The Wood Beyond

'It doesn't matter, Pete. I've said you were right.'

'No, I'd like to explain. Here, let me show you something.'

He opened the drawer of the secretaire, reached inside, pressed a knob of wood, and a second tiny drawer, concealed by the inlay pattern, came sliding out of the first.

'Neat, eh?' he said. 'I found it when I was ten. No gold sovereigns or anything. Just this.'

From the drawer he took a dog-eared sepia photograph of a soldier, seated rather stiffly with his body turned to display the single stripe on his sleeve. His face, looking directly into the camera, wore the solemn set expression demanded by old technique and convention, but there was the hint of a smile around the eyes as if he was feeling rather pleased with himself.

'Know who this is?'

'Well, he looks so like you when you're feeling cocky, it must be our great-grandfather.'

Pascoe couldn't see the resemblance but felt he'd probably earned the crack. He turned the picture over so she could see what was written on the back in black ink faded to grey.

First lance corporal from our draft! December 1914.

Then Pascoe tipped the photo so that it caught the light. There was more writing, this time in pencil long since been erased. But the writer had pressed so hard the indented words were still legible. Killed Wipers 1917.

'All those years and she couldn't bear to have it on display,' mused Pascoe.

'All those years and you never mentioned it,' accused Myra.

'I promised Gran,' he said. 'She caught me looking at it. She was furious at first, then she calmed down and made me promise not to say anything.'

'Another of your little secrets,' she said. 'The Pascoes must have more of them than MI5.'

'You're right,' he said, trying to keep things light. 'Anyway, that was when she told me her only recollection of her father was of him playing on their old piano. Her mother must've told her it was ragtime, I doubt if Ada could tell Scott Joplin from Janis Joplin. And that's what made me think of that tape.'

Myra took the photo from him and said, 'Poor sod. Can't have been more than twenty-two or — three. What was he in?'

'West York Fusiliers. That's how I found out about the Yorkshire connection.'

'She really hated uniforms, didn't she?' said Myra dropping the picture back in the drawer. 'I still remember how sarky she got when I joined the Brownies.'

'Think of how she must have felt with Dad playing soldiers in the TA once a week. Not to mention him turning out a Hang 'em and Flog 'em Tory.'

'Still voting for the revolution are you, Peter? Funny that, you being a cop. Now that was really the last straw for poor old Ada, wasn't it?'

She sounded as if the memory didn't altogether displease her.

'At least it got her and Dad on the same side for once,' said Pascoe, determined not to he lured back into a squabble. 'He told me he hadn't subsidized me through a university education to pound a beat. He wanted me to be a bank manager or something in the City. Gran saw me as a reforming MP. She was even more incredulous than Dad. She came to my graduation thinking she could change my mind. Dad had given up on me by then. He wouldn't even let Mum come.'

Despite his effort at lightness he could feel bitterness creeping in.

'Well, you got your own back, getting yourself posted up north and finding fifty-seven varieties of excuse why you could never make it home at Christmas,' said Myra. 'Still, it's all water under the bridge. Gran's gone, and I bet Dad bores the corks off their hats down under boasting about my son the chief inspector.'

'You reckon? Maybe I'll resign. Hey, remember how you used to beat me at tennis when I was a weedy kid and you had forearms like Rod Laver? Got any of those muscles left?'

Between them they manoeuvred the secretaire out of the cottage and up onto his roof rack. He strapped it down, with a waterproof sheet on top of it.

'Right,' said Myra. 'Now what?'

'Now you push off. I'll finish the inventory and start sorting her papers. You've got to be back here tomorrow morning to meet the house clearance man, remember?'

Pascoe had been delighted when Myra volunteered for this task, being justly derided by his wife as probably the only man in Yorkshire who could haggle a price upwards.

Myra, a terrier in a bargain, bared her teeth in an anticipatory smile.

'Don't expect a fortune,' she said. 'But I'll see we're not cheated. You're not expecting me to sell that, are you?'

That was a plastic urn in taupe. Were Warwickshire's funerary suppliers capable of a bilingual pun? wondered Pascoe.

'No, that goes with me.'

'You're going to do what she asked with the ashes then?'

'If I can.'

'Funny, with her hating the army so much.'

'It's a symbolic gesture, I assume. I won't try to work out what it means as I'd prefer to be thinking holy thoughts as I scatter them.'

'It's still weird. Then, so was Gran a lot of the time. I shouldn't care to spend the night in this old place with her ashes on the mantelpiece. You sure you won't change your mind and come over to us? Trevor would be delighted to see you.'

Pascoe, who had only once set foot in Myra's executive villa and found it as aesthetically and atmospherically appealing as a multi-gym, said, 'No, thanks. I've got a lot to do and I'd like to be off at the crack.'

They stood regarding each other rather awkwardly. Myra looked untypically vulnerable. Me too maybe, thought Pascoe. On impulse he stepped forward, took her in his arms and kissed her. He could feel her surprise. They'd never been a hugging and kissing family. Then she pressed him close and said, "Bye, Peter. Safe journey. Give my love to Ellie. Sorry she couldn't make it. But I know about kids' colds when they're that age.'

And I know about urgent business appointments with important clients, thought Pascoe. At least Rosie really had been snuffling in bed when he left.

And perhaps Trevor really did have an urgent deal to close, he reproved himself.

He gave Myra another hug and let her go.

'Let's not make it so long next time,' he said.

'And let's try not to make it a funeral,' she replied.

But neither of them tried to put any flesh on these bones of a promise.

He stood in the porch and watched her drive away. He felt glad and sad, full of relief that they'd parted on good terms and full of guilt that they hadn't been better.

He went inside and addressed the urn.

'Ada,' he said, 'we really are a fucked-up family, us Pascoes. I wonder whose fault that is?'

He worked hard on the inventory till mid-evening then made a neat copy of it to leave for Myra. He'd need another copy to send to Susan in Australia.

One thing he felt certain of. His eldest sister might not be able to fly halfway round the world for her grandmother's funeral, but she would expect any money making the journey in the opposite direction to be accounted for down to the last halfpenny. The will, of which Pascoe was executor, left various legacies to Ada's favourite causes and the residue to be divided equally between her three grandchildren. Whether this evenhandedness had postdated his fall from grace, Pascoe wasn't sure, but he was glad that in this at least the old accusation of favouritism was clearly given the lie. Not that there was much — Ada had lived up to her income and the cottage was rented. But Pascoe had seen blood shed over far smaller amounts than were likely to be realized from Ada's estate and he'd already arranged to have all the paperwork double-checked by Ada's solicitor, a no-nonsense woman called Barbara Lomax, whose probity was beyond aspersion.

He boxed up some books that interested him or might interest Ellie and scrupulously made a note on the inventory. Next he started sorting out Ada's papers, starting with a rough division into personal/business. He was touched to find every letter he had ever written to her carefully preserved, an emotion slightly diluted when he realized that this urge to conservation also included fifty-year-old grocery receipts.