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  • Pamela Belle


“Dinner, eh?” Saskia eyed Jenna speculatively. “Darling, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you’d got something up your sleeve.”

“Of course not.” Jenna handed her friend a mug of the black, strong coffee she preferred, and retrieved Artemis from half way up her leg. “You’re here, and Fran’s been an angel, and I thought it’d be really nice to cook for you both. I’ve been existing on ready meals a lot of the time, it doesn’t seem worth the effort just for me, so this’ll be a nice change.”

“An angel, eh? What’s he been doing for you?”

Jenna felt herself blushing. “He’s been very supportive and understanding about the shenanigans with my mother, and that is absolutely all.”

“I believe you, darling, but thousands wouldn’t.”


“What about his daughter? He is the one with the daughter, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and she’s on a sleepover with a friend apparently. Sass, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll throw something at you.”

“Looking at you like what, darling?” The picture of innocence, Saskia strolled over to the sofa and sat down, checking first for stray felines.

“You know.”

“Butter wouldn’t melt, I promise you. Haven’t these little fiends grown!” She picked up Apollo, kissed the top of his head between his blue-grey ears, and put him down again. “So, what’s the situation with your harpy of a mother?”

Despite herself, Jenna laughed. “Harpy? Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“Not in the slightest, darling. And I’m sure you’d prefer it to the alternative I have in mind.”

“Which is?”


“No,” Jenna said. “That’s a little OTT. Stupid, deluded, narcissistic, needy, demanding, selfish, I’ll grant you all of those, but not a monster. Monsters murder and torture people.”

Saskia produced her deep, raucous laugh. “OK, OK, I’ll admit she’s not a monster. So, how have you left things? Are you ever going to speak to her again?”

“Unfortunately yes, I suppose I’ll have to at some point, but not just yet. Fran suggested I wrote to her, and that’s what I did.”

She had spent the Monday afternoon working on it, while the cold rain drizzled down outside. The first draft, dashed off on the wave of her anger, was so blistering and vengeful that she now felt hot with shame thinking about it. How could she say those things to her mother? Surely some respect was necessary here, however furious she was. She’d gone back over it again and again, toning down the worst bits, and then, reading it back, wondered if it now wasn’t forceful enough. In the end, she’d deleted the lot and started again, limiting herself to the plain, blunt truth, pointing out the hurt that had been done, the lack of apology, and her own refusal to collude in any more lies. She considered asking her mother about Nanna May’s part in it all, but decided against it, knowing that with her grandmother no longer around, Patricia was free to distort, invent or embroider the facts, and that there was no way now of checking whether what she said would be true. Anyway, her mother and grandmother had never seen eye to eye, and her mother had always, she realised now, been jealous of the close relationship that Jenna and May had enjoyed, especially during that year at Maldon. She couldn’t be relied upon to tell the truth.

In the end, she’d found an envelope (after a long search, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually written a proper letter), put a first class stamp on it, and walked up to the post box before she could have second thoughts. Patricia would probably bin it – unpleasant home truths had never been welcome – but at least she’d tried. It hadn’t brought much in the way of relief, though, and she’d spent much of Monday night lying awake, wondering what her mother would do when she received the letter in the morning. So, desperate for some distraction, she’d climbed into her car immediately after breakfast, deliberately leaving her mobile on the dining table, and driven away, not really caring where she went as long as it was out of reach of everyone. It was only when she reached the outskirts of Ipswich, and saw the signs for Bury St. Edmunds, that she decided to go in search of ancestors who were long dead and past giving her any grief.

The A14 was, as usual, full of lorries making their way to or from the container port at Felixstowe, but her Peugeot bowled along smoothly, eating up the miles. With a Coldplay CD filling the car, some of the tension began to leach out of her, and she began to wonder where she might go. At first she thought she might make a return visit to the archives in Bury, but she changed her mind when, a few miles short of the town, she saw a sign pointing to Hessett. If she was looking for ancestors, then the village where her four-greats grandmother had been born and married seemed as good a place as any.

After yesterday’s miserable weather, the morning was bright and sunny, with crocuses and snowdrops in the gardens making it seem as if spring was at last approaching. She ignored the sat-nav, which was making plaintive requests to stick to her original route, and drove slowly through Tostock, an attractive place with a wide green, and on into open countryside, with the wide skies and huge fields common to this part of the county, and gnarled oaks marking the lines of mostly grubbed-out hedges. Despite looking carefully at any signposts, there was no more mention of Hessett, and she began to think she’d gone the wrong way. Deciding to put her trust in old-fashioned assistance, she stopped in a convenient gateway, turned the complaining sat-nav off, and consulted the battered road atlas that she’d always kept in the car, in defiance of her husband’s ridicule.

My ex-husband, Jenna reminded herself. It seemed a lifetime since she had last seen Rick, though in reality it had only been a few months. He was in New York now of course, with the nubile Madison, and their baby was due soon. She dreaded the arrival of an insensitive, triumphant text announcing the birth – not for her sake, she’d just ignore it. But her children would undoubtedly regard it as yet more evidence of their father’s betrayal, not only of her, but of them. And then Rick would complain to her, hurt and aggrieved, and totally unable to see why they despised him.

Resolutely, she pushed her faithless ex out of her mind and studied the map, then turned round and took the next right, which she’d passed because there’d been no mention of Hessett, but which proved to be the correct road. Out here in what Saskia would describe as ‘the sticks’, you were obviously expected to know your route in advance.

At last, after a pretty drive down a narrow lane, a large sign announced that she was approaching her destination. She proceeded cautiously down the main street, noting several splendid examples of the colour-washed, pantiled cottages that were so typical of Suffolk, and suddenly saw the church on her left. She parked the car tight against the hedge, and with a foolishly thumping heart, got out and walked into the churchyard. A gravelled path, lined by leafless, pollarded trees, led up to the handsome porch, which was constructed in the local style of stone and squared, chequered flintwork, and topped by splendidly pretentious battlements. As she came up to it, Jenna wondered if, like so many parish churches, it would be locked. She needn’t have worried: although the small latch was a fiddly, unfamiliar design, it turned freely and the heavy, ancient door swung open with an echoing noise from within.

She’d done a module on mediaeval architecture as part of her degree course, so she knew the basic principles of church layout – nave, chancel, porch, aisle, tower - and the different styles popular at various times, from Norman to Perpendicular, but the interior of St. Ethelbert’s, Hessett, was a surprise. For a start, there were wall paintings, and a rood screen separating the priest’s space of the chancel from the congregation in the nave: both things that had usually been removed long ago, either in a spirit of Protestant fervour at the Reformation, or in a spirit of modernising fervour by Victorian ‘restorers’. And many of the windows were made up of a jumble of stained glass that proved to be genuinely ancient, presumably salvaged and replaced after the reformers had done their work. It was a beautiful space, filled with light and surprisingly warm, despite the chill outside: either the heating was on, or the sun’s rays, streaming through the high windows, had taken the edge off the cold.

As well as the paintings – now sadly faded, but still a wonderful survival – there were several monuments. To her right, on the south wall, a simple oval, outlined in black, caught her eye as she looked around, and she went over to inspect it more closely.

The name seemed to leap out at her. ‘Sacred to the memory of Merielina Agnes Rogers’. With a gasp of delighted surprise, Jenna stared up at her ancestor’s memorial, taking in all the details.

Wife of the Reverend

Thomas Ellis Rogers

Rector of this parish

She was the daughter of

Michael William

Leheup Esq.

and departed this life

May 12th, 1816

aged 25

It seemed ridiculous to be moved by a monument dedicated to a woman she’d never known, who’d died more than two hundred years ago, but Jenna felt tears gather. This place had been familiar to Merielina, she’d listened every Sunday as her husband delivered his sermons, she’d breathed this slightly musty air and looked at the same sunlight making the ancient glass glow. Overcome by emotion, she sat down on the nearest pew and closed her eyes. Suddenly, the past seemed very close, so that it was almost possible to imagine that when she looked again, there would be a silent congregation wearing bonnets or frock coats, sharing the church with her. As if to confirm it, there was a stir in the air, a sound so faint that she only caught the trace of it at the limits of her hearing. The hairs rose on her neck, and her eyes snapped open.

Of course, the church was still empty. Something large and noisy, probably a tractor, rumbled past outside on the road, and when it had passed she could hear distant pigeons cooing their comforting, familiar refrain in the trees around the churchyard. Jenna shivered, though the sun was still shining and the air around her was still warm. She wound her soft woolly scarf more firmly around her neck, and got out the little notebook she always carried in her handbag, cursing the fact that she’d left both phone and camera behind. It didn’t take long to make a careful note of the text, though her hands were unsteady with emotion. So, she’d found her great, great, great, great grandmother’s final resting place, and she felt strongly that the end of her quest was drawing near. Surely, only three or four more generations back would lead her to the mysterious MJ.

She turned, and noticed that there was another tablet, in an identical black-ringed oval, on the opposite wall of the church. The similarity seemed significant: could there be some connection to Merielina Agnes?

Yes. Jenna let her breath out in an exhalation of triumph as she read the text.

Michael Leheup Esq

died April 9th 1792

aged 60

Merielina Leheup his wife

died April 3rd 1792

aged 58

And below the bare statement that they had died within a week of each other, the biblical quotation that suddenly gave life to them, though they had been so long in the grave. ‘They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided’.

As epitaphs go, Jenna thought, trying not to succumb to tears again, that isn’t a bad one. They had obviously loved each other, and been loved by their children, or whoever had put up the memorial. Who could wish for more than that, even if by today’s standards they had died comparatively young?

It was only as she was transcribing the inscription that she realised, with a jolt, that this couple were too old to have been the parents of Merielina Agnes. If she’d been 25 in 1816, she must have been born about 1791 – when the Merielina on this memorial had been 57, well beyond child-bearing age. They must be her grandparents.

But this woman was Merielina too, which surely meant ...

She sat down again, frowning, working it out. If Merielina Agnes was the daughter of Michael Leheup, but not this Michael Leheup, then the female line had been broken. Michael and Merielina’s son, Michael William, was her father. It didn’t really matter, of course, that the casket hadn’t been passed down for three hundred years from mother to daughter, but it was still a little disappointing. And if it hadn’t been for the repetition of that very significant name, she’d never have realised it. She’d have started off on some wild-goose chase after Merielina Agnes’s female ancestors, not knowing that she’d have no hope of finding MJ.

When she’d written it all down, she started looking for more monuments to the Leheup family, who must have been the local gentry. There was a large one and florid one, also on the north wall and next to a painting of the seven deadly sins, but it was in Latin. Studying for a degree in mediaeval history had of course meant learning the language, but after thirty years Jenna’s knowledge was very rusty, and there was a lot of text to decipher. It seemed from the dates, however, that the people being commemorated were probably at least one generation back, if not even further. She found guidebooks for sale at the back of the church, put a two pound coin in the honesty box, and discovered that there were more Leheup memorials in the north chapel.

Since this was now largely occupied by the Victorian organ, getting into it was a squeeze, even for Jenna, who was small and slim. Inside, she found two more of the simple, elegant oval plaques with their black edges. One was to Michael Peter Leheup, his wife Ann and their only child Merielina Agnes: this confused her for a moment, until she saw the dates and realised that this Merielina was about twenty years younger than her Merielina, and could well be her niece, and named after her.

And the other proved to be what she’d been looking for.

Michael William

Leheup Esq


June 22nd 1809

aged 53

His relict Mary Wyche Leheup

died January 8th 1828

aged 69

An infant daughter

Mary Spring Leheup

died October 28th 1785

So these were Merielina Agnes’s parents: the names and ages were right. And if that other memorial hadn’t been there, she’d have been chasing after Mary Wyche Leheup, convinced that she was the next ancestress to research. Instead, she must now find out the first Merielina Leheup’s maiden name. If she’d been 58 in 1792, then she’d have been born around 1734. And since it seemed that her family must have been wealthy – 18th century esquires didn’t marry paupers, or not outside the pages of romantic novels – she would hopefully be comparatively easy to trace.

The inscriptions safely recorded, Jenna went back into the empty nave and sat down. She felt quite shaken, but also elated. Her spur-of-the-moment decision to visit Hessett church had saved her a lot of time and trouble. She’d taken her research back another two generations. And if the Merielina Leheup who’d died in 1792 had been born in 1734, and the casket dated from the late seventeenth century, then there were surely only two, or at the most three, generations left to discover.

From now on, though, she’d have to be very careful not to assume that the female line, having been broken once, wouldn’t be broken again. It was just as well that so many of them had been called Merielina. Had MJ been Merielina too? Jenna hoped so.

She leaned back against the hard pew and closed her eyes again, letting the peace and stillness of the church enfold itself around her. This space had been a place of worship, of sanctuary, of refuge, for seven hundred years. She’d never been religious, nor even spiritual in a more general sense, and church was somewhere for special occasions – hatches, matches and despatches, as Nanna May would put it. But here, she could feel the attraction. It must be so comforting, to let oneself join those thousands of worshippers who had sat in this same pew, down the centuries. They’d all believed and trusted in a God described as benevolent, but who seemed more often to be callous and uncaring, if not actively malicious. She thought about that child on the plaque, Mary Spring Leheup, who, like so many others in the days before modern medicine and hygiene, had died an infant. Had her sorrowing parents believed that it was God’s will that she had been taken from them? Probably. But if it was God who was responsible for the diphtheria or scarlet fever or whatever it was that had killed her, then Jenna wanted nothing to do with that God.

She got up, took a last look round the church in case she’d missed anything, and then let herself out. To her surprise, it was now mid-day: as in Narnia, time inside the church seemed to have progressed at a different pace to the world outside its walls. She looked hopefully at the pub, but it seemed to be closed, so she got into the car, turned round and drove on to Bury, where there was a plethora of cafes and restaurants to choose from, to find somewhere to have lunch.

A brimming bowl of pasta and a large cappuccino later, Jenna wondered about visiting the archives again, and seeing if she could build on her discoveries that morning, perhaps even finish her quest. But something in her didn’t want such a hasty ending to months of research. It would be so much more satisfying to savour the sensation of being almost within reach of her goal for a while longer. MJ was waiting for her, and she wasn’t going to disappear.

No rush, she thought to herself, as she paid the bill. I’ll take the time to have a mooch round Bury, and absorb some of the atmosphere. Of course, she could just drive back home, but at home there was quite probably a furious text or answerphone message awaiting her, and she didn’t feel like coping with Patricia’s exaggerated outrage just yet.

She wandered the streets, admired the lovely old buildings, bought a pretty tunic in a shop selling lots of pretty clothes at more than pretty prices, and ended up in the wide space of Angel Hill. The massive Abbey gateway opposite dominated everything, a square stone block, comparatively plain and simple, but a rather intimidating entrance to a supposedly peaceful house of God. Jenna remembered that the monastery had been attacked during the Peasant’s Revolt, and its prior beheaded. The monks had obviously not been very popular, so they’d probably needed that gateway and its ‘keep out’ implications.

She sat down on a convenient bench and looked around her. Bury was a lovely town, full of beautiful buildings and interesting independent shops, though there were plenty of branches of the larger chains for those in need of serious retail therapy: she’d spotted an M&S and several very expensive boutiques in the course of her wanderings. But she also liked the fact that here, as at Orford or Woodbridge, the past didn’t seem very far away. Close her eyes, and she could almost imagine the hoard of ragged peasants, armed with scythes and sticks, storming the Abbey gateway and looting the wealthy monastery beyond. Or MJ, in a silk gown with her hair elaborately arranged, stepping out of a carriage to dance at the Angel. Her quarry had known these streets, she was suddenly sure of it: she was a local girl, Suffolk born and bred, and she too had looked on that gateway, those walls, those houses. They’d been as familiar to her as the roads and buildings of Jenna’s own, undistinguished childhood home.

With a curious feeling of detachment, Jenna got up and went into the Abbey gardens. The sun was still out, and the beds were full of spring bulbs. There were a lot of mothers with small children, enjoying the unseasonable warmth, or pensioners soaking up the sunshine. All the benches were taken, so she wandered on, feeling that at any moment she’d look up and see, instead of the ruined remnants, the huge church that had been plundered of most of its stone after the Reformation, to rebuild and enhance the town that had resented its presence for centuries: or she’d bump into a file of monks round the next corner.

A squirrel paused as she passed by, staring at her hopefully, but Jenna didn’t have anything to give it. With a disdainful flick of its curling tail, it moved off across the grass in a series of jerky hops, looking for someone more generous. She felt as restless and unsatisfied as the squirrel, her mood unassuaged by her peaceful, pleasant surroundings. It wasn’t her decision to put her quest for MJ on brief hold that was unsettling her, she knew. As so often in her life, her negative feelings had been directly caused by her mother. And however illogical and unreasonable it might seem to anyone else, to Jenna it felt as if she was at fault too, as if she had somehow colluded in Patricia’s duplicity.

Come on, she scolded herself. You’re a grown woman, you’re forty seven for Christ’s sake! Get a grip! You’re not responsible for her lies, you’re not to blame for any of this. She knows what you think and the ball’s in her court now, you can let her stew. Now go home and get on with your life.

Suddenly resolute, she turned round and headed back towards the gateway. Under its arch, she paused and took time to breathe deeply – those yoga sessions that Saskia had dragged her to, years ago, had turned out to be very useful for calming shredded nerves – before going in search of her car. Whatever answer Patricia could make, she’d be ready.

“So?” Saskia’s voice intruded on her memories, and reminding her that it was now Friday evening at Orford, rather than Tuesday afternoon in Bury. “What did she say?”

“What? Oh, to the letter?” Jenna sat down, put her coffee on the hearth and opened the door of the woodburner, which looked as if it could do with replenishment. A welcome gust of warm air emerged, and she pushed a couple more logs inside, leaving the vent open. “She hasn’t said anything. She hasn’t replied.”

Saskia’s comment was a snort of derision. “Par for the course, darling. She knows full well she’s in the wrong, so she can’t say anything at all. Let her stew.”

This so exactly chimed with Jenna’s own thoughts that she couldn’t help laughing. “I intend to do just that.”

“Good. It’s about time you stopped her ruling your life.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Not obviously, I grant you, but you let her do it without even realising it. Don’t look at me like that, Jen, you know it’s true. You’ve got rid of your love-rat husband, now it’s time to cut the cord fastening you to your narcissistic mother. Live your own life, it’s going to be a good one. You’ve got a new family to get to know, and possibly a romantic entanglement in the offing ...” Her voice tailed off suggestively, and she winked.

To her annoyance, Jenna blushed. “Bollocks to that. How many times do I have to say it? I. Do. Not. Want. Another. Relationship. Yet.”

“So you say, darling, so you say.” Saskia grinned over her coffee mug, entirely unrepentant. “Anyway, I’ve got a little favour to ask you, about Saturday.”

“Oh?” Jenna said warily, fairly sure she knew what was coming.

“Given that I’m never especially happy playing gooseberry, darling –“

“Oh, for the ninetieth time, Sass, there’s nothing going on between me and Fran, we’re old mates, that’s all!”

“I’ll believe you, but thousands wouldn’t. Anyway, would you mind very much if I asked a friend along for dinner on Saturday?” She put on a comically pleading face that reminded Jenna irresistibly of Puss-in-Boots in Shrek 2, and was probably meant to. “Please?”

Despite herself, Jenna laughed. “Of course not! I take it this is your ‘friend’ who was with you on Sunday morning? Is he housetrained?”

“Trust me, darling, I wouldn’t have the cheek to invite him if he wasn’t.”

“It’s a long way to just come for dinner, would you like him to stay the night?”

“Love to, darling, but he’s got to be somewhere else first thing on Sunday, so it’ll be a flying visit, but I’d like you to meet him.” She grinned mischievously. “I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire.”

Jenna wasn’t sure about that: some of Saskia’s boyfriends hadn’t been to her taste at all, but as the turnover was so high, it never seemed to matter very much. And she was right, it was a bit of a cheek to ask him to someone else’s house, but that was Saskia all over, and after fifteen years of friendship she was used to it.

“I’m sure we will,” she said. “What’s he like?”

“Oh, forties, pretty good nick for his age, all his own hair and teeth, nice car, haven’t seen his house yet but he’s not short of a few bob. Ticks quite a few boxes.” She winked lecherously. “You may not be ready for another relationship, darling, but I’m raring to go.”

“More to the point, does he have any dietary quirks? Is he a vegetarian? Please tell me he’s not a vegan, I don’t think my cookery skills are up to it.”

“Don’t worry, he’s as carnivorous as you or me. What were you planning?”

“A Keralan curry. I thought we could go to Ipswich tomorrow and raid Sainsburys for fresh coriander and chillies and coconut milk.” She'd often cooked complicated curries at the St Albans house, when she and Rick had invited his colleagues for dinner, and she knew she could produce something delicious, if not quite authentic. “And a home-made citrusy cheesecake to follow, if I can find some nice fruit. Sound OK?”

“I’m salivating already, darling. Bring it on!”

Twenty four hours later, Jenna wasn’t so sure that it had been such a good idea, but she was committed now. She and Saskia had spent much of that evening poring over her stained and dog-eared Indian regional cookbook, and had then gone online to find the perfect recipes. The next morning, they’d gone to Ipswich, hit the shops, and returned via the supermarket, filling a trolley with exotic ingredients. “Now all we have to do is cook, darling,” Saskia had said blithely, to which Jenna had retorted, “I think that comes under the heading of ‘easier said than done’.”

At least the lemon and lime cheesecake was done, and cooling down in the fridge. Together they chopped and prepared a variety of herbs and spices, and Jenna put them into her liquidiser – she’d disposed of the food processor before moving here, knowing that there wouldn’t be space for it in her tiny kitchen – and blitzed them into a paste while Saskia fried onions, garlic and chillies. It was nearly half past seven, and their guests should be arriving soon. As if in answer to her thought, Jenna heard the knock on the front door as she was persuading the spice paste into a bowl, ready for use. “I’ll answer it.”

Fran was at the door. He had a carrier bag emblazoned with the logo of Aldeburgh’s best known deli, and a large bunch of mixed daffodils in every shade of yellow from palest lemon to deep gold. “I thought they’d bring a bit of cheer, should you be needing it.”

“Oh, they’re gorgeous – I do love daffs, they brighten everything up.” She grinned mischievously. “Where did you get them? The nearest verge?”

“As if! They’re from my garden, if you can call it that. The previous owner must have put in about a ton of bulbs. Hence the lack of posh wrapping paper.”

Laughing, they hugged briefly, and he added softly, “Everything OK?”

“Yes, I did as you suggested, but I haven’t had a reply yet, so I’ve decided to forget about her for the present – I certainly don’t intend to let her spoil the evening.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t mention it again. What’s cooking? Smells amazing.”

“Keralan prawn curry. Full of fire and flavour, hopefully. Saskia’s helping. Oh, her new boyfriend’s coming too – I don’t know what he’s like, she’s being very coy, but that’s par for the course. Apparently he’s well behaved, though.”

“That’s a shame – I was looking forward to an evening of Middle Aged People Behaving Badly.” Fran grinned at her. “Here you are – something for afterwards.”

The deli bag proved to contain a very expensive box of artisan-crafted chocolates. Jenna took them into the kitchen, where Saskia was just pouring the steaming golden curry into bowls, her every move studied in detail by Artemis and Apollo, sitting side by side in front of the hob.

“Look at the little demons,” Saskia said, indicating the kittens. “They’re probably thinking that if they stare hard enough, they can magic those prawns into their waiting jaws. Well, tough luck, darlings, this is our food, you’ve had yours, and anyway you’d burn your delicate little tongues. Hi, Fran, lovely to see you again. Would you like a drink? We’ve got white, red or rosy wine, Kingfisher beer, elderflower, lemonade or mineral water.”

Fran settled for a small beer, as he was driving, and Jenna opened a bottle of white wine for herself and Saskia. Just as they were carrying their drinks through into the sitting room, there was another knock at the door. Jenna, bringing up the rear with a couple of bowls of Bombay mix, was nearest, so she went to answer it, knowing that this would be Saskia’s mysterious new boyfriend.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting – someone short, or fat, with glasses, hairy, bald, smarmy, diffident, obnoxious, Saskia was perfectly capable of having a relationship with all of them – but not this tall man with fading red hair and a very familiar air of swaggering self-confidence as he smiled broadly at her and bent forward for a kiss of greeting.

“Hello, Jenna,” said Jon.

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