Two
They returned after lunch with a renewed sense of purpose and set about finishing the living room. If it’s neither useful nor ornamental, it’s got to go, Gareth had reminded her, and they were now making good progress. A lot of things had been removed, and Penny thought the place was looking better already. With the living room done, they started on the kitchen. Penny told him she was going to get a new kitchen put in but would keep the old slate floor.
“And you’ll keep the Welsh dresser, of course,” he replied.
“Of course!”
“Well, have we done enough for one day?” he asked a couple of hours later. “Should we open a bottle of wine, do you think? It’s cleared up nicely, so we could sit in the garden. I’ll make a few notes on what needs doing out there. We can tidy it up and get it ready for next spring. Plant some bulbs this fall, maybe.”
A few minutes later, wineglasses in hand, they plopped down into a pair of old striped deck chairs they had found leaning up against the wall.
“Listen,” said Gareth as he shifted in his chair. “I want to talk to you about something serious. Now that you’re in the cottage, and a little off the beaten path, you need to be careful about locking up at night and when you go out. It’s deserted here after dark, and with nobody about, anything can happen.”
Penny nodded.
“I mean it. We’ve seen an awful increase lately in rural crime. Lead ripped off churches, break-ins, you name it. Even sheep stealing.”
As Penny started to smile, he held up his hand and frowned.
“No, it’s serious. Farmers come out in the morning and their sheep are gone.” He shrugged. “It gets worse. Their dogs have usually been killed or badly injured. Really cruel, unspeakable acts. Mutilations. Awful.”
As Penny gazed into her wineglass, he reached over and touched her shoulder.
“I didn’t want to upset you, but do, please, be careful. There are some really nasty people about and I’d hate for you . . .”
His voice trailed off as her eyes widened.
“Well, you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”
He struggled to his feet.
“God, these chairs are awful! Why on earth were they once so popular? You can’t set them up, they’re uncomfortable, and impossible to get out of! They should have all gone down with the Titanic—every last bloody one of them!”
Penny smiled as she held her glass up to him.
“I’m pretty sure the Titanic deck chairs were wooden. I saw one once at an exhibit in Halifax.”
“Halifax? Oh, right, Nova Scotia.”
A few moments later he handed her refilled wineglass back to her and then clattered about with his chair.
“Ooof,” he said as he lowered himself gingerly into it. “Look, as my housewarming gift, please let me get you a decent pair of garden chairs. And these ones will do nicely to start the fire on bonfire night.”
“Great,” agreed Penny. “Thank you.”
Gareth took a sip of his wine and grimaced. “Next time,” he asked, “would it be all right if I brought along a few cans of beer? I like a glass of wine with a meal well enough, but there are times when a glass of beer just seems to hit the spot.”
They leaned back in their chairs and examined their surroundings. Enclosed on two sides by a brick wall, the garden had become a wild tangle of neglect in the months before and after Emma’s death. Although badly in need of weeding and grooming, the space had wonderful potential, and Gareth had assured Penny that with her help he could soon have the gardens, front and back, knocked back into shape.
“Would you like a vegetable patch next summer?” he asked. “It’s become very trendy to grow your own. You can’t beat fresh peas right out of the garden, garnished with a bit of mint. Mind you, you have to be careful with the mint or it’ll take over every inch of ground you’ve got. But there are ways to keep it under control. And I expect you’ll be wanting a barbecue.”
They talked for a few moments about their plans for the week. Penny and Victoria had recently learned that an attractive but rundown stone building situated on the River Conwy was coming up for sale, and they wanted to look it over. They had formed a business partnership and now that Victoria had received her divorce settlement, they planned to expand the manicure salon into a larger, more inclusive spa operation offering lots of additional services.
Gareth and Penny sat quietly for a few more moments, enjoying the late-afternoon sunlight that illuminated everything it touched, pricking everything with a soft, intense pinkish hue. Then, with a small sigh, he struggled once again to his feet.
He reached down a hand to Penny and pulled her up and out of her chair.
“Time for me to go,” he said. “Don’t you hate that time on a Sunday afternoon when the weekend starts to feel over?”
As they made their way into the kitchen, he glanced at the Welsh dresser. Made of solid, seasoned oak, it was decorated with carved sides and featured two plate racks over a base of three drawers and two small cupboards on the bottom. Carefully arranged on the plate racks was Emma’s favourite tea set in a feminine pattern called Sweet Violets. The pretty cups and saucers were dusty.
“Have you checked for a secret compartment in that dresser?” Gareth asked, pointing at it.
“No! I didn’t know there’d be one. Never even thought of it.”
“My grandmother had a dresser just like it. She was so proud of it. We used to go round to visit her on Sunday afternoon and stay for our tea, and my mum, bless her, would take away Granny’s laundry and bring it back all washed and ironed the next week. She showed me how it worked when I was about ten. Let’s have a look.”
He walked over to the dresser, removed the bread and butter plates from the lower shelf, and set them carefully on the counter. Returning to the dresser, he tapped along the back of it and then slid his hand slowly along the underside of the shelf where the delicate dishes from the tea service had been moments before.
“Ah,” he said softly, “hand me a knife, would you? One with a sharp point.” Taking the paring knife Penny gave him, he released a hidden clasp, then gently pushed on the rear section of the cabinet. A small piece of board gave way, revealing a pigeonhole. He groped about inside and withdrew a small packet, which he handed to Penny.
“Here you go,” he said, handing it over. “Probably the most valuable thing she owned.”
It was a bundle of about two dozen letters, tied in a purple ribbon with small white dots.
“Well,” said Gareth, “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to get back to Llandudno, so I’ll ring you tomorrow. You can tell me all about them then, if you like.”
They walked together to the front door, where he lightly kissed her good-bye. She stood in the doorway and watched as he made his way to his car, turning to wave at her before setting off.
Still holding the packet of letters, she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Slowly, she untied the ribbon, withdrew the first letter from its envelope and gently unfolded it. It gave off a weak scent of lavender.
Liverpool, Sunday, April 15, 1967
My dear girl, she read. I couldn’t believe my great good luck when on a dull, boring Saturday afternoon, you appeared at my table in a crowded railway station buffet and asked if you might sit down.
She stopped reading, turned the letter over, and looked at the signature.
Yours,
Al J.
Could Al J. be A. Jones? She got up and walked over to the painting showing the couple at the picnic, gazed at the signature for a moment, and then returned to the sofa. Thoughtfully, she refolded the letter, placed it back in its envelope, and then tied everything back up in the purple ribbon. Wondering where to put the letters, she settled on the desk, placed the packet in the drawer, and closed it. She started back toward the sofa, but then stopped, turned around, and retraced her steps. Opening the desk drawer, she withdrew the Harrods’ pencil case, flipped it open, withdrew the photo, and looked at the back: 1967.
“Nineteen sixty-seven,” she said softly. “I wonder.”
Holding the photo by the lower right corner, she tapped it against the palm of her left hand. I wonder, she thought, who took the photo. That’s always the interesting bit. There’s the person in the photo, and then there’s the unseen presence of the photographer. There were at least two people there that day. And then there’s the fox terrier, Winnie. Penny knew that Emma had liked dogs, but she had never mentioned this pretty little terrier with her adorable black-and-white face and a few freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.
Yawning, Penny set the photo down on the desk and glanced at her watch. It was early evening, much too early for bed, but she was tired and the wine was making her sleepy. I’ll just lie down for an hour or so, she thought, then get up, have some soup or something light to eat, and then perhaps make a start on sorting out that spare bedroom. As dusk began to settle over the room, she reached for the banister and slowly climbed the stairs.
Three hours later, she awoke in darkness and groaned. Although the room was shrouded in the velvet blackness of night, she felt that morning was still a long way off. Cold and stiff, she stretched out to switch on the bedside lamp, looked at the clock. Oh God, she thought. Eleven. There goes my night’s sleep. Sighing, she touched the button on her clock radio and lay there in the dark, embraced by the intimacy of the unmistakable, sweet voice of John Fogerty.
Clouds of mystery pouring
Confusion on the ground
It’s no good, she thought, realizing she was famished. I might as well go downstairs and see what there is to eat.
A few minutes later, a glass of water in one hand and a cheese and onion sandwich in the other, she plunked herself down on the sofa and switched on the television. She slumped back and idly changed channels until she found herself watching a news item about a shopkeeper who had been fined for putting out his rubbish in the wrong-coloured bin bag.
“What next?” she asked the screen, and then suddenly sat up straight.
Moments later she slipped out the back door and headed for the pile of boxes she and Gareth had set out earlier for the rubbish. She opened one and, not seeing what she was looking for, closed it up and moved on to the next box. In the fourth one she found Emma’s old notebooks and journals and, grabbing the box by the cardboard flap, dragged it inside. She left it on the kitchen floor, glanced at the dresser, and then reached back to lock the door.
On Monday afternoon she had arranged to meet Victoria outside the office of Jenkins and Jones to finalize the legal details of their business partnership. When Victoria was ten minutes late, Penny wasn’t sure whether she should be annoyed or worried. And then she saw her hurrying around the corner, her dress billowing slightly in the breeze.
“I am so sorry!” Victoria wailed. “I got held up with a phone call just as I was leaving. Bronwyn called and it seemed rude to cut her off. She wanted to know if, oh, never mind, it can wait. We’d better get in there.”
Victoria was now living in Penny’s old flat above the manicure salon. She had arrived in Llanelen for what had been meant to be a bit of rest and relaxation several months ago but, for many reasons, had decided to stay on. She and Penny had found they had much in common, and as their friendship deepened, they had started working together.
The smell of fresh paint greeted them as they entered the office of Richard Jones, the senior partner.
A small, tidy, bald man in his sixties, who favoured a three-piece suit, he had looked after many of the townsfolk’s legal affairs for decades. It was he who had handled the execution of Emma’s will, including turning over the cottage to Penny.
The receptionist greeted them politely but coolly, sending a mildly reproving message for their lateness. They were the last appointment of the day, and it was obvious from her manner that she had better things to do than hang about waiting for them.
“He’s been expecting you,” she said primly, nodding in the direction of a closed door. “You’re to go right in.”
Richard Jones stood up to greet them as they entered his office. Here, too, was the smell of fresh paint; the windows overlooking the street had been washed and the refurbishment gave everything a look of understated, refreshed professionalism.
If the receptionist had been upset because they were late, Jones showed no signs of concern.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, gesturing to the two chairs facing his desk. “Please, take a seat. So very nice to see you. Yes, indeed. Now then, shall we get down to business?”
He reached for a file and began explaining the terms of their agreement, who would contribute what, how the partnership could be dissolved, the importance of each one having a will.
But Penny was not listening.
On the wall behind Jones was a painting that seemed to be the companion of the one she had in her own sitting room. It depicted the same picnic in the same spot but a different couple.
In her painting, the couple was sitting at the left and right of the painting. In this version, another couple was sitting at the top and bottom. If you were to blend the two images, she realized, you would have four people at the same picnic, one person on each side of the checkered tablecloth and the bank of purple flowers behind them. Unlike Emma’s painting, however, this one looked as if it had recently been cleaned and its colours were bright and true.
“And all this notwithstanding,” Jones was saying, “all property that you might purchase will be held jointly; so in effect, you will be equal partners not only in the running of the business but in the legal holdings. You will each be entitled to fifty percent of the profits and you will each be responsible for fifty percent of the risk.”
He looked from one to the other.
“I think this agreement reflects your wishes. Do you have any questions?
“Sorry,” said Penny. “But yes, I have a question. Who painted that painting behind you? It was A. Jones, wasn’t it? Was he a relative of yours?”
If he was surprised by her off-topic question, Jones did not show it.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, to both your questions,” he said, shifting in his seat to glance over his shoulder at it. “We recently rediscovered this painting hidden away in our parents’ home and after the decorating, we decided to hang it. Rather nice for what it is, don’t you think?”
Penny nodded as she stood up.
“It is indeed,” she said. “I wonder if I might take a closer look at it.” Catching Victoria’s dark look, she apologized and sat down again.
“If you’re ready, then, let’s just get the signing out of the way,” Jones suggested, “and then you may look at the painting for as long as you wish.”
With Jones occasionally pointing to a red dot on the papers, accompanied by a soft “and now again just here, please,” Victoria and Penny signed the papers.
“Congratulations, ladies,” Jones said at the end of the signing. “You are now official co-owners of the Llanelen Spa. I understand the next step is the purchase of property, and I hope I may be of service to you in all aspects of your venture.”
He beamed from one to the other and clasped his hands together.
“Now, Penny, you were interested in this painting.”
“Yes,” said Penny. “You see there’s one like it in Emma’s, well, my sitting room, and I wanted to know more about it. Do you know anything about the artist? Was he a good friend of Emma’s?”
“Well, I can certainly tell you about the artist,” said Jones. “But the thing is, A. Jones was a she. She was my sister, Alys Jones.”
“Alys! Why did Emma never mention her to me?” Penny asked. “What happened to her? Is she still alive? May I go to see her?”
“Sadly, no,” Jones replied. “She died in 1970.”
Penny and Victoria glanced at each other as he began to gather up the documents they had just signed.
“How did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It was a hit-and-run accident, Penny. They never did find out who did it.”
He sighed. “It was so long ago. Not much can be done about it now, eh? She was quite a well-respected artist in her day, I think, but you’d know more about that than I would.”
After a moment, he placed his pen in the holder on his desk, locked his desk drawer, dropped the key into his vest pocket, and smiled at them.
“Well, ladies, I think that’s everything, so I needn’t keep you any longer. All the best on your new venture.”