall. “Do you want to go and sit in the front room?”

  “Shall we sit outside? Too nice to be indoors.”

  Frances opened the kitchen door and Beth stepped through, onto a small paved patio with a wrought iron table and two chairs.

  “Frances, this is beautiful”

  Frances looked gratified. “I like it. I like plants” unnecessarily.

  She disappeared back indoors to make the drinks and Beth gazed around the garden. A winding gravel path led under an arch and disappeared behind a large choisya. Further down a pear tree drooped over a smaller gravel area and the path reappeared, winding past a small pond and finishing at a rustic wooden bench, a backdrop of evergreen honeysuckle. Clematis, passionfruit, ivy and climbing roses clad the fences either side of the garden and informal borders scattered the ground, crammed full of nicotiana, aquilegias, glorious fuschias dancing and spilling onto the crumbly earth beneath them. Teracotta pots jostled for space on the patio and the whole effect was one of colour and beauty.

  “Thank you.” Beth picked up her mug, bone china with flowers. Of course.

  “It must be a lot of work.”

  “A lot of love” the other woman corrected. “It’s my life.”

  The words, so simple, made Beth catch her breath. She had always felt a bit sorry for the prickly, defensive woman, imagining her to be lonely, bored. But she realised in a flash she wasn’t unhappy, or bored. She was perfectly fulfilled and content, her hobby giving her pleasure and happiness. Beth felt a stab of envy; how lovely to have such an all-consuming passion, something that gave so much joy.

  She finished her tea then strolled along the gravel path, under the arch smothered in roses and clematis, round to the pear tree, leaves glossy, the small greenhouse visible behind, its staging crammed full of small pots, along to the pond full of water lilies, the flash of orange beneath, back up to the table and chairs. And all around her in the borders delicate flowers; soft orange poppies, violet alliums, pink and lemon aquilegias, where had she seen those before?

  “These aquilegias Frances, what sort are they? They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re called Swan Pink Yellow. Pretty, aren’t they? I grew them from seed.”

  Beth frowned. “I’ve seen them somewhere.”

  Frances shrugged. “I got the seeds from Bob Emery. I expect others did too. Tom’s got them, they’ll be in a lot of gardens round here.”

  Beth picked up her bag and smiled down at Frances, still seated. “You put me to shame. And you’ve inspired me to go and think about my garden. I think I’ve got a bit lazy, only going for labour saving plants these days. But I think I’ll do a bit of research, choose more flowers.”

  “Well, any help you want just ask.”

  Frances stood up and walke
d her through the house to the front door.

  Beth turned to her “Thanks for the coffee, Frances; it’s been lovely to see your garden again.”

  Charlie followed her down the path and they made their way home. Now just the evening to get through. What was on television, she wondered. Or she could start googling some new plants.

  Nothing was on television. Nothing she wanted to watch on the main channels, as she thought of them. Nothing on the others either, just repeats; Murder She Wrote, Rosemary and Thyme, Lewis. She wasn’t in the mood for a crime. She was bound to know who had done it, anyway. And it wasn’t even half past five yet. A lot of time to get through before she could go to bed. She wasn’t going to walk Charlie again tonight. He had walked as much as even he wanted to today. And her mood was too introspective to risk seeing Tom tonight. She had text him to explain they had been out all day; she would walk as normal again tomorrow. He had replied briefly. No worries, he would see her at church. So she got her laptop out and started googling plants. So many to choose from, this wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe she would just go to the garden centre instead. Or talk to Nell about it. What had Frances said that aquilegia was called? Something about swans. Swan Pink Lemon, that was it. Tapped it in. Swan Pink Yellow, not Lemon. She looked at it, frowning. Where had she seen it? It wasn’t in a garden. It was somewhere else. Somewhere with other flowers.