Hopelessly Devoted

  Hopelessly Devoted

  Margaret Blake

  © Margaret Blake 2013

  Margaret Blake has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2008 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  For John, Dan, Alyce, Madeleine, Hayden and Spencer, with all my love.

  Chapter One

  BRON was not sure when she realized that her life was spiralling out of control. She had been so happy and maybe that was a problem. Coming to live in New Zealand was a good move for her. She had a good job — deputy head at a small school — and a beautiful home, far grander than she could afford to buy in England. Most importantly she loved the country. Not only were the people friendly and gracious, but she could do all the things she loved, sailing in particular.

  No, the problem was not with her but with her husband, Jack. It had been his idea to come to North Island, New Zealand; she had not been bothered but since her parents had been killed, there was nothing to really keep her in England and she had always been adventurous anyway.

  Ducks to water came to mind: that was how she had taken to the country. Jack, however, had massive problems. He hated it. That he had not given it a real chance was clear but she was sympathetic to his homesickness, if indeed that was what it was. He never actually said that was the problem.

  He chafed at life in the far north and had left his position as a lawyer in a country practice and moved to Auckland. `You stay up here — it might not work out for me down there,' he had said.

  It was not ideal but she had gone along with it. After all, they had so much invested where they were living. It was hardly likely that she would be able to get such a good job if she moved to the city.

  At first it was OK. Jack came home at weekends and they went sailing but then he started missing weekends. When he came home he drank more than she had ever noticed before. When she suggested he go back to England for a holiday, let him see what he was missing, he said the idea was ridiculous. Besides, he had to get established in his new firm.

  `But if you are unhappy....'

  `Oh, shut up, Bron, I don't want to talk about it. You're such a nag these days.'

  Taking out the boat and then swimming off Russell had done nothing for her worries.

  She had thought it would take her mind of her problems but the peace and quiet just blew them right back in her face.

  As she nudged the boat into its berth, alongside the motor-sailor, she barely noticed the man on the pontoon.

  `Wake up there!'

  `Sorry.'

  `Throw me the line, Bron.'

  She did so and the man caught it smoothly, fastening it around a bollard.

  `How you doing?' he asked with a grin.

  `I'm fine.'

  `Fancy a coffee? I have some freshly made.'

  `Sounds good.' She really wanted to be alone to mull over things, yet that seemed unfriendly and, anyway, she liked the bloke.

  She scrambled from her boat on to his. There was a delicious aroma of fresh coffee. Taking a seat on deck, she waited for him to bring it from below.

  She really liked Job Tepi: he was the brother of her closest neighbour Ruthie and had his sister's easy-going, friendly charm.

  The Tepi clan were the product of a union between a Scottish great-grandmother and a Maori great-grandfather. Job was too good-looking for his own good, she often thought. He had thick jet black hair that he wore long and tied back with an elastic band. His skin was like highly polished copper and his body was slim but muscled. He owned two successful hotels. It was hard to believe, looking at him, that he was quite a businessman. He generally went around dressed in denim shorts and T-shirts. Only once had she seen him 'dressed up' and that had been at his sister's Burns Night party last year.

  `You looked miles away,' he said. 'School's out — can't be worried about that.'

  `No.' She blushed. Job was too easy to talk to; she had had coffee with him before and something about him teased things out of her. She definitely did not want to discuss her marital problems with him — him of all people!

  `To tell you the truth... I am a bit bothered about a letter I got today.'

  `Oh, really?'

  His eyes were very dark but there were tiny slivers of green against the black irises. There seemed to be something in there, something more than curiosity. Surely not fear? She was being ridiculous. Why would he be afraid of any letter she would receive? Was she getting paranoid as well as worried?

  `From a cousin. Marged. She's going to come over here.'

  `And that is bad news because…?'

  `I didn't say it was bad news.'

  `You said you were worried.'

  `Well, yes... no, I... it sounds terrible but, well she and I don't exactly get on.'

  `What's terrible about that, Bron? Thank God for friends, don't you say that? I have plenty of relations that I would not give houseroom to. It's not a problem.'

  `You have dozens of relations. I have only her and her mother. I was an only child, my mam had one brother and my father was an only child. We're a tiny family, not even a family proper. Marged is a strange girl. Not her fault. She was always under the thumb of her mother. They went everywhere together, and I mean everywhere, even when she was a teenager. She never went to dances or clubs. I don't think she ever went in a pub with her mates.'

  `Wow, strange,' he conceded.

  `Her mother was horrendous, really possessive. My mam put up with her because she was her brother's wife, and then when he died, well, mam felt she had to keep the family together. My mam was full of love and personality. A real chatty Welsh girl. How she tolerated those two introverts I'll never know.'

  `And now she wants to come, with her mother?'

  `No, she said she's coming on her own. That is odd. I mean, Marged getting away from her mother is like someone successfully breaking out of Alcatraz.'

  Job laughed softly. Bron did not want to go on talking about Marged, but it was at least better than telling this man about Jack.

  `The strangest thing, though, is that Marged once married. I don't know how she met this guy, though they did have a sweets and tobacco shop so he could've been a customer, but how they courted I'll never know. Anyway, when they did marry he went to live with them. It was a sort of really weird ménage a trois. It didn't last. He went away. He was a good-looking lad too, dark and attractive, sort of Italian-looking. I think my aunt must have driven him away.'

  `Sounds to me like Marged had a sad life,' he said.

  These words made her feel guilty. Yet how could she explain how she felt about Marged? How things seemed to happen when she was around. Bron always seemed to lose things, or things got ruined when she was visiting. Bron was always the one to be blamed. Pure innocent Marged, fair and beautiful with her long blonde plait of hair, could never do anything wrong.

  `She did. I am totally selfish but things...' She stopped biting off the words, dredging her mind for something to say. 'Well, things will be OK, I'm off school as you said. It will be fine.'

  `When she's coming?'

  `Tomorrow. I have to meet her at the airport. It's not a problem!'

  Oh, but it is, she thought. With Jack how he is, it's goi
ng to make for a tense situation.

  `Well, if I can do anything. You know, take her sailing, or we have things at the hotel she could join in with. There are a couple of day trips we do. Just give me a ring, it won't be a problem.'

  `Thank you, Job, that's thoughtful of you.'

  `I'm a thoughtful kind of fellow.'

  Bron forced a smile and watched her cousin approach. Marged was different and yet the same. She had maturity about her and although she still had the long, fair plait, it was now doubled at the nape of her neck. It should have made her look like a nineteenth-century spinster school teacher, but there was a hint of sensuality about her round face and full lips that battered that image into the ground.

  She was wearing a dark blue business suit and crisp white blouse. Hardly the stuff for flying to the other side of the world in, not if you were after comfort, Bron thought. But again, Marged looked perfectly comfortable. She must have caught something in Bron's eye for she said, 'I thought dressed like this I'd get an upgrade and I did... from Los Angeles to here.'

  `Excellent. I travel like a slob in a tracksuit,' Bron admitted, 'and I've never had an upgrade yet. I guess I've learned something today.'

  Marged smiled, a full-lipped smile hiding her teeth, as she leaned forward and hugged her cousin. She had never been affectionate so it took Bron a moment to respond to this new Marged and a frisson of alarm travelled down her spine. She shook it off as being ridiculous. She was so sensitive to things these days.

  `You must be exhausted, upgrade or not.'

  `A little but I must keep to New Zealand time. At least, that was what the man sitting next to me advised.'

  `He's right, you should, but it will be difficult. Come on, let me take your bag. Just one suitcase — I am impressed.'

  `I intend to shop while I am here. I haven't any decent summer clothes. Someone at work said clothes were quite cheap here.'

  `Well, yes, they can be. It's a long drive to our house, Marged; I hope you'll be OK.'

  `I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, Bron.'

  Bron would have preferred Jack to come with her but he claimed he had appointments with clients. It would have been preferable to perhaps have stayed in Auckland overnight but again Jack had said it wasn't necessary and anyway, it just might mess Marged up and tempt her to go to bed too early. She accepted what he said, just as she was trying to accept her changed husband. The man she had married had been warm and sensitive, but now…

  The traffic wasn't too bad and soon they had left the city behind. Marged chatted, more than Bron could remember her ever doing. She had been a fairly silent little girl. The scenery took her attention for a while then Bron remembered something and asked, 'How is your mother, Marged?'

  Marged gave a little gasp.

  `Are you OK?'

  `But you must know, Bronwen,' she said desperately.

  `Know what? Look, Marged, you just asked if you could come. You didn't tell me anything was wrong. Is something wrong?'

  `You could say that,' she said quietly, then very coldly added, 'My mother is dead.'

  `Oh, Marged, I am so sorry!' Up ahead was a small roadside café. Bron steered the car into the parking lot. 'Let's have a coffee...'

  `I was sure I had written to you — are you certain you did not get a letter?' Marged asked her question in a tone that showed her disbelief.

  `I never received a letter,' Bron said. Did you not wonder why I hadn't written to you? I would have written or telephoned. Surely that made you suspicious.' Marged did not reply for a while and then said sulkily, 'I suppose so, but I didn't think about it. I was feeling so ill and I was in shock anyway.'

  That made perfect sense to Bron. She knew about shock and about pain; and Marged had no one who could have helped her. She had been completely alone in England after her mother had passed away: it had to have been a traumatic time for her. Bron who had been through the pain of the loss of her parents, could appreciate that only too well.

  Marged was sitting tensely in her seat, staring ahead. 'I know what you are going through,' Bron said kindly, putting two cappuccinos on the table.

  There was a little smile. 'I don't think you do, Bronwen,' she said. 'I don't think you have any idea at all.'

  Bron didn't want to argue. 'What I mean is that when I lost my parents...'

  `Oh yes, I forgot that. It was a shock for you, their being killed in an accident. But it isn't really the same at all for me.

  `It isn't?'

  `No.' There was a long silence, then turning in her seat to look directly at Bron, she said in a cold, rather clipped way, `My mother was murdered.'

  Chapter Two

  MURDERED? Bron knew it was a stupid thought but it still came into her head: but murder was something that happened to other people! You read about it in the newspapers, saw it on television. It did not invade her life, or her circle. She had never known anyone that had been murdered... until now.

  `I don't know what to say. It's too terrible to even think about. Oh, Marged...

  Bron reached out across the Formica table for her cousin's hand. Marged allowed a momentarily squeezing of her hand and then slipped it from Bron's clasp. 'I wish you had let me know. Perhaps there was something I could have done.'

  `There was nothing you could have done, Bron. There was no point in my distressing you. Besides, I felt guilty...’ Marged smiled, a sad little smile. A tear trickled down her cheek and she scraped it away quickly. 'You do feel guilty. You know, if I had not gone out, if she had not been left alone in that big old house. You know how it is – of course, you don't really. You never know unless it happens to you.'

  `You don't have to talk about it now if you don't want to. You must be exhausted.'

  `Yes I am but I have to stay awake, don't I? And the thought of poor Mum does keep me awake.'

  `Do they know who... who did it?'

  `No. Burglars, a robbery gone wrong — jewellery, they took what there was. I mean someone's life gone for jewellery!'

  `This is so terrible, Marged,' Bron murmured. It would not sink in; it seemed so unbelievable. Aunt Lily, murdered, the formidable lady who had always seemed so capable, so in charge of everything, to meet such a terrible end. Her own parents had been killed in a train disaster on the continent. That had seemed bad enough but this — this was an even more horrible way to die.

  `I needed to get away, you can see that, and I thought of you, so far away. I thought, I could go to Bron, she and I were always close. You can understand how I needed to get away, can't you, Bron?' Her eyes were large and round and filled with a terrible kind of confusion.

  `Of course I understand. I'm so glad you came to me. If I can help in any way you know I will, Marged.' Bron did want to help yet she could not shake off the feeling that there was something rather theatrical in Marged's performance.

  `I know you will. You're helping even now, just being able to talk to someone; you have no idea how lonely it was in England.'

  Bron could see that. She did not think that Marged and her mother had had any friends; even at school, Marged had seemed different, in a world all of her own, a world that seemed so distant from the twenty-first century. Marged owned no CDs; probably had never been into a dance place or club in her life. Yet she had seemed content. There had been an inner calm about her that Bron, with all her worries and striving, occasionally envied. Of course, there had been the mysterious Denis, the handsome man that Marged had married.

  Bron recalled how astounded she had been when Denis had appeared. It seemed so odd; no one ever discovered how they had met, or even how long they had been going out together. The first they knew about it was when they were invited to the registry office wedding. Mischievously, Bron's mother had hinted that perhaps he had made Marged pregnant, but even that proved not to be the case. Then just as he had come into their lives, so he went from it, and there had been no explanation about that. Aunt Lily just said that Denis had left and in such a way that prevented any questions.

>   `I'll help you get through this,' Bron said, meaning it.

  `I'm through it now,' the other girl said somewhat coldly. `But I need not to be in England because then it all comes back, time and time again...'

  `Of course it will do.'

  Bron looked at her cousin. Now she seemed in control of herself. It was as if she had little switches inside her that she could click on and off for whatever mood she wished to show. Realizing that was uncharitable, Bron reached across, but before she could clasp her cousin's hand, Marged moved it from the table.

  `Let's go now, Bron. I am feeling a little tired.'

  `I should think you are more than a little tired. Sorry for keeping you from your bed.'

  `Yes, I do need my bed.'

  Well, thought Bron, that is me put in my place.

  It had just gone dark when they arrived at the house.

  `It's lovely here,' Marged said when Bron had switched on the light.

  `I love it, and we have a beautiful garden — we even have grapefruit trees. There's fruit on the trees now — you'll see them in the morning.'

  `How amazing — trees with grapefruits on. I've never been abroad, you know.'

  `Well, you can't get better than New Zealand, wherever you go.'

  `You really like it here, then?'

  `I certainly do,' Bron assured her. 'Come and see your room. I'm sure you must be exhausted now.'

  `I can wait a moment or two,' Marged said. 'I adore this house! It is so perfect.' She wandered dreamily around the sitting room, touching things, running her hand over the back of the sofa.

  Bron could not get the pictures out of her head. The more Marged had talked about what had happened, the more horrible it seemed. She saw in her mind the house in the northern city where Marged had lived all her life. The red-bricked pre-war semi-detached was so solid, so strong. It had a long front garden, and although the house was on a main road, the traffic was not a problem. There were trees in the garden and tall shrubs, a perfect place for a burglar to hide. The front door was not visible from the adjoining house because of the trees. The back of the house was more open because the fence between the properties was only a little over five feet. Then there had been school fields.