Author: Jacqueline Winspear
Category: Mystery
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/jacqueline-winspear/page,5,55308-the_care_and_management_of_lies.html
“I’ll get my coat.”
Soon they were back on the street, where Thea linked her arm through Kezia’s.
“I’m sorry, Kezzie. I don’t mean to snap.”
“I know. We’ll leave it at that, shall we? Now then, let’s go to that little Italian restaurant, the one where we went to celebrate when you got your job at the school. They were always so nice to us there.”
“Perfect,” said Thea. “Yes, perfect.”
As they made their way to the bus stop, they had to push past people going in and out of the pubs and talking on the street. Kezia thought it was like swimming against the tide. A newspaper vendor waved a fan of papers above his head and called out across the throng.
“England ready for war. Forces assembling. England ready for war . . .”
Kezia sipped from her glass, having been encouraged to order a dark cream sherry by Thea, who chose the larger pour, a schooner.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since the last time,” said Thea. “Not that I have much to spend on going out to eat. And it’s not as if you’re entirely sure you know what you’re eating, in a restaurant.”
“Oh, you’re just like your brother, no imagination. If it doesn’t look like anything he’s ever eaten before, he pokes it around as if it were something found on the road. I have to disguise almost everything I cook as a pie.” Kezia laughed, half choking on the unaccustomed sherry. She pointed to the glass. “I only ever use this for cooking.”
The two women sat back in their chairs, at last settled in each other’s company. Kezia twisted the sherry glass, as if afraid that someone might see her and judge her worth. She thought this fear might be a residue from her church upbringing, a leftover from always having to watch what she said and did, knowing it would reflect upon her father and—ultimately—God.
“Thea, I can’t remember if you ever told me how your family came to own the farm. I mean, it was leased, originally, wasn’t it? From the Hawkendene estate?”
“That was years ago now—years ago. In my great-grandfather’s time.” She tipped back her glass and emptied it. “Gosh, I do believe I could do with another—but better not. Tomorrow will be a busy one, mark my words.” She looked at her hands, then at Kezia. “Have you seen it, the estate?”
“I have, yes. I went for a walk not long ago. Packed a lunch and set off across the fields, then followed the path at the back of Micawber Wood, through the forest there.”
“That’s not really a path, you know. Not any path you’d see on a map. It’s the old poachers’ way—leads through the woods, across another path, and right up to the lake.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re lucky their gamekeeper never caught you and hauled you in. He’d love to bag a Brissenden, and that’s a fact.”
“No, fortunately I never met him. I met Edmund Hawkes, though. He’s the son, isn’t he?”
“You met Hawkes? Well, I never. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“He was very nice, actually, considering he found me trespassing.”
“Oh, I bet he was all smiles and accommodating noise, was Edmund Hawkes.”
“Yes, to a point. He said I could go there any time I wanted.”
Thea looked at Kezia, as if searching for something in her countenance.
“What?” asked Kezia.
“Nothing. Did you tell Tom you’d seen him?”
“I can’t remember—I came home and was busy with his tea, so . . . um, I’m not sure. I probably did tell him, now I come to think about it.”
Kezia could feel Thea watching her, and hoped her friend would not credit any sign of her discomfort with significance.
“I’ll tell you what happened, and why those Hawkeses have never really forgiven us Brissendens.”
“Mr. Hawkes seemed as if it didn’t matter.”
“If he’s still like he was when he was a boy, he has that way about him, as if nothing matters enough to spur him to do something big. He probably said, ‘Oh, well, never mind,’ or something like that.”
“He had that air.”
“I will say this about him—and his great-grandfather, God bless his stupidity—they are gentlemen and keep to their word.”
“So, what happened?”
“Don’t tell Tom I told you, will you?”
“Whyever not?”
“He just doesn’t like to talk about it. He cherishes the farm, probably more than Dad, even, but he hates the thought that it was earned by means other than hard work. Mind you, if it had been down to hard work, rather than a bit of good fortune at the right time, then the land would have been ours in the Bronze Age. If toil got you a roof over your head and food in your belly, London wouldn’t have half the problems it has today. That’s why you see all those boys in a long line to enlist, and we’re not even at war yet—the king’s shilling will go a long way, and so will having food set on a plate in front of you if you become an army man.”
“But what about the farm?”
“Oh, yes, that. Well, here’s what happened, according to what’s been said—and I reckon it’s as close to the truth as makes no difference. We don’t talk about it in my family, you see—the farm’s just ours, and we get on with it. And Tom has always kept well away from Edmund Hawkes. Not that he’s got anything against him, but Hawkes came round once, to ask if Tom would like to join a shoot. I suppose Tom was about nineteen, and Hawkes would have been a bit older, perhaps twenty-five. Tom flat out refused, and that was the end of it.” Thea leaned across the table. “Anyway, Edmund Hawkes’ great-grandfather was a man who liked his drink, and he always liked a wager. He played the tables in London, and took himself off to France when he fancied, to the casinos over there. His father before him had been a canny fellow, and the estate was wealthy enough, but this Hawkes seemed bound to flutter away every penny—whether on cards, the horses, or if the sun would shine on Christmas Day. Bet on anything, that was him.”
“He sounds dreadful.” Kezia rested on her elbows to edge closer to Thea.
“He was, by all accounts. In any case, he was home from London one Friday, having come down on the coach. They had their own carriages and a whole stable of horses, but he’d come on the coach—we think—because he’d already lost a good deal on speculation and wanted to sneak home. He went into the pub to drown his sorrows and saw my great-grandfather playing darts, all on his own. It was the only drink he would have all week, on a Friday evening. My granddad said it was as if his father just wanted to be on his own, but in a comfortable place in the warm where he could enjoy his pint of ale. But old man Hawkes could never let the chance of a wager pass, so he pressed great-granddad Brissenden to a game with money. He refused—he wasn’t a gambling man, and he didn’t put up his hard-earned money on a bet. But Hawkes went on and on, apparently—and though it was only thought to be joshing, he said that my great-granddad was afraid he’d lose. According to my grandmother, Tom’s very much like the old man—a slow burn. And you don’t want to get near him when his patience is done. Finally, he said, ‘Put up the farm and you can have your game.’ ”
“But he could have lost everything,” whispered Kezia.
“No, not really. Hawkes would have known that if the Brissendens left the farm, they would be hard pushed to put a better tenant in there. And if old Hawkes had any sense, he would have walked out, laughing, and they would have both forgotten it. But he had a crowd, and he could not resist the wager. So he put up the farm on the best of three games of darts.”
“But what if he’d been a good shot with a dart?”
“Great-granddad knew that Hawkes was tired after a day in London, that he’d been drinking the local ale—and it would have been after wine in his City haunts. And he knew himself, that he had a good eye for the board, and if he wanted to hit a double top, he could.”
“So what happened?”
Thea drew back, laughing. “Oh, you are a silly—he won, of course, otherwise we wouldn’t have the farm! Ha
wkes had to keep to his word, because there were witnesses and the bet had been written up with both men’s signatures. It was over and done with quite quickly, the transfer.” She sighed. “I think the worry of it all took a toll on my great-grandfather though, but he worked hard to make the farm a good, solid going concern to leave to his son, my grandfather. And he renamed the farm and the fields—I think just before my father was born—to be a lesson. According to my father, his own grandfather was always saying that the way he won the farm for the family should be a lesson never to gamble on anything and never to be a debtor. He admired Dickens, and thought him some sort of morality messenger.” She shook her head. “If it had been up to me, it would be Brissenden Farm by now, and that would be it. But seeing as it’s no longer my home, well, it’s not up to me, is it?”
“Oh, Dorr—” said Kezia.
“See—that’s one reason why. I’m who I am here. There on the farm, to everyone in the village, I’m nothing but little Dorrit.”
“Sorry, Thea. It was just a slip.”
They slept as girlhood friends that night, in Thea’s bed. It was as if they were at Camden again, at a time when both felt homesick for a place that, in truth, they’d been happy to leave—for Thea it was the farm, and for Kezia, her role as daughter of the parsonage. It had been fear of the future that brought them together in sisterhood, a sense that neither quite belonged because they were scholarship girls. They’d had to prove themselves again and again to feel deserving of an education that came with strings attached. Now another kind of fear had taken root in their hearts, a fear that began to grow with talk of war, as if it were disease spreading through the body.
“Who knows what tomorrow will bring, Dorry?” said Kezia, in the darkness of Thea’s room.
Thea did not rush to correct Kezia this time, perhaps feeling comfort in a name she’d so easily discarded.
“Can you hear that, Kezia? There’s still people on the streets. It sounds like they’re letting off firecrackers.”
“I can hear them. I wish they’d all go home.”
“I do too. I’ve to work tomorrow—we may have ended the term, but we have a number of children coming back during the summer for private lessons, mainly in French and English literature, and of course arithmetic. So many have trouble with their addition and subtraction.” Thea sighed and turned in the bed, pushing Kezia even farther towards the edge.
They spoke no more, and eventually Thea’s breathing changed and Kezia knew she was asleep. The bed was uncomfortable enough for one; for two it was impossible. They were girls no longer, after all. Kezia lifted the covers and stretched out her legs. She crept over to the armchair, pulled a cardigan around her shoulders, and looked out of the window to the nothing of a dark night. She wondered if this was the difference between London and the country, that on the streets people kept each other up waiting for something to happen, whereas in the country it seemed that everyone went to bed knowing exactly what the next day would bring because the land dictated their work, and unless that work were done, the land would not reward them. Kezia would stay one more night with Thea. Tomorrow she would go to the shops, to the markets too, where she would buy spices and herbs she knew could not be found in the village store, or even in Tunbridge Wells. She’d buy some good coffee, the sort her father had introduced her to on her twelfth birthday. She’d winced at first as the strong black liquid touched her tongue, but soon acquired a taste for coffee midmorning and after supper—and since her marriage she had made it in the small cafetière her father had bought her as a special wedding gift. Yes, there was much to do today; when she returned, she would cook her lovely Tom a meal fit for an emperor.
Sleep claimed Kezia at last, and when she opened her eyes and yawned into the morning light, Thea was already pouring tea.
“There you go, Kezia. I’ll be home at about half past three today. Will you be all right on your own?”
“Do I seem such a country bumpkin already?” Kezia sipped her tea. “As soon as you’re gone, I will get myself ready and go out with my shopping list. I’ll go to Hatchards first to browse the books, and then to a good grocery shop to buy some bits and pieces for the kitchen. I might even go for a new blouse to wear to Hawkendene Manor for the party. I want to do Tom proud.”
“You do him proud anyway,” said Thea. “Even if that sort of thing should have gone down with the ark—the squire and his missus lording it over the rest of us, and especially the Hawkes family and their shenanigans.” She sipped her tea. “Watch out on the streets, they’ll be packed today.”
Kezia had loved living in London when she and Thea first came up to attend college. She remembered being fascinated, excited, as if she had arrived in a different country. And London felt and sounded like another country. All around her on the streets people were marked by their different modes of dress and the languages of foreign lands. She could hear Russian, German, French, Spanish—was that Maltese? And there were Italians and Americans, walking along side by side. Gypsy women from Bohemia stood on corners offering posies of lucky white heather for sale. Kezia remembered she could hardly stop staring at them, their colors and flounces, the hooped earrings and vibrant scarves covering rich black hair. Now she ventured out on the bus, all the while wishing she had remained at Thea’s lodgings; reading, knitting, anything to soothe her mind while she waited for her friend to return. It seemed that so many more people were out with no purpose except to wait, lingering outside pubs and restaurants, as if with food and drink came the comfort of togetherness: a force waiting for news. It was, thought Kezia, as if everyone felt more solid surrounded by other people; they even seemed to move in a mass, like a giant snake slithering here, then there, across the road and down the street. Newspaper vendors called out the headlines, and for one moment, before she at last reached Hatchards, Kezia thought she might faint, so clammy was the air. She did not want to consider war. She did not want to think of people she knew joining an army. And more than anything, right now, she wanted to be at the farm. There, she could count on things not to change. There was not this frenzy of emotion in the countryside villages. There was just the day ahead, with no talk of enlistments, no talk of Germans invading British soil.
The errands she had imagined would take just a couple of hours seemed to take so much longer. Arriving back at Queen Charlotte’s Chambers, she hoped she would have time for a rest before Thea arrived home. But Thea was already there, waiting.
“What are you doing here?”
“The school closed at lunchtime. Some mothers started coming for their children or sending their servants, so it was decided to get them all home. Most live quite close, and it’s a small area we serve, so we walked children back to their nannies in those big houses.” Thea grasped the back of a chair and leaned forward as if she were about to fall.
“Thea—Thea.” Kezia dropped her bags and went to her friend, holding her by the shoulders. “Come, sit down. You must be all in. Let me get you some tea. I can nip down the road to the bakery for some buns.”
Thea shook her head. “No. You can’t.” She scraped back the chair and looked up at Kezia. “I dropped in on my way home—I thought I would buy some of Mrs. Backer’s lovely strudel for us. But the shop is boarded up. I saw Mr. Backer nailing in the last plank of wood. He told me that some lads had come along earlier and smashed the windows with bricks. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment attack either—it had been planned. So they’re going to her sister in Wiltshire, away from London. And all because of their German name.” Thea took Kezia’s handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “I’m so angry. That’s why I’m crying. I am so fiercely angry that people can be so stupid—Mrs. Backer is English, and her husband was born here. His parents have lived here since they were just married. They set up that bakery and they all worked so hard. Now look—suddenly they’re being treated like the devil, and we’re not even at war yet. Part of me wishes they’d had the sense to call themselves ‘Baker’s Bakery’ years ago—but then, why shoul
d they? For goodness’ sake, half the king’s family are bloody German!”
“Thea!”
“Oh, please don’t be a prude, Kez. Not now, not here with me. I’ve used stronger language than that, you know.”
“But it might not happen, the war.”
“You and your head in the sand, Kezia.” She sat back in her chair and rubbed her face. “Come on, I’m not sitting here waiting—let’s go out and see if we can get news anywhere.”
Outside, the two women made their way along the street, passing the boarded-up bakery and another shop where the butcher was in the process of mending a window, while his son waited with wooden planks to secure the premises before they left. Thea stopped.
“Mr. Van Althuis—what’s happening? Surely you’re not going too.”
The man put down his tools and wiped his hands on a cloth tucked into his belt. He pushed back his cap and answered in a broad London accent. “It’s the bleeding fugs, ain’t it? Whadda they know about the difference between German and Dutch? Van, Von, it’s all the same to them. Nah, we’re off.”
“But where will you go?”
“I’ve got a bit put by, and my son’s been bringing home his keep, so we won’t starve. We’ve got relatives in Rotterdam, so we thought we might go there.”
“Have you ever been there? Can you speak Dutch?”
“Granddad spoke the language, and I can understand a bit—but nah, it’s all Greek to me. I’m London born and bred. My wife says we should lay low for a bit, then open the shop under another name. Might work. Might give it a try. Althuis means ‘old house’ so I thought ‘House & Son, The Butchers.’ Give people time, they might forget they ever knew us as Van Althuis—in point of fact, most of ’em call us Van Old House anyway! I reckon we might get out of London and think about it—mind you, if you’re a Londoner, the only place you belong is London, innit? Everywhere else you might as well be another outsider.”