The CBB
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The Parcel (Complete)
http://www.the-cbb.co.uk/viewtopic.php?f=14&t=5250
Author:  Liss [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 9:42 pm ]
Post subject:  The Parcel (Complete)
(I posted this story on LJ a few years ago, but it never made it on the board in its entirety. For ease of reading, I'm going to post the whole thing at once.)

Summary: In the present day, a young woman is sent a mysterious parcel which sends her to the modern branches of the Chalet School in an effort to learn more about her past.

---

Carey Howard struggled with an assortment of bags as she unlocked her front door, jiggling the stubborn lock impatiently. Eventually it gave way and the door flew open, revealing the reassuring sight of her hallway. She flung the bags down, slammed closed the door, and stripped off her coat, only to stop and heave a sigh of irritation as she noticed the red slip that had been posted through the door. Casting coat and scarf onto the laundry-box-cum-hall-seat, she picked it up. The parcel, delivered at 10.24 (how absurdly exact) could not be put through the letter box because it (a) needed signing for or (b) was too big. Neither was marked. A scribble in the corner informed Carey, however, that the parcel in question was currently residing in the recycling bin. Lovely. The fate of this parcel, had today been the recycling collection day, clearly was of no interest to the postman. Hardly surprising, thought Carey, as she opened the door again, given that, in her opinion, his IQ was less than that of next door’s cat.

She tromped bad-temperedly round the side of the house, wrenched open the bin, and glared at the parcel. It, being a parcel, did not glare back, but merely sat there, unspeaking and belabelled. As, in fact, you would expect from a parcel. Carey bent over and pulled it out. It was more or less the size of a box-file which closer examination back indoors proved it to be.

Sitting at the kitchen table, cup of tea at her elbow, Carey inspected the box file. It was grey and mottled, in the best box file tradition, with a green fabric spine and an old-fashioned label, that may once have said ‘Mining Reports 1962’ on it, but had long since been rubbed almost blank. Viewed from every angle, it appeared to be nothing more or less than a box file.

Carey opened it. It was almost empty, save for a few papers, and she wondered why it had required the use of a box file, when surely a stiffened envelope would have done almost as well. But no matter. That was hardly important.

There was a white envelope on the top. It had ‘Carey’ printed neatly on it. Carey opened it. That was the next logical move, after all. There was a folded piece of paper inside, the sort of thin blue paper you bought from post offices. This was typed, not handwritten, but skewed, as if the paper had gone into the printer at a funny angle. It said simply ‘You are not who you think you are.’ That was all.

How odd, thought Carey. She put it to one side. She picked out the next piece of paper from the box file. It was a photograph of a pretty girl, taken in the 1970s from the look of her dress. She was beautiful, in fact. But entirely unknown. She picked up another photograph, this time of a house – no, a chalet. It was older than the picture of the girl, in black and white rather than colour. She flipped it over so she could read the back. It merely said ‘1957’. That would account for the black and white. Thinking about, she checked the back of the colour photo, but it was blank. The only think left in the file was a scrap of paper, torn from a larger sheet. It was old as well, and looked to be some kind of invoice for stationery supplies. Since it was made out to Acorn Copper Mines Ltd, Carey presumed it had always lived in the box file.

She wasn’t who she thought she was. Well, everyone knew that.



For a couple of days, Carey didn’t give much thought to the parcel. It sat on the counter in the kitchen, neatly stacked with her cookery books and a box of orange biscuits that she didn’t like. She didn’t know who had sent it; her address had been printed onto a neat white label, and the postmark was smudged and faint. There had been no return address.

But then Saturday came and, after spending an hour cleaning, and another ironing, Carey found herself at a loose end. She went on the internet and Googled all the clues for her crossword that she couldn’t otherwise answer and then, from a simple urge to look up something else, searched for ‘Acorn Copper Mines Ltd’. Nothing obvious came up. But Carey’s interest was now piqued. After all, there had once been an Acorn Copper Mines Ltd, and surely some remnant of it remained to be found. She reached for the box file, and checked the scrap of paper. Part of an address could be seen: Devizes. She added that to her search criteria, and looked again. This time, at the end of the second page of results, she found a mention. Acorn Copper Mines had undergone several buy-outs, ending up the property of Aon, an American company. The mines themselves had been closed in the early 90s, though. There was nothing left of the company. The doorbell rang, and Carey went to answer it, closing down the computer.

On Sunday, Carey wondered again why someone would have sent her those things. It was very unusual. She wasn’t what people thought she was, that was true, of course. But some people did know. She could tell, when they looked at her. When their voices lowered as she approached; when their eyes slid away from hers. Of course they knew.

The following Friday, Carey wrote to the London office of Aon, and asked about Acorn Copper Mines Ltd. Two weeks later, she received a reply. Acorn Copper Mines Ltd had been bought in 1987. Their office had been in Church Road, in Devizes. No, unfortunately, they did not have any information about staff members. Any further help, please don’t hesitate to ask. Carey didn’t really think they could do anything much to help.

In May, Carey took some holiday, and went to Devizes. In the library, she explained about Acorn Copper Mines Ltd, and an archivist showed her where to find records about it. They had owned a building on Church Road between 1946 and 1992. After that it had been sold to a company of solicitors. Acorn Copper Mines, before it had been sold to its first company, in 1976, had been run by Mr Harris and Mr Williams, both long since dead.

“My mum worked there!” Linda Robertson had been in the library getting books for her grandson’s homework, and had stopped by the archivist’s office to borrow some paper, as it was closer to the children’s section than the main issuing desk. She had grey hair and a plastic mac. “Acorn Mines – she worked for them for ages, back before the war even. They weren’t in Church Road, then; she wasn’t from round here. All her life, she worked for them. Died back in ’89, God rest her soul. Others? Wouldn’t know, love, I’m afraid. Auntie Marjorie, she worked for ‘em too, but she died donkey’s years ago.”

Carey thanked them both, and left. But Linda followed her, and caught her arm, panting slightly.

“Just remembered, where Mum was from. Taverton, that was it. It’s about an hour from here, not far really. That was where she worked with the mines, as well, in the office, like.”

“Thank you,” said Carey. The next day she drove to Taverton.


There hadn’t ever been an Acorn Copper Mines Ltd in Taverton, the archivist was quite sure. There would be a record, she said. Look, the businesses were registered. Maybe Linda had been wrong, Carey thought. But then she saw that there *had* been a mining company in Taverton, called the Corah Mine. It had closed in 1940, and never re-opened. Carey had kept notes, though, and the mine was the same as that belonging to Acorn Copper Mines.

The Corah Mine company had had its offices on a residential street. It had bought them in 1933, from Mr Richard Bettany, whose address was given as a forestry company in India. The house had been sold by the owner of the Corah Mine in 1947, and had changed hands many times since then. There was a solicitor listed on the land registry papers, but the archivist told Carey that he had practised alone, and died shortly after the war.

It was a dead end, Carey could quite see that. Whoever had sent her the papers might have had something to do with a long-defunct mining company, or they might not. With all the closures and sell-outs, that box-file could have been obtained by almost anyone, probably.

She sat in the park, and looked at the two pictures. The girl was wearing a yellow dress, and had long dark hair. She had blue eyes and fair skin, and long legs, and was leaning against a tree. The picture of the chalet was out of focus, and showed a solid-looking door with a wide lintel, and the traditional flower-laden balcony. There was nothing identifiable in either picture if you didn’t happen to know where they were taken already.

There hadn’t been much point in coming to Taverton, really. The box-file had been marked with the date 1962, so it was from when the company had already been in Devizes for many years. Maybe her sub-conscious had wanted a holiday. She laughed, then stopped, her hand over her mouth, because really it wasn’t allowed. Not for her.

Carey went shopping, and bought a t-shirt and a book, and then went into a gift shop. Did she want something to remind her of Taverton, asked the girl. Carey didn’t really, but didn’t like to say, so she bought a book by a local publishers. Ever so good, it was, said the girl. It was a servant’s diary, really old, who lived in Taverton years ago. People loved it, said the girl, so Carey bought it, more to be polite than because of any desire to read it.

That night there wasn’t much on the television, so Carey was reduced to reading the book. It was by a woman called Hannah, who had been a cook in service since after the First World War. It wasn’t particularly interesting; Hannah didn’t have a light touch with the pen. But the story had a kind of morbid interest to it – the man who lost his wife and sent his daughter off to live with his mother, only to remarry years later, summoning the daughter and not telling the new wife.

That wasn’t acceptable behaviour, Carey knew that. And it seems the new wife didn’t like the girl very much. Carey knew all about that, but the girl was real, so she didn’t quite understand. But then she read about how, when the girl was 14, Miss Bettany took her away for her school in Austria, and Carey wondered whether Austria had chalets as well as Switzerland.


There was more Googling the following day, and Carey found out that Miss Bettany had founded the Chalet School, now an internationally-renowned girls’ boarding school, with branches in England, Switzerland and Austria. Looking at the pictures on the school’s website, Carey felt a thrill of discovery. Surely there must be a connection here? The picture of the girl, the chalet, the scrap of paper from the mining company – surely it couldn’t be merely chance that she received them?

Carey wondered whether she should go and see Mrs Howard, and ask her if she knew what it meant. But even if Mrs Howard knew everything, Carey couldn’t bring herself to speak to her. It was cowardice, of course, and showed poor manners, but what else could you expect from someone like Carey?

So she decided she would go to the school, instead. The one in England was the most obvious choice – Carey looked at the pictures, a beautiful building, Glendower House – but the chalet wasn’t anywhere in England. Austria, that’s where she would go. She bought a plane ticket, her finger shaking ever so slightly. She had never been abroad before; had never spent so much money on something that wasn’t an absolute essential. The school was located on the Tiernsee; Carey bought a ticket to Innsbruck; there was a train service thence to a place called Seespitz, which was only a short walk from the school. She booked a room in a hotel, stuttering on the phone with her schoolgirl German, finally relapsing with relief into English as the girl on the other end took her measure.

On the plane from Gatwick, Carey marvelled at her temerity in coming so far. After all, what was she going to find? Probably nothing she didn’t already know. Perhaps her…her mother… was something… No! That kind of thinking would get her nowhere; she knew what kind of person that woman had been. Mrs Howard had made sure of that. Which, when you thought about, had been kind of her. It wouldn’t have been fair, really, to let Carey think otherwise. Always best to know the truth, then it couldn’t hurt you by leaping out, unexpectedly.

At the Kron Prinz Karl, Carey was settled into her room, and she ordered a meal. There’s a school round here, isn’t there? she asked, and the maid agreed, and pointed out of the window. It’s over there, she said, through the trees; you can’t see it awfully well.

Carey dressed smartly in the morning, and walked up the long drive, pausing at the entrance. It was quiet, but she imagined she could hear the hum of voices, almost making the building vibrate. She knocked on the door. It was answered by a woman in a neat suit, who smiled and looked at her enquiringly. Was it possible to see the Headmistress, asked Carey, smiling in return. She explained hurriedly, confusedly – her niece…her brother…looking for a good school…business in Europe… The woman nodded, and gestured her inside. Miss Trevor would be able to see her in half an hour; would she like a tour of the school beforehand?


Ceridwen Lytton looked at the woman beside her with carefully veiled curiosity. She had shown many potential parents round the school throughout her career here. Mr Lytton was in the diplomatic service, and Ceridwen had been at boarding school since she was eleven. With her good manners and pretty face, not to mention a family connection with the school – “My grandmother was a pupil here,” she explained, “during the War,” – she was often chosen for this particular task. That being so, she was now quite adept at sizing people up.

Not a day over 30, she summed up quickly, unmarried, bloody nervous about something, nice clothes but not particularly expensive – not much money then, cuz she’s dressed up for it. Brother must have much more – it’s not like this place is cheap. Wonder why she got sent out to do the legwork – maybe she’s just on holiday here and it seemed like a plan.

“How old is your niece?” she asked, curiously. Miss Howard blushed, and looked uncomfortable.

“T-twelve,” she replied after a pause. “She’s just had her birthday,” she added. Her expression seemed to be one of perpetual unhappiness, and Ceridwen felt sorry for her. She smiled.

“I’m seventeen,” she said, in a friendly way. “I’ve got another year to do my IB, then hopefully it’s off to university for me. I’ll probably go back to England for it – there are some good places on the continent, of course, but it’d be nice to be England.”

“Oh to be in England, now that spring is here,” quoted Miss Howard unexpectedly, and Ceridwen looked at her, surprised.

“Something like that, I suppose. Here are the Splasheries, Miss Howard – the cloakrooms, by any other name. Everyone gets a peg and a locker, for the outdoors stuff. Skiing togs and what have you are kept in lockers in the Gym.”

“Do you do a lot of winter sports?” asked Miss Howard, and Ceridwen nodded vigorously.

“Loads! Skiing and skating and tobogganing, all sorts of things! They build a rink out where the tennis and netball courts are, because we can’t use them anyway when the weather’s bad. Back when the school was first here, I think they used to skate on the lake, but of course we’re not allowed any more. But the rink is huge, and we do figure skating – Herr Braun comes to coach us – and ice hockey, and sometimes speed skating. We’ve even had a couple of people in the winter Olympics,” she added proudly. They moved on.

“This corridor leads to another building, but it’s where the kids are, so your niece wouldn’t have much to do with them. The form rooms are this way – Upper IIIa is here,” she gestured at a door, and waited as Miss Howard glanced in, seeing, no doubt, the well-behaved lines of the Upper III, who were… making an unlikely amount of noise. Ceridwen sighed, and touched Miss Howard’s arm, so that she drew back from the door. She rolled her eyes at the visitor, and smiled. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, then opened the door, and poked her head round. Confident that she wasn’t breaking into a rather more lively lesson than usual, and there in fact wasn’t a mistress present, she walked to the large desk at the front of the room and waited, arms crossed, for the girls to notice her. It didn’t take long, and before two minutes had passed they were silent, sitting exactly as they should be. Ceridwen raised an eyebrow, and demanded simply, “Explain, please.” There were a good deal of exchanged glances, and one of the girls reluctantly stood up. Her badge proclaimed her to be the form prefect, and Ceridwen recognised her as being the younger sister of Lucy Taylor, one of the fifth formers.

“Mrs Morris went to get some thing from the library,” she said nervously. “She’ll be back in a minute.”

“So you thought you’d take this opportunity to make as much noise as possible? Well, I suppose we can’t expect much more from infants like you,” and the girls bridled, entirely predictably, thought Ceridwen, who had seen that particular ploy work like a charm on many an occasion, “but we would appreciate it if you would at least *try* to be a little better behaved – we can’t watch you all the time, you know. Now, I’m showing a visitor round the school and hopefully you haven’t put her off altogether. Can I trust you to behave yourselves until Mrs Morris comes back?” There was much nodding, and the younger Miss Taylor nodded with them. “Yes, Ceridwen, we promise.” Ceridwen nodded back, smiled, and withdrew.

“Sorry about that,” she said to Miss Howard.

That evening, Carey pored over the school’s prospectus. The glossy pictures, of an endless variety of girls enjoying so many activities, made her yearn for a childhood that she’d never had; but eventually she put the brochure away. It was silly to torment herself that way, when she’d had a perfectly good education; no worse than anyone else’s. An imp told her that her education had probably been a good deal worse than young Ceridwen’s, for example, but she disregarded it.

After being shown round the school, she had had a brief and rather uncomfortable meeting with Miss Trevor, the Head, who had been a small, brisk lady with fair, greying hair, and whose piercing eyes seemed to see straight though Carey’s pretence of a niece. She had come away as quickly as she could, pausing only to beg the prospectus from one of the school’s reception staff. She had not had the nerve to ask about the chalet in the photograph, but now, insulated by time and dinner, she went down to the hotel reception, and showed it to the girl there.

She’d never seen it, the girl said, and she’d lived in the area all her life. She didn’t think it was one that might have been pulled down, not around Briesau, anyway. Besides, it didn’t even look Austrian. Frau Howard had been visiting the school, hadn’t she? She should have asked there; they had more of the school in Switzerland; that might be where the chalet was.

Carey nodded her thanks, and asked whether there was a computer with an internet connection she could use. The receptionist pointed her towards an alcove in the lobby, and gave her a plastic chip to put in it. Half-an-hour later, Carey had booked a train ticket to Switzerland.

The next morning, a Saturday, she decided to walk around the Tiernsee; her train wasn’t until Monday, and the lake was too beautiful to miss. She was halfway to Tiernkirche when she turned a corner in the path, having scrambled out of something that oddly resembled the BBC quarry, and came across Ceridwen Lytton and another girl, sitting on a bench eating sandwiches. Carey smiled hesitantly, then more widely as Ceridwen grinned at her.

They’d decided to go for a walk, Ceridwen said. She made the introductions, and Carey learnt that the other girl, whose fair-haired beauty seemed to typify the Germanic ideal, was called Liddy von Eschenau.

“D’you want a sandwich?” offered Ceridwen suddenly, and Carey was taken aback.

“Um… I don’t… that is…”

“We have loads,” encouraged Liddy, “honestly, we do. They always give us stacks when we go off for walks.”

“In case we get lost, probably,” added Ceridwen, with a wry smile. “The fact that we’ve both been here for years, and could probably do this walk blindfold is neither here nor there!”

“Well, you know how schools are,” said Liddy, making room for Carey on the bench, “desperately scared of getting sued, even though if we *did* get lost it would probably be our own fault, and serve us right, too.”

“You have very good English,” said Carey, then put her hand over her mouth, aghast at having made such a personal comment to a stranger. But Liddy took in her stride, and smiled.

“Don’t let the name fool you, Miss Howard! I’m as English as the next person. My grandparents were Austrian, of course, but my father moved to England years ago, before I was born. My mother’s English.”

“Oh. I see,” replied Carey, absently biting into a sandwich that Ceridwen had handed her. “Are you mostly English at the school?” Liddy shook her head.

“Not at the Austrian branch,” she said. “It’s mostly Austrian and German girls, and some Italian and French. There are a fair number of English girls, of course. But mostly they go to the Swiss branch – there are more French girls there, as well, and Dutch and Norwegian and those sort of countries. My parents sent me here because of the family being Austrian.”

“And *mine*,” continued Ceridwen, as she flung an apple core into the trees, “sent me here for no good reason, except that they liked the idea of being able to visit me by the lake. The Swiss branch is halfway up a big fu- I mean, a big mountain. My mother wasn’t quite so keen on that.”

“Have you been there?” asked Carey with interest. The two girls nodded.

“There’s a regular half-term-y exchange thing,” replied Liddy. “It’s great, actually, cuz in the winter, we get to go over there for skiing and stuff, which is better over there than here, and in the summer they can come and use the lake – they have to go down to Lake Thun usually, and it’s a bit of a trek. Plus I suppose it gives the mistresses a bit of a change. We do Guides and Rangers and that sort of thing as well, if people like, and we have a camp every summer, turn and turn about, with the Platz people and Glendower House. So we’ve been to Platz quite a lot, really.”

Carey fished in her pocket and pulled out the photograph of the chalet. “Does this look familiar?” she asked, trying to hide the tension in her voice. If it *was* from the Swiss branch, surely these two would recognise it? But they both looked unsure.

“I don’t *think* so,” said Liddy eventually. “But I can’t say it looked unfamiliar, exactly, so maybe I have seen it somewhere. What about you, Kerry?” Ceridwen took it from Carey, and stared intently, then flipped it over and read the date on the back.

“It’s not part of the school,” she said slowly, raising her eyes to meet Carey’s, “and that’s what you meant, isn’t it? But Lid’s right, it looks familiar. Not the building itself, actually, but the landscape. I wonder if… what about that place that used to be next door? The house where Dr Lewis used to live before it all went pear-shaped and they had to knock it down?” Liddy was nodding.

“That’s it! I knew I’d seen it somewhere! That is, I don’t really remember Dr Lewis there, because they knocked it down practically our first year here, but I’ve seen loads of pictures of it. It was called F…Freudesheim, that was it! One of my grandmother’s friends used to own it, back in the day.” Ceridwen groaned.

“God, yes! Mrs M, n’est-ce pas?” Liddy grinned and rolled her eyes in turn.

“The very same! I’d forgotten your grandmother knew her as well.”

“’The Perfect Chalet School Girl.’ Trademarked,” said Ceridwen, waving the photo at Carey. She was the School’s First Pupil – also trademarked – though only because her sister founded it.”

“Miss Bettany,” said Carey, unthinkingly, and the two girls turned to her in surprise.

“How on earth did you know?” demanded Ceridwen. And Carey, who had somehow never had anyone to talk to as she had with these two girls, told them everything: the box file, and the mining company, and Taverton, and lying to Miss Trevor. She showed them the photo of the girl as well, but neither of them recognised her.

“It’s half-term this week,” announced Liddy, with a sly grin. “Guess where we’re going?”

“I’m not down to go anywhere,” replied Ceridwen dispassionately, as she shook the remaining crumbs out from the plastic boxes that had held their lunch. “Dad wrote and said they might wander this way for half-term, so I told Trev I’d stay and hostess the visitors if she wanted.” Liddy’s face fell, and Carey felt a sinking sensation of disappointment, though she didn’t allow it show.

“Oh, Kerry! Come off it, your dad’s hopeless at actually turning up! You know what he’s like – he’ll probably turn up next week and expect to whisk you off for days, and then get mardy when Trev tells him to forget it. Go and ask her if you can come to the Platz with the rest of us, and then we can help Carey find the girl in the photo.”

“Sounds like the title of a film,” said Ceridwen with a grin. “I want to, of course, but I did promise Trev I’d help, and you know she likes to have an intermittent Prefect hanging about to be useful – everyone else is off to the Platz, or home.”

“But there’ll be loads of other Seniors,” objected Liddy, with some truth. “You know people like to stay during summer half-term – it’s so much nicer here than on the Platz. I know Aimee and Hilda and Sabine and that lot are staying, which is most of Lower VIb and if they can’t sort people out, then it’s a bit crap!”

“OK, don’t get on your high horse! I’ll ask Trev – it *would* be fun,” said Ceridwen, glancing at the photograph of the girl in Carey’s hand. “I wonder why someone sent them to you?” Carey shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s long-lost family,” suggested Liddy, helping Ceridwen tidy up. She didn’t see Carey’s flushed expression, and though Ceridwen did, she said nothing.

“I don’t think so,” said Carey carefully. “I know who my parents were and everything; there isn’t any mystery.”

“Well, this is pretty mysterious,” said Ceridwen briefly. “And we haven’t got anything like enough time to walk to Tiernkirche and back, Liddy. I want Trev in a sweet mood if she’s going to let me off hostessing, and you know how she is when people come back late.”

“Today’s litigious society – I don’t know!” And Liddy tut-tutted, to Carey’s amusement.

“Do parents really sue the school?” she asked curiously as they headed back towards Briesau.

“All the time,” said Ceridwen.

“Not *all* the time,” interrupted Liddy consideringly. “Just occasionally. One of the girls in the Lower Fifth broke her leg skiing last winter, and her parents tried to sue, only it didn’t get anywhere, because everyone has to sign disclaimers and waivers and all that, just so the school isn’t liable. And that pain, Sasha whatshername, last spring, who had a complete spaz about something and her parents shouted to high heaven about how crap the school had been, only then it went dead quiet and they took her away…”

“Praise the Lord,” said Ceridwen piously. “She was a right nuisance, and flat refused to speak anything but Italian, which was completely pointless, and only pissed off the mistresses – and everyone else, for that matter. That’s what the suit was over – the languages thing. They said it was discrimination, only Trev sorted them out in pretty short order, I think. Idiots.”

Carey promptly fell over, not so much in reaction to the conversation but because she’d fallen over a rock. These things happen. Ceridwen held out a hand. Carey looked at it, and realised, a propos of very little indeed, that other than shaking Miss Trevor’s hand the previous day, she hadn’t really touched anyone in… years. She worked in an office, a bland impersonal environment which hardly lent itself to personal interaction. She had no real friends or family, just Mrs Howard, and she didn’t count for this sort of thing. Looking at the competent, tanned hand held out to her, Carey wondered what it was like for people who could expect that sort of thing, and could take it, without even thinking. Slowly, she reached out her own hand, then paused, but it was enough, and Ceridwen, bent down, caught hold of the pale fingers, and hauled. Once Carey was on her feet, the younger girl didn’t let go straightaway, but held on for one-two paces, so their arms were outstretched between them and Carey was propelled behind her, before dropping her hand with a smile.

They chatted about the school, and the weather, and inconsequential things all the way back round the lake, but Carey couldn’t get rid of the feel of Ceridwen’s hand around hers. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Author:  Liss [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 9:47 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel
Alex Munro occupied the prestigious position of Head Girl of the Swiss branch of the Chalet School, and was rightfully proud of her role. So it was that, when Mrs Ransome, the Headmistress, had announced that she would be away in New York over the half-term holiday, Alex had agreed to forego the exchange weekend to the Tiernsee, and remain on the Platz to hostess.

“Course, it’s rather a shame,” she admitted to a select coterie of her best friend, and three of the visiting prefects, as they lounged under a tree in a corner of the school’s garden. “It’s fab here, obviously, but summer on the lake is always something special.”

“It is,” replied Liddy complacently. “And it was gorgeous last week. Almost a shame having to come over here.” At that, Meg Maynard sat upright, and looked accusingly at Ceridwen.

“I knew I was going to ask you something! You e-mailed me at the beginning of the month to say you weren’t coming, and I know you weren’t going to come last week because Miss Hever mentioned that you were hostessing for Trev. So how come you’re here?” Rachel Shirley, who was a shining light in the Austrian branch’s Upper VI, propped herself up on one elbow and looked at Ceridwen with interest.

“I was wondering the same thing,” she confessed. “Trev posted the list on Monday and you were definitely on it then.” Ceridwen shrugged.

“Oh, Dad changed his mind about coming, so Trev said I might as well come along. About four-fifths of the Lower VI seemed to be staying, so it didn’t make much difference one way or another.” The others accepted this explanation, and Meg went so far as to say that it was just as well, really. She had spent her senior schooldays in Austria until the age of nearly fifteen, when her mother’s illness had necessitated a move to Switzerland, in order to be near the large sanatorium which was a medical pioneer. Although keen to be with her family, Meg had always missed her old friends to a certain extent and, despite a year’s difference, she and Ceridwen had always been close.

“Actually,” said Ceridwen slowly, rolling onto her back and thence sitting up, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Meg.” She made a long arm for her bag, and pulled out two sheets of paper. With considerable foresight, she had made scans of Carey Howard’s photographs. She showed them now to Meg and Alex. “That’s Freudesheim, isn’t it?”

Meg nodded. “It is indeed. Although from ages ago, obviously. Grandad had an extension put in on the side, in the 60s, I think. The part Dr Lewis used for his surgery.”

“We thought it was,” put in Liddy. “*My* people have various photos of it hanging around. What about the other one? The girl?” Meg looked at it, a frown on her face.

“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “I can tell you where it was taken, though: it’s Freudesheim, all right. Round the back, where the rose garden was. I don’t remember it much, cuz the grandparents moved out of it ages ago, when I was just a kid. We’ve got loads of pictures taken there, though, because that’s where they used to take most of them, specially at the start of term. There’s one of me there, my first term at St Nick’s. I don’t know who she is, though.” Ceridwen and Liddy both looked rather taken aback.

“Well, isn’t she family or something? I mean, if she had her pic taken there.” Meg laughed.

“Oh, come on! You *know* what Grandma’s like! *All* the girls at the school were there one time or another; it doesn’t mean anything.”

“But she’s not a girl,” said Ceridwen, considering the photo more closely. “I mean, when you look at it properly. I reckon she’s at least twenty, and that’s not school age, but too young for a mistress.” Meg shrugged.

“Old girl, then. It’s not like there aren’t a million of them. Thing is, she does look a *bit* familiar. But probably I’ve just seen a photo of her before.”

“What *is* this all about, anyway?” demanded Rachel suddenly. “Where did you get the pics from, Kerry?”

“Scanned them,” replied Ceridwen, deliberately obtuse. For some reason, she didn’t want to go around sharing Carey’s story. Rachel rolled her eyes, and held out a hand.

“Let’s have a look,” she said briefly. Meg handed them over, and Rachel inspected the two pictures. Putting aside the one of Freudesheim – “Well, since I didn’t arrive until the Lower IV, I never even saw it” – she concentrated on the girl, and gave a shout of surprise. “Oh, I know her!” The others looked at her in astonishment – Rachel had, as she said, only arrived at the age of thirteen, and, unusually, had no previous connections to the school.

“Who is she?” asked Ceridwen. Rachel grimaced.

“Well, when I said I know her, that was a bit of an exaggeration. I’ve seen her before, in one of my ballet mags, I think. She’s a dancer. Or, more likely, she was a dancer. Oh, if only I could remember her name!”

When it came to ballet, Rachel’s word was law. Her godmother was Estelle Raymond, who had been a dancer with the Royal Ballet, and Rachel had grown up in that environment.

“Well, she was certainly *someone*,” pointed out Liddy. “Look, why don’t we just get Meg to ask Aunt Jo about it? I mean, if that photo was taken at Freudesheim, she’d know who the girl is? Stands to reason, surely?”

“Oh, you know Grandma,” said Meg. “She never forgets anyone. She’s bound to know who it is, you’re right. Give me a copy of it, Kerry, and I’ll e-mail it to her.” The girls proceeded to one of the school’s computer rooms, and scanned the picture, then Meg opened her e-mail account.

“Isn’t Mrs Maynard a bit on the old side to be doing e-mail?” asked Ceridwen, as she watched Meg type out her grandmother’s e-mail address.

“Oh, practically crone-like,” replied Meg, showing very little respect for her elders. “But it’s not like she’d turn down the opportunity for further means to gossip, so she got Uncle Steve to set it up for her a few years ago. All of our lot are on it, of course, and she’s badgered the older generations to get themselves hooked up too. Says writing letters is too much like hard work these days, so e-mail’s better. Got a blog, too, for her fifty million photos. The Board of Govs here has been contemplating setting up a way-back-when website for the Dark Ages of the school, and pinching all her snaps.” She typed rapidly, attached the picture file, then clicked send with a flourish of the mouse. “There!”

The next day or so passed uneventfully for the girls up on the Platz, though Ceridwen found herself keeping an eye out for Carey Howard. Not that she had said she would definitely come, Ceridwen reminded herself. From what she could tell, going to Austria had been a big enough thing for Carey, without then bopping off to Switzerland on top of it. And she didn’t strike Ceridwen as the sort of person who routinely gave into temptation. Their time was spent supervising the younger girls, bathing in the school’s swimming pool, and going off on expeditions. Towards the end of half term, the school was unexpectedly host to a most honoured guest: Mrs Josephine Maynard.

The first the sixth formers knew of it was when, coming round the corner to the main drive of the school, Meg gave a shriek of “Auntie Con!” and leapt forward, flinging her arms around a slight woman with generously salted dark hair.

“Hello, darling,” that lady replied, returning the hug. “I thought you might be in Austria for the holiday.” Meg shook her head vigorously, then stepped back.

“But what are you doing here?” she asked, surprise evident in her voice. Con Richardson had very little involvement in her old school. Her only daughter had been a pupil at the Austrian branch, as the Richardsons had lived in Austria for many years because of Roger Richardson’s job as an engineer at the water plant, but Genevieve Richardson, only a couple of years younger than Meg’s own mother, had finished school long ago, and as Roger had by then moved the family back to England, Con had never felt any particular urge to keep up with the various branches’ doings.

“Mamma wanted to come,” said Con, rather unexpectedly. “Len’s not been great since Uncle Reg died, you know, and nobody else was available really, so she asked me to bring her.”

“What on earth for?” demanded Meg, agog with curiosity. Her grandmother might be a formidable woman, and as savvy as she ever had been, but physically she wasn’t very strong, and though still independent, her family made sure that someone was always around for her, especially since Jack Maynard’s death some five years ago.

“I thought you would have known,” said Con. “You sent her that photo, after all!”

Jo Maynard was, and always had been, a force to be reckoned with. Within an hour she had ensconced herself in Mrs Ransome’s study and, sitting in state with a colourful rug over her knees, she faced Ceridwen, Liddy and Meg.

“Now then, young lady,” she addressed herself to her granddaughter, “what’s all this about, if you please?” Meg rather stunned at her grandmother’s appearance, burbled for a moment, until Ceridwen rolled her eyes.

“It was me, really, Mrs Maynard,” she explained. “I asked Meg to send you the picture to see if you recognised it. And since you’re here,” she added daringly, “I assume that you did.” Mrs Maynard peered at her closely.

“Quite. And you have the look of someone I know,” she said accusingly. “An old girl somewhere in the family, I take it?”

“My grandmother,” said Ceridwen. “I think you probably knew her. She was Gwensi Howell, back in the day.”

“Gwensi! Well, that explains a lot. How is she?”

“Pretty well,” said Ceridwen, hoping that this wasn’t going to turn into one of those interminable conversations that old people liked to have.

“Excellent. Yes, I knew Gwensi when she was young, when the school took over her brother’s house, during the War. How she hated us all then,” and Mrs Maynard sighed reminiscently. “I get the occasional news from my niece Daisy – she and your grandmother were great friends at school, you know.” Ceridwen murmured something affirmative, and then pulled her scan of Carey’s photograph out of her pocket, and laid it on the desk.

“Mrs Maynard, *do* you know who she is?” Mrs Maynard reached out and touched the edge of the paper, then pulled her hand away, and Ceridwen was surprised to see that she was crying.

“Yes, I knew her. The poor girl, I knew her very well. But where did you get it from? It’s mine, you know. I took it. When I got your e-mail, I looked through all the albums, but that one was missing. How did you get a copy?” Ceridwen wondered how best to answer this, when an interruption saved her. It was Carla, one of the school’s reception staff.

“Please, there is someone to see Ceridwen Lytton here,” she said briefly. Ceridwen frowned – surely it couldn’t be her parents?

“Who is it, Carla?” asked Meg.

“Someone called Miss Howard? She said she would…”

“Carey!” exclaimed Liddy and Ceridwen in unison. “Oh, could you ask her to come in here, please, Carla?” asked Liddy, before Ceridwen could decide what was best. Carla nodded obligingly, and a minute later they heard the sound of light footsteps, and Carey Howard walked into the study. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Ceridwen, and she moved forward impulsively, her hand out, only to stop and stare, as everyone did, at the elderly lady sitting behind the wide mahogany desk, who was clutching the arms of the chair, knuckles white, a look of nightmarish horror on her face.

“Marie?” And then there was nothing to be said, for Mrs Maynard had fainted.

Con Richardson had stepped in at this point and, with the help of the school’s caretaker, had whisked her mother off to one of the guest rooms, leaving behind a group of rather bewildered young women.

“Well, that answers that,” said Meg, finally. “She definitely knew who you were, Miss Howard!” The others had filled her in by this point, and Meg proclaimed herself deathlessly interested in the outcome.

“Except she didn’t,” said Liddy, with inarguable logic. “She called her Marie, didn’t she? That’s not Carey’s name. It’s not, is it?” she added suddenly. “I mean, sometimes it’s difficult to tell – I’m Elizabeth, myself.” Carey shook her head.

“No, it’s just Caroline. Do you think she has me confused with someone else?”

“You probably just reminded her of someone,” said Ceridwen gently, seeing that her new-found friend was getting rather anxious about the whole thing. “And she’s quite old, you know. I wouldn’t worry about it, myself. I’m sure she’ll explain who the girl in the photo is after she feels better.”

“Won’t she just!” put in Meg, knowing her grandmother of old. “There’s nothing she likes as much as a captive audience! She’s a dear, of course, but she doesn’t half like trotting out all the old stories! And you’ve no idea how much worse it is when she gets together with some of her old cronies!”

“Oh, trust me, I know!” Liddy’s words were heartfelt. “My grandmother and her friends are unbelievable when they get going! My great-grandmother was one of the very first pupils here, you know, but by all accounts she wasn’t too bad – old school Austrian, you know, so not like Aunt Jo at all, but Grandma’s always been into the endless stories. It’s amazing, when you think about it, that most of us descendants-of-old-girls actually like it so much here, when any self-respecting person would be slitting her wrists rather than coming.”

“I think I must have come out pretty lucky, all things considered,” observed Ceridwen. “My grandmother – Gwensi – was a pupil during the war, but Mother went to a day school near where she lived. And I got the odd tale from Grandma, but not that many.”

Commiserating with each other’s woes, the Chalet School seniors ushered Carey out of the Headmistress’s study and made their way to the gardens, where they annexed a summerhouse from a group from Upper IV who, though disgruntled, took care to say nothing in front of the stranger in their midst. What they said about this peremptory treatment when out of earshot, however, is anyone’s guess!

“Who was Marie?” asked Carey when they had disposed themselves amongst the available chairs. “Does anyone know?” She was treated to a row of blank faces. Meg shrugged.

“Search me! I’ve never heard of her, at any rate.”

“Well, there was Tante Marie,” said Liddy, rather hesitantly. “She was Marie von Eschenau, and was best friends with Aunt Jo.” The others perked up at this possibility, but Liddy shook her head. “Oh, I wouldn’t get overly excited. Carey doesn’t look a thing like her, and that girl in the picture has nothing to do with my family, I think. Tante Marie lives in America now; I know she and Aunt Jo still write occasionally.”

“Seems pretty unlikely,” admitted Ceridwen, leaning her chin on one hand. “I reckon she’s someone none of us will have heard of. This whole thing has a very cloak-and-dagger feel about it. I mean, why would anyone send Carey those pictures in the way they did, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s all a complete mistake,” suggested Carey, half-hoping it was the case. “Like you say, it’s all so weird! Surely it makes more sense for it to be a mistake?” But the others were already shaking their heads.

“Not after how Grandma reacted,” said Meg. “Sorry, Carey, but that theory’s gone out of the window now.”

“At least it means we’ll probably get some kind of explanation,” said Liddy encouragingly.

They had perforce to wait till the following day, but at last, after breakfast, Carey, who had stayed at the school after Alex inveigled an extra room out of Frau Schmidt, the housekeeper, was summoned to the Headmistress’s study.


“I don’t know your name.” Carey and Mrs Maynard had sat, silently, facing each other across the desk for a couple of minutes before Mrs Maynard spoke.

“Caroline,” said Carey. “Caroline Howard.” She watched as Mrs Maynard’s dark eyes flitted to her ring finger.

“Very well, Miss Howard. How did you come by those photographs?” She nodded towards the two photographs lying side by side on the table.

“Someone sent them to me,” replied Carey, then she rushed on as she saw Mrs Maynard’s brows come together in a frown, “really, they did! And I don’t know who; I wish I did. They just came one day, in a box.” She explained the whole story, leaning forward with intensity. “Please, I just want to know who she is!” Mrs Maynard picked up the picture of the girl, and smiled faintly.

“I remember taking this,” she said after a moment. “Marie was almost eighteen. She’d just finished a year with Sadlers Wells. She was terrified that we’d left it too late, but of course we wouldn’t let her leave school proper until she’d at least done her ‘O’ Levels. Silly child, she was a wonderful dancer; everyone knew it. Her mother was as well, from what I could find out. I used to take photographs of everyone, you see, the day before the start of term. All my girls were grown up by then, of course, but Mary and Julia, my eldest granddaughters, were at the school by then, so I was still taking the photographs. So I took one of Marie as well, because she was due back in London.”

“I’m sorry, but… who is she?” A little startled, Mrs Maynard sat up straighter.

“I believe I was explaining,” she said, very much on her dignity. “Her name was Marie Claire de Mabillon, and she was our adopted daughter. Her parents were killed in a train crash, and since there was no-one else much interested, Jack – my husband – and I took her in. She grew up with us here, in Switzerland. You look very much like her, you know.” As Carey raised a self-conscious hand to her cheek, Mrs Maynard shook her head and smiled. “Oh, not so much in colouring and features, really, just… you have a look of her, as they say. The way you turn your head when you speak.”

“Where is she now?” asked Carey, quietly. She was confused beyond all bearing, because it was fairly obvious what she had to do with Marie now, and she wasn’t sure how that fitted with what she knew of herself. Mrs Maynard’s hand clenched around the arm of the chair.

“I… she’s dead, I’m afraid.” At this, Carey’s head shot up. This was not what she had expected to hear.

“Dead?” Mrs Maynard bowed her head.

“Yes. She must have died nearly thirty years ago now. She… she killed herself.” Carey’s hand flew to her mouth.

”Oh no!”

“Yes. She was pregnant. I don’t know if she had the baby; I always assumed she hadn’t.” She leaned forward, her expression urgent. “But now I think she must have done. You are her daughter, aren’t you?”


<I>“You should be grateful we agreed to take you in, Caroline.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from the daughter of a whore.”

“We’d rather not have your sort here, but charity dictates that we must bear it.”</I>

Carey’s mother had been a prostitute, a drug addict, a criminal. She had abandoned Carey, left her for dead in a park. Carey had been unwanted from the moment she was born and probably, let’s face it, since long before her birth. The Howards – Jocelyn and Andrew – had taken her in out of charity, but she had always been a sad disappointment to them. She had never been able to rise above her background.

But this, surely, was not the background of which the Howards had spoken. Mrs Maynard was clearly a wealthy woman, as was her daughter. She was connected with an exclusive boarding school, with a worldwide reputation. Marie Claire de Mabillon had grown up in this environment, had attended the Chalet School, had been a dancer with the Sadlers Wells ballet. *Could* she be Carey’s mother? Was it possible that a young woman with such a golden life had descended into the life the Howards had described on so many occasions? Or had they been wrong?

“I—I don’t really know who my mother was. I was told… things… but I don’t know whether they were true.” Because that was a possibility, one Carey had come to realise in the last few days. The Howards – Mrs Howard in particular – were not nice people. And she could quite imagine Mrs Howard lying about Carey’s mother.

“Well, when were you born?” asked Mrs Maynard briskly.

“1 November, 1976,” replied Carey dutifully. She could see Mrs Maynard doing quick sums in her head.

“Well, that would fit,” she said eventually. “Do you know nothing about your mother?” Carey bit her lip. Should she confess what the Howards had told her? Maybe Mrs Maynard was wrong, and she didn’t have anything to do with Marie. But what if she was right – what woman wanted to hear that sort of thing about her daughter? Haltingly, she passed on what she had been told. Mrs Maynard looked sceptical.

“Well, if Marie was your mother, that all seems highly unlikely. I saw her about four months before she died, and she certainly wasn’t any of those things! The cheek of it!”

“Yes, but Mrs Maynard, I’m sure M-Marie wasn’t any of those things! That’s not to say she’s my mother!” But Mrs Maynard was adamant.

“Nonsense! Why else would somebody have sent you those things? No, they knew you were her daughter, or could see what was jolly obvious! Clear as a pikestaff. And I’d like to have a word with these Howards of yours, because it strikes me they have some explaining to do! Fancy telling a child that sort of thing about her mother, true or not!” She stood up, rather creakily, and moved round to the front of the desk. Bending her tall frame over the chair where Carey sat, she cupped the younger woman’s chin in her hand.

“You listen to me, Carey! Your mother was a lovely, talented girl, who would have loved you very much. I’m not sure why she… she killed herself, but I do know that it was nothing to do with not wanting you. And now you’ve found her family, and you must always remember that we are your family too. Never forget that! You will always belong here.”

That night, lying in the narrow school bed, Carey realised that Mrs Maynard, a stranger, was the first person ever to offer her a home. And she wept, bitterly, because it had taken this long.
Author:  Liss [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 9:48 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel
Within two days, the whole party, Mrs Maynard included, had decamped to the Tiernsee, leaving behind Meg Maynard, lamenting loudly and long her misfortune at being left out.

“The Platz may have been my home for years,” Joey had confided to Carey, “but I love the Tiernsee best of all. We’ve got a chalet out there, still – it used to belong to St Scholastika’s. I’ll tell you all about them, one day. We’ll get to know each other properly, and I’ll tell you about Marie and what I know of your father,” her face had darkened at this point, “and I’ll see if I can talk any of my offspring into visiting.”

Joey – as she had asked Carey to call her – was such a whirlwind planner that Carey found herself agreeing to this before she knew what she had done, but she had insisted that they get some kind of testing done to check that she really was Marie’s daughter. Joey had telephoned her housekeeper, Karen, and the following day a parcel had arrived post haste from England, consisting merely of an old envelope. Joey had opened it gently, revealing a lock of dark hair. “The coroner in Basle arranged it for me,” she explained to Carey. “I told you, Marie’s parents were killed in a train crash. This is a lock of Amelie de Mabillon’s hair. I kept it for Marie, only she never… well. This will do, won’t it?” she had appealed to her grandson, David Entwistle, one of the doctors at the Görnetz Platz Clinic, who had agreed to perform DNA testing.

“Perfect, Gran,” he had agreed breezily, before producing a cotton bud and asking Carey to scrape the inside of her cheek.

“Oh, don’t call me that!” protested Joey, but Carey could see she didn’t really mind, and she kissed her grandson goodbye affectionately when he left, with instructions to fedex the results to Die Blumen.

But now they were back in Austria: Ceridwen and Liddy back at school, and Joey, Con and Carey staying in Die Blumen, across the lake from the Chalet School. It was a strange time for Carey: she was enjoying life more than she ever had done before, and at the same time there was a horrible niggle keeping her awake at night. What if it was all a mistake? What happened when the DNA results came back, and she wasn’t Marie’s daughter at all? What then? Back to her tiny little life, to greyness and nothingness and… No! No, she couldn’t let that happen! She’d changed, she had; she would make sure she didn’t turn back into the Carey Howard before the photographs came.

There, that was a resolution. She’d look for a new job, as well. Something more of a challenge, something more colourful. Maybe she could try and get some qualifications – after all, she’d done pretty well in her A-levels, hadn’t she?

But for the time being, she merely lived the halcyon days by the lake, chatting with Con Richardson, in whom she had found a kindred spirit, and basking in Joey’s affection.

One day, she asked about her parents. Joey had looked sad and, more than that, guilty.

“Marie met him – James, I think he was called – in Paris, that spring. They fell in love, they… well, quite. He went back to England, and that was that. Just a short affair. She was hardly the first girl to do it, and she was quite desperately in love with him. She came back to Freudesheim in the summer, and told me she was pregnant. It was a shock, I won’t lie. But… well, not to sound hideously clichéd, but these things happen. She was excited, you know, at the thought of having a baby.” Carey smiled faintly, and reached for Joey’s hand, squeezing it lightly. Joey smiled back, but then her smile faded, and she was in the past again.

“She was full of plans; she was going to England, to let him know, but then… he came here. Not intentionally, he was on holiday. The Platz was already starting to get a reputation as a ski resort, even then. He was there. And so was his wife. His pregnant wife.”

“Oh, no!” Joey was clasping Carey’s hand hard now, and it was almost painful.

“It was my fault. I can’t stand how much it was my fault. I was… I had been… I don’t know what I was thinking! I was feeling old, I think, and ugly and… well, men don’t age the same, and I thought Jack was… well, never mind that, it’s no excuse. I was furious at Marie for having an affair with a married man. She told me she hadn’t known, and I called her a liar. I… I called her other things as well. I turned her out. I told her she wasn’t welcome.” Joey looked down at Carey, and she could see the pain in the older woman’s eyes, the ravages of grief that still remained, all these years later.

“Do you know what ‘Freudesheim’ means, Carey? Happy home. I was so proud of my home, of my family, of what I offered everyone. A happy home – support and love, unconditionally. Marie was my daughter, and I betrayed her so dreadfully. She killed herself four months later. And I know – I *know* - that it was my fault. Oh, God, please forgive me! I killed her.”


“It changed her, you know,” remarked Con Richardson, as she poured out the tea. “Mamma, I mean.” The emotional outburst had exhausted Joey, and she had retired to bed. Con and Carey sat out in the garden.

“What happened – in between, I mean?” asked Carey, curiously. She felt that she should feel something more about the woman who might have been a mother, but it was really just like hearing a story, not anything real.

Con shrugged. “To be honest, we don’t know. The rest of us, well, we didn’t even know Marie was pregnant. She was the youngest, you see; everyone else had left home by that time. It was just her and Mamma and Papa. The San – the Clinic, as was – was going through a rough patch, and Papa was spending all his time there, so there was no-one to know what happened between them. Then, when Marie… well, they contacted Papa. Mamma was… you know, I think she’d tried to forget the whole thing, pretended it hadn’t happened. Then when we found out what had happened to Marie, she was distraught.”

“But, that was four months later!” exclaimed Carey. “Didn’t anyone talk to Marie before then?” Con blushed.

“What can I say?” She looked imploringly at Carey. “You have to understand, she was so much younger than us! We were Seniors – Prefects – when Mamma brought her home. We left school soon after that, went off to university, got married. Apart from the first year or so, the only time we saw Marie was in the holidays, and not always then, after a while, because she would go to Erica’s in the hols sometimes. Oh, it’s no excuse, but you see, we – the older ones – barely saw her from one year to the next! As for the others – well, you can’t expect much in that line from the boys – they didn’t see much of her either. Fliss knew her when Marie was little, but by the time she started at the school, Fliss was at university. She and Cecil had never particularly got on, and Cecil was married by then, and living in South Africa. Phil was the closest to Marie – they had always been great friends, though Phil was older. But that year, Phil was studying in New York. She’s an artist. By the time she’d got worried about not hearing from Marie it was already too late. God, I know how awful it sounds!

“We don’t know what she did in those four months. We probably never will. She left Sadlers Wells, told them she was ill and would be going home. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.”

“Joey…”

“Oh, you can’t know how much she regrets what she did! She thought Papa was having an affair, did you know? She was a bit funny that whole year – we thought it was because of not having anyone at home, you see. There’d always been so many people around, and then it was just her and Papa, and Papa was out most of the time, trying to save the San. The rest of us were so caught up in our own lives. It’s hard, when you’re nearly forty yourself, with teenaged children, to think that your mother might need you as much. I think, in a way, we all let Marie down, but Mamma feels it worst of all.”

“But if that was how she felt – about an… unmarried pregnancy…”

“She didn’t. In a way, that makes it worse. It wasn’t principle. It was hurt feelings, and… well… spite, in a way. I know it makes her sound terrible, but truly she isn’t like that. It’s why she feels so awful. And of course, Phil didn’t help.”

“Phil?”

“The youngest of the Maynard clan. She and Marie were closest. She came straight back when it happened, and then Mamma told us what she’d done. Phil went mad, accused Mamma of all sorts of things. I don’t think she’s spoken to her from that day to this. Erica’s pretty much the same, but it’s not quite so bad with her, because she’s not exactly family.”

“Who’s Erica – you mentioned her before?”

“Another one of Mamma’s stray lambs. She came to stay with us the same summer we got Marie. She was – oh, I don’t know – about fourteen? Anyway, she adored Marie, claimed her as her own special pet, you know the sort of thing. After she got married, she used to have Marie for the holidays sometimes – one of the reasons we didn’t see her so much.”

“Didn’t Marie go and see her when she was pregnant?” Carey asked. Con shook her head regretfully.

“It’s just a horrible string of things going wrong. Erica had gone back to India all that summer – didn’t come back till the autumn.” Con’s face was full of feeling. “Poor Marie! She didn’t have anyone to turn to. I suppose she thought the rest of us would react like Mamma.” She gave a rather hard laugh. “You’d never think, would you, hearing all this, that the Maynard name was once a byword for compassion and understanding?”


In the early evening, Carey went for a walk. She wasn’t sure what to think about it all. She supposed, really, that she should feel something against Joey Maynard who had, by all accounts, probably contributed to Marie de Mabillon’s suicide, but she couldn’t. Joey was so clearly sorry about the whole thing that, years later, it was hard to hate her.

She was imagining how hopeless Marie must have felt, when she suddenly collided with someone walking round the lake path in the other direction.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she began, looking up. In front of her was a tall, fair-haired man, smiling at her apologetically.

“Oh, it was my fault entirely,” he said, rather untruthfully, Carey suspected. “Oh – are you English?”

“Yes, of course.” She laughed. “Sorry, for a moment, I forgot I was in Austria!”

“That’s quite a challenge,” said the man, still smiling as he swept an expansive arm around to include the lake and mountains. “Are you on holiday?” Carey nodded.

“More or less,” she replied, wondering how best to categorise her visit. “I’m visiting relatives – sort of.”

“Sort of relatives? Sounds interesting!” said the man. “My name’s Peter, by the way. I’m on holiday, myself.” He nodded his head towards one of the hotels on the other side of the lake. “I’m staying over there.”

“I’m Carey. I’m staying with… with family, in the chalet near the church. Well, I’d better get on, I think. It was nice to meet you.”

“And it was nice to meet you, too.” They continued on their separate ways, then a call halted her progress.

“Carey!” It was Peter, jogging back to her. “Look, I know this is a bit sudden but, well, would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Dinner?”

“Yeah. The hotel restaurant isn’t bad. And I promise I’m not a crazy axe murderer or anything! Will you?” Carey hesitated. She’d never been asked out before, not ever. And she didn’t know him. But then another voice said, ‘Why not?’, and the new Carey decided that she had to start somewhere.

“OK,” she said, rather defiantly, though what she was defying, she wasn’t sure about. Peter grinned at her.

“All right,” he said. “Look, it’s only five now. I’ll meet you on the other side of the lake at,” he scratched his chin, trying to remember what the lake steamer timetable was like, “about half seven. OK?”

“Fine,” said Carey, still defiant. “I’ll see you then!” and she walked on, with a quick wave, wondering whatever had possessed her.

Con was reassuring. “Oh, that should be nice!”

“Don’t you think he might be a bit of a weirdo?” Con laughed.

“What, for asking you out? Don’t be silly! Look, nothing can happen, not in Briesau! It’s tiny. As long as you don’t go off to his hotel room – well, obviously, if you wanted to, but, oh, you know what I mean! Just having dinner in a hotel restaurant isn’t going to hurt. Where’s he staying, the Kron Prinz Karl?”

“Mmm. Oh, I know I’m being silly. It’s just that, well, this is sort of a first for me.”

“Picking up men in hotel resorts?” said Con with a wicked grin. Con grinned back, unable to stop herself.

“Hardly! I meant the whole thing.” At Con’s blank look, she clarified, “Dating, you know! I’ve never…”

“What, ever?” Carey flushed at the patent surprise in Con’s voice.

“I know, it’s ridiculous. Here I am, nearly thirty, never gone out with a man…”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to sound so… so. Well, to be honest, I haven’t exactly ‘dated’ much myself. A couple of dinners when I was a student, that was about it.”

“Didn’t you and your husband…”

“Roger? No, hardly at all. He’s another one, you know. One of the Maynard collection. We came across him and Roddy and Ruey – his brother and sister – when we were on holiday here once. His father was quite mad, and planning to go into space - well before it was a feasible object,” she added, seeing Carey’s face. “He really was potty, I’m afraid. With the slightest encouragement he dumped the Rs on Mamma and Papa, and went off to build his rocket. Ruey came to school with us, and the boys came back for the hols.” She stood up and walked to the window, and pointed out the Chalet School on the other side of the lake. “You see where the school is, right at the edge of hamlet, where the path leads to Seespitz? That’s the new site. It was built there back in, oh, about 1970 or so, when the school board reinstated the Austrian branch. The old school - it closed down in 1938, obviously – was further in, there, where that patch of trees is. You see? That belongs to the water board now. Well, they took over back in the late fifties. Roger wanted to be an engineer, and managed to get a job down here when he graduated. I came out in the long vac to help him sort out his digs, and the rest is history. Didn’t really leave much scope for dates. We married straight after I graduated, and came to live out here.”

“It’s so beautiful – you must have loved it.” Con shrugged.

“Oh, it changed. Got more touristy, I’m afraid. By the time Jenny finished at the school here, we’d decided to go to England – Roger had a very good job offer. I do miss it, of course, but, well, ‘home is where the heart is’ and all that. Anyway, you’d better get ready if you want to catch the steamer in time! Off you go!”


One of perks of being a Prefect at the Chalet School was that you were allowed out of the school grounds between Abendessen and bed time. That evening, Ceridwen and Liddy were taking advantage of that freedom, and were sitting on the shore of the lake, eating ice cream, and talking, not surprisingly, of recent events.

“So, she turned out to be Mrs M’s long-lost granddaughter,” mused Ceridwen, licking up a drip of Wall’s best strawberry.

“Sounds about par for the course,” said Liddy, lying back on the grass. “She’s got a bit of a reputation for that sort of thing, Aunt Jo. Picking up family left, right and centre, that is.”

“Still sounds a bit havey cavey to me,” objected Ceridwen. “What’s with the long-lost part, for a start? How do you lose a granddaughter?”

“Well, she’s not a granddaughter *exactly*,” Liddy pointed out, in the interest of fairness. “I telephoned Gran yesterday evening, and got the lowdown. More or less, anyway. Well, Gran was at school with a girl called Erica, and Marie was Erica’s special kid. You know how some of the older girls sort of adopt-a-KG-baby? Well, like that, except more so. Aunt Jo rescued this Marie kid from a train wreck, brought her home, brought her up, all that lot. So not her actual daughter, see? Gran didn’t know what had happened, though; she’d never been particularly pally with Erica and hadn’t kept up with the news.”

“Well, if you ask me…”

“Oh, Kerry! Stop obsessing! Look, I’m sure we’ll find out about it on Saturday. Pretty decent of Carey to invite us to tea.”

“She’s a pretty decent person.” There was nothing unusual about Ceridwen’s tone, but Liddy shot her a perceptive glance.

“Absolutely. And now, have you heard that…”

“Speaking of, that’s her!” Ceridwen jumped to her feet, and pointed at the steamer, which had been making its stately way round the lake, now passing between Seespitz and Briesau. She waved violently, then lowered her hand. “Damn! She didn’t see me. Come on!” She pulled Liddy to her feet.

“Where are we…?”

“Down to the jetty.” The two girls ran down the path along the lake towards the jetty that served Briesau. It was still busy, despite being after seven o’clock, and Ceridwen had to push to get near the front. Liddy hung back. As the passengers disembarked, they watched for Carey, and eventually she descended, wearing a green silk frock which, unbeknownst to them, was a loan from Con Richardson’s wardrobe. She looked surprised to see them, and why shouldn’t she, thought Liddy wryly.

“Hello Ceridwen, Liddy,” Carey said shyly, smoothing down the folds of her dress. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Prefects’ privilege,” said Ceridwen airily. “After all, we’re old enough to be trusted now.”

“We came out for a walk,” added Liddy. “And,” with a glance at her watch, “we should probably be getting back.” Ceridwen glanced at her, irritated.

“We don’t need to be back until nearly ten,” she pointed out. Liddy smothered a smile.

“No. Usually. But have you forgotten? Lower IV? Can’t be trusted without supervision? Sic the prees on them?” She heaved a sigh at Ceridwen’s blank expression. “We’re on duty, idiot! Remember?”

“Oh, *bollocks*!” said Ceridwen, then turned to Carey. “Sorry! I thought we could…”

“Carey! You’re early!” A man hurried through the diminishing crowd and came up to Carey, smiling in apology. “Did you have to wait long?” Carey smiled back, then indicated Ceridwen and Liddy.

“I met some old friends,” she explained, “but no, the steamer just arrived. Ceridwen Lytton, Liddy von Eschenau, this is Peter—“

“How do you do,” said Peter, shaking hands with both girls. “Look, Carey, sorry to hurry you, but this place is heaving at the moment, and I don’t want the people at the hotel the chance to palm our table off on someone else. Shall we?” He held out his arm, crooked at the elbow, and Carey flushed with pleasure, lightly placing her arm on his.

“All right. En avant!” She turned back briefly to the two Seniors. “It was nice to see you both. I’ll see you again on Saturday!” And then she was gone.

Liddy chanced a quick look at Ceridwen’s face, and was unsurprised to see the thundery expression. She nudged her affectionately in the ribs. “Come on, you! We’d better get back.” They walked slowly along the lake path, and managed to get back to school before they were due in the Middles’ Common Room, and though Ceridwen’s expression did not lighten one iota, Liddy knew better than to say anything.


The following day, after Carey had regaled Joey and Con with a blow-by-blow account of her date the previous evening, and they were still taking a leisurely breakfast, there was a knock at the door – it was a Fedex man, who brusquely got a signature for his parcel, and left. Con brought the envelope to the table, and set it down. It was addressed to Joey. They all stared at it for a moment, and Carey remembered that day, just after Easter, when she had received another parcel. That had been the start of this adventure. Would this parcel signal its end?

With trembling fingers, Joey opened the envelope, and withdrew the brief letter inside. There was silence as she read, a heavy, waiting silence. Then she dropped the letter into her lap, and reached out to pat Carey’s hand.

“There, I knew you were Marie’s daughter. Now, would anyone like more coffee? Con, is there any more in the pot?” Con grinned at Carey, then checked the pot.

“There is indeed. Carey? Coffee?” Carey nodded mechanically. She hadn’t quite believed that it was true, that she could have been given a family, just like that. Con had jumped up to get something off the sideboard, and rubbed Carey’s shoulder lightly in the process. Was that what it meant, family? People who showed you affection not for any reason, just because?

Later in the morning, Joey approached Carey, as she was doing some of her laundry.

“Now, Carey, darling,” she said warmly. “What are your plans?”

“I have to go home,” said Carey, rather regretfully. “My flight’s on Sunday, from Innsbruck. I’m sorry, I should have said.” Joey waved aside the apology.

“Oh, pfft! There hasn’t been much time for thinking about those things. Anyway, I’ve been thinking. I know the rest of the family will be dying to meet you once I tell them – you don’t mind if I tell them, do you? – and I thought some of them could come out here, if they liked. *Must* you go back on Sunday?”

“It’s my job, you see. I only got two weeks’ leave. They’re expecting me back.”

“Oh, nonsense! I’m sure they’d understand and let you have another week! Call them and see – that is, if you want to.” Joey seemed to lose her confidence, and suddenly looked old and vulnerable. Carey gave in to instinct, bent, and hugged the woman who was the closest thing to a grandmother she would ever have. Joey hugged her back, her arms unexpectedly strong, then pulled away and kissed Carey on the forehead. “You dear child,” she said in low tones, then reverted to her previous breezy style.

“Well, that’s that, then. I’ll get Con to ring round, and let everyone know. She was murmuring something about getting Roger to come over, so you’ll meet him at least, and I’ll see if Len will come. She’s my eldest. Margot’s somewhere godforsaken, so she won’t be able to make it. I’ll get Con to make a list,” and she hurried off, leaving Carey smiling. Then her smile faded.

She wondered if Joey would invite Phil and Erica. She wanted to meet them, more than anyone else. After all, as Con herself had said, the others hadn’t really known Marie very well. Those two had though. They had known her and loved her. Would they love her daughter?


The insurance company that Carey worked for had, rather unexpectedly, agreed to the extra week’s leave. Joey was over the moon at the idea of getting her family all in one place, and was full of plans for the upcoming week as they entertained Ceridwen and Liddy for tea. Eventually, Con pulled her away with an excuse of calling Herr Braun at the hotel to check he would have space, given that it was the holiday season.

“She’s a grand old dame, isn’t she?” commented Liddy with a grin, when they were alone.

“You must be happy,” said Ceridwen. “To have found out about your mother.” Carey nodded.

“Yes. You have no idea, what I’d been told…” At Ceridwen’s sympathetic face, she expounded a little, but shook her head after a while. “Well, that’s all in the past, really. Anyway, shall we go for a walk? It’s such a lovely afternoon.” The others agreed, and they set out, ambling rather aimlessly, chatting about this and that. Carey mentioned her plans of going back to studying and the two girls who were, as Liddy said, absolutely swimming in careers advice, gave her some tips on the best way to go about it.

They had just reached a bend in the path, when Ceridwen caught Carey’s arm and swung her round, so that they were heading up a little side path that led up to a shelf in the mountain.

”Let’s go this way,” she said, rather bossily. “I’ve always wanted to.” Carey frowned at the girl’s unusual manner, but acquiesced. Liddy, who had been able to see further round the bend, raised an eyebrow knowingly, but said nothing. They were marching at a fairly stiff pace, when they heard someone behind, and though Ceridwen ploughed on regardless, Carey and Liddy turned to see who it was.

“Peter! What a surprise!” Carey stepped forward, smiling.

“Hello! I thought it was you I saw! How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. I think you met my friends the other day?”

“I did indeed. Hello, girls! So, are you going anywhere specific?”

“Just having a wander.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to wander with me? I was thinking of getting the steamer round to Tiernkirche. There’s supposed to be a pretty good museum down there. What about it?” Carey looked indecisive.

“Well, it’s just I invited Ceridwen and Liddy for tea – it seems a bit impolite to just dash off.”

“Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, would you, girls?” Ceridwen opened her mouth to answer, but Liddy answered before she could say anything.

“Course we wouldn’t!”

“You could come with us?” offered Carey, aware of Ceridwen’s black expression, and unsure as to its meaning.

“Fraid not. There isn’t time to get there and back before we need to be at school. We’ll just get the steamer round the other way. We’ll pop in at Die Blumen, if you like, and let them know where you’ve gone.”

“Oh, that’d be lovely, Liddy, thanks! I wouldn’t want them to worry.”

They all descended to the main path together, and then parted with waves and goodbyes. The Chalet girls walked slowly towards Die Blumen, and Liddy slipped an arm round Ceridwen.

“Oh, Kerry, sweetie!” Ceridwen shrugged the arm off.

“Oh, don’t, Liddy, for God’s sake! I know I’m acting like a kid. It’s embarrassing enough without your sympathy. I don’t know why I get like this.”

“Well, it’s obvious.” Ceridwen groaned.

“Yes, I know that part! I mean, y’know, the acting like an idiot. Usually nothing much bothers me.”

“The dispassionate Miss Lytton!”

“Well, I am, usually!”

“You know what they say. ‘Oh, the tears we waste and the years we waste/And the work of our head and hand/Belong to the woman who did not know/And did not understand.’*”

“Oh, boil your head!”
Author:  Liss [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 9:49 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel
Carey spent a lovely afternoon with Peter, who paid her more attention than anyone had in her whole life. He suggested dinner on Sunday, and she agreed, going home on a cloud of happy fantasies. Joey and Con watched her indulgently over dinner, and nobly restrained themselves from pestering her for details.

“David’s bringing Len on Monday,” said Joey, as they sat in the salon after their meal. “And Steve and his clan are coming out for a few days on Tuesday. Charles can’t get the time, and Mike’s in the middle of the ocean somewhere. Felicity’s planning to come, but she’s not sure when, and she was planning to give Felix a call and get him to come too.”

“And presumably South Africa’s a bit of a stretch for Cecil,” put in Con diplomatically.

“Yes; she didn’t think she could make it. Geoff and Marianne are coming, and are going to bring Meg, now that she’s finished all her exams. I—I don’t have a number for Phil, but Geoff said he’d talk to her, so that’s all that can be done.”

“And Roger’s coming tomorrow,” said Con. “He gets into Innsbruck at about eleven. He said he’d rent a car and drive, rather than getting the train, so he’ll probably get here early afternoon.”

“We’ll have a houseful,” said Joey, practically rubbing her hands together at the thought. “Con spoke to Herr Braun, and he said they can sort out any catering we need. Now, I need to make a list of things I’d like from England.” She pottered off. Con grinned affectionately at her retreating back.

“She’s a bit mad, Mamma,” she said lightly. “Still, she could be worse.”

“Do you think Phil will come?” asked Carey urgently. Con pulled a face.

“To be quite honest, I haven’t the faintest idea. I mean, I know she’ll be dying to meet you, but… well, what with her and Mamma not having spoken for years… it makes it tricky.”

“Geoff’s her twin, right?”

“Yes. For a while, he was a bit chilly with Mamma, but he couldn’t keep it up. Give Phil her due, she never tried to make him cut Mamma off, and she could have done, initially, anyway. Once he’d married Marianne that would have been a non-starter; she thinks Mamma’s the bees knees. Another OGD,” she said, by way of explanation. Carey raised a questioning eyebrow at the acronym. “Old Girl Descendant. Marianne’s the daughter of Mary-Lou Huntley – the archaeologist?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of her! She was on TV, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right. An assortment of looong BBC series. Bit of a star, our Mary-Lou.”

“You know her?”

“I do indeed. Have done since I was a tiny – seven or so. She came and lived in the same village as us, just after the War. We were all at school together. She was a head girl.”

“Here in Austria?”

“No, I told you. This branch didn’t start up again till later. We started at the school at Howells – on the Welsh border, you know? Then we moved to St Briavels. Glendower House is near there now. We came to Switzerland when we were about twelve, I think. Anyway, Mary-Lou. You’ll probably meet her at some stage – she and Mamma are great friends. They were delighted when Geoff and Marianne married. Actually, thinking about it, you must have met another member of that lot.”

“Really? I don’t think…”

“Charlotte Trevor? The Headmistress here? She’s Mary-Lou’s sort-of-niece.” She laughed at Carey’s expression. “I know it sounds mad! I just mean, she’s not an actual niece, but more than just a call-me, if you know what I mean. Mary-Lou’s mother married Verity’s father – Verity was at school with us as well – and Charlotte’s Verity’s daughter.”

“Step-niece, then,” said Carey, calculating the relationship. Con looked sceptical.

“Sounds a bit strong. Mary-Lou and Verity were never big on claiming to be step-sisters. I always assumed they were friends, back at school, but I’m not sure they were, really. Anyway, once Doris Carey died, I don’t think Mary-Lou and Verity had much to do with each other. But that’s neither here nor there. As to Phil. Well, we’ll see. Although,” and at this point a martial gleam came into Con’s dark eyes, “I’m rather tempted to give her a call myself.” She got up from the armchair and yawned. “But I’m for bed, I think. Night, Carey!”

Carey followed shortly after, and dreamt of a family reunion with a lot of women looking exactly like Con, and Peter, trying to buy some ham from Joey, and Ceridwen, just standing and watching them, with that calm look of hers.

By the middle of the week, Carey had met all the family that was coming. Len, a rather fragile lady, who seemed years older than her triplet, had been decanted by her son, and Joey and Con had fussed over her. Carey had found her rather distant, and wasn’t at all sure that Len realised who she was meant to be.

“Reg – her husband – died quite recently,” Con had explained, interpreting Carey’s expression with ease. “She’s… she’s not coping awfully well. I know David’s been worried about her. Mamma and I tried to get her to come to England, but she refused. I should probably have come earlier, but Betsy – my youngest daughter-in-law - was pregnant again, and with all the problems she had last time… well. She’d just had the baby when Mamma asked me to come out with her.” And she had sighed, regretfully, thinking about her sister.

Steve Maynard was a tall, broad-shouldered man, recently retired from Scotland Yard. His wife, Esme, was a rather fluffy creature, though Carey could catch glimpses of an iron will behind her artfully deployed scarves. They had brought their two teenaged grandchildren, Alastair and Posy, along for the trip. Steve had already promised Carey that if she wanted any help in finding out exactly what had happened to Marie, and who her father was, he was her man. Esme had whisked her away first thing on Tuesday morning, and now Carey was sporting a very fetching hair cut.

Felicity Lewis-Thornton had been the next to arrive. Carey frankly found her a little intimidating: Felicity was tall, elegant and blonde, and obviously very well-off indeed. Just the kind of woman Mrs Howard would befriend. But Felicity greeted her family with obvious affection, and hugged Carey warmly, and told her how she had taught Marie her first ballet steps. Felix had arrived shortly after, very similar in looks to his older brother. He was a headmaster of a boys’ prep school, which fact still seemed to afford his family no little amusement. Geoff, Marianne and Meg had been the last to arrive. Geoff, quiet, with ruddy hair, had hugged Carey tightly, and told her she looked just like her mother, which, given the few photographs she had been shown, Carey couldn’t quite see, but she didn’t say anything and just hugged him back.

“Is Phil coming?” asked Felicity, when they were all sitting in the salon. Geoff looked discomfited.

“Not sure,” he said briefly. He cast an apologetic look at Carey. “It’s not that she doesn’t want to, it’s just…” He trailed off, clearly not sure what would cause the least offence.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to arrange to visit her,” said Roger Richardson, with a smile. Carey smiled back. Roger had arrived just in time for lunch on the Sunday which had meant, as Con had pointed out rather sternly, that he had driven like a bat out of hell, and probably should have been arrested. Roger had just smiled and kissed his wife, then winked at Carey. She thought you probably couldn’t help liking Roger. Con had rolled eyes, but said nothing more. Men, she informed Carey airily, were all like that: bloody annoying.

“Anyway,” said Felicity, “I popped in to Plas Gwyn when I heard the news, and fetched the old films. I thought Carey would like to see them. Felix has all the paraphernalia in his car. Get it out, there’s a lamb!” Felix grumbled good-naturedly as he went off to do his sister’s bidding, and within half an hour and with some manly cursing, he and Steve, with some technical support from young Alistair Maynard, had set up the screen and the machine that would play the old reels of tape. Eventually, Felicity flicked off the lights, and they sat in the darkness and watched the silent film.

It was old, but in colour, and Carey recognised the location immediately: the Tiernsee. More than that – Die Blumen. The salon hadn’t changed very much. The film focused on Joey, sitting and typing. She was much younger, maybe in her forties still, with dark hair twisted into shells around her ears. She looked up, and laughed, clearly scolding whoever was filming. The scene changed: this time they were by the lakeside. Joey was in a swimming costume, and there were Len and a man – she heard a stifled sob – with two small children; twins. The little boy ran into the lake, and splashed the grown-ups with water; the man – Reg, presumably – strode over, and caught the boy by the middle, and carried him back to his mother. They were laughing. Another sob.

A new scene. Older children, playing a game in the back garden. It was in the evening, a low sun. A girl, in her early teens, came up to the camera, talking rapidly and with great vicacity. She had dark curly hair and dark eyes, and was very pretty. A boy came up behind her, grabbed her by the waist, and swung her away from the camera, talking away in his turn. He was older, about sixteen or so, and very blond – Felix? So the girl was probably Cecil. The camera jostled, and it was clear that the cameraman had been caught up in the horseplay.

A new scene: the garden again, probably the same evening. Cecil was sitting on a swing, now, with a girl who had to be Felicity. They were ignoring the camera. In front of them were two younger girls, playing with dolls. The older girl – ten or so – was very thin with a shock of dark red hair. She looked towards the camera and rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, indicating her boredom with the game she was playing. But the younger girl pulled at her arm, and she continued playing…

Carey stared at the little girl as the camera continued to record them. She had dark hair, and as she tilted her head to listen to the red-headed girl, Carey’s breath stopped. That was Marie. That was her mother. She watched, blindly, as the film rolled through, but though there was much more of Marie, she didn’t see it.

The story she had been told, it hadn’t been real. Marie hadn’t been real. But now she had seen her. And Carey didn’t think she could bear not knowing her. She jumped out of her chair, and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her, hoping no-one would follow. Out of the door, down the slope of the driveway… she came to an abrupt halt as she saw the figure ahead of her, bit her lip to try and stem the flow of tears that was building up inside her.

But then…

The woman smiled. She was thin, and had dark red hair, and sat in a wheelchair.

“Hello, Carey,” she said softly. And Carey wasn’t sure how, but she was on her knees, crying as if she would never stop into Phil Maynard’s lap.


Con leaned against a sideboard affair, and looked around appraisingly.

“A suite? Very swanky!”

“It was all they had left.” Phil moved to the window, opened it, and lit a cigarette. This place was always a bit mad in the season.”

“Where’s Carey?”

“Asleep.” Phil jerked her head towards the closed bedroom door. “Whose bright idea was it to show her the films?”

“Felicity’s. I don’t think it was a bad idea, myself.”

“Oh no, her in floods of tears was obviously…”

“For pity’s sake, Phil, don’t you think she’d rather have an emotional connection to Marie than not? And she didn’t. Marie was just a name to her – hardly surprising. I think that was why she was so upset – because suddenly she was real.” Phil hunched her shoulders.

“I s’pose.” There was an awkward silence. Con broke it, sitting herself down with a sigh.

“This is silly. It’s nice to see you again, Phil.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while.”

“Mmm. What, ten years? That party in New York, remember? The one my publishers made me go to.”

“I remember. I take it you think I’m a bit of a rotter, abandoning the family?”

“Well, it’s a bit rubbish when one of your sisters decides that she doesn’t like you very much, but I can see why. Under the circs.”

“Oh, Con! It’s not that I didn’t like *you*, it’s just…”

“That you couldn’t stand Mamma?” At Phil’s uncomfortable expression, Con rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be so coy about it now! It’s been perfectly obvious; it’s not like you made any secret out of it.”

“I guess.” With an effort, Phil turned to her sister and smiled. “Anyway, what’ve you been up to recently?”

“Oh, this and that. Roger’s retired now, of course. We’ve got a house in Surrey, potter about, filling our time. I’m still writing. The kids are grown up now; Jenny and Theo are married, Robert’s still moping after breaking up with his girlfriend, Simon’s gay. What about you? I’ve seen all the articles. And that film whatshisname made about you.”

Phil laughed. “Claude! Bless him! He was quite obsessed, for a while. He got over it.”

“So, all in all, taking the art world by storm?”

“So it would seem. I have paintings in a number of major galleries. And one sold last week for a quite shocking amount of money.”

“Well, get you.” Con gestured towards the wheelchair. “Is that--”

“Permanent? Polio-related? No. Should be out of it, really, only with International Travel on the horizon, I thought I’d better hang on to it. Car drove into me. Drink driver – the bastard. It could have been worse, though.”

“How horrible!”

“Haven’t you heard, darling? Pain and suffering make for a better artist.”

“I doubt being knocked over by a car was what they had in mind. Anyway, I should probably get back. Mamma will be wondering where I am.” She rose to go, but Phil flicked the end of cigarette onto the balcony and moved back into the room.

“No, wait… how did this happen? You didn’t say. Carey, I mean.”

“Someone sent her a photograph of Marie, and of Freudesheim. She was… intrigued… and started to investigate. Hooked up with a couple of prees at the school here, and ended up in Switzerland. Meg e-mailed the photo of Marie to Mamma, and she came post haste. That’s pretty much it. David Entwistle did a DNA test, and it was positive.”

“Someone just *sent* her a photo of Marie?” Con studiously picked some lint off her skirt.

“Yes. I suppose they must have seen her somewhere, and recognised Marie in her. Quite a coincidence.”

“I’ll say.” Phil’s tone was wry. “You, was it?” Con had the grace to blush.

“Well, yes.”

“Where did you see her?”

“Streatham Library, of all places. A friend of mine is the librarian there; she asked me to run a discussion of my books. There I was, talking away about ‘how to write in the Tudor vernacular’, and there she was. Marie to the life. Of course, I thought I was imagining it. Carey doesn’t exactly look like Marie, not obviously, she just, I don’t know…”

“*Is* like Marie.”

“Yes. Exactly. Anyway, I got Sheila to look up her library record for me, and I saw her date of birth and the timing was just right. And I just knew. I got her address as well. I was going to go and see her, but… well, what would I say? What if I was completely wrong?”

“So…”

“So, next time I went to Mamma’s, I pinched a couple of photos: one of Marie, and one of Freudesheim. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve probably spent too long writing fiendishly plotted books – I couldn’t do it in a straightforward way! I thought: if she’s interested, she’ll find us, although, frankly, looking back, it’s a miracle she did! I think I suffer from the old family problem in just assuming that everyone will recognise us and Freudesheim and all that. Idiotish, really. But, yes, I packaged them up and sent them to her. Turns out, that was how she tracked us down. I just used an old box file up in the attic, but it was one from the mining people. You know, the ones who took over Auntie Madge and Uncle Dick’s house in Cornwall? They came across some Bettany papers years later and forwarded them on. But their details were still in the box when I put the photos in, and that’s how Carey tracked us down. Bit miraculous, really.”


Ceridwen had spent much of her time since Saturday being gloomy, so much so that it had attracted attention, and Miss Wright, Lower VIA’s form tutor, had quietly taken her to one side to ask if there was a problem. This, more than anything, had forced Ceridwen to perk herself up, because she was a private girl who hated the thought of people prying into her life.

“God, when is school going to be over?” she demanded of her fellow Lower VIA-ites as they sat unsupervised in prep.

“Shut *up*, Kerry!” objected Lucy Davenport, who was struggling with her Latin. “This bloody Tacitus is bad enough without you distracting me!”

“Serves you right for taking Latin,” replied Ceridwen. “But that’s what I mean! When can we stop all this relentless studying?”

“Four weeks,” said Emma Houghton, the form prefect, briefly. “Be quiet, please, Ceridwen.”

Ceridwen sighed, and moved restlessly in her seat. Emma decided that this wasn’t going to end well for anyone like this.

“Oh, go on! Go and have a walk or something! I’ll square it with Miss Wright if she asks.” Ceridwen didn’t need telling twice; she jumped up, leaving her books on her desk, and fled the room.

“You’re an angel, Emma!” she called back over her shoulder. Emma grinned.

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says. OK, everyone, let’s have a bit of quiet.”

Ceridwen trusted to Emma to clear her absence over dinner, as well, and she went for a long tramp along the lake up to Maurach, where she sat and bought something tea-like at the Spar. She was just sitting on a bench, mentally resolving to stop being such a five-star idiot and move on, when she became aware of a familiar voice nearby. She looked around, and then saw him: Peter whatshisname, the guy who had been running after Carey. He was talking to a woman, and for a moment Ceridwen hoped she’d caught him with his wife or girlfriend or something, but as she sidled closer, she saw that the woman was much older – more likely to be his mother than anything else. They turned a corner, and Ceridwen threw upbringing and education to the wind, and eavesdropped determinedly.

“Mother, I really don’t see that you need to worry about all this. She doesn’t have a clue…”

“How do you know? How do you know she doesn’t have a clue. Deceptive little bitch, just like her mother, I can tell!”

“Mother, I think…”

“And what will you think when the end comes and you’re left with nothing! What then, Peter? Do you think it’s fair, me cut off without a penny? After everything I’ve done for your father over the years?”

“No, of course not! I just think you might be overreacting a bit.”

“Overreacting! Overreacting, am I? I’ll tell you this, Peter, if it wasn’t for me, you would have been the bastard, not *Caroline*!” Her voice was full of venom, and Ceridwen paled. What on earth was all this about? One thing was for certain: Peter was not who he said he was.


Con was icing a cake, inwardly bewailing her lack of artistic ability, when there was a knock on the door. Thanking the heavens for the interruption, she abandoned her apron and answered it.

“Ceridwen! Hello! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, Mrs Richardson. Is… where is everyone?”

“Mamma’s having a nap, everyone else went off on a hike,” and Con waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the mountains. “Carey went into Briesau.”

“I’ve got… well, I’m in a bit of a… a quandary.” Ceridwen bit her lip.

“Really? Well, you’d better come and sit down. I did my share of agony-aunting at university.” Con led Ceridwen into the salon, and pushed her down into a chair. “Now, tell me all about it.”

“Say there’s this person you really like. Only they like someone else. And then you find out that the someone else is a bit… well, not right. Do you tell the first person?” Con nodded gravely.

“Ah, that old chestnut. To which the answer is, nobody knows. It’s unlikely to end particularly well either way. Either you get it in the neck for interfering, or you get it in the neck when they found out you knew and *didn’t* tell.”

“So pretty, hopeless, either way. In which case, you have to tell, if you… you care about the first person and don’t want them to be hurt. OK; thanks!” Ceridwen jumped to her feet and was almost at the door when Con’s voice stopped her.

“What have you found out about Peter, dear?”
Author:  Liss [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 9:49 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel
Carey had been browsing some of the more touristy shops in Briesau, and, having nearly succumbed to a dirndl skirt in bright blue, was about to leave when someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Peter, although not the Peter she had come to know. His face was pale and tense, and she felt a sudden twinge of unease.

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you about something.” Still concerned, Carey allowed him to lead her from the shop and up the hill towards the church. There were fewer people around, and it had grown chillier.

“Has something happened?” Carey asked, as they walked quickly along, over the brow of the hill, and down through the meadows at the back of the old school, until they were the only two within earshot.

“Look, Carey, I think you should go back to England.”

“What? Why?”

“I just… trust me, can’t you?” Carey made a small, bewildered sound.

“I do. But… I don’t want to go back to England; not yet, anyway. I told you, I’ve just found my family and—”

“Well, that’s just it!” Peter seemed to seize on the excuse. “I’d hate to see you get hurt.” He took her hand. “I mean, what do you know about them?”

“I know they wouldn’t hurt me!” exclaimed Carey, pulling away. “What’s this about, Peter? You’re not making much sense, you know.”

“Christ, Carey!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’? Sometimes it doesn’t do any good, raking up the past.”

“Raking up the-- Peter, do you know something about my mother?” Carey shook her head, almost as if she was trying to clear. “No, that’s stupid, how could you? We’ve only just…” She tailed off as she saw the expression on his face. “You do, don’t you? We didn’t meet by accident, did we?” She laughed, bitterly. “I thought you… you… God, never mind! I’m such an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. Carey—” He reached out, but Carey took several stumbling steps back.

“Don’t touch me. Who are you?”

“I told you. My name’s Peter Shawcross. I wasn’t lying about that.”

“So what were you lying about?” Peter looked away, marshalling his thoughts.

“I didn’t lie about anything. I just didn’t mention some things that I probably should have done.”

Carey looked at him warily. “Go on, then. What sort of things?”

“Well, just the one, really.”

“Bloody hell, Peter, just get on—”

“I’m your brother.”


Once upon a time, Carey Howard would have backed away from any sign of confrontation, giving way rather than making a fuss. But the previous two weeks had changed her, and now she insisted that Peter accompany her back to Die Blumen to explain why he was wandering around Austria pretending not to know her. And, moreover, to find out what he meant by saying he was her brother. Because the only way he could be her brother was if he was the son of Marie’s lover, which begged the question, how had he known she would be here?

They had run into Phil Maynard down by the lake where she had been taking the opportunity to, as she put it, run off something ‘sweetly pretty’ for her landlady, who had begged for a picture of the alps. Informed of Peter’s claim, Phil had agreed to accompany them to Die Blumen, barely hesitating at the realisation that she would be returning to her mother’s home, and her mother’s presence. The three of them sat in stone silence on the steamer, a silence not broken as they walked along the path to the Maynard chalet.

As they approached, the door opened, and they saw the bright blue uniform of the Chalet School.

“Ceridwen!” called Carey.

“Hey, Carey,” returned Ceridwen, gifting Peter with a decidedly hostile look. “Do you have a minute? There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Can it wait?” said Carey.

“I think it’s quite important,” put in Con, appearing behind Ceridwen. “It’s about this man here.”

“Peter?” Carey thought for a second. “Well, he’s got something telling to do of his own. You might as well stay, Ceridwen.” She gave Peter a jab in the back, and he entered the chalet, feeling rather like a Christian about to be fed to the lions.

It had all the essentials of a grand denouement, Carey thought to herself, as they settled in the salon. Joey had come down in the interim, and was sitting in splendour in a winged armchair, the flashing darkness of her eyes more than making up for her frail body and white hair. Con Richardson, politely cool, sitting in the window seat, observing the proceedings. Phil Maynard, leaning forward in her wheelchair, fiery and passionate, ready for whatever might come. She and Joey hadn’t spoken to each other. Ceridwen, propped in the doorway, resolving not to allow Carey to be hurt. Carey herself, sitting in a sofa, legs crossed, tried to project more confidence than she felt.

Peter sat in a chair, facing them all. Mother, sisters, granddaughter.

“Well?” said Carey tersely. “Is it true? Are you my brother?”

“Half-brother,” corrected Peter. “Yes, it’s true.”

“James’ son,” clarified Joey in a cold voice.

“Yes.” There was a silence. Carey broke it.

“What are you doing here? Why did you pretend not to know who I was. And for that matter, *how* did you know who I was?”

Peter contemplated lying, and decided it was pointless. “My mother told me you had come here. She was afraid that you would find out who your father was and disrupt… things. She asked me to come and find out what you knew.”

“So you were spying on me?”

“If you like. Look, Carey, I didn’t think it would do any harm! Mother was frantic about it; she was afraid that…” He didn’t finish.

“Afraid of what? And how did *she* know I was here? I don’t understand any of this!”

“She’s always known where you were. She’s been… obsessed by it, as long as I can remember! That’s why I told you to leave. She’s just not reasonable!”

“That was who you were talking to in Maurach.” Peter turned to face Ceridwen.

“You saw us? Yes, that was Mother.”

“She sounded a right bitch.”

“I told you, she’s not reasonable.” He turned back to Carey. “She’s always had a thing about your mother, and you as well. She was always afraid that Father would find out, and…”

“You mean, she knew exactly who Carey was, and didn’t bother to tell anyone who might care?” said Phil, angrily. “How dared she? How dared she keep Carey from us?”

“But *how*?” shouted Carey, more frustrated than she had ever been. “How did she know, Peter? How could she possibly have known?”

“Because she was with Marie when you were born.”


It was quite simple, Peter had explained. On leaving Switzerland, Marie had returned to Sadlers Wells and told them she was leaving. After staying with friends for a few weeks, she decided to go and see James Shawcross, the father of her baby, and find out why he had lied to her about being married. But James had been away on business, and Sylvia Shawcross had been the only one there. She had offered support to Marie, but only on the basis that Marie didn’t tell James about the baby and, in fact, made no effort to contact him at all. She had arranged somewhere for Marie to stay and had kept in touch. Marie hadn’t wanted the baby, not really; she knew it would probably ruin her dancing career, so when Sylvia said she knew a couple who were anxious to adopt, Marie agreed. The couple in question were Jocelyn and Andrew Howard: Jocelyn was Sylvia’s sister. That was how Sylvia had always been able to keep tabs on Carey. When Jocelyn Howard discovered that her adopted daughter had already been in Austria for a week looking for information about the Chalet School, she had contacted Sylvia, who had panicked and sent out Peter, only to follow herself a few days later.

“And Marie?” asked Carey quietly. “What happened?”

Peter shrugged. “Mother doesn’t know. After you were born, Marie just left. Mother didn’t find out that she’d killed herself until later.”

“How come I never saw you or your mother? If she and Mrs Howard are sisters…”

“Mother didn’t want to see you, and definitely didn’t want you to know us. Aunt J respected that.”

“Well, that’s nice. That she respected it. Really. Lovely.”

“Carey!” Ceridwen made to move forward, but Carey shook her head.

“So, they lied about the drug addicted criminal part, but were right on target with the bit where she didn’t want me.”

“Carey…” Phil reached out to touch her, but Carey jumped up from the sofa and turned on her.

“No! You lied! You said… you said she’d have wanted me. Would have loved me. But it’s not true, is it? None of it! She just wanted to get rid of me, like they always said. Everyone always lies to me!”

Blind and deaf to the protestations about her, Carey ran out, ran away. She was over a mile away before she became aware of her surroundings, and she sat down on the ground with a bump. She could feel the tears burning to get free, and gasped, trying desperately to pretend that she didn’t care, not one way or another. So Marie hadn’t loved her. So what? It was only the last week that she had thought she might. Really, she had always known the truth, so why should she make a fuss now. Only… it had been there, so close. A family. Love. Somewhere to belong. But it was all a lie, and she was back where she had always been. She banged her chest, trying to make the tears go away. It wasn’t worth it. None of it was worth it. None of it was… Suddenly, Carey became aware of footsteps, and looked up. There was something familiar about the stranger but not quite… and then she realised who she must be.

“Hello, Sylvia,” she said politely.


“Oh, that poor child,” said Joey softly, as they heard the front door slam. “And poor Marie!”

“What do *you* care?” said Phil bitterly.

“Phil—”

“No, Con,” said Joey, waving a hand at her second daughter as she rose to her feet to face her youngest. “You listen to me, Philippa Anne Maynard! What I said to Marie in ’76 was cruel and hateful, and is fully deserving of anyone’s censure. But do you think I don’t regret it? Do you think that I don’t wish, every day, that I could go back and change it?”

“You just abandoned her!”

“Yes, I did. I can’t deny it; I wish I could. But in all honesty, it’s the truth.”

“She killed herself because of you!”

“Bollocks!” Joey, Phil and Con all turned, startled by the interruption. Ceridwen moved away from the doorway. “Look, you don’t kill yourself because your mother chucked you out. Not when you’re an adult. Not four months after the fact, for crying out loud! I didn’t know Marie. But, well, knowing about you lot – and OK, you can never really know anyone else’s family, but, well, you know what I mean – surely Marie didn’t think that she could never come back? That there was *no-one* who would help her if she needed it? Cuz frankly, that’s crazy talk. OK, Miss Maynard, you were aware, and so was Mrs Holden, but you were both coming back. Marie would have known that, surely?”

“But—”

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t have contributed, but it wouldn’t be *why*!”

“If she had to give Carey up for adoption then she was probably overwrought; she didn’t know what to do…”

“Well, maybe, but that’s not so much Mrs Maynard’s fault, all things considered. Like I said, it probably contributed, but… why don’t you blame the father, if you’re blaming anyone. Seems like he had a lot more to answer for.”

Phil bowed her head. “I know. But…”

Con intervened, gently. “But you didn’t know who he was. And Mamma was right there.”

“Yes. I think what she said was… hideous.”

“So do I. But so does she, Phil. Don’t we all make mistakes we wish could put right?”

“Phil, I never meant it. I just wish she’d known that. I know I don’t deserve…”

“Oh, Mamma!” Phil held out a shaky hand. “I’ve always been madder at myself than you! Four months! Four months between her leaving here and… killing herself. And she was my sister. I was supposed to love her, and I didn’t even notice that she’d stopped writing. Not till it was too late. I even phoned, did you know? In the autumn, when I wanted to tell her about the exhibition I was doing. One of the girls in the digs said she’d left. I thought she’d made a mistake, or hadn’t understood. I just couldn’t be bothered to check.” She was crying now. “And I’ve tried to make it all your fault, even when I knew it wasn’t. It meant I could pretend that it wasn’t anything to do with me.”

“Phil, darling!” Joey’s arms were around Phil, and stroked her daughter’s hair. “Sweetheart, don’t cry like that!”

“Oh, Mamma, I’ve missed you so!” They clung to each other while Con slipped out, and when they had sorted themselves out, there was tea waiting. Joey patted Con’s hand.

“Thank you, darling. Now, I think someone should go and look for Carey. It will be getting dark soon, and she was so very upset.”

“I can’t blame her,” commented Con as she poured. “To have heard all that about her mother… well.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Phil, bewildered. “I know dancing meant the world to Marie, but even with that in mind, I always thought she had looked forward to the baby. I suppose though, thinking about it, that wasn’t going to be the case. I just wish…”

“Oh, honestly!” Ceridwen set down her tea cup sharply, frustrated that these women didn’t seem to see what to her was obvious. “Who *says* she didn’t want Carey?”

“But Peter said…” Joey trailed off as Ceridwen raised an interrogatory eyebrow. “What his mother had told him. Yes. How foolish of us.”

“So it could all be a lie?” said Phil slowly.

“Well, not the part about the adoption, and the Howards and everything,” conceded Ceridwen. “After all, she had to have some way of knowing what Carey was up to. But what happened beforehand… well. He did say she wasn’t quite rational about it. Why should she feel the need to be truthful about it? After all, it makes it sound better if Marie had just given Carey up and left.”

Joey was swept with a sudden wave of urgency. “I think we need to find Carey. Right away.”



“You look rather upset,” said Sylvia neutrally. Carey shrugged. The lump in her throat seemed to have disappeared with this rather surprising distraction.

“A bit,” she replied, standing up. “Peter told me. About my… about Marie.” Sylvia smiled, just like a cat, thought Carey.

“Dear Marie. Such a pretty girl. They’re always the type to fall, you know.”

“She was in love!” Sylvia waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh, I’m sure she thought she was. But it didn’t work out like she wanted. She didn’t get him. He was mine.” Her voice had taken on a harsher edge.

“Well, there we are then,” said Carey. “Turned out pretty badly for everyone. I-I think I’d better go back, now.” She made to return down the path, but Sylvia caught hold of her arm, sharp fingers digging in.

“Back where? To *her* lot? They won’t welcome you any more than my sister did. You, the child of a slut. And she thought she was good enough for him! Thought that he’d want her more than me!” Something flitted through her eyes, and Carey remembered what Peter had said.

“But… you thought that too, didn’t you?” she said, the realisation dawning. “You were terrified that he would want her and not you. That’s why you made that deal with her – you’d help her if she didn’t contact you.” For a moment, Sylvia’s expression was uncomprehending, then she nodded, eagerly.

“Yes! Yes, we had a deal. She just had to be quiet, just for a while. It was all so new; she couldn’t be allowed to ruin it.”

“I don’t understand. What was so new?”

“If he’d known – then – he’d have left me, you see. I knew he would. Conniving little bitch she was, with her fancy airs, and so pretty. And that would be wrong. He deserved something better than a second rate *dancer*. You know what that sort are like! But he’d married me! He’d had to. I made sure of that. That summer, I made sure. And he did it; I didn’t have to force him. He’s a gentleman, you see. He had to do the right thing.”

“That summer? But you were already…” The light dawned, and Carey stared at Sylvia, and realised that Peter had been right when he said she wasn’t quite rational. She felt those fingers dig deeper into her arm.

“You weren’t, were you? My father wasn’t married to you when he met Marie.”

“He should have been! Everyone knew it was only a matter of time!”

“But he hadn’t. And then he came back from Paris and… you must have been pregnant then. Was that why he married you?”

“It was only a matter of time! We were right for each other!”

“But then my mother appeared. And she was pregnant as well.”

“He was married to me! He was my husband!”

“You were afraid he’d leave you. So you made a deal.”

“She just had to be quiet, just for a while. But she wouldn’t, the little bitch! You wouldn’t.” Sylvia made a keening sound, and she shook Carey by the arm. “So positive, weren’t you, that he’d take you over me! And it wasn’t so bad, was it, the house? I looked after you.” Carey tried to pull away, but either her strength had gone or Sylvia’s had grown, because she couldn’t. She could only listen.

“I looked after you, made sure everything was just right. I was nice to you, more than you deserved. I found a home for your baby. But you had to come back.”

“Sylvia—”

“I’m Mrs Shawcross. *I’m* Mrs Shawcross. Why did you come back, Marie? You know I can’t let you.” Sylvia wasn’t just a bit irrational, Carey realised, terrified. She was outright insane. She opened her mouth to scream, but Sylvia slapped a hand over her mouth, and hissed into her ear,

“You shouldn’t have come back, Marie.”


It was lucky, everyone said later, that the rest of the Maynards were returning from their hike when the others had gone out looking for Carey. By herself, Ceridwen would probably have been able to handle Sylvia Shawcross, but it was no sure thing; Stephen Maynard, on the other hand, was a dead cert for being able to deal with her.

“She tried to kill me,” said Carey, her voice still wavering, as she sat once again in the salon, a rug round her shoulders and a mug in her hand.

“Drink your cocoa, it’ll make you feel better,” advised Joey.

“I’ll tell you what would make us all feel better,” said Felicity, returning from the kitchen with a bottle in her hand, “and that’s a shot of brandy. Present mugs, please!” She did the rounds with the brandy, and took a hefty swallow of her own laced cocoa.

“She was quite mad,” marvelled Ceridwen. “I mean, you read about that sort of thing, but I’ve never actually, y’know, *seen* it before.”

“I think she may have kept my mother a prisoner,” said Carey in a small voice. “From what she said. I mean, it’s a bit hard to tell. But that’s what it sounded like. I think that’s why you could never find out where she’d been for those four months.”

There was silence, as the Maynards digested what had happened to their youngest member.

“I wish I could have strangled that… that…” exclaimed Phil savagely, unable to find a fitting epithet.

“I think she tried to make a deal with her,” Carey continued, almost oblivious to the others’ reactions. “She would give her money or whatever, as long as Marie left my father alone.”

“But she wouldn’t,” said Con.

“No. I think she was in love with him, and wanted him to know that they were having a baby. And Sylvia was terrified that he would leave her for Marie, like he did before, basically. And so she locked her away somewhere, and when I was born, she arranged for me to be… given away.”

“I don’t think Marie would have agreed to that,” said Phil. “Not to *her*. Not if she knew what she was like. She just wouldn’t.”

“And I was thinking,” went on Carey, “we don’t know, do we. We can’t know what really happened, not unless Sylvia tells, and I think she might be past that.”

She fell silent after that, and no-one else could quite bring themselves to speak. The room gradually grew darker. Ceridwen wondered whether she should call the school and let them know she would be very, very late, but couldn’t bring herself to move, to speak. Because it was quite clear, really, what everyone was thinking. And also quite clear that they knew they might never find the answer.

Had Marie really killed herself?



----------------------------------------------

“I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble,” said Carey, as she and Ceridwen sat at the lake’s edge, dangling their feet into the water. Ceridwen shrugged.

“Not too much, all things considered. Mrs Maynard – Meg’s mother, I mean – phoned Trev in the afternoon anyway – apparently they’re practically cousins, so she knew where I was. And when she heard bits of what happened, she wasn’t too bad.”

“I’m glad. I’m sorry you got caught up in all this.”

“I’m not. I mean, I’m sorry the whole Sylvia thing happened, and what she said…” Ceridwen trailed off. How do you tell someone, I’m sorry a madwoman might have murdered your mother? Even the Chalet School didn’t teach you stuff like that. Carey sighed.

“Stephen got them to let him into the interrogations – well, as much as they could interrogate her. They had to have a crowd of psychiatrists and all that. She’s gone completely off the rails, they said. They think that she did kidnap M- Mother, and kept her until she gave birth. They’ve sent to England to have Mrs Howard questioned, because it sounds like she knew all about it – and I suppose, when you think about, she – Sylvia, I mean – must have had some help.” Carey shuddered, and Ceridwen slipped an arm around her, wondering what it must feel like to find out that your mother, to all intents and purposes, had connived at your real mother’s kidnapping. Carey leaned into the arm, gratefully.

“They can’t tell, after that. There’s stuff that sounds like it might be real, and stuff that she’s made up. They’ll probably find out more after they talk to Mrs Howard.”

“Do you think…” began Ceridwen, then stopped. Carey glanced at her.

“What? Do I think she killed Mother?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think she might have done. At any rate, if she didn’t, I think she’s probably why she killed herself.”

“It’s so horrible. Carey, what about your father?”

“I don’t know if I want to contact him. I suppose he’ll find out about Sylvia soon enough. I don’t think I can ignore it. He might not be interested, though, after all this time.”

“You never know. It’s something to think about. And what about Peter? Did he…?”

“Know anything about it? I don’t think so. I think he told us what he thought was the truth. I don’t think he realised what his mother could be like.”

“She probably wasn’t that bad usually,” said Ceridwen. “I mean, everything was how she wanted it, really. It was only about Marie and you that she went nuts.”

“I suppose. Still, it can’t be very nice for him.” Ceridwen shrugged in her turn.

“Guess not.” Carey looked at her curiously.

“You never liked him, did you? Why not? All in all, he’s not that bad a bloke.”

Ceridwen blushed. “Oh, I just didn’t.” She pulled her arm away, and Carey looked at her, confused.

“But why?” Ceridwen bit her lip, and then took a chance. She picked up Carey’s hand where it was lying in her lap, and stroked the palm with her thumb. Looking up, through her lashes, she smiled.

“Don’t you know?” Carey’s eyes widened, and her mouth went round.

“Oh. Ohhh.” Ceridwen grinned, gave Carey’s hand a squeeze, and then released it.

“Just thought I’d say,” she said, casually. “It’s OK, you don’t have to say anything.”

Carey nodded. “OK.”

They sat there, ignoring the gritty mixture of concrete and pebble under them, the noises of the tourists all around them, the sudden wind off the lake, and smiling as Carey reached over and held Ceridwen’s hand.

THE END
Author:  Lesley [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 10:59 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Oh wow! Liss that was amazing! :shock: :shock: :shock:
Author:  Cat C [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 11:06 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Fabulous! Really enjoyed it :D Thank you.

My word it's hard to keep track of all the off-spring of the families with these sorts of things though (not that that's a criticism - it's difficult sometimes in the canon too, with far fewer characters to worry about).
Author:  Nightwing [ Fri Nov 14, 2008 11:10 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
This is fantastic, Liss! I love the way all the Maynards have turned out, and all you thrid-gen chracters are absolutely lovely. I have to admit, though, at the end I was hoping that it would turn out that Marie had never really died after all...
Author:  RroseSelavy [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 1:07 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Wow. That had me hooked all the way through.

Thanks Liss.
Author:  Yvette [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 11:47 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Great Story! :)

Thanks Liss!
Author:  Liz K [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 12:04 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
RroseSelavy wrote:
Wow. That had me hooked all the way through.

Thanks Liss.


Same here, should have been out doing my shopping and housework but just sat and read it through in one go, what a story!!! :shock: :shock: :shock: :shock: Well done, thanks.
Author:  CBW [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 12:17 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
amazing story. gripping right to the end.
Author:  Elbee [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 3:54 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Very moving story, I was totally gripped.

Thanks, Liss.
Author:  PaulineS [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 5:56 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Thanks Liss. I remember reading your earlier postings of this story and wanting to know how it ended. I am pleased to know the end. I started reading last night, and had to come on today to finish it. Thank you, gald Phil and Joey made it up as well. Like the idea of Steve as a policeman.
Author:  keren [ Sat Nov 15, 2008 10:00 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
thank you for finishing off this story

I hope that now you are not Admin, maybe you will have some time to write drabbles
Author:  JB [ Sun Nov 16, 2008 9:02 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
That was amazing.
Author:  Liane [ Sun Nov 16, 2008 10:26 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
That was fantastic!
Thanks Liss
Author:  BethC [ Sun Nov 16, 2008 10:46 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Thank you, Liss - really enjoyed that!
Author:  Karoline [ Mon Nov 17, 2008 11:32 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Thank you Liss
Author:  Emma A [ Mon Nov 17, 2008 12:32 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Thanks for this, Liss - delayed me starting work by at least half an hour! Poor Carey, being told all that poisonous stuff about her mother, and her heneral belittlement at the hands of the horrible Howards - and Mrs Shawcross was deluded back then and terrifyingly portrayed when she caught up with Carey. I liked the way that the characters we know - and all their descendents - turned out, and the development of the Chalet School in the current time. Isn't Ceridwen a bit young for Carey, though?

Hope that no longer being admin will lead to more of your drabbles, Liss - there are several unfinished in the archives that I'd like to see continued... :twisted:
Author:  leahbelle [ Mon Nov 17, 2008 3:25 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
I've been reading this over the last few days and it was really fantastic. Thank you for posting it, Liss.
Author:  JellySheep [ Wed Nov 19, 2008 1:37 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
I was intrigued by the original beginning of this in the Drabble-orum, and then I got my wish and found out what happened! Great story, though when I got to the end I was brought up short wanting more...
Author:  Catherine [ Wed Nov 19, 2008 4:58 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Intriguing story ...

Thanks Liss.
Author:  Smile :) [ Sat Nov 22, 2008 10:58 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Great story Liss, thanks :)
Author:  Kathy_S [ Mon Nov 24, 2008 7:32 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
I'd wondered how this one turned out. Thank you for posting. :)
Author:  Vick [ Tue Nov 25, 2008 12:15 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Great story, thanks Liss :D
Author:  Mia [ Fri Nov 28, 2008 11:51 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
I liked this hon - nice twists :D
Author:  Carys [ Sun Nov 30, 2008 1:18 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Amazing!
I was hooked from beginning to end!
Author:  Lyanne [ Mon Dec 01, 2008 11:33 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Thank you for finishing it, I was worried about Carey.
Author:  eilrex [ Sun Jan 04, 2009 8:39 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Life has been in an upheaval for the last couple of years and have only just got back to this forum. I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed this story.
Author:  jilianb [ Tue Jan 06, 2009 8:50 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Thanks for this story Liss, totally had me enthralled from start to finish.
Author:  Abi [ Fri Jan 16, 2009 11:26 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Coming to this a bit late, but it was an amazing story. Thanks, Liss.
Author:  JustJen [ Mon Jan 19, 2009 1:40 am ]
Post subject:  Re: The Parcel (Complete)
Liss that was a frantic story!
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