The Skeleton Garden Read online

  A shadow darkened the potting shed door. “Called in extra help, did you?” Simon asked.

  Pru’s face went as red as the bird. She’d been caught spilling secrets to a stranger—telling family stories that she should’ve saved for her brother.

  “She’s not put me to work,” Jack said with a smile.

  “Orlando,” Pru called to the boy, who was knocking the nursery pots around the yard with a long-handled rake to rid them of spiders. “Would you take Jack in to the kitchen? And would you look in the library and let Uncle Christopher know that Jack is here?”

  As Orlando and Jack walked toward the kitchen door, she could hear the boy. “Has your dad remembered anybody dying and falling in the plane pit? It’s just that we’re looking into the matter…”

  Simon picked up a cultivating fork with a missing handle.

  “Checking up on me?” Pru asked. “You wanted to make sure I was working?”

  He tossed the broken tool out the door and onto a heap. “What did she feed them—the cardinals?”

  A still moment. “Cornbread,” Pru said. “Sometimes she would fix a whole pan just for the birds.”

  “Are they really as red as they are in photos?”

  Tears came to her eyes at the thought that Simon had never seen a cardinal—a bird so connected to her childhood. “Yes, the males, at least. The females are never as flamboyant.”

  Simon didn’t turn round. “I stopped in to see if you might need me, but I see Jack’s on it.”

  “He wasn’t helping,” Pru said. “He just stood around and talked.” And, for good measure, she added, “He was fairly useless.”

  Simon looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “Come on, I’ll help you shift this lot.”

  —

  Pru showed him the seed cabinet, and Simon remembered that it had been there when he started at Greenoak, forty years earlier. They took out all the seed packets and discussed which might germinate and which probably wouldn’t. Pru said wouldn’t it be lovely to have ladybird poppies in the meadow, and Simon replied that they’d need to wait until spring to plant. “Would you like a coffee?” Pru asked. They heard the crunching of tires on gravel and looked out to see Evelyn walking into the house and Peachey driving away in his van. He waved out the window to them.

  “Oh dear,” Pru said, trying to remember if she’d cleaned up the kitchen and realizing she’d lost her Saturday advantage.

  “Not afraid of her, are you?” Simon asked.

  “Certainly not.” And she marched off to the house to prove it.

  “Good,” he said, following. “Because I am.”

  “Evelyn,” Pru said from the mudroom door, “I didn’t realize you were stopping by today.”

  “Albert left me on his way out to a call at Sherfield English. I’m just taking a couple of hens out of the freezer for Monday.”

  “Simon’s here, and I was about to fix coffee.”

  “I’ll make the coffee, Ms. Parke,” Evelyn said, reaching for the kettle.

  “Thanks.” Pru heard steps in the hall and hurried on just as the kitchen door opened. “Jack Snuggs is here, too.”

  “Hello, Ev,” Jack said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with you since I’ve been back. How are you?”

  Evelyn faced Jack as she dried her hands on her apron. Pru saw high color on her cheeks. “I’m all right, Jack. And how are you?”

  Jack grinned. “Can’t complain—wouldn’t do me any good. And Peachey—how is he is getting on?”

  “Albert is doing quite well for himself,” Evelyn said, her chin held high.

  “I’m glad,” Jack said. “I’d like to see him—have a chat.”

  Evelyn turned back to the stove. “Would you now,” she said under her breath.

  Simon sat down, but Pru kept standing, her gaze shifting between Evelyn and Jack. She wasn’t certain she should wade into this conversation, unsure of how deep it went.

  “Is there cake, too?” Orlando asked as he and Christopher came through.

  “Ginger cake,” Evelyn said. “And I’d better sort out some sandwiches for you lot before I leave.” As if they’d starve without her.

  —

  Pru popped the last bit of ginger cake in her mouth. They’d had a lively discussion around the table, speculating on various improbable scenarios for the parterre lawn findings. Jack said he was sorry to have missed the discovery. Simon explained that Polly had hoped to get a sense of the spirit left about the place and he had said to her could she get the spirit to replant the hebes, because they could use the extra help. Everyone laughed except for Jack, who said, “You should appreciate what you’ve got,” and Simon replied, “You should mind your own business.” After a fraction of a second of silence that seemed to last an eternity, Pru dived in and said, “Orlando was the one who spotted the incident report, weren’t you?” and the boy picked up the story of his research triumph.

  Before Jack left, he took Pru aside. “Dick says that he’s been below to look around and that you might find some interesting bits to use at the Christmas dance. He wants to know if you’d like to go have a nose around yourself.”

  “I saw the calendar on the wall in the cellars—1944,” Pru said. “It would be great if there was more. Thanks, I’ll ring him and say I’ll be over tomorrow.”

  Jack left and, out of the corner of her eye, Pru saw Simon follow. She started out of the kitchen after him, but Evelyn said, “Ms. Parke, I didn’t want to mention it, but has there been some baking going on here since yesterday?”

  I’ve had enough of knobby oak roots in the hollow of my back. Have you seen that cottage out behind the Blackbird? It could be a sweet little place to live, I could sew curtains and all. Maybe some day. But for now, I’ll see you there this evening. Needs must.

  —Letter from Home Farm, Ratley

  Chapter 15

  Sunday lunch at the Robber Blackbird meant a carvery—roast beef or pork with all the trimmings, including Yorkshire pudding. It attracted quite a crowd, but by late afternoon, the kitchen closed, and the crowd dispersed until evening. Pru arrived early to meet Polly, and instead of going in, she went round the back of the pub-and-shop building. Evelyn had mentioned growing up in a cottage behind the pub when her mother worked there—that must’ve been all through the ’50s and into the ’60s—and Pru wanted to take a closer look.

  The tiny structure looked to be two rooms—Pru could see inside easily, as all the windows were broken out. The cottage exterior was brick below and pebbledash above—a style created by applying crushed stone and concrete against the wall. The pebbledash had mostly crumbled and fallen off, and bricks at one corner were loose. So this was where Sadie brought up her daughter, Evelyn. Being a single mother couldn’t have been easy.

  Pru walked back to the front door and into the pub, where she found Polly. Dick pulled the trapdoor open for them, and had started back to the kitchen to wash dishes when Jack walked in.

  He stopped inside the door, took a deep breath of the pub air, and said, “Well, Dick, how’s the Blackbird?”

  Dick cast what looked to Pru like a protective eye over the interior walls, the tables and chairs, the bar, beer pulls, and glasses, as if Jack were making a play for his woman. “She’s all right.”

  “Good. I’m glad for you.”

  Dick cocked his head at Jack as if he didn’t quite believe the good wishes and continued to the kitchen.

  “Have you come to help with our research, Jack?” Polly said.

  “Yeah, I heard you were to have a look round below, and thought I’d tag along,” he said.

  The uninvited guest, Pru thought.

  “We were just going below,” Polly said. “Come on with you.”

  Pru, Polly, and Jack trailed down the cellar steps and spread out. Jack poked around the leftover furniture and shelves while the women began in the room with the calendar, going through a stack of magazines Polly found in a corner—Ideal Love and The Moon Conquerors, interspersed with how-to
pamphlets. “Oh look,” Polly said. “Here’s one from the Small Pig Keeper’s Council—fancy becoming a swineherd?”

  Pru found a 1942 Suttons’ Seeds catalog form and assorted Dig for Victory leaflets, including “Manure from Garden Rubbish.” They took a couple of chairs and began reading through The Kitchen Front: 122 Wartime Recipes.

  Jack looked in on them. “There are more rooms, you know.”

  “Good thing you’re here,” Polly said, laughing. She held up a copy of The Lady magazine. “We’ve been terribly distracted. Come on, we’d best get back to it.”

  They worked their way through two rooms, getting stuck in cobwebs and coughing from dust as they sorted out what they might use as decoration for the dance.

  On a shelf next to a ball of garden twine, Pru found a small book with a green cover—a manual for Land Girls. Flipping through the pages, she imagined Sadie, Evelyn’s mother, as a big, strapping young woman like her daughter, well able for farm work.

  Polly and Jack had gathered an empty tea tin, a dented kettle, and a jar of marbles. The women speculated on a moth-eaten cardigan left on a chair, imagining its story, and an old train ticket stuck in a book got Jack to tell tales of working on the railroad in Calgary.

  But after that, Polly and Jack fell into reminiscing about a holiday they went on together to Bexhill-on-Sea and how it rained the entire time and they had to stay in their B&B and how suspicious the owner became. Their conversation grew quiet and Pru saw Jack give Polly a look and Polly smile, a bit sadly. Pru cast about looking for something to draw attention away from their dating years and back to the Second World War where it belonged.

  “There’s a proper door back here,” she said, peeking behind an enormous kitchen dresser with empty shelves. “Can we shift this?”

  Polly took the other end. “I’ll just spot you,” Jack said as he moved a chair out of Pru’s way. The women gripped the edges with their fingers and lifted, setting down the heavy oak piece once on its five-foot journey along the wall.

  Jack pushed opened the door; it scraped across the stone floor. So far, the rooms had electric light, but it was pitch black beyond.

  “Here, I saw torches near the casks under the stairs. I’ll fetch them,” Jack said.

  Pru sniffed. The air smelled earthy, musty, but no worse than the other rooms. Jack returned with the flashlights, and they each switched one on and pointed toward a different corner, the beams of light bouncing around like the opening of a car dealership.

  No chairs, kettles, or magazines here. A few wooden crates stood about, one nailed shut and the others open and empty except for stray bits of packing material. A cabinet was built into the wall; its door had no handle, only a keyhole. Their flashlights scanned the walls and floor, looking for the key.

  “Hang on,” Jack said, and walked back into the room they’d just left. They heard him knocking about, and after a minute, he came back with a skeleton key in hand. “In a drawer of the dresser,” he said. The lock was sticky, but with some wiggling, the key turned, and the door opened on squeaky hinges. All three torches went straight for the shelves, which were packed floor to ceiling with jars of Marmite, cans of Heinz baked beans, tomatoes, salmon, fruit, tea, and Spam—all slightly rusted and with old-fashioned labels. A well-stocked pantry, frozen in time.

  “Well,” Pru said, “someone’s cupboard was full.”

  “A bit too full, I’d say.” Jack picked up a packet of Typhoo tea and tossed it in the air a couple of times. “No one would have this much at once during the war. Looks as if this stash was for the black market.” He flashed his light to the nailed-shut crate. “Wonder what’s in there.”

  “We need more light,” Pru said. “I’ll go ask Dick if he’s got a couple of lamps and extension cords. And something to pry open the crate.” She headed toward the first room and looked back at Polly and Jack, who stood side by side, heads together, laughing about something. “Polly,” Pru said, “would you mind giving me a hand carrying things back? You know, in case it’s too much for one load.”

  Polly narrowed her eyes at Pru, and handed Jack a tin of dried eggs. “You’re all right on your own?” she asked him.

  Dick was busy at the bar when they emerged, and Pru stopped to wait, but Polly took her arm and led her outside. They stood under the Blackbird sign. “What did you think we were going to get up to while you were gone?” she asked, hands on her hips.

  Pru had no defense, and so attempted a lie. “I thought I’d need help, that’s all. You don’t mind, do you? You can go back and wait with Jack if you’d rather.”

  Polly pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand. “I love my husband, Pru.” She sighed. “I wish you would both remember that.”

  “Simon has said something? Is he…are you two…” Arguing? Perhaps Pru didn’t want to know.

  “Jack and I are old news, but we were dating when I met Simon. Thirty years ago.” Polly smiled, her eyes shining. “Jack always felt that Simon stole me away from him—as if I had no mind of my own. Something happened between them they’ve never said—a fight? I don’t know.” She looked across the road to the houses beyond. “Last time Jack was home—twelve years ago, when his mum died—Simon and I were going through a bad patch. There was nothing really wrong, but there was something not right.” Polly frowned into the distance of those years. “Jack thought he could take advantage of that.”

  Pru crossed her arms, defending herself against what she might hear.

  “But he couldn’t,” Polly said, giving her sister-in-law a hard look. “He tried, but he couldn’t. Did you hear what I said? Nothing happened—except,” she said with a little smile, “that Simon and I got over that bad patch.”

  A warm flood of relief rushed through Pru, hindered only by the thought that perhaps Polly couldn’t see Jack was trying again. “So, is Jack here just for another visit?”

  “I don’t know why he’s here,” Polly said, now looking at the door of the pub. “Perhaps it’s just to see his dad—Stan’s getting on. But there’s something about Jack this time—he’s fragile, like glass. I can see through him.”

  Yes, Pru thought, she could see through him, too.

  “Sorry,” said a man in the lane. “Do you know where I can find Jack Snuggs?”

  He was a short man with fine features, close-cut blond hair, and a reddish, two-day growth of beard. He wore khaki trousers, a sport coat the color of acorns, and a wool tie.

  “Yeah,” Polly said, pulling the pub door open. “He’s here. Down in the cellar. Want to come in with us? I’m Polly Parke, and this is Pru Parke.”

  “Joseph Hare,” the man said, and repeated it for Dick when they got to the bar.

  Dick went to gather what they’d need in the cellars, while the women waited and the newcomer stood apart and busied himself reading notices on the community board. Then they were off to the cellars—Pru and Polly each with a floor lamp and extension cord, and Dick with a couple of crowbars and a screwdriver stuck in his pocket. Joseph Hare brought up the rear.

  Pru walked in first, to find Jack sitting on a chair with the torch tucked under his chin, shining the light onto some papers. He looked up, and the torch fell to the ground and rolled, casting a rocking light across their feet. From a room behind them, Dick said, “Hang on a tick. Right, you can switch them on now.” They blinked at the sudden brightness from the lamps, and Pru saw Jack with his hand inside his jacket. He stood up, smoothed the material, and noticed the addition to the group.

  “Mr. Hare,” Jack said, minus his usual smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I missed you last week, Jack,” Hare said. “How are you?”

  Jack nodded to their surroundings. “I’m a bit tied up here at the moment, as you can see. You didn’t come all this way just to find me?”

  Joseph Hare held his hands up, palms out. “No, I’m on my way to Dorchester. Still, I’d like to see you.” Jack didn’t respond. “All right,” Hare said. “I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. We�
�ll talk then.” And he left.

  They stood about, Pru, at least, waiting for an explanation.

  “A business associate?” Dick offered.

  Jack smiled. “He’s looking after a venture for me, you might say.”

  “Right,” Polly said, “let’s crack the crate.”

  —

  “More Spam,” Pru said later, standing at the fireplace in their bedroom, wrapped in a bathrobe as her hair finished drying. She’d called “hello” when she arrived and headed straight for the shower to wash the cellar dust off, and while she washed, Christopher had started the fire, which now crackled while flames danced. Christopher sat on the edge of the bed watching her.

  “The entire crate,” she continued. “I had no idea it was so popular over here.”

  “You Yanks brought it over, you know,” he said. “That’s one thing we can’t be blamed for.”

  “How do you know so much about the war when you weren’t even alive then?” she asked, picking up her hair clip. Christopher took it out of her hands.

  “You were far away from the war in the States—even though your dad was in it. In Britain, people lived with it every day—fear of invasion, bombings, limited food supplies—rationing lasted long after the war. We’re surrounded by memories of it still.”

  “Jack said it was black-market food—someone making money off the war.”

  “The black market, scams on ration books—none of it was uncommon,” he said. “So, the three of you went exploring this afternoon—you, Polly, and Jack.”

  She came to stand in front of Christopher. “Yes, Jack,” she said with a frown. “I’m not sure why he had to be there.”

  “He’s back home, he’s not working, he’s visiting with old friends.” Christopher put his hands on her hips. “You’re not worried about it, are you?”