For Jeannie and Tony
without a grain of gluten

TEN YEARS EARLIER

‘GOOD NIGHT,’ ELLEN called to Hugh, ‘brilliant teacher.’

A boat chugged on the river beyond the cliffs before Hugh said ‘Night’ from the brothers’ tent as if he wasn’t sure his cousin Ellen had meant him.

‘Good night, famous artist,’ Ellen called to Rory.

The sound of the engine had dwindled towards the Welsh coast by the time Rory responded ‘Aren’t we getting too old for this?’

Charlotte wriggled around in her sleeping bag to face Ellen in the dark. ‘He means camping out,’ she said loud enough for Rory to hear.

‘You mustn’t let our aunt and uncle know you think that even if you do,’ Ellen called to Rory.

‘He won’t. Go on, say good night,’ urged Hugh.

‘I don’t need my little bro to tell me what to do.’ In a voice more childish than he’d sounded when he was half his sixteen years Rory added ‘Nighty-night, sweet dreams.’

‘Don’t let him take away the magic,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘He’s only being like boys are.’

‘Hugh isn’t,’ Ellen said lower still. ‘Anyway, good night, equally famous writer.’

‘And good night, caring person,’ Charlotte said to Ellen.

If this sounded feeble by comparison, at least it was true. Three short stories in the school magazine and half a dozen chapters of a novel not even printed out from her computer hardly entitled Charlotte to be judged a writer, even if she might like to earn the name as much as Hugh wanted to teach and Rory, though he would never admit it, to be hailed a painter. ‘Wake up older,’ she called.

‘And wiser,’ said Hugh.

‘And prettier,’ Ellen supplied.

‘And with all your eyes open.’

‘How many of those have you got, Rory?’

‘Watch it, Hugh, or we’ll be thinking you’ve got an imagination.’

‘Now, boys,’ Ellen said, ‘don’t spoil the summer. Let’s just enjoy our lovely night.’

They’d recently finished gazing at the sky while it filled with dark and stars. When Rory pointed out galaxies nobody else had noticed, Charlotte had suggested they were ghosts composed of light from the distant past. She might have been happy to continue lying outside on the grass if the vista of infinity hadn’t made the ground feel infirm, an impression gradually dissipating now that she was snug in her padded cocoon. At least the tents were as far from the edge of the cliff as the campers had promised Auntie Betty once she’d finished failing to persuade Rory to camp in the back garden. ‘We’ll look after the girls,’ Hugh had said in case that helped.

Charlotte was drifting into sleep as these memories grew blurred when Ellen spoke. Her voice was loose with slumber, so that it took Charlotte some moments to guess the word or words: hardly ‘Pendemon’, since that meant as little as a dream; possibly ‘Pendulum’ if not ‘Depends on …’ She peered across the narrow space between the bags and was just able to distinguish that Ellen was facing her with eyes shut tight. Even more indistinctly Ellen protested ‘Don’t want to see. Won’t look.’

‘Don’t,’ Charlotte advised, and might have said it louder if it would rescue Ellen from her dream. Perhaps Ellen was attached to the experience, because with an emphatic wriggle she presented her back to her cousin. ‘Keep it to yourself, then,’ Charlotte said and returned to her search for sleep.

Oddly, Ellen’s words left her feeling watched. The brothers had been silent for a while, but the darkness was finding its voices: the croak of a frog on the common, the cry of a midnight bird over the river. A breeze tried the flap of the tent before rattling a clump of gorse. Was Charlotte hearing a frog or a crow? The harsh sound was more prolonged than she would have expected from either. As Ellen stirred uneasily Charlotte took the chance to say ‘What do you think that is out there?’

Ellen had no view, though she expelled a breath that might have been a wordless plea for her to be left alone. Perhaps Charlotte’s question had come close to rousing her, unless the noise close by on the common had. In a moment the pair of croaks was repeated. Could the speaker be uttering them behind a hand? That would explain their stifled quality, and speaker seemed to be the right word, since she could imagine that the repetition contained two syllables. It sounded like her name. ‘All right, Mr Punch,’ she called. ‘Let’s have those dreams you were talking about.’

She was turning over when he repeated the utterance. Was Hugh asleep? She would have expected him to second her request if it had been audible in the boys’ tent. ‘Shush now, Rory,’ she said loud enough to make Ellen shift with a rustle of the fabric of her bag, but he scarcely let her finish before he croaked her name again. If she remonstrated any louder she might waken Ellen. She eased the zip down on her sleeping bag until she was able to slide out and untie the bow that held shut the flap of Betty’s and Albert’s tent. As she ducked through the opening and raised her head she was greeted by her name.

Now she understood why Hugh hadn’t intervened. Rory wasn’t speaking from their tent but somewhere closer to the cliff. The trouble was that he had nowhere to hide on the expanse of turfy common. He must be lurking over the edge, beyond which the black river underlined the Welsh coast that glittered as if a section of the sky had fallen to earth. ‘I know where you are,’ she called, impatient with the joke. ‘Come back before we both catch cold.’

In fact the grass beneath her bare feet seemed no colder than the inside of the sleeping bag had been. Might Rory be sickening for something, though? When he spoke her name again as if he couldn’t think or couldn’t bother thinking of another word, she realised why she’d mistaken his voice for a crow’s before she was quite awake; it kept catching in his throat, perhaps on phlegm. ‘Give it a rest,’ she urged. ‘You don’t want to fall down the cliff.’

This put her in mind of the girl who had thrown herself off, unless she’d slipped while running along the edge nearby, above the rocks. According to their uncle’s version of last year’s local newspaper report, she had been bullied at school – at least, she’d told her parents that she couldn’t stand how she was being watched. Charlotte felt as if she were gaining years of maturity to compensate for the ones he seemed happy to give up, because she was striding across the blackened grass to find him rather than abandoning him to his silly fate. She was almost at the cliff when she faltered, throwing up her arms for balance or from frustration. The clogged voice had named her yet again, but it was at her back.

As she twisted around, the sky seemed to reel like a whirlpool brimming with stars. How had he managed to sneak past her? The common was deserted all the way to the twin elongated pyramids of the tents, and beyond them for at least a quarter of a mile to a dim hedge bordering a dimmer field. ‘Throwing your voice now?’ she suggested before realising how he could. No wonder it was so harsh and indistinct if he was using a cheap microphone. Of course he must have hidden a receiver somewhere in the grass.

It was almost at her feet. By the time it finished dragging out her name again she was within inches of it. The voice sounded more congested than ever, so that she wondered if soil had got into the receiver. Her T-shirt rode up her thighs as she crouched, having distinguished a gap in the turf where Rory had cut into it to hide the receiver. She dug her fingers into the overgrown gap and lifted the large square of turf.

More than turf rose to meet her. As she teetered on her heels, Charlotte only just kept hold of the metal object she’d found. She straightened up and did her best to bring it with her, but it was embedded in earth or turf or some more solid item. She stooped to tug at it with both hands, and almost toppled into blackness. She wasn’t holding a receiver. It was the handle of a trapdoor.

She let go as she stumbled backwards, and the trapdoor fell open with a thud. A smell of earth seeped out of the blackness as she tried to see what she’d opened up. The sky seemed to blacken and sag with her concentration, but she could see nothing beyond the square outline without standing over the hole. She planted her feet on either side of a corner opposite the trapdoor and peered down.

The hole was full of blackness. She thought there might be steps, except that the dim slope looked too featureless, more like a heap of earth. She was able to discern two handfuls of pebbles separated by a slightly larger pair of stones some way below ground level, but she was distracted from examining them once she observed that the handle was on top of the supine trapdoor. It had been on the inside, and so the door must have been partly open when she’d groped underneath. As she pondered this she heard her name.

The voice sounded close to falling to bits. She could almost have imagined that it or his breath was catching on the substance of the speaker’s throat. If she meant to retrieve Rory’s device she would have to climb into the hole. She might have left the receiver to rot if the slow thick crumbling voice had given her a chance to think or feel. It was intoning her name without a pause, and growing so loud that she couldn’t understand why it hadn’t roused Ellen or Hugh. The vibration was shifting the earth where the receiver was buried, a few inches lower down the slope than the collection of pebbles. It was even dislodging the earth around the larger pair, which appeared to swell up from the dimness.

Charlotte peered at them as she gripped the stony edge of the hole in order to descend and took hold of the handle of the trapdoor. She was taking her first step into the dark when she noticed that the stones weren’t just moving but widening. They were eyes, watching her without a hint of a blink. The smaller pebbles were stirring too, poking up to reveal they were fingertips. The discoloured hands were reaching to help her down or drag her into the earth.

As she recoiled the ground seemed to give beneath her. She was terrified that it was spilling into the hole until she realised her bare feet had lost their purchase on the grass. One skidded over the edge and met a bunch of cold objects that responded by writhing eagerly. She kicked out and flung herself away from the hole, almost sprawling on her back. She was thrusting her hands under the trapdoor to lever it up when the voice repeated her name.

The thud of the trapdoor laid it to rest, but its clogged yet mocking tone suggested she hadn’t escaped. The panic that she’d barely managed to suppress overwhelmed her, and she backed away so fast her ankles knocked together. She no longer knew where the trapdoor was. She had no idea where she was going except backwards until, with a swiftness that snatched all her breath, the common vanished together with the further landscape of fields and distant houses as if earth had closed over her eyes. She had backed off the edge of the cliff.

Its side rushed up past her like a mass of smoke, and then her feet struck ground, too soon. She was on a ledge close to the top, which meant she had a long way to fall. She staggered against the cliff to rest her face and hands against the clay while she tried to be sure of her balance. The ledge was dismayingly narrow as well as slippery with sand. ‘Can someone come?’ she cried before she had time to wonder who might respond. ‘Can anyone hear?’

She could – a muffled restless sound, and then a louder and more purposeful version. She wasn’t sure it was made by the flap of a tent until Ellen called somewhat sleepily ‘Was that you, Charlotte? Where are you?’

‘Here,’ Charlotte shouted and turned her shaky head to see. It wasn’t a ledge, it was a path that led straight to the top. As she scrambled upwards, a shape loomed above her. ‘What on earth are you doing down there?’ Ellen said. ‘Were you sleepwalking?’

Charlotte didn’t answer until her cousin took her hand and helped her over the edge. The common stretched as blank as innocence to the tents. She murmured her thanks and stayed close to Ellen while they padded across the grass. She could see no sign of a hidden trapdoor in the area where she remembered it to have been, and how could none of her cousins have been disturbed by a voice as loud as the one she’d seemed to hear? ‘I must have been,’ she decided and instantly felt better.

This appeared to be Hugh’s cue to call ‘Where are they? Which way did they go?’

‘Listen to it,’ Ellen said with an affectionate laugh. ‘It’s a good job we didn’t have to rely on the boys, isn’t it, Charlotte?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Rory demanded. ‘We were asleep. I was down the house.’

‘Charlotte’s been walking in her sleep.’ Ellen led her into the tent and waited while she wriggled into her sleeping bag. ‘Let’s get you snug so you can’t wander off again,’ she said, zipping the bag up tight. For a moment, until she controlled herself, Charlotte found the tent and the bag and Ellen’s concern almost as oppressive as the notion of climbing down into the dark.

ONE

‘SHALL WE WALK along the beach for some more exercise?’ Ellen said.

They were at the end of the road that led from Thurstaston to the cliff. Above the Welsh coast the sky was padded with white clouds that kept displaying and repacking the sun. As sunlight outdistanced a mass of shadow that raced across the common alongside the road, the grass seemed to breathe the light in. A child cried out beyond the thorny hedge that had just turned more luminously green, and it wasn’t until a man shouted ‘Shemp’ that Charlotte realised the child had been startled by a dog. By then Hugh had told Ellen ‘Good idea before we have to drive.’

Ellen raised her almost invisible eyebrows and then narrowed her bluish eyes and pressed her full lips together as if searching for a way to render her round face less plump. ‘You’re supposed to say I don’t need any exercise, Hugh.’

His long face tried on an apologetic smile as he passed a hand over his cropped scalp before patting his prominent stomach. ‘I meant I did. You need to keep fit in my job.’

Rory shook his head, wagging his black ponytail. His face was even longer than his brother’s and bonier as well, which emphasised his large sharp nose. His habitual wry but weary grin, so faint it was close to secretive, scarcely wavered as he said ‘Say what you see or you’ll never be a writer.’

‘I’m not one,’ Hugh said as though he’d failed to grasp that Rory wasn’t addressing him. ‘You’re the artistic lot. I’m Supermarket Man.’

‘That’s art if you do it right,’ Rory said. ‘Everything is.’

‘You’re just as important as the rest of us, Hugh.’ Perhaps in a bid to heighten his tentative smile, Ellen added ‘More than I can be just now.’

‘You’ve been crucial to people who needed it,’ Charlotte assured her. ‘So are we having our last walk on the beach?’

Rory’s shrug might have been intended to dislodge her wistfulness. He turned fast along the path that skirted a caravan park. An assortment of steps up which several large dogs and their less energetic owners were scrambling led to the beach, where the tide had pulled the river back from the cliffs. Halfway down Ellen glanced around at Charlotte, then hurried after the brothers, her slightly more than shoulder-length blonde hair swaying as if to deny she’d had a question for her cousin. They were all on the beach by the time she murmured ‘I shouldn’t think anyone’s had time to look at my little novel.’

‘Not so little,’ Hugh protested.

‘Not so novel either,’ Rory said.

‘You’ve been reading it, then,’ Ellen said like a gentle rebuke.

‘Some of it,’ he said and glanced away from the unfurling of a swathe of windblown sand. ‘I liked the bit where you had some old character muttering silently. Good trick if you can bring it off.’

‘I thought it was pretty original,’ Hugh said. ‘The whole book, I mean.’

‘You’ve never heard of anybody having nightmares that turned real before.’

‘Not old folk giving them to people who mistreat them.’ Hugh bit his lip before asking Ellen ‘It couldn’t give you any problems if someone you didn’t want to hear about it heard about it, could it?’

‘Gosh, that’s a mouthful. Who would they be?’

‘They couldn’t say at the industrial tribunal you’d been making stories up about old people being treated badly, could they?’

‘It would have to be published first, Hugh. I’m sure they’ll see I was telling the truth.’

‘You haven’t said what you thought of it yet,’ Rory told Charlotte.

She’d kept feeling that the conversation was about to converge on her. ‘To be honest, Ellen –’

‘That’s what I want you to be. I absolutely do.’

‘I think it needs some work.’

‘You’re saying you can publish it if she works on it?’ Hugh enthused. ‘That’s great news, isn’t it, Ellen?’

‘I don’t know if she’s quite saying that,’ Ellen said and gazed at an approaching rush of sunlight that snagged on clumps of sedge.

‘I’d have to see your revisions before I could be too definite. I’ll email you when I’m back at my desk.’

‘That’s still great news, isn’t it?’ Hugh insisted. ‘You won’t be paying her anything on account yet then, Charlotte.’

‘No contract for the first book till it’s publishable, that’s the directive that came round last month.’

‘Even for family?’ Perhaps sensing that he’d gone too far, Hugh made haste to add ‘I was only wondering if you were hard up, Ellen. You could have my thousand and pay me back whenever you can.’

‘You can have mine too by all means,’ Charlotte said.

‘It wouldn’t buy her much in London,’ Rory seemed to feel he should reassure Ellen. ‘Hardly worth getting the train for.’

Charlotte thought that was a remark too far. ‘I didn’t come for the will,’ she said, ‘I came for the funeral.’

‘Then you’re no better than the rest of us. You can stick my handout in the bank as well, Ellen. I’d rather still have Albert and Betty, and I don’t need it for the stuff I’m playing at.’

‘You’re all too generous. You treat yourselves and don’t worry about me. I’ll make do if I have to.’

Charlotte refrained from pointing out to Rory that she’d spoken at the funeral – Albert’s, who had died less than four months after his wife. Some of his colleagues had reminisced about working with him at the library to which he’d donated his collection of old books, and a bearded guitarist rendered a twenty-first-century folk song about giving oneself back to the earth. Other librarians read favourite passages of Albert’s from The Pickwick Papers and Three Men in a Boat, earning muted amusement that sounded dutiful, and then it had been Charlotte’s turn. She’d kept panicking while she rehearsed the eulogy in the shower or on the roof terrace above her flat, but as she climbed into the pulpit she’d seen that she just needed to talk to her cousins. She reminded them of the word games their uncle had relished inventing, the one where you had to say an even longer sentence than the previous player, and the game of adding words to a sentence spoken backwards, and the conversations made up of words in reverse, when Betty had vacillated between tears of frustration and of helpless mirth … ‘Rebmemer, rebmemer,’ Charlotte had finished, prompting mostly puzzled looks and a few guarded smiles from her uncle’s friends and token laughter from her cousins. The all-purpose priest had brought the proceedings to an end with a Cherokee homily, and as curtains closed off the exhibition of the coffin while speakers emitted one of Albert’s favourite Beatles ditties, the congregation had vacated the unadorned chapel to accommodate the next shift of mourners. Charlotte and her cousins had to represent the family outside the crematorium, since their various parents were either abroad or estranged from Albert since he’d closed into himself after his wife’s death. Charlotte had felt uncomfortably presumptuous, especially since the rest of the occasion was so lacking in ritual. ‘We all came, that’s what matters,’ she belatedly said.

‘It’s like we’ve never been away,’ Hugh said. ‘Nothing’s changed along here except us.’

‘What are you using for eyes?’ Rory was amused to ask. ‘Everything has. Not a single grain of sand’s the same.’

‘I shouldn’t reckon even you can see them all.’

‘I’m saying there’s not a solitary bloody thing that hasn’t moved or grown or died or come or gone.’

Charlotte had a sudden notion that neither of the brothers was entirely right. ‘Depends on …’ she almost began and wondered why the phrase should feel unwelcome. She gazed along the miles of cliff that stretched to the mouth of the river. Spiky tufts of grass turned towards her in a breeze as if sensing her interest, while the cliff face that sprouted them appeared to stir, acknowledging her concentration. A flood of shadow lent a darker substance to the cliff, and she was trying to decide why its presence had grown oppressive when Rory said ‘Have we walked enough of us off yet?’

‘Up to Ellen,’ said Hugh.

As she responded with a gentle frown Rory said ‘I’ve had tramping through sand, that’s all. Bungs my senses up.’

Charlotte didn’t notice the path, a series of zigzags lying low in the grass on the cliff face, until he turned towards it, and then she remembered falling onto it out of her teenage dream. ‘Beat you to it,’ she declared and strode upwards.

The cliff crowded into one side of her vision and then the other as the path, which was only inches wider than her waist, changed direction. Tufts of grass caught her feet or emitted whispers of restless sand. The cliff top would be safer, and only the low wadded sky made her feel as if she were under a lid. She remembered lying in the tent that night, unable to stay asleep for the thought of closing a trapdoor on herself and utter darkness. She tried to leave the memory behind as she climbed onto the open common.

A gorse bush scraped its thorns together as a wind dissipated through the grass. The clump of about a dozen bushes was the only vegetation other than the green expanse that stretched more than a quarter of a mile to a hedge, and Charlotte was wondering why the view should contain even the hint of a threat when Hugh stepped up behind her. ‘This reminds me of the last time we camped out,’ he said.

‘It should. It’s where we were.’

He tramped past her and gazed about before rubbing his scalp as if that might electrify his brain. ‘I don’t think I know where I am.’

Rory joined them and shook his head at his brother. ‘How could you get lost up here?’

‘Charlotte did last time.’ Less defensively Hugh asked her ‘Have you sleptwalked since?’

‘Has she what again, Hugh?’ Ellen clambered onto the common and tucked her dishevelled blouse into her jeans. ‘Don’t all look at me,’ she begged.

‘Sleptwalked, sleepwalked, I don’t know. Does it matter that much?’

‘Not enough to have an argument about,’ Charlotte said. ‘I was the one who did it, after all, just that once.’

‘I’d have expected you of all people to care about words.’ With no lessening of reproachfulness Ellen said ‘I was the one who looked after you. Shall we walk?’

Charlotte couldn’t help peering at the grass as she followed Ellen. She recalled how a slab of it had risen in her dream, and felt as if the memory wouldn’t go away until she identified the spot. Of course she was on edge only because of the funeral, and at first she was glad to be distracted when Hugh spoke. ‘We had a bad night too.’

‘He means we kept waking each other up. We were asleep when you girls were on the wander, though.’

‘Good gracious,’ Ellen said as their aunt used to. ‘What were you boys up to in your bags?’

‘Just dreaming,’ said Hugh.

‘Nothing to blush about, then.’

‘It wasn’t,’ he said, though her question had mottled his cheeks. ‘Just I couldn’t find my way somewhere.’

‘I couldn’t see where I’d got trapped somehow,’ Rory offered. ‘Might have been a house with no lights in.’

‘It’s not like you to be so unobservant.’

‘He said I was asleep,’ Rory retorted, though Ellen’s comment had been affectionate. ‘Your turn.’

‘I was saving Charlotte, if you remember.’

As Charlotte thought the answer had been too quick and glib, a mass of blackness seeped out of the earth all around them. Although it was the shadow of a cloud, it made her feel shut in. ‘We’re heading back, yes?’ she said and set out for the gate through the distant hedge. Even when sunlight washed away the shadow, she could have fancied that darkness was pacing her and her cousins under the earth.

TWO

‘YOU MAY CALL your witness, Miss Lomax.’

Just one, Ellen thought as she pushed back her chair – just one former inmate of the Seabreeze Home had agreed to testify on her behalf. She didn’t blame the others for refusing. They’d been through enough, and so many were living on little but memories that she didn’t want to make them recollect the bad ones. At least they weren’t speaking up for the Cremornes as Peggy appeared to have promised she would, if she wasn’t playing one of her wily games. As Ellen opened the door of the committee room she was eager to read her face.

Six straight chairs kept company in the corridor, beneath an interbellum photograph of Southport Pier, but only two were occupied, by Muriel Stiles and a nurse. ‘Thanks so much for coming, Muriel,’ Ellen said.

The old woman took some moments to tilt her head up, which failed to unwrinkle her neck. Her wide loose faded face was so preoccupied that Ellen had the fleeting fancy that the crowded photograph of sedate revellers, an image of enjoyment curbed by moderation and flanked by wars, could be a childhood memory that Muriel was reliving. It reminded Ellen of a flashback inset in a panel of a comic. She would have scribbled down the image if she’d had a notebook, but Muriel was giving her a shaky smile. ‘Don’t worry, Muriel,’ she said. ‘I won’t let anyone upset you. Just say what you remember.’

She held the door open as the nurse ushered Muriel into the room. The tribunal was seated at the far end of the long table, on the left side of which the Cremornes guarded their lawyer. To Ellen’s and quite possibly to Muriel’s dismay, the nurse steered his charge in that direction. ‘This side,’ Ellen told him in less of a murmur than she would have preferred.

Virginia Cremorne interlaced her fingers and sat forwards with a prayerful expression on her small sharp face as Muriel sank onto the chair opposite. ‘How are you keeping, Muriel? You’re looking as fit as ever.’

Jack Cremorne pinched his shiny brown moustache between finger and thumb as if he meant to remove a disguise from his large perpetually suffused face, then fell to gripping his chin as he said ‘Nice to see you again, Muriel. A pity you felt you had to leave us, but we hope you’re managing to settle in where you are now.’

Surely they shouldn’t be allowed to speak to her that way. When Ellen sent the tribunal a glance that was rather more than enquiring, the chairman said ‘Is Miss Stiles ready to proceed?’

Ellen turned further towards Muriel. ‘Can I just ask you –’

Both women on the committee parted their lips – like a ventriloquists’ contest, Ellen might have noted – but it was the chairman who said ‘Miss Stiles will need to take the oath.’

‘You’d think someone didn’t want people telling the truth,’ Jack Cremorne suggested to his wife.

Ellen would have expected the chairman to issue a rebuke, but he only held a Bible out to her. She handed the diminutive book to Muriel, who extracted the card that bore the oath and performed it with such force that Ellen was reminded how she’d often told tales of her days in amateur dramatics. Muriel carried on pressing the Bible to her bosom until the chairman had to ask for the book. ‘By all means proceed,’ he said.

‘I’m just going to ask you a few questions about things Mr and Mrs Cremorne have been saying about me, Muriel. Did –’

‘We aren’t the only ones that say them,’ Virginia Cremorne said.

‘They were said to us,’ her husband amplified.

‘That will be addressed,’ said their lawyer.

‘May I speak now?’ When the chairman delivered a weighty nod of his saturnine squarish head, Ellen asked Muriel ‘Did you ever see me steal from any of the residents?’

‘I certainly never did.’

‘Did any of the other residents?’

‘Objection,’ the lawyer said. ‘Hearsay.’

‘Now, Mr Bentley, you know that isn’t how it’s done,’ the heavier and more plainly dressed of the committeewomen said. ‘You’ll have your turn.’

‘If I may be allowed to finish my question,’ Ellen said, starting to feel like a lawyer, ‘did any of the other residents say they had?’

‘Had what?’ Muriel said and glared at the Cremornes. ‘We didn’t have much. I didn’t get half of what I paid for. Cold in bed and starved at dinner.’

As Virginia Cremorne opened her outraged mouth, Ellen tried to retrieve her theme. ‘I was asking if they said they saw me steal.’

‘She’ll be tying her tongue in a knot if she carries on like that, won’t she?’ Muriel said to the chairman. ‘They said they saw me steal,’ she repeated and attempted to do so at speed. ‘I used to be able to say those,’ she conceded at last. ‘The things you miss at my age.’

‘Miss Stiles,’ the chairman said, ‘if you could do your best –’

‘Only trying to cheer the show up. You three look as if you could do with it or you’ll be as bad as this pathetic pair.’ To Ellen she said ‘Nobody saw you because you never did.’

‘Thank you, Muriel. And as far as you know, was I ever drunk on the job?’

‘You had a glass of wine at my eightieth, didn’t you? Everyone did except for this pair, who couldn’t be bothered to come.’

‘It should be in the records that I wasn’t on duty that day,’ Ellen said to the tribunal. ‘I went in for Muriel’s party.’

‘Some of the staff that were on had a lot more to drink. Pam was so squiffy she dropped Hilda in the bath.’

‘The person concerned is no longer employed by us,’ Jack Cremorne informed the panel.

‘How about bullying, Muriel? Was I ever guilty of that to your knowledge?’

‘You were not. You were the one who cared for us most and that’s why you said what you had to. Standing up to people isn’t bullying.’

Though Virginia Cremorne uttered less than a word, it was enough to provoke Muriel. ‘I’ll tell you an example,’ she declared and turned from the panel to Ellen. ‘What was the blackie’s name again?’

Ellen thought it best not to draw attention to the term. ‘Daniel, you mean.’

‘That’s him. A big black buck, that’s what they used to call them,’ Muriel said with some defiance. ‘Doris kept saying he’d sneak into her room at night and do things to her, but he made out she was imagining it and this pair said she must be. If you ask me they were scared he’d sue them because you can’t say anything about anyone these days unless they’re white.’

‘I really must point out,’ Virginia Cremorne said, ‘that the person referred to –’

‘Don’t bother telling them you fired him. That wasn’t till this girl followed him to Doris’s room one night and found him touching her. He got hold of her and tried to throw her out while she was asking Doris about it. I heard it all, and I’ll tell you what else, don’t talk to me about drinking. That stuff he used to smoke in the back garden and some of the rest of them did, that was worse than any drink.’

‘That’s entirely news to us,’ Jack Cremorne said. ‘Isn’t it, dear?’

The lawyer held up his skinny hands between the couple and inclined his balding but unruly head towards the chairman. ‘In any case the people mentioned aren’t the subject of this enquiry.’

‘I see that, Mr Bentley. Have you any further questions, Miss Lomax?’

‘Would you say I neglected the residents, Muriel?’

‘I would not,’ Muriel said and squinted at the tribunal. ‘She cared so much about us she lost her job reporting the place to the authorities when this pair wouldn’t listen.’

‘Thanks, Muriel. No further questions.’

Muriel was gripping the edge of the table as an aid to standing up when the lawyer said ‘I won’t detain you long, Miss Stiles.’

As her wrists continued to tremble once she’d subsided onto the chair he said ‘You’ve told us a number of things you didn’t see Miss Lomax do. Can you tell us anything you actually saw besides her enjoying a glass of wine at the party Mr and Mrs Cremorne were kind enough to have the home put on for you?’

‘I said how she dealt with that animal in Doris’s room.’

‘I understood you to say you only overheard what may have happened. I think the incident proves my clients were quite willing to take action whenever there was the need. Was there anything you saw with your own eyes?’

‘There was plenty. I saw what was his name, the one with the face like a bloodhound, Billy kicking Anna’s legs because she wouldn’t go to bed and saying she’d hurt herself falling. And I saw –’

‘May I ask you to confine yourself to Miss Lomax? This hearing is about her.’

‘I’ll say everything I said all over again if you like. And I’ll tell you this, she was the only one we trusted out of the lot of them. Even the ones who never did anything to us wouldn’t speak up for us.’

‘Very well, if that’s all. Thank you, Miss Stiles. I can see it’s been a strain.’

Muriel seemed as confused by his ending the interrogation as the Cremornes were pretending not to feel. The nurse was helping her up when she leaned towards Ellen. ‘Can I wait and see how we did?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside,’ the chairman said.

Muriel stared as if she wondered what it had to do with him. ‘I will,’ she told the nurse.

As the lawyer held the door open for them he called ‘We’re ready for you, Mrs Nash.’

So Peggy had shown up. A nurse wheeled her forwards as Muriel hobbled out of the room. Did she mean to make a point of not recognising Peggy, or was she taken aback by the wheelchair? Peggy greeted the Cremornes and then peered with her magnified eyes through her glasses at the tribunal. ‘Where do you want me sitting?’ she said.

‘It looks as if you already are, Peggy,’ Ellen remarked with a gentle laugh.

‘I’m not speaking to you.’

‘That could pose a problem,’ the chairman said. ‘Please sit wherever you’re comfortable.’

‘I was at the Seabreeze,’ Peggy said and stared at Ellen before telling the nurse ‘Put me here.’

As she settled at the end of the table facing the tribunal, the lawyer said ‘Mrs Nash, can I just establish you’re here of your own free will?’

‘Don’t insult me. My body may have let me down but there’s nothing wrong upstairs.’

He handed her the oath to take and followed it by asking ‘Is it the case that you’re still living at the Seabreeze Home?’

‘You know I am.’

‘I have to ask you these things for the record. Could you tell us how you came to take up residence there?’

‘I met my husband Gerald when he was posted to Nairobi in the fifties. He wasn’t like most of them. Most of his troop, they looked down on us and let us know it. The sergeant, he was the worst of the lot. He –’

‘Forgive my interrupting,’ the chairman said, ‘but may we move this forwards? There’s another hearing scheduled for this afternoon.’

Peggy’s mouth drooped open with outrage or because she’d lost her verbal grasp. ‘Can I ask what happened after Mr Nash’s death?’ the lawyer prompted. ‘When you decided to seek residential accommodation, and I appreciate that was years later, did you encounter any problems?’

‘Half a dozen of them, and that was just here in Southport. Homes that didn’t have a vacancy after all when I turned up.’

‘And you feel that was because …’

‘Have you really got to ask that too? Because of what I am.’

‘To put it delicately, an ethnic lady.’

‘That’s not what I see when I look in the mirror. I just see me.’

Having opened her mouth at the hint of an unwelcome memory, Ellen had to find something to say. ‘Everybody’s ethnic,’ she murmured. ‘You shouldn’t hijack words.’

‘Perhaps some people have more of a reason to care about them,’ the lawyer said. ‘And how were you made to feel at the Seabreeze Home, Mrs Nash?’

‘They treated me like anybody else.’

‘Which I take it you’re saying was excellently.’ When Peggy gave several vigorous nods the lawyer said ‘But you’ll be aware there have been problems recently with the running of the home.’

‘Some of the staff weren’t up to standard all the time. The night manager should have kept more of an eye on them. You were right to boot her out,’ Peggy told the Cremornes. ‘Except the worst of the lot was the one that snitched on her workmates. She only did it so people wouldn’t notice how bad she was herself.’

‘To be clear, the person you have in mind –’

‘She knows who I mean. She’s trying to bully me now, looking at me how she does.’ Peggy fixed Ellen with a gaze she seemed to think was reciprocal. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s tried to disguise herself,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember her that size.’

Ellen felt as if her face had swollen up with fever, clamping her lips shut, as the lawyer said ‘For the record, you’re referring to Miss Lomax.’

Peggy’s gaze flickered, only to intensify. ‘Is that what she’s calling herself?’

‘And you believe Mr and Mrs Cremorne had reason to fire her.’

‘That’s opinion, Mr Bentley,’ the chairman said. ‘Please concern yourself with evidence.’

‘What’s the basis of your views, Mrs Nash? What are you saying Miss Lomax did?’

‘Stole, for a start. When all the money went from Veronica’s purse I saw how guilty that one looked. And one night I saw her with a little whisky bottle when she thought I wasn’t looking.’

This was enough to activate Ellen’s unwieldy face. ‘I found it,’ she said. ‘I was taking it to the night manager.’

‘You’ll have your chance, Miss Lomax. Any further observations, Mrs Nash?’

‘You’ve seen how she bullies people. She’s doing it now.’

‘Please don’t feel intimidated. You’re among friends.’ As Ellen looked away from her, only to wonder why she should have, the lawyer said ‘Your witness, Miss Lomax.’

Ellen’s lips felt thick and not entirely stable as she said ‘First of all, Peggy –’

‘I’ve told you, I’m not speaking to you,’ Peggy said and stared at the tribunal.

‘Excuse me, but you just did, and I have to point out –’

‘She’s trying to confuse her,’ Virginia Cremorne protested. ‘She’ll have her not knowing what she’s saying.’

Ellen turned her awkward face towards the chairman. ‘How am I supposed to question her like this?’

‘You should have thought of that before,’ Jack Cremorne said. ‘If you believed you were in the right you’d have bet some money on a lawyer.’

‘This is most irregular,’ the chairman said. ‘If Miss Lomax poses the questions, Mrs Nash, will you give me your answers?’

‘We’ll see what she has the cheek to ask.’

‘Peggy, you said I was trying to divert attention away from some behaviour of my own. What kind? You surely aren’t accusing me of sexual abuse.’

‘Mrs Nash, you said –’

‘I heard her. Couldn’t not. I’ve never known anyone to drone so much. Used to put me to sleep while I was awake and keep me awake when I was trying to sleep.’ Having ventilated this, Peggy said ‘There are other kinds of abuse.’

‘And which are you saying I was guilty of?’

‘Miss Lomax would like to know –’

‘I can still hear her. It’s like hearing a cow moo.’ Peggy rested her gaze on the chairman while she added ‘Here’s the truth and she won’t like it. She made up that tale about Daniel to get him kicked out.’

‘Why would she have done that?’

‘Because she didn’t want him there any more than she wanted me.’

‘The previous witness agreed with Miss Lomax’s version of events.’

‘Are you talking about Muriel Stiles?’

Ellen hoped Peggy’s tone had antagonised the chairman more than he made audible. ‘That was the lady, yes.’

‘She didn’t see anything. She only heard Doris making a fuss, and everyone knew poor old Doris dreamed up half of what she said. We’d be sitting in the day room and she’d say the man on television wanted her to get undressed.’

‘She could be a little flustered sometimes,’ Ellen told the panel, ‘but she wasn’t that night. I’d remind you that Mr and Mrs Cremorne took the situation seriously enough to send him on his way.’

‘Only because she saw her chance and backed Doris up,’ Peggy said. ‘Maybe she hated him even more than me because she had to work with him.’