that one of us would die before Lily was old enough to be independent,’ she said. ‘It never crossed my mind that she would go first.’ She had to talk about Lily being dead, otherwise she wouldn’t believe it.
Everywhere in the room there were reminders of her daughter. She kept getting up to point things out to them. The certificates for ballet and tap dancing, for piano. ‘She got as far as grade five then she stopped taking lessons. Too much school work. But she was still a lovely little player. She was going to start it up again. She said it would be useful in teaching.’ There were photos on the mantelpiece, the window sill, the upright piano. Lily at a birthday party, aged five or six, grinning out over a cake shaped like a hedgehog. The official school photos. By the time Lily was fourteen she was already so attractive she’d turn heads in the street. Even with a school sweatshirt and no make-up. That was something she had in common with Luke Armstrong. They were both physically beautiful. In all the chat, Vera was listening out for anything else which might provide a connection, but it seemed there was nothing. Then, in an enlarged, framed photo hung on the wall, there was Lily in her hired cap and gown on graduation day, head thrown back, a wide smile.
‘It looks as though she was enjoying herself there,’ Vera said. ‘Did she like being a student?’
‘She loved it,’ Phyllis said. ‘Every minute. I was so glad for her. Not that I wanted to let her go, of course. I missed her something terrible. But there was nothing much for her here. No brothers and sisters. Hardly any young people left in the village. And her father with his moods . . . He wanted her to live at home, travel in every day on the bus, but I knew that wouldn’t do. I said to him, “Be grateful that she didn’t end up in Kent or Exeter.” They were universities on her list. “It’s time she had some freedom.” He saw sense in the end.’
‘Did she work while she was at college?’ Vera asked. ‘Most students have to these days, don’t they?’
‘She worked in the holidays. Saturdays in term time. She got a flat in town with a couple of other lasses. In West Jesmond. A lovely flat. I wasn’t sure how she could afford it, but apparently it belonged to one of the other girls’ dad. He’d bought it, like, as an investment and rented it out to them. We helped her out as much as we could. Dennis got a bit of redundancy from the slate works when that closed so we had some savings.’
‘Where did she work in the holidays?’ Vera asked.
‘In Robbins, that posh frock shop near the Monument.’
Vera nodded to show she knew the one Phyllis was talking about. She’d never been inside but she’d looked in the window. All tailored linen and crisp white blouses. Jackets £250 a shot.
‘I’d hoped she might find somewhere in Hexham, one of the hotels maybe. Then she could have come home for the summer at least. But, like she said, she had to pay rent to keep her place and she’d never find wages as good as Robbins’ out here. Besides, she always liked to dress well. She had style even when she was little. And she got discount on the clothes she bought from there. She brought me some lovely birthday presents . . .’ Her hand started to shake, her cup rattled in its saucer. Ashworth stood up and took it from her. Phyllis pulled a tiny cotton handkerchief from her sleeve and began to weep. ‘We thought she would come back now,’ she said, still talking through the tears. ‘She’s a country girl, really, and there are lots of village schools crying out for teachers. I had this picture. Her married to a nice lad. Living local. Somewhere I could get to on the bus, at least. A grandchild before I get too old to enjoy it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Take no notice of me. Nonsense.’ She paused again, stifled a sob. ‘Just you find out who killed her.’
Vera nodded imperceptibly to Ashworth to take over the questions. He
Everywhere in the room there were reminders of her daughter. She kept getting up to point things out to them. The certificates for ballet and tap dancing, for piano. ‘She got as far as grade five then she stopped taking lessons. Too much school work. But she was still a lovely little player. She was going to start it up again. She said it would be useful in teaching.’ There were photos on the mantelpiece, the window sill, the upright piano. Lily at a birthday party, aged five or six, grinning out over a cake shaped like a hedgehog. The official school photos. By the time Lily was fourteen she was already so attractive she’d turn heads in the street. Even with a school sweatshirt and no make-up. That was something she had in common with Luke Armstrong. They were both physically beautiful. In all the chat, Vera was listening out for anything else which might provide a connection, but it seemed there was nothing. Then, in an enlarged, framed photo hung on the wall, there was Lily in her hired cap and gown on graduation day, head thrown back, a wide smile.
‘It looks as though she was enjoying herself there,’ Vera said. ‘Did she like being a student?’
‘She loved it,’ Phyllis said. ‘Every minute. I was so glad for her. Not that I wanted to let her go, of course. I missed her something terrible. But there was nothing much for her here. No brothers and sisters. Hardly any young people left in the village. And her father with his moods . . . He wanted her to live at home, travel in every day on the bus, but I knew that wouldn’t do. I said to him, “Be grateful that she didn’t end up in Kent or Exeter.” They were universities on her list. “It’s time she had some freedom.” He saw sense in the end.’
‘Did she work while she was at college?’ Vera asked. ‘Most students have to these days, don’t they?’
‘She worked in the holidays. Saturdays in term time. She got a flat in town with a couple of other lasses. In West Jesmond. A lovely flat. I wasn’t sure how she could afford it, but apparently it belonged to one of the other girls’ dad. He’d bought it, like, as an investment and rented it out to them. We helped her out as much as we could. Dennis got a bit of redundancy from the slate works when that closed so we had some savings.’
‘Where did she work in the holidays?’ Vera asked.
‘In Robbins, that posh frock shop near the Monument.’
Vera nodded to show she knew the one Phyllis was talking about. She’d never been inside but she’d looked in the window. All tailored linen and crisp white blouses. Jackets £250 a shot.
‘I’d hoped she might find somewhere in Hexham, one of the hotels maybe. Then she could have come home for the summer at least. But, like she said, she had to pay rent to keep her place and she’d never find wages as good as Robbins’ out here. Besides, she always liked to dress well. She had style even when she was little. And she got discount on the clothes she bought from there. She brought me some lovely birthday presents . . .’ Her hand started to shake, her cup rattled in its saucer. Ashworth stood up and took it from her. Phyllis pulled a tiny cotton handkerchief from her sleeve and began to weep. ‘We thought she would come back now,’ she said, still talking through the tears. ‘She’s a country girl, really, and there are lots of village schools crying out for teachers. I had this picture. Her married to a nice lad. Living local. Somewhere I could get to on the bus, at least. A grandchild before I get too old to enjoy it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Take no notice of me. Nonsense.’ She paused again, stifled a sob. ‘Just you find out who killed her.’
Vera nodded imperceptibly to Ashworth to take over the questions. He
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