28
Willow
The house has taken on a new perspective now that I know the truth. It no longer looks like some elegant, benign building but a place linked with death. Where skeletons are locked in closets and nobody is as they seem. All very dramatic of me, I know. Arlo always said I should be an actress. Arlo says a lot of things, and usually he’s being disparaging. Still, I can’t stop thinking about what that hairdresser told me, and underneath the horror a little excitement bubbles, the kind of feeling you get when a neighbour has been arrested. You’re not part of the action but you’re near enough to it. And I don’t feel in any danger from Elspeth or her daughter. Una sounded a bit na?ve, foolish even, to put herself in that position. Maybe she really did fall and bang her head. Maybe Courtney’s just looking for a link because two other girls who worked for Elspeth died.
Anyway, weirdly, Courtney invited me for a drink tonight. Some pub in Whiteladies Road where her boyfriend’s band are playing. As I don’t know anybody in Bristol, apart from the McKenzies, I agreed. And something about Courtney fascinates me, with her glamour and her grief, like a 1920s silent film star.
When I get back from the hairdresser’s Elspeth is in the sitting room with her daughter. I can’t resist popping my head around the door to say hello. Kathryn’s eyes look as though they’re about to pop out of her head. ‘You’ve had your hair done,’ she bleats faintly.
I smile. ‘Yes. Back to blonde. For now.’
She grimaces in reply, but Elspeth pipes up from the corner of the room, ‘I like it, it’s very sleek,’ which makes Kathryn’s expression even grumpier.
I stifle a giggle. I’m just about to leave when Elspeth adds, ‘Aggie’s in the kitchen if you’d like her to rustle you up a late lunch. She’s made a vegetarian casserole especially for you.’
I say thanks and head into the kitchen. Sure enough, Aggie’s still here, her chubby arms elbow deep in the Belfast sink. She turns with the wary expression she usually adopts whenever she sees me.
‘Elspeth said there might be leftovers,’ I say, as I walk into the room.
‘There’s some casserole in the Aga.’ She retracts her arms and dries them on the nearby tea-towel. ‘I’ll fetch you some. Why don’t you sit down?’
She makes me feel uncomfortable with her over-helpful attitude. When we lived in the commune we all looked after ourselves, we were all equal, so I don’t like people doing things for me unless I’m paying them or helping them in return. ‘It’s okay, I can get it, you carry on with what you were doing,’ I say.
But she’s already opening the Aga and extracting a large orange dish, which she places on the hob. She scoops out a generous portion, then waddles – I know it sounds rude but there’s no other more appropriate word to describe her walk – to the larder and takes out a chopped up baguette. She doesn’t ask me if I want any but loads some onto the plate before she hands it to me. ‘Go and sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa.’
There’s no point in arguing with her. She’s one of those people who is happiest when she’s being useful to someone. I deduce she’s probably a kind, considerate person. Can I trust her in this house of – as I’m learning now – devious types?
I eat my lunch while observing her bustling around the kitchen. Aggie’s worked here since the late 1980s, according to Elspeth, so she must have a wealth of knowledge about the family, I think, as I chew carefully, like my mother taught me to do. Appreciate each mouthful, Willow, she’d say.
I swallow some casserole with difficulty, a lump in my throat when I think about my mother. ‘Um, Aggie, I was in the hairdresser’s this morning …’
‘So I see. Nice colour.’
‘Thanks. Turns out the hairdresser who did my hair knew Una. She told me … Well …’ I throw my hands into the air. ‘Everything.’
Aggie’s face drains of colour. ‘W-what did she tell you?’
‘About the other girls and how they died. About Una finding Jemima’s bag in the cellar …’
Aggie’s beady eyes dart towards the door. ‘It’s best to keep this out,’ she says, tapping the side of her nose with genuine fear in her voice. ‘And if you want to keep your job, just forget you heard anything about it.’
‘But … do you think Una died in suspicious circumstances?’
She shakes her head so vigorously that her many chins wobble. ‘I’m not paid to think anything,’ she says curtly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’