‘What have you done?’ Each word was delivered more slowly than the last.
‘I might have removed the mattresses, that’s all. Put them somewhere else.’ She was on the landing now, wondering if he’d catch her before she could reach her car.
‘Where have you put them, precisely?’
Oh well, she thought wildly. In for a penny, and all that. ‘The muck heap,’ she told Gil triumphantly, enjoying the disbelief filling his face.
‘You what?’ he roared, shoving the tray aside and slopping some of the soup. ‘The bloody muck heap?’
‘Yes,’ she shouted back, finding it very cathartic. ‘The bloody muck heap, where they belong! You’re staying in this house even if I have to chain you to the bed.’
Oh, that sounded a bit exotic and was way out of her remit here. Maybe another time. She shot down the stairs, grabbed Lola and her lead, and raced out of the door. Hopefully by the time she returned he would have calmed down.
During the walk this morning, Hazel had pointed out where she lived, next door to Edmund, the local historian, and Pippa was soon outside his picture-perfect cottage on a narrow lane just off the main street. A red front door was cheerful between white rendered walls and sash windows, a pair of matching pots stuffed with summer bedding plants either side. Her knock was answered a moment later by an elderly man with a thin but very upright frame, whose sharp eyes belied the tremble in his hands.
‘Ah, Pippa, my dear. Come in, I’ve been expecting you.’ He moved back to allow her to pass him.
‘Hello, it’s lovely to meet you. Thank you for seeing me.’ She glanced down at Lola, sitting patiently at her side. ‘I hadn’t planned to bring Lola with me. Is it okay if she comes in as well, please? I can drop her back if not.’
‘No need, the more the merrier. She’s very welcome.’
‘Thanks so much.’ Pippa stepped straight into a sitting room, and blinked. Every surface was laden with books, box files and teetering piles of paperwork. Cluttered didn’t do it justice and she wondered how he ever found anything in here.
‘I’m Edmund Osborne, and of course I know who you are. Hazel told me.’ Edmund nodded. ‘She sends her apologies, by the way. George is rather poorly this evening, and she didn’t feel she ought to leave him.’
‘I’m sorry to miss her. I hope he’s okay.’ Pippa thought she might pop some tomato soup round to Hazel; she had plenty left and it would be a way to thank her for the introduction to Edmund.
‘Well, he’s not too good, but they cope. Marvellous neighbours, we’ve been friends for nearly forty years.’
‘Wow. How lovely.’ She hovered with Lola as Edmund swept a heap of magazines from a wingback chair beside the fireplace and pointed to it. She thanked him and sat down, Lola at her feet, excitement tightening in her stomach. Might she find out Ivy’s story here, learn how it connected to her own life? The fire was lit and the room warm, so she slipped off her gilet, leaving it on the arm of her chair.
‘May I offer you some refreshment, Pippa? Earl Grey I’m afraid, it’s all I drink.’ Edmund chuckled. ‘That and the whisky to help me sleep.’
‘Earl Grey would be perfect, thank you. Can I help?’ She made to move out of her chair, trying not to be too impatient.
‘No, thank you. Why don’t you have a look at this whilst I make the tea?’ Edmund removed an A4 book, pale green and thick, resting on top of a box file on a coffee table. ‘I think you might find it helpful for the period you’re interested in. Hazel mentioned Nineteen Twenties.’
‘Thank you.’ Pippa accepted the book and opened it, realising it was a history of the village, beginning in 1918 after the end of the Great War and continuing to 1938, right before the Second World War. Pulse pattering a little faster, she carefully turned the pages, eventually pausing when she saw a wedding notice from May 1931, when a twenty-three-year-old Ivy Dixon had married twenty-five-year-old Albert Walker.
Pippa was transfixed by the accompanying black-and-white photograph, gulping at the sight of the young couple staring solemnly back. Who were these people and how might they be related? She hoped very much that Edmund would have the answer.
‘Ah, I see you’ve found who you are looking for. Ivy Walker, née Dixon.’ Edmund had returned with a tray and he set it down, with some difficulty, at one end of a square dining table. ‘She and Albert were well known and liked around these parts from what I’ve discovered. Lived here all their lives. Hatched, matched and dispatched, as the saying goes.’
‘I wondered if she and Albert may be my great-grandparents.’ Pippa was stroking Lola’s head resting on her knee, taken by surprise at the sudden catch in her voice. She’d been thinking about the possible connection, and this was the most obvious one.
‘They were indeed. Their daughter, Janet, was your grandmother, your mother’s mother. Milk or lemon?’
‘Oh!’ Pippa’s hand flew to her mouth. She’d been half expecting this news but still it startled, to have her suspicions confirmed. ‘Oh er, lemon please.’
Edmund poured two cups of tea and added lemon to both. He passed one across and she thanked him, itching to continue the conversation. But she sensed he would not hurry, that he was methodical and would find the details in his own time and in his own way.
‘I expect you’d like to learn more about them, Pippa? I take it you haven’t researched your family tree?’
‘I haven’t, but I’d love to know more. Thank you.’ Staring into the past meant confronting her family’s loss and until now she’d always preferred to look forward.
‘There are more photographs in the book. Why don’t I let you know what I’ve found so far, and you can ask questions as we go along.’
‘Perfect.’
