The Sisters: Part 6

As Esther stopped the car, the perfectly-centred front door opened, and Dina barefoot and dressed in a gauzy Victorian nightshirt, came rushing out. Her long dove-grey hair seemed to be alive with static and floated around her head. She brought to mind otherworldly creatures from story books of old: aerial sprites, flower fairies and water nymphs.

‘Heavens help us, what is she wearing?’ murmured Rose, as she unfastened her seatbelt. ‘We should have come sooner. The situation is worse than I thought.’

Dina rushed across the gravel and warmly embraced her sisters and niece.

‘Dina, your feet, the gravel, you’ll hurt yourself,’ Betty cried. 

‘Nonsense. No worse than the colliery beach. Wait, let me call Dilys. I think she may be sulking with me; I hadn’t told her we were entertaining. Dilys! Dilys! Dilys!’ 

After a few moments, a tall, stately greyhound the colour of dusty blue velvet appeared, begrudgingly, on the doorstep. ‘There you are Dilys. I do hope the pork pies are still intact.’

The queenly hound held her snout high in the air and regaled the visitors with the haughty expression of a monarch inspecting her staff. Then, as if mortally disappointed by what she observed, she slunk back into the cool darkness of the house. 

Betty and Esther laughed in delight. Rose, however, was not used be being found wanting by a mere canine. ‘Well, really, that dog is no better than she ought to be,’ she muttered.

After cases were taken to bedrooms, Dina led her guests to the back garden. The vast emerald lawns ran down to a silver stream that shimmered and sparkled in the distance. Checked picnic blankets and cushions had been strewn under the dappled shade of a copper beech tree. A table had been carried outside and draped with a silken piano shawl. It was laden with food.

‘I thought we’d have a picnic. It is such a glorious day. It was one of Mrs Mills’ mornings, so instead of hoovering she’s helped me bake up a storm. There are quiches and pork pies, roast chicken legs, ham sandwiches, stilton scones, rhubarb cordial and ginger cordial. It’s all rather wonderfully Enid Blyton, don’t you think?’

‘It looks lovely, Dina,’ Betty exclaimed. ‘It’s fit for a queen. Four queens!’

‘Don’t forget Dilys, five queens,’ laughed Esther. ‘Thank you so much Aunt Dina. It’s beautiful. Who wants to be inside on such a perfect day?’ 

The women looked at Rose, who had yet to speak. ‘Well, I suppose I can sit on the ground if I must, but someone may have to help me up. I have brittle bones, you know.’

‘It’s not just your bones that are brittle, Rose. I am sure you’ll manage and of course we’ll help you. If you need it.’ Dina replied. It was an unexpectedly terse response, uttered with a quiet but flinty assurance. Betty looked at her sister-in-law with undisguised admiration. Rose looked chastened. Being snubbed by both a greyhound and her younger sister within the first ten minutes of arriving had not been part of her manifesto for the weekend.

The women helped themselves to plates of food and iced glasses of cordial and chatted of peripheral things: the weather, Mrs Mills’ witchery with pastry and, of course, Dilys. The greyhound had mustered sufficient energy to totter into the garden and now lay sprawled by Dina’s side. Every now and then she nudged her mistress with her long, elegant nose and was rewarded with a sliver of cheese or piece of pork pie.

‘I read an article in the local paper about racing greyhounds. What an awful life they have. They just shoot them, you know, if they don’t pass muster. It said greyhounds are the most quiet, languid dogs, surprisingly. Dilys here was a conscientious objector. She just refused to run, refused to chase the quarry. She would actually lie down on the track and nap. Peregrine and I always had dogs, of course. Always Labradors or spaniels, if you remember. Snuffling, busy dogs. Well, I read about greyhounds and got in touch with the rescue. Told them I wanted a quiet, gentle companion, told them about the greenhouse cats (I’ve got two at the moment, Esther). Anyway, they introduced me to Dilys and she could not be more perfect. She is with me all the time. In the kitchen when I eat, in the studio when I paint – I am thinking of doing a series of portraits of her dressed as various queens, she’d make a marvellous Queen Victoria I think – and she’s with me when I sleep, of course.’

‘In the bedroom?’ asked Rose with a shudder.

‘In the bed,’ Dina replied. ‘She’s a very restful presence. Although she does commandeer the duvet. Peregrine was the same, mind. At least she doesn’t snore like a buffalo like he did.’

The sun sailed higher. The air was quiet and thick. Nothing seemed to move in the garden. Everything was stilled, hushed, motionless as if enchanted by the magic of midsummer. Every now and then a petal would idly fall from a rose; its descent so slow and silent it felt as if it were happening in a dream. The colours of the garden seemed to vibrate and blur in the blinding sunlight. 

Esther looked at her aunts, whose true selves seemed to be revealed with a startling clarity in the afternoon’s radiance. Aunt Betty had kicked off her brogues and unbuttoned her cardigan and was resting her head on a velvet cushion, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady. She looked more peaceful, more content than Esther had ever seen her. She brought to mind a cat luxuriously sunning itself on a windowsill after a hearty dinner. The nervous, fluttery energy she usually radiated in her sister-in-law’s presence seemed to have waned in the stillness of the garden.

            Dina looked as cool and serene as a marble statue. She sat with her back to the beech tree and gazed towards the stream, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The greyhound was draped across her feet. Rose, unable to help herself, had asked Dina about her eclectic outfit. Dina had beamed, ‘This is one of Peregrine’s old nightshirts. They make the most wonderfully cool summer dresses. Of course, Peregrine was a mountain of a man, so it does swamp me somewhat. But, I actually think it is rather diaphanous and chic. I put a big belt on if I want to look a little fancy.’

            ‘But surely you don’t go out in that, do you, Dina?’ Rose had asked with undisguised mortification.

            ‘Only to the village shops, oh and on Dilys’ walks by the river and occasionally to the Black Bull for a glass of shandy,’ Dina had replied airily. ‘I’ve always been the village eccentric. I always will be. So was Peregrine, in his way. Quaint old English villages are full of oddballs like us. It’s marvellous to fit in somewhere because you don’t fit in. I look at old Mrs Cooper from The Grange. She’s convinced she’s the reincarnation of Boudicca. And no, it’s not her age, she’s believed it since she was a child. Anyway, we love Mrs Cooper, spear and all. That’s what you have never learnt, Rose. The deliciousness of being yourself and being loved for it. The deliciousness of just not giving a fuck what other people think of you.’ 

            Esther had felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for her Aunt Rose then, because Dina seemed to have unwittingly revealed a powerful truth. Rose had spent her whole life worrying about what others thought of her, and had never learnt the ‘deliciousness’ of being herself. The realisation landed with a gentle thud in Esther’s consciousness, like a ripe autumn apple falling into long, soft grass. The comments had momentarily silenced Rose too. She did not bother even to feign outrage at her sister’s bawdy language. She lowered her eyes and smoothed her skirt.

             Sensing she had the upper hand, Dina continued. ‘I know why you’re here. You’ve come to persuade me to sell up and leave this house. Well, Rose, I know that is what you feel anyway. Let me tell you, I shall never leave this house. I love this house. This garden. This village. I lived here with Peregrine and the children for almost forty years. Wonderfully, rich, happy years. Every day, every moment of happiness with them is soaked into the walls of this place, into the foundations. Peregrine is still here. I will not leave him. I will not leave, so please let’s not spoil our time together by even discussing it.’

            Betty nodded vigorously, ‘I know what you mean, Dina. Arthur is still with me in our house. Oh, it is nothing fancy like this place, but I still can see him in his armchair checking his pools coupon or reading his paper at the breakfast table. Of course, you should stay, Dina. You belong here.’ 

            Dina, rousing the snoring greyhound, leapt to her feet, rushed to Betty and hugged her tightly, ‘Oh Betty. It breaks my heart that you and Arthur had so little time together. And Winnie taken from Bill so soon too – oh Esther, your dear mum. We were all lucky to have found love, even if it was taken from us. You, me, Bill and Arthur. We were blessed, for a time at least.’

            Rose stood up. She brushed crumbs from her skirt. She simmered with a cool, ghostly calm. ‘Well, of course, you are not the only ones to have been lucky in love. I have my Duncan. He is simply everything to me.’ Her voice trembled slightly. She removed an embroidered lace handkerchief and meekly dabbed her eyes.

            ‘Why of course, Rose,’ Dina cried, jumping to her feet. ‘It’s just that, well, you are lucky enough to still have Poor Duncan, sorry Duncan . . . Duncan. Duncan is still with us. Still alive.’

            ‘How can you be so sure?’ Betty had found her voice. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she had been bedevilled into speaking out loud. She met Esther’s eye and although she looked contrite, it was the contrition of a dog who had just eaten his master’s lunch: the deliciousness of the crime made any fleeting guilt worthwhile. Rose’s eyes flashed with fury. Esther decided a change of subject was urgently required.

            ‘Aunt Dina, why don’t you tell us about your new art. Aunt Rose tells me you are not painting flowers anymore.’ 

Dina sat down and leant back against her tree. Dilys moved to her side and lay down again, perfectly curled like a swirl of cream in a cup of coffee. ‘Yes. I am developing a more experimental style. There are only some many times one can paint a chrysanthemum. We’re doing life drawings at the church hall. We invite art students in to pose. I’ll show you if you like?’

            ‘Nudes?’ Betty exclaimed.

            ‘Yes, nudes. Young men and women. Now, there’s the problem really. It’s only the young ones who agree to take their clothes off and I do want to start a series about how the body changes as it ages.’

            ‘Dear God.’ Rose uttered.

            ‘So, Esther, you can keep your lovely young body clothed, but if either of you more – more antique ladies, my wonderful, helpful sisters, wanted to pose for me this weekend, I’d be most grateful.’

            ‘Naked?’ Betty asked, flushing like a schoolgirl.

            ‘Yes, Mr Mills has posed for me already, but I haven’t found a female model of older vintage yet.’

            ‘Mr Mills the gardener?’

            ‘Why, yes.’

            ‘But he must be in his seventies,’ 

            ‘Eighty-four actually, Betty, but marvellous with it, weather beaten and gnarled like an old tree. Rose, could I tempt you? You still have the most graceful, most girlish figure, you know?’

            Rose, who was still on her feet, looked like a great actress patiently waiting for the opportunity to deliver her final line and make her sweeping exit, ‘Actually, Dina. I’m feeling just a little unwell. It must be the sunlight. I think, if you don’t mind, I may go and lie down for a while. I am not quite myself.’

            ‘Oh, don’t go, Rose. I was only teasing really,’ Dina grabbed Rose’s hand and held it firmly, ‘Mrs Cooper has offered to model for me, although her spear and shield will spoil the effect somewhat. Sit down, Rose. Please.’ 

            ‘I’ll stay standing, if you don’t mind,’ Rose said pertly. But she made no effort to leave. 

Dina babbled on, ‘Ladies, I meant to mention something I heard on the radio this morning. It slipped my mind. I heard on the local news that they have found a body in the colliery. No more details other than that, oh and the police are treating it as suspicious. Betty, do you know anything of this?’ 

            Betty nodded, ‘The police were just arriving when we left, isn’t that right, Esther? I tried to tell you this in the car, Rose, but you weren’t listening. It seemed to be Twelfth Street where all the kerfuffle was. I didn’t know that it was a body mind. A dead body, do you think?’

            ‘Oh for heaven’s sake Betty, what other kind of body could it be? You can be such a nitwit sometimes,’ Rose snapped. ‘But, the colliery is not what it used to be. It is not the place I grew up. I know we didn’t have much, but it was clean and safe and proud and good. My, we used to play out at all hours, people kept their doors. . .’

             ‘. . .doors unlocked. You know that old chestnut is utter poppycock Rose.’ Dina interjected. ‘It’s what people always say but it wasn’t true at all. Look what happened to those poor Coxon girls, snatched outside a Brownie meeting and never seen again. That happened in your bloody utopian, doors-unlocked colliery. Life isn’t a Catherine Cookson novel, you know.’

             ‘Could it be one of the Coxon girls, after all this time?’ Esther asked. She remembered John Coxon. She remembered what Miss Finch, who had loved him, said about him,a good man worn away by grief.

            ‘It could still be drugs,’ Betty said. ‘There have been quite a few drug deaths in the past few years.’

            Rose continued, ‘And that is a sign too. That proves my point that anything goes these days. We didn’t have drug deaths when we were young. Morality is out of the window. What happened to those little girls was horrific. It was horrific because it was so rare. So unexpected. So out of place. Not like these days. There are bodies everywhere you look these days, or so it seems. It was not like that when we were young. It simply wasn’t.’

            The women sat in silence. The shadows had begun to lengthen and the sticky, stillness of the afternoon gave the sensation the four women were trapped under a dome of stifling air. Thunder was coming, for sure. 

            Dina sighed and rested her head on the cool trunk of the beech tree. ‘Rose, you romanticise the past. You romanticise everything. There will be evil in the colliery now, and there was certainly evil in the colliery when we grew up. You of all people should know that to be the absolute truth.’

            Next to her, Esther heard Betty take a sharp intake of breath. Rose turned and stared at Dina, her eyes wide with disbelief. She floundered for a moment, and opened her mouth to speak, but it seemed the great actress could not bring to mind her lines. ‘I must lie down,’ she said quietly before gliding across the lawn with the brittle dignity of a dethroned queen. 

            ‘Well, you’ve done it now, Dina. You’ve well and truly put the cat amongst the pigeons now.’ Betty said. 

            Dina shrugged and closed her eyes, ‘Maybe it’s time, Betty. Maybe it’s time.’