The Woman in the Wood Page 12

  ‘And what is your grandmother or your father going to say about this?’ Dove looked at her sternly. ‘You know your father wanted you to go to university?’

  ‘I don’t care what he wants. Do you know what he bought me for Christmas?’

  Dove shook his head.

  ‘A box of lace-trimmed hankies and a stationery set. That’s what you give your ageing aunt, not a girl of nearly sixteen. He bought Grandmother a fluffy shawl to put round her shoulders in the evenings; that at least was appropriate and she liked it. But hankies for me!’

  ‘Rather Victorian,’ he said. ‘But in his defence, Maisy, most men are useless at buying presents.’

  ‘That’s what Janice said.’ Maisy sighed. ‘She also said to think of poor little orphans that don’t get anything at Christmas, but I’m not going to listen to anyone who tries to turn it around to make me look ungrateful and rude. It really isn’t about the present, that’s not important, but it did show me my father doesn’t care about me. Grandmother is like an iceberg, so why should I waste another two years doing what they want me to do?’

  ‘I’d be a poor teacher if I didn’t try to make you see the value of a good education,’ Dove said gently. ‘Stay, pass your exams and get to university. With a degree behind you, the world is your oyster. I certainly want more for you than being a skivvy for parents who are too tight-fisted to pay for a qualified nanny for their children. In fact, I don’t hold with anyone paying someone else to look after their children.’

  ‘Janice has been like a mother to me, and she’s just Grandmother’s skivvy. So maybe I can be a mother to some kids that don’t get any love from their own,’ Maisy argued.

  Mr Dove just looked at her for what seemed minutes. Maisy could see anxiety and sorrow in his eyes and it almost made her change her mind, because she knew how much his job teaching her meant to him. They were in the same boat, really: she’d lost her brother, and he’d lost the use of his legs. They were both very lonely. But finally he spoke. ‘If you are dead set on this plan, will you make me a promise that you’ll leave your grandmother’s on good terms so you can return if you need to?’

  ‘I doubt that’s possible.’ Maisy shrugged.

  ‘Do you remember how we once discussed how we are all products of our upbringing?’

  Maisy nodded.

  ‘Good. Well, I am quite sure that both your father and grandmother care a great deal more about you than they are capable of showing. They’ve lost Duncan, and they won’t want to lose you too. So don’t be tempted to rush off without telling them where you’re going. They may be pig-headed about it, but you must stay calm and tell them you find it hard to live there without your brother.’

  ‘I haven’t got the job yet,’ Maisy said. ‘Maybe they won’t want me.’

  ‘I bet they will,’ Dove half smiled. ‘Who could resist those wide blue eyes, the dimple and a smile that lights up a room? I’ll give you a reference if you need one. But promise me you’ll tell your grandmother about the job before you go for the interview.’

  The reply to her application for the mother’s help job came the day after her sixteenth birthday on January the 24th. There were two children, Paul aged four, and Annabel aged two. Mrs Ripley explained that both she and her husband were physiotherapists with a practice on the ground floor of their house on Brighton’s seafront. Mrs Ripley wanted to go back to working full-time, and she needed someone to take care of the children.

  Maisy really liked the tone of the letter, which was warm and inviting. Mrs Ripley said she had cleaning staff and Maisy’s only duties would be to entertain the children and give them their lunch. She would have her own bedroom and bathroom, and Saturday afternoons and all day Sunday off.

  Mrs Ripley suggested that when Maisy came to meet the children she should stay the night so she had extra time to get to know the whole family.

  Maisy really liked that Mrs Ripley didn’t use the word ‘interview’, but only wrote about ‘meeting the children’. It sounded kind, thoughtful and welcoming. Three pounds a week wasn’t much of a wage, but then that would be all for her, and about average for such jobs.

  She bit the bullet and went straight to her grandmother to inform her.

  It was a bitterly cold day and Grandmother had pulled her chair right up to the fire. She had the fluffy pink shawl her son had given her for Christmas around her shoulders.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked in her usual frosty manner as Maisy came into the room.

  ‘Sorry to intrude,’ Maisy said nervously. ‘I’ve got something to tell you … I’m going for an interview for a job.’

  She blurted out the last part, and not in the gentle, measured way she’d practised up in her room.

  ‘What sort of job?’ Grandmother turned to look at Maisy, frowning as if ‘job’ was a dirty word.

  Maisy explained, as quickly and concisely as she could.

  ‘You applied for a job without consulting me first?’ Grandmother roared at her. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘Grandmother, I am sixteen now, I’m able to look after myself and I don’t want to stay here now that Duncan has gone. I’m terribly lonely.’

  ‘You have that friend in Lyndhurst.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s gone back to school now. I want to be somewhere with life, noise and laughter. I just feel miserable all the time.’

  ‘Your father will not let you do this; he wants you to go to university.’

  ‘He only wants me to go there so he can feel he’s done a good job as a parent,’ Maisy responded, feeling bolder now as she sensed her grandmother had a tiny amount of sympathy with her. ‘He hasn’t done a good job; he’s never had any interest in either of us. Look at him at Christmas! He barely spoke to me and he couldn’t wait to get away. Besides, he can’t stop me getting a job.’

  ‘He can.’

  ‘No, he can’t. Maybe he’d have a case if I was doing something immoral or illegal, and the place I lived in was dangerous, but I’ll be living with a respectable family, looking after their children.’

  ‘Then I’d better telephone my son this evening and tell him your plans. On your head be it.’

  ‘I’m going for the interview next Thursday and staying the night,’ Maisy said. ‘Mrs Ripley said she’d send me a return train ticket.’

  ‘You’ll be back in no time with your tail between your legs.’ Grandmother sniffed. ‘I’ve heard stories about how people treat mother’s helps and au pairs. They’ll work you to death.’

  ‘I’d like to think I could come back if it’s awful,’ Maisy said, remembering what Mr Dove had suggested.

  ‘I shall expect you to give it a fair trial,’ Grandmother responded, her face like granite. ‘Now clear off and help Janice.’

  Maisy wasn’t sure what to make of her grandmother’s last remark. Did she realize Maisy wasn’t frightened of her any more? Was there even a little bit of admiration? But she was beyond analysing other people’s feelings; they didn’t seem to care about hers.

  Maisy had just got off the train from Brighton after going to her interview with the Ripleys, and was walking to the bus stop in Southampton to get back to Burley, when Mr Grainger pulled up beside her.

  He leaned across to the passenger seat and opened the door, grinning charmingly at her. ‘Hop in if you’re going home. I’m going that way.’

  Maisy was only too glad to have a lift, as the bus was slow and usually crowded. ‘I’d love a lift,’ she said and jumped in.

  ‘You’re looking glowing,’ he told her. ‘It must be the bracing winter air. You’re lucky to have that complexion – not freckled like your brother.’

  Maisy blushed at the compliment. He began to drive, and she told him that she’d been for a job interview as an au pair and stayed with the Ripleys in Brighton overnight. ‘The Ripleys are super – young, enthusiastic, and their home is very modern. Their children are little poppets too – Annabel is two, Paul’s four – and I think it’s going to be a dream job. My room there is great, looking out o
n the promenade and sea. I can’t wait to go.’

  ‘So what does your grandmother think of this job? I believe the plan was that you were going to university?’

  ‘It was her and Father’s plan, never mine,’ Maisy said. ‘I’m so lonely there without Duncan. I need to be doing something, seeing people, getting out. Sometimes I feel I’m in a cage.’

  Just admitting this made her start to cry. Despite having found a job she wanted to do, on the train journey back to Southampton she’d felt alone as never before. She hadn’t got parents like Linda’s who she could telephone immediately and hear their congratulations and excitement. She knew Grandmother would be chilly with her, probably totally disapproving, and even Janice would be sad, rather than glad for her.

  ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ he said, putting his hand on her knee comfortingly, and he pulled over to the side of the road and put his arms around her. Maisy fell into his embrace willingly, she needed to be hugged. But to her dismay he caught hold of her face to kiss her on the lips and at the same time his hand moved up her skirt.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, pushing him away indignantly. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  She was so shocked. He was attractive, he’d been kind too, but she hadn’t expected or wanted that.

  ‘Oh Maisy, don’t be silly. What’s a kiss? I was only trying to make you feel better.’

  ‘By pushing me into something completely inappropriate?’ she retorted. ‘I’ll get the bus home.’ She moved to open the door.

  ‘No, you won’t, I’ll take you home. Look, Maisy, I’m sorry if I offended you.’

  It did seem churlish to refuse a lift home, especially as she wasn’t even sure where the nearest bus stop was. ‘OK, but straight back to Burley,’ she said, and sat there in silence for the rest of the way.

  Later that evening, up in her bedroom, Maisy looked back on what had happened and found herself crying again. Mr Grainger hadn’t done anything further, but it had spoiled what should’ve been the best day since Duncan disappeared. She couldn’t wait to leave now. Grandmother was scathing about her job, Janice was trying not to cry and even Mr Dove when she popped in to see him seemed lukewarm in his enthusiasm.

  She doubted she’d ever come back here again.

  9

  He stood outside the red-brick school watching the boys thronging out into the playground and jostling towards the gate. It was very cold, giving him the opportunity to separate the tough, hardy boys from the softer, weaker ones.

  The first group just had blazers over their grey school jumpers, school caps perched precariously on the back of their heads; if they had a coat too it was always unbuttoned and thrown on.

  After these came the more fragile boys. They were always buttoned up, scarves carefully tucked in, gloves on hands, socks pulled up if they still wore short trousers. Caps were on straight, and still in good condition. And then there was invariably a sub-section, a tiny group of special boys. These often walked alone, whether because they were shy or misfits, he couldn’t know at first glance. A few of them might be Mummy’s boys, one or two a little slow at their lessons, and then, that precious commodity, the neglected boy. He was always the easiest to identify, a scruffy uniform, worn-out shoes, hair needing cutting, thin and pale. These were the boys who would interest him.

  The neglected boy was easy to work on. He craved attention and he could be bought with food. But the best thing of all was that alarm bells didn’t start to ring straight off when he didn’t get home on time.

  Today he saw a boy in the first group that he wished he could poach. Thirteen or fourteen with peachy skin and golden hair left a little too long. A living dream with his long limbs, and a soft, full mouth. But he was a leader, the boys around him were all looking and listening, waiting for his decision on where to go now. If he was going straight home, so would his acolytes; if he said it was football in the park, they would follow, even if they’d been told not to by their parents.

  Boys like that one were too hard to subjugate. They fought every inch of the way, were clever enough to try and outwit him. Once he’d seen that as a challenge, but not any more; he was getting too old for such games.

  There was one likely boy today, trailing behind the others as if loath to go home. Grey socks falling down, his donkey jacket far too big for him. But a pretty boy nonetheless, a small, turned up nose and very dark hair. He would follow him to see where he lived and the family set-up. That would be enough for one day; it didn’t do to rush these things. Besides, he hadn’t got room for any more boys just now. Four was enough to deal with.

  10

  Brighton, 1962

  ‘Maisy, I really think you should visit your grandmother, if only for a couple of days,’ Mrs Ripley said. ‘She’s getting old, and if she should suddenly have a stroke or a heart attack and die, you’d feel terrible that you hadn’t made it up with her.’

  They were in the playroom on the first floor. Paul was at school and Maisy was helping Annabel do a wooden jigsaw. Mrs Ripley often popped into the playroom between clients and had a cup of tea with Maisy.

  ‘I doubt I’d feel terrible.’ Maisy grinned. ‘But I would like to see Janice and Mr Dove, and my friend Linda.’

  She showed Annabel how to put in a jigsaw piece the right way round. She was a sweet child; plump, with rosy cheeks and big dark eyes very much like her father’s.

  Coming to work for the Ripleys in Brighton had turned out to be the very best thing Maisy could’ve done. It hadn’t stopped her thinking about Duncan, or hoping that he might turn up again one day, but she had learned to put her sorrow to one side and embrace the good things in her new life.

  She had loved Paul and Annabel on sight, and they loved her. Her pretty, warm room up on the top floor, which had a wonderful view of the sea, gave her great pleasure, and the job was never arduous or boring. In fact, the weeks had sped by so fast she could hardly believe she’d now turned seventeen and had been here a whole year.

  ‘Sometimes it falls on the wronged one to take the initiative to put things right,’ Mrs Ripley said, raising one eyebrow.

  She was in her late thirties, a buxom redhead, prone to freckles, which she hated, but in fact suited her. ‘I had it with my mother,’ she went on. ‘She was a holy terror and horrible to Harold because she believed he persuaded me to leave home to go and train as a physiotherapist. She wouldn’t believe that it was what I wanted. Anyway, I went away regardless of what she said and we didn’t speak for two years. But Harold made me go home to ask her to come to our wedding. He was already in practice here in Brighton, and he had just bought this house. He knew when Mother saw how successful he was she would change her tune.’

  ‘It worked, then?’ Maisy asked.

  ‘Yes, Mother is such a snob, now she tells people what a brilliant son-in-law she has.’ Mrs Ripley laughed. ‘To be honest, Maisy, I will never really like her. But she is my mother so I put up with her. I think it might be like that too for you and your grandmother.’

  ‘And my father.’ Maisy sighed. ‘I haven’t heard a word from him since he sent that nasty letter telling me what a fool I was giving up going to university. But Janice writes, telling me the news, or lack of it. She said the police have stopped trying to find Duncan. She was told that there are so many young people going missing every year, they can’t keep on wasting police resources on those who may not want to be found. I think that means they see Duncan as one of those doesn’t-want-to-be-founds.’

  ‘But you still don’t believe that?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Maisy said. ‘Even if he was angry with our father and grandmother, even if he met someone he wanted to live with and have fun with, he would’ve somehow let me know he was safe. So I have to face it that he must have been killed.’

  ‘I suppose each time they find another of those young boys, you must think it could be Duncan this time?’ Mrs Ripley asked. There had been six boys’ bodies found now, all from towns along the south coast. The l
ast two had been since Maisy came to work in Brighton. The police believed they were all killed by the same person. There was also a seventh boy, Peter Reilly from Seaford, who, like Duncan, was still missing.

  Maisy nodded. She had talked through the whole Duncan story with Mrs Ripley soon after coming to work here, and it had helped enormously. She could see why Mabel Ripley was a renowned physiotherapist in Brighton, because she was such an understanding woman. Maisy knew very little about her patients or how she treated them, but she guessed the woman’s ability to really listen, and to feel others’ pain, whether this was mental or physical, must make her excellent at her job.

  ‘So how about going home for Easter?’ Mrs Ripley suggested. ‘Harold and I are shutting up shop for a full two weeks, so we won’t need your help. Not that I’m pushing you out the door, Maisy. You’re welcome to stay here too if you want to. But I think you know it’s time to make up with your grandmother.’

  Maisy had been thinking recently that maybe she should try and hold out an olive branch. She was reluctant to do it because she felt she had been in the right. But Mrs Ripley was right too in saying that if her grandmother was to die without them making it up, Maisy would feel bad.

  ‘I suppose I could write to her and ask if I can come,’ she said, but she grimaced. The idea didn’t appeal to her much because she couldn’t imagine Grandmother would come down off her perch and be nice. She hadn’t even kissed Maisy goodbye when she left Nightingales, no letters since, not a birthday or Christmas card. ‘You know I loved it at Nightingales when Duncan was there, the house, the garden and the forest. But going back is bound to stir up all the feelings about Duncan again, and I don’t know if I can cope with that.’

  ‘I thought something similar about my home, but in fact going back was a healing experience,’ Mrs Ripley said. ‘Besides, you can see your friend, maybe thumb your nose at that boy Alan you were sweet on. Let’s face it, you’re looking very lovely these days. A figure like a beauty queen and your hair is enviable. He’ll be left with egg on his face!’