15 #4
The residential home in Woodstock was situated on the very outskirts of the market town, overlooking a sheep-bedecked field on one side and a new-looking row of houses set on the other.
Lyssa found it without any trouble. A mainly Georgian house, it had distinctly Victorian wings added on both sides and had been extended in the back during the Edwardian era.
It had probably once been a country estate for a wealthy family, before urban sprawl had crept up on it.
The grounds were no longer as extensive as they must once have been, but were pleasant enough, with rose borders, some perennial shrubs and well-maintained lawns.
A few large cedars provided much-needed shade on hot days, and with the sun once more shining, several white-haired people sat out on terraces or on garden chairs set under the trees, reading newspapers, or scrolling on mobile phones.
Lyssa headed for the main front door that opened on to the original hall and which now housed a glassed-in reception area and desk. She wondered what the original inhabitants of the house would have made of it all.
She gave her name to the receptionist, who told her that ‘Mrs D.-H.’ was indeed expecting her and gave her a map showing Lyssa the way to her flat.
Caroline was in 2A on the second floor, in one of the Victorian wings, and a spacious and quiet lift, situated just around the corner and a short way down a corridor, was the quickest route to it.
Lyssa wasn’t quite sure what level of care Caroline needed here, and as she rang the bell and waited, she made a swift calculation in her head. Luke’s niece must be in her eighties by now. It was possible that she was bedridden.
But as soon as the door was opened, it was clear to her that this was not the case, for no carer was in evidence.
The old woman confronting her with a slight smile was almost as tall as herself, but pared back to the bone, with sparse white hair and deep-set brown eyes. She rested her weight on a walking cane, but other than that and a slight tendency to stoop, she showed no other signs of infirmity.
‘Lyssa Moore?’ she said, her voice familiar from the phone call earlier. Slightly croaky and not strong, but somehow still pleasant on the ear.
‘Yes. Mrs Dixon-Hayes?’
‘A mouthful, isn’t it? Call me Caroline. Come in, please. I’ve made us proper coffee, or there’s tea if you prefer.’
She stood back for Lyssa to pass her. The door opened straight on to a large and spacious living area, with almost floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the grounds.
The colour scheme was predominantly cream with green and neutral earth tones as accents.
An open door exposed a small kitchenette area, and a closed door on the opposite side of the room probably led to her bedroom and an ensuite bathroom.
‘This is lovely,’ Lyssa said, glancing at the well-stocked shelves (an assortment of books, ornaments and slender vases of flowers) and then moving on to the original landscape paintings on the walls. And, scattered amongst these, some gold record discs that had been mounted and framed.
‘Are those . . . ?’ Lyssa began excitedly.
‘. . . proof of my uncle’s successful career?’ Caroline finished for her with a gruff laugh. ‘Yes, they are. I think one of them is a Lucky Cuckoos one too – all the others are from the other bands he managed in his later life, most from the mid-70s to early 80s.’
‘Would you mind if I took a picture of it?’ Lyssa asked.
‘Go ahead. Can I get you that cup of coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ Lyssa said, already taking out her mobile phone and heading for the wall. Finding her prize after a quick search, she leaned forward to better read the label on it. It was, of course, for ‘The Frightened Heart’, released in March 1963, and the band’s only number one hit.
‘It’s a replica, I’m afraid,’ Caroline called from the kitchen. ‘The originals would have gone to the band.’
Lyssa didn’t mind – she could see from the digital image of it that it looked good enough. But she made a quick mental note to be careful not to try and claim it was the real thing when she used the image in the book.
‘So, you’re interested in the Lucky Cuckoos.
Writing a book about them, are you?’ Caroline said, entering with a small tray containing two coffee mugs, a small bowl of sugar and a jug of milk.
She had it balanced on one hand, since the walking stick was in the other, and Lyssa quickly moved to take it from her.
The old lady acknowledged her with a smile, and Lyssa followed her to the centre of the room, where a small coffee table was surrounded by two large armchairs. ‘Thanks – just set it down there.’
Lyssa deposited the tray, and then accepted the chair indicated by her hostess. Caroline herself settled into the other one with just the slightest hint of a groan. ‘Bloody rheumatism,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘My book is more about Amelia Montrose, actually,’ Lyssa answered her earlier question.
‘A member of her family thinks that she got a raw deal from the press, and wants a biography written that sets out a much more balanced and truthful version of Monty and Glen’s love story, and their time with the Lucky Cuckoos. ’
‘About time too,’ Caroline said uncompromisingly. ‘Uncle always said she was treated so unfairly.’