TELLING PORKIES

Megan was a sorry sight when she was delivered to our door by a policewoman and a Social Worker. Fourteen, sullen and defiant, her arrival caused quite a stir. Her drug-addict mother had died, and her father, my employer’s brother Francis, had long since vanished. Megan had spent her life moving from childrens homes to foster placements, until the authorities decided she should live with her Uncle Maurice. I had known Maurice all my life, and had been his housekeeper at the old manor since his mother’s death just after my son James was born. I feared Megan would be trouble, and I weren’t wrong. Out all hours, drug-taking, shoplifting – a nightmare. One morning, almost a year later, she didn’t turn up for breakfast, and all her things were gone. No-one was surprised, and most were relieved at her departure. Eventually, James went off to university, and is now a successful architect in London. So life carried on, with me looking after the pigs and chickens, as well as the house and garden and Maurice. Five years ago he married me – about time, for I had been warming his bed from the day I moved in. He was getting frail, and wanted to ensure his property would go to family, with his brother probably dead and Megan’s whereabouts unknown. He had a stroke recently, so I’m glad my future and James’ inheritance is secure. Maurice had always seen a likeness in him, and treated him as his own son. Which is just as well, for last week a letter arrived from his brother, who had settled in the USA and was doing very well thank-you. He asked if Maurice knew where Megan was, as he would be in the UK on business shortly and would like to see her. I read the letter to Maurice, but what I did not tell him was that a few days before Megan’s disappearance, I had seen a picture of Francis in a newspaper, as he had just pulled off a big deal with a UK company. That photo and article solved some long unanswered questions I can tell you. I burned the newspaper. That day I caught James and Megan having sex in the barn. Next day she was gone. So here I am, tending my roses. They do well here, where the pigsty used to be. I did away with the animals years ago, slaughtered and butchered the last of the pigs, and cleared the land, which has been producing lovely blooms ever since. There can’t be much left now, but I like to think that what remained of Megan after I fed her body to the porkers has helped nourish the soil, and I keep the flowerbed nice as a mark of respect. After all, she was James’ sister.