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  “Ah yes. When did she die, poor old thing? I feel bad now about not going to see her.”

  “A few days ago, peacefully. I’ve only just got back, been out of the country. Sad of course but then she was very old wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. Probably for the best I suppose. What is going to happen now?” The slender arm waved vaguely in the direction of the battered old house.

  “Oh not sure, I was just checking it was all secure and stuff you know.”

  “Ah right, well must away, loads to do. Nice to have met you er, Phillipa was it?”

  “Yes that’s it. Nice to have met you too. Bye.”

  And so that was it, dye cast, web beginning to tangle, first truth mangled. Okay not strictly the first truth but the first truth at this juncture.

  Chapter 6

  Phillipa tossed and turned under the duvet, her nightdress tied knots around her thighs and her thoughts tied knots around her brain. In her sleep-fuddled mind she could see all of it. The shining paintwork, the vases of flowers and the beautifully restored rooms and hallways. She could walk in her subconscious up the lovely curving staircase and visit the patients in their pretty private rooms. They were so genteel, polite and well-mannered, and how they loved Matron. She would be Matron and she would wear a blue nursing dress and a tiny cape across her shoulders. Her staff would swish through the hallways on shiny black shoes, their skirts rustling against the starched aprons and their hair neatly tucked under white hats.

  Ever since she had visited Lime Walk she had been haunted by this vision, this so, so obvious refurbishment and re-use of that lovely old place. It was ironic, it really was, if a place like that had existed for her then surely Mrs Bowling would never have ended up as she had – stained and forgotten and relying on Phillipa to help her out of her dreadful life. Actually when you really thought about it Mrs Bowling would probably love to think of her old house put to such good use. The fact that she had been such a cantankerous old bat didn’t mean that she wouldn’t want other people to enjoy the comfort and ease that could be provided by such a caring and well run establishment.

  Phillipa had not led the sort of life that educated her about property ownership and such like, but surely with all the information available on the internet and in the library she would be able to find out all she needed to know.

  She started the very next day. It appeared that, although she had the house deeds in her possession, that alone wouldn’t be enough to prove ownership. There was the land registry apparently, and with no will and no relatives then eventually the state would claim the property. How sad, how unfair. For a while it seemed that this was a hurdle that couldn’t be cleared and she clicked dispiritedly around the site searching for the records. She searched and searched but it seemed that the property, old though it was, had never been officially registered. Phillipa pushed back from her desk a small smile playing around her lips. Amazing, just as if it was meant to be, poor house, unloved and effectively orphaned. It was all very complicated but it seemed that there was no need to bother with solicitors and officialdom, she had the deeds, she didn’t have to register it. She wasn’t stealing it, not really, she was just going to take care of it, use it for the benefit of others; who could possibly mind that? She would never sell it, she didn’t intend to use it to borrow money, no all she was going to do was use it; so why fuss and bother?

  She mused and studied, planned and schemed until after several weeks she had what could be a workable plan. In the meantime she continued to turn up for her duties, she maintained her high standards and became more and more impatient with her untidy, messy, awkward patients. Her night shifts finished with no further untoward events, and she knuckled down to another spell of days and all the sorrow that it caused her when she could have done so much better than the senior staff now in place.

  That big envelope of money came in very handy. Although the right thing to have done would have been to hand it in immediately she hadn’t, and now, weeks after Mrs Bowling’s death, how would she explain having it for so long? She took it to the bank and deposited it in a new account that she opened in the name of Phillipa Bowling. The pangs of conscience were diminishing now, this was all for a good cause so why waste time feeling guilty?

  She had arranged to go see the registrar to change her name. With no family living to question the decision and from the research that she had done it was going to make everything so much easier. She became Phillipa Bowling. She applied for a lovely new driving licence. She arranged for the utility bills to be paid by direct debit from the healthy new account. It was really quite surprising how easy it all was. She had to be patient and work it through slowly but inch by inch and month by month she slithered into possession of number 72 Lime Walk.

  Chapter 7

  Three years it took and by that time she had qualified in grand style. Top of her year at university, winner of two prestigious awards and generally the best of the best. She had spent three years biting her tongue, keeping schtum and toeing the line but now it was her time. She didn’t bother to apply for a job at the teaching hospital even though it was made very plain that it was hers for the taking. No, she had much bigger, better, neater, cleaner fish to fry.

  Of course there had been several deaths in the time that she had spent on the wards, one or two fairly unexpected. Mr Brown had been terribly ill and was such a smelly and untidy man that really nobody was all that sorry when he popped off. Mrs Dummock was lovely but oh how fat she was. It had been such a trial to keep her tidy with her great flabby body flowing and oozing over the bed edges. Of course it was only to be expected that these things would all be part of a nursing career.

  The windfall from Mrs Bowling’s nasty brown handbag had grown into a very satisfying sum by this time. Phillipa had slowly and inconspicuously moved into the house. It had taken such a lot of scrubbing, cleaning and polishing but it was a labour of love and she had nothing else to do with her spare time. She didn’t mix much with the other nurses. In truth they were all a little in awe of her and jealous of her success and so they didn’t try too hard, and her days off were spent first of all cleaning and scrubbing and then arranging for repairs and refurbishment. Her wages grew with her experience and in the absence of any other life all her money went into the project.

  By the time that she graduated, the house in Lime Walk was lovely. The outside was newly spruced and painted, the garden was mostly gravelled over to make parking space and keep maintenance low. The downstairs was split now into offices, kitchens and utilities, reception and sitting room and on the back was a little extension with a flat for Matron. The rooms upstairs had been divided where it had been possible to do it without spoiling the original features and little en-suite bathrooms had been added. It was wonderful.

  As much of the original furniture as possible had been polished and cleaned and what wasn’t needed was sold off and the proceeds used for the purchase of the medical equipment. Phillipa would have so loved to have four posters and sleigh beds but at the end of the day this wasn’t to be a hotel, no, it was to be a very high-class private clinic so the beds must be suitable hospital style. Discrete treatment rooms were added and tiny consultation offices.

  It was a triumph, and when the people from the licensing authority came to inspect it they positively drooled. All the paperwork whisked through and six months after her graduation Phillipa stood glowing in the front hallway of Bowling Clinic whilst the sign was erected in the garden.

  Chapter 8

  The neighbours had been all too happy to see the nasty eyesore of a house transformed into an establishment in-keeping with the salubriousness of the area. If one or two wondered about why Mrs Bowling’s niece had never been mentioned and had certainly never visited, well, it wasn’t their business was it? She seemed to be such a lovely young woman and the clinic was no blot at all on their neighbourhood and had done wonders for the property values.

  A discreet and tasteful advertising campaign soon started to pay
dividends. Phillipa would have liked to put no smelly, dribbly, untidy patients need apply but of course that would be counterproductive so she made the fees high and hoped to vet the patients and weed out the more unsavoury ones before it became a problem.

  The staff were chosen carefully, she went for foreign kitchen and laundry staff who were happy to be working and didn’t expect too many days off. The nurses came from far afield with enough English to be able to care for their charges in a polite and efficient way but not enough so that they could become too friendly. One thing that Phillipa had learnt was that to run a smooth and shiny ship, professional distance must be maintained at all times.

  As the weeks went by a succession of patients enjoyed all the facilities that the nursing home had to offer. They were mostly surgical patients, recovered enough from their operations to need only the most genteel of dressing and bandaging and certainly well past the vomit and puke stage.

  The nurses noted and regularly discussed the dedication of Matron. She made it a point every night to be there to personally pop into each room to say goodnight and cast an uncompromising eye over the fixtures and fittings to make sure that all was at it should be. At times she even delivered the bedtime drinks herself which was most unusual. It was generally to those patients who were prone to night-time wanderings and it was noted that when Matron brought their drinks they seemed to sleep so much sounder. No doubt that this was due to the personal attention that they were receiving. It was also noted that she had a sixth sense, so valuable in the medical profession, that enabled her to know when a patient was “nearing the end”. For these souls she took extra care and sat with them at the end of their stay on earth, easing their passing with her company and compassion.

  Pretty soon the clinic became known as “the” place to convalesce with the result that profits were soon very pleasing indeed.

  Chapter 9

  The sun shone, the birds in the lovely old beech trees in the back garden sang and fluttered. The windows sparkled, the paintwork gleamed and the smell of freshly mown grass pervaded the air.

  Phillipa drove her sky blue Fiesta down Lime Walk and swung into the gateway. The familiar thrill of ownership and pride suffused her body. She screeched to a halt. In the middle of the gravel there sat a large, white, intensely fluffy cat. While not unduly superstitious Pip had long-held to the view that black cats were lucky. She had no reason for this belief, it was just one that had seeped into her psyche and never been expunged. The white fluff ball sat and stared at her with intensely blue eyes, it was most disconcerting. If a black cat was lucky then it wasn’t necessarily the case that a white one should be unlucky. No, it was just a white cat, nothing more. But the huge blue eyes, the unnecessarily large amount of fluff and the unblinking stare quite frankly gave her the willies. She popped the horn, nothing happened. She blew a longer blast, still nothing happened. She flashed the headlights, why in broad daylight she thought it would help was difficult to imagine, but nonetheless she flashed them.

  The white cat washed a front paw. Phillipa banged on the windscreen. The cat stood up and stretched, the car inched forward, the cat sat down. As she leaned to open the door Phillipa spotted, through the rear view mirror, a slender figure in jeans striding around the gate post.

  “Mao, Mao, puss, puss.”

  Phillipa recognised the woman from her first visit to the house all those years ago. She had kept clear of neighbourhood communication as much as she had been able. An odd wave now and again or a nod through the Fiesta window. As little as possible, to appear polite but busy. She sighed as the woman leaned towards the window and grinned at her through the glass.

  “Cooee, cooee, hello. How lovely. Sorry about Mao, he is such a little monster.” She stepped forward at which point the white snowball leaped for the wall and disappeared over the top with a flick of back legs and a final glimpse of tail. His mission had been accomplished, he had interfered with the smooth running of Phillipa’s day, so off he went to terrorise some blue tits and chew on the mid section of an errant mouse that he had saved for just such an occasion.

  She stepped out into the drive, a smile pasted on her face. “Ah, Mrs erm... Hello there! How very nice. So your cat, eh? Mmm well.”

  “Yes sorry, little horror, what can you do?” Phillipa thought of several things including poison, humane killers or drowning. Her smile broadened as she turned and bent towards the car door. “Must get on, lots of, erm, well you know.”

  “Yes, yes you must be so busy. We have been meaning to pop in to see you. Invite you for drinks and such. We are so impressed with what you have done with this place. When we think of the way that it had gone so downhill once Mrs B was on her own and after all that trouble. I expect that maybe you don’t like to talk about it. You know with Robert and all that. How is he, do you hear from him? Is he in the UK or still in Africa or wherever it was that he went to?”

  A sixth or maybe even a seventh sense nudged a worm of fear deep in Phillipa’s gut. It blinked, uncurled a little and gave a tiny lurch. She felt a wave of nausea. She forced the frozen smile to hold. “Ah Robert, hmm yes well you know.”

  “Mrs B was devastated, absolutely devastated. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about it all but I just wondered whether he had turned up again. Bad penny and all that. Oh well, I see you’re busy so I’ll let you get on. Must have a drink some time. Bye.” She gave a waggle of the slender manicured fingers and strode off.

  “Mao Mao, where are you, you little monster? Come on now, Mummy’s busy.”

  Phillipa flopped back into the car and pulled the door closed. Robert, who the hell was he? As far as she had known there had been no-one left in Mrs Bowling’s family. Lone widow. No known next of kin. The forms had been explicit and for God’s sake nobody had claimed the body. She tried to remain calm. Struggled not to panic. She felt sick. Her palms were sweating. After all this time, all this effort and subterfuge. Who the hell was Robert?

  Chapter 10

  Phillipa bestowed her beaming smile on the front of house staff. She nodded to the few nurses who scuttled away as she walked through the ground floor. They knew only too well that the slightest thing could incur disapproval, a crease on the pristine front of an apron, a stray lock of hair escaping from under the starched hat. They weren’t to know that on this occasion Phillipa wouldn’t have spotted a bucket of slops on the reception desk. She gained the privacy of the flat and flopped onto the settee.

  Struggling to stay calm she replayed the meeting in the drive. Obviously the first thing was to find out who exactly Robert was and whether there was any real need for concern.

  She went to her desk and took out a bunch of old-fashioned keys. Using the back stairs she climbed to the attic on the fourth floor of the house. In the dusty room there were boxes of bits and pieces that had belonged to Mrs Bowling. There were some bits of china which Phillipa had judged too grim-looking to have on show, but probably of too good quality to throw away or sell without first finding out exactly what they were and what value should be placed on them. Phillipa being Phillipa there were no old clothes or anything that could be described as rubbish, but there were several boxes of papers which she had never got around to sorting or throwing away, and she pulled one of these towards her.

  Removed from the desk and cabinet in the downstairs were letters, some photographs and cheque books. She started the laborious and now quite scary procedure of going through them. She had always assumed that they were meaningless but hung on to them as they may have contained details of investments or other property and so on. Nothing of note had stood out in the first look through and she had pretty much forgotten them. Now she tipped out the box of photographs. Old, smelly and damp, another reason she had left them alone. They should have been thrown out but now she was glad that, on this one occasion, she had let her standards slip a little. She shuddered as she handled the crumbly papers but knew that it had to be done.

  Mrs Bowling looking younger, never glam
orous but at times quite stylish and obviously always well-heeled. A few photographs of military men, the same as most collections of family pictures. Mrs Bowling getting married. Mr and Mrs Bowling at the wedding of somebody else. Boring, boring and there was so much downstairs that needed to be done but an instinct told her that she had to sort this out.

  There it was. Mrs Bowling holding a baby. Phillipa’s breath caught in her throat. Keep calm, just because she was holding a baby didn’t mean that she “had” a baby. Mrs Bowling at a garden party, Mr and Mrs Bowling at the seaside. Mrs Bowling holding a baby, gazing down at it gently and possessively. Damn, damn, damn, unthinkably it began to look as though blasted Mrs Bowling had at some time had a child.

  Okay, but what did that mean exactly? Even if there was a Robert it had been more than three years and there had never been any hint of contact, and anyway it seemed that he had gone off to Africa or somewhere. Why was she letting a few minutes in the driveway with the woman from next door cause all this upset?

  Replacing the papers and photographs in the boxes she squared her shoulders. Locking the door firmly behind her, Matron strode resolutely down the stairs to the clinic. It was nothing, it meant nothing and like the guilt of the early days, she pushed it away.

  Chapter 11

  For the next three months no glitches, and very few problems that a narcotic addition to the night-time drinks of difficult patients didn’t control, sullied the gentle progress of things at the clinic. Memories of the meeting in the drive faded away as day followed well-ordered day in Lime Walk.

  It was eleven thirty in the evening, Wednesday and rainy. Phillipa had done her matronly rounds of the patient rooms and checked that the staff were all up to scratch and now she settled with a glass of red wine on the settee in her little flat.