Sylvia Bluck

On a cold and cloudy morning in May, the bluebells vanish from Old Wyckham Woods. As the air begins to hum with insects and the trees burst quietly into leaf, Lily Travers keeps on running, her eyes focused on a sunny clearing up ahead. Her friends are calling after her, their words ricocheting off the trees like bullets. ‘He’s no good … no good … no good. We told you … told you … told you.’ Connie, looking so pleased to be proved right and Samira nodding along like a dashboard dog. Lily stops and looks back at them, their waving, whirling figures, mocking her from the edge of the woods. Then a warm breeze ripples the leaves and obscures her view and when she looks again, her friends are gone.

Whatever they say, they’re so wrong about Matt. Lily picks up a stick and whacks it against a tree until her arm aches. Didn’t everyone at her party last weekend say they were a perfect couple? The spitting image of Clark Gable and Jean Harlow. Matt so gloriously saturnine in his dinner jacket – a perfect foil for her silver gown. And that wonderful moment when he pulled her close, smiling down at her like the day they first met. Lily closes her eyes. Soft jazz playing in the background, silk caressing her thighs, a cocktail tang of salt and lime on her lips. And best of all, everyone taking their photo. Even when her Grandad burst in, all confused, poor love, and wanting his auntie’s apple-cake, it didn’t spoil the moment. And Matt was so sweet, taking Grandad away in search of cake so she could keep on schmoozing the TV people.

And so what if Connie saw him with a colleague in a university bar? She doesn’t believe for a moment they were kissing – in fact, she wouldn’t put it past Connie to make it up. She’s never liked Matt. Although as Lily trawls her memory of the last few weeks, her stomach churns. What about those nights when Matt got back late, long after she was asleep? And that evening when they were meant to have a special dinner? She sinks onto a fallen tree and watches a black beetle scoots across the clearing. No. She’s sure there’s absolutely nothing in it. Being late home doesn’t mean he’s cheating. Just busy with his conference, that’s all. Like she’s been busy with her TV show. Besides, after being late for dinner, he insisted on doing all the cooking for a week – not that she’d mention that to Connie and Samira. They’d probably say it was just his guilty conscience.

They must have been planning to tell her from when they set out this morning. That's why they weren’t the slightest bit grateful that she’d planned such a great day out for them. Brunch at the Old Station Café with their wonderful single estate coffee and old-fashioned cakes – such a great example for her 1950s blog – and she’d thought Connie and Samira would love the cakes, especially the Battenburg and jam roly-poly - but both said they weren’t feeling hungry. They weren’t even enthusiastic about dressing up for the shoot like they usually are – even though she’d found kaftans and hot pants for them to wear, just like the photo in the seventies cookbook. Ironic, really, that she’d gone to so much trouble to give them a lovely day when all along, they were planning to ruin hers. Although she’s got to hand it to them – they did wait until the shoot done was done before they stuck the knife in.

So that’s the end of their great day out. And the way she feels right now, she’s not sure she wants to see them again – ever. Although she does need to see Matt. She won’t feel comfortable until she does. She must get home and talk to him. He’ll laugh off what Connie’s said and then it will all be fine. She just needs to go back to the meadow, pack up the food and leave. If Connie or Samira make any attempt to discuss him, she’ll close them down. It’ll be awkward but what do they expect after ruining her day? And if Connie won’t give her a lift home, she’ll walk to the road and get an Uber.

Lily makes her way back through the woods, weaving her way around stacks of logs and neat piles of sticks. She pauses at the edge of the trees, then takes a few purposeful steps into the sunshine towards the place where they’d parked up for the shoot.

She stops.

Where the hell are they? Where’s the car? The table? And all the food?

She turns full circle, then shouts their names and a crow flies up, cawing angrily. Shading her eyes, Lily scans the meadow, expecting to see them emerging from under a tree. When nothing happens, she gropes in her bra for her phone.

Damn. She must have put the bloody thing down on the table. No need to panic. She can manage without a phone. Get the brain in gear. Work out why they’re not here.

The sun burns down on her head as she keeps looking around the meadow. They wouldn’t have left without her. And they wouldn’t leave the food out to spoil. She can trust them with that. They’d put everything back in the cool boxes and find somewhere in the shade. That’ll be it. They’re probably just out of earshot, sitting in their camping chairs, drinking a glass of wine, waiting for her to come back. If she follows the edge of the woods, she’ll see them in no time.

Lily calls their names as she goes. ‘Connie. Samira,’ but when she reaches the bend in the track, there’s still no sign of them. Perhaps they’ve decamped further into the woods? She walks back to the clearing and calls their names again. She checks all the other paths but all come to dead ends. She gives a vicious kick to a stone by her foot and it skitters away into the bushes. This is hopeless. They’re clearly not here.

Hang on. She looks around.

Where the hell are the bluebells?

Her heart starts racing. She ran through drifts of them. Acres of them. She might have been upset but she’s sure of that. And what about all those unexpected stacks of logs and sticks? Somehow, she’s taken a wrong path and come out in the wrong woods. Matt’s always saying her sense of direction is rubbish.

Take some deep breaths. This is no time for a panic attack. If she’s as completely lost as she thinks she is, there’s no point wasting time here. Her best plan is to take a track back up towards the South Downs. She’ll get her bearings and find someone with a phone.

Matt would say that was good decision-making, she thinks as she walks out of the woods and up the hill. She looks out for any sign of life but there’s nothing – unless you count sheep – although she doesn’t remember the sheep. Weren’t there crops in the fields? She gives a little shake of her head. Obviously can’t have been. At the top of the track, she pauses under the shade of a tree. The only path seems to be a farm track across the hot open fields and it stretches miles into the distance. It might have been the one they drove down, although she can’t be sure. In any case, there’s still not a soul in sight. Not surprising as no one in their right mind would go hiking in this heat – even the sheep have the sense to stay in the shade. Leaning back with a thud against the trunk, a few black feathers float down and she looks up. A bouquet of dead crows swings gently above her head, wafting a sweet smell of decay.

‘Bloody countryside,’ she shouts and leaps away, losing her footing and falling into a ditch of brambles.

And she hadn’t thought her day could get any worse. Grabbing hold of a fingerpost, she pulls herself back onto the path and examines her scratches. A trickle of blood runs into her left trainer. If only Matt were here now, he’d be tending her injuries and teasing her about being accident prone. A sob catches in her throat and she gives the fingerpost a vicious shove. It tilts over at a drunken angle and one of the fingers points to the tree with the dead crows. She goes over to investigate and finds a narrow path leading across a small field towards a thicket of trees. That’s a load better than the open fields and with any luck, it might lead to a house – although the way her day’s going, she somehow doubts it.

Crossing the field, she follows the footpath through the thicket until it joins a gravelled road, edged with rhododendrons. A little further on, she comes to a gate in the hedge and from there, she can see a dozen people gathered under the shade of a large cedar. A woman in a smart black uniform is heading for a table laid with white linen and tiered silver cake stands. Lily’s shoulders relax. Thank God. Help is at hand.

Unsticking the shirt from her back, Lily pushes open the gate and sets off across a vast lawn. She has an impression of shady hats, blazers and a splash of yellow amidst a palette of pastel dresses. Closer still, the words drift towards her. ‘Light hand with pastry … custard tarts … white elephant … church bazaar …’ One by one, the guests turn to look at her, and by the time she reaches the table, all conversation has stopped.

A woman in a wide-brimmed hat is regarding her, oblivious that her loaded scone is dripping jam onto her lacy dress. The man next to her – a vicar, for God’s sake – is clutching his teacup in mid-air, poised to take a sip. Everyone around the table is staring at her open-mouthed – although she’s the one who should be staring at them, they’re all so insanely over-dressed in this blazing heat. Conscious of her bare legs, bloodied by brambles and blotched with nettle stings, Lily puts on her most winning smile.

‘Good afternoon, everyone. I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m lost and wondering if you could help?’

No one answers and Lily keeps smiling until her cheeks start to ache. Then cups clink down, men stand up and the woman in the wide-brimmed hat deigns to speak.

‘Good afternoon.’ She surveys Lily down her rather long nose. ‘Did you say you were lost?’

‘I’m afraid I am,’ says Lily. ‘And unfortunately, I’ve also lost my friends so it would be great if I could use a phone.’

A man in a blazer, standing a little apart smoking a cigarette, says something that sounds like, ‘Careless,’ to a woman in a gorgeous yellow frock and bright red lipstick. The woman gives the man a sharp nudge and then takes a few steps towards Lily, a sympathetic smile on her face.

‘How perfectly awful for you. What on earth happened?’

Lily shrugs. ‘I think I must have taken a wrong turn on my way back from a walk.’

‘Ah, you’re a hiker,’ says the woman in the wide-brimmed hat. ‘Although I was rather expecting you to say a bathing party.’ Her gaze sweeps over Lily’s bare legs and skimpy shorts. ‘Offer our visitor some refreshment, Harriet, will you dear?’

‘Of course, mother.’ The woman in gorgeous yellow pours Lily a glass of lemonade and gives her a sympathetic smile. ‘You must feel like a limp rag, trekking around the countryside in this heat, looking for your friends.’

‘Too right,’ says Lily knocking back the lemonade in one long gulp.

‘Now do sit down,’ says Harriet, pouring her another glass. ‘You’re looking quite done in.’ She turns and beckons to the man in the blazer. ‘Charles, bring a chair for Miss …?’

‘Lily Travers.’ Lily looks around, expecting the usual flash of recognition but gets only blank looks.

Charles drops his cigarette on the grass and take his time twisting it out with the toe of his polished shoe. Picking up a chair, he brings it over, positioning it so Lily faces the guests like a candidate at an interview. ‘Allow me,’ he says with overdone politeness and holds the chair steady until Lily sits down. She feels his eyes on her bare legs and his breath on her neck as he murmurs, ‘What’s your game, I wonder, Miss Lily Travers?’

Turning to look at Charles in his university blazer with his oiled-back hair and supercilious expression, Lily opens her mouth to tell him where to get off, then remembers she needs the help of these people.

‘Perhaps you wandered further into the woods than you thought, my dear?’ says the vicar. ‘On a lovely summer’s day, time can be deceptive.’

‘I’m with you on that,’ says Lily, wishing Charles and his smoker’s breath would move further away. ‘The thing is, I didn’t walk very far. I was only gone for half an hour at most. It’s only twelve thirty-ish now, isn’t it?

‘I’m afraid not, my dear.’ The vicar pulls a pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘It’s quarter-past three.’

‘Three?’ Lily’s shoulders tense. ‘It can’t be three already.’ She checks her watch and sees the numbers flashing twelve thirty-two. The vicar’s quaint old watch must be wrong, poor old thing. There’s no way she was wandering in the woods for three hours.

‘There we have our answer,’ says the vicar with a smile. ‘You were gone for longer than you thought, my dear. I suspected so at once.’

‘Thank you, vicar. Mystery solved,’ says Harriet’s mother. ‘Now, Miss Travers. Would you like to use our instrument?’

‘Instrument?’ asks Lily.

‘My mother just means the telephone,’ says Harriet with a raise of her eyebrow.

‘Show our visitor where it is, please, Harriet. But don’t be long, there’s a good girl.’ Harriet’s mother waves her hand in dismissal. ‘Now Vicar. Where had we got to with arrangements for the church bazaar?’

Lily stands up, wondering why none of the guests are offering her their phones. Although the vibe is clear enough. Their hostess wants her gone.

Harriet gestures towards the house. ‘This way, Miss Travers.’

‘Thank you,’ says Lily as Harriet starts walking. ‘But I could phone from here, if you have your mobile on you?’ Although as she glances down at the sheer lines of Harriet’s dress, it doesn’t seem likely.

‘The ’phone’s this way,’ says Harriet. She lowers her voice. ‘My mother’s tea parties are a hideous bore, so I was delighted when you turned up. I could tell at once you’d create a diversion.’

Lily nods. So that must be why Harriet’s taking her into the house. ‘Nice that you all made an effort to dress up … and I absolutely love your frock. It looks as though it were made for you.’

‘Of course, it was made for me,’ says Harriet, pausing to smooth the single silk pleat at her hip. ‘You think you can get a dress like this off-the-peg?’

‘I suppose not,’ says Lily. ‘Silly me.’

She should have guessed. People in a house like this with voices like royalty are bound to flaunt their wealth with criminally expensive clothes. Looking just like Hedy Lamarr, Harriet would have completely outshone her at her cocktail party last weekend. Lily can only tear her eyes away from the silk flowing around Harriet’s perfect figure, when they enter the dark entrance hall of the house.

‘Oh, my God.’ Lily takes a step back.

The stuffed heads of a dozen tigers are snarling down at her.

Harriet follows Lily’s gaze. ‘Oh, those. I’m frightfully sorry. I should have warned you. They’re a terrific shock to visitors.’

‘You’re telling me,’ says Lily. ‘I’ve never seen stuffed animals look so … fresh.’

‘Of course, they’re fresh. My father shot them last year before we left India.’

‘Last year?’ Lily scans Harriet’s face. ‘But killing tigers is illegal.’

Harriet gives her an odd look. ‘Since when?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Years ago.’

‘I’ve never heard of that. Nobody in India pays any attention. In any case, nothing would have stopped my father. He liked shooting things, the bigger, the better.’ Harriet points to the other side of the hall. ‘The telephone’s over there, Miss Travers.’

A large black phone gleams on a polished oak table.

‘Wow,’ says Lily. ‘Seriously? I love retro – and you actually use it?’

A hint of a frown appears on Harriet’s forehead. ‘Of course we use it. Please. Do go ahead.’

‘All right then,’ says Lily. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

As she crosses the hall, she pauses in front of a framed sepia photo of a tiger kill. Two of the women look very much like Harriet and her mother. They certainly take their retro décor very seriously. As she looks around, Lily’s heart beats a little faster. In fact, the whole set-up is pretty weird - although what does it matter? One phone call and she’s out of here.

Sliding her fingers over the smooth Bakelite, Lily waits for a dial tone and then tries her own number. Her friends should have found her phone by now and be waiting anxiously for her call. She looks up to see Harriet watching her as the dial circles back.

‘That’s a long number.’

‘Not really,’ says Lily as she gets a dead tone. ‘Although the phone doesn’t seem to work. Can I try your mobile now?’

‘Mobile?’ Harriet looks puzzled. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, come on,’ says Lily. ‘That’s not funny. I just want to make a call and get home.’

‘I quite understand,’ says Harriet. ‘You’ve been having a difficult day.’