A Picture of Jill Archer
by Deb Z
Inspired by Elizabeth's recent attempts to prove that Lily and Freddie have more than one glamorous grandmother, and with a nod to a famous Oscar Wilde short story, this tale was posted on the Fantasy Archers topic of
Hoping that Elizabeth had not noticed the terror in her eyes, Jill bid her a rapid farewell and hastened to Brookfield. Where, oh where could she have found it? Arriving in the farmyard she halted suddenly as a single name flashed through her brain: Ashok! But no, it was not possible, his sudden disappearance had occasioned no suspicion. Everyone knew he had decided to go to India, besides the photo was old, a reprint of the original, it must be.
Panic once again swept through her being and she broke into a trot, cantered through the kitchen and fairly galloped up three flights of stairs to the top of the house. The door was locked as she knew it would be and she fumbled on her key ring for the only key, which, somehow she had forgotten to give to David and Ruth when she had finally left Brookfield. For a few seconds she hesitated, but then taking a deep breath she thrust the key into the lock and entered the gloomy, cobwebbed attic.
A curiously carved mirror, given to her many years ago, stood on a small table but Jill did not bother to glance in it. She knew only too well what she would see, ever since she had first noticed a grey hair and the beginnings of a wrinkle.
No, it was best not to dwell on the past: Nelson Gabriel lay in a grave in St Stephen's churchyard, Tom Forrest had shot Bob Larkin by accident and the sadness over the lonely death of Zebedee Tring was forgotten. Briefly Jill thought of the Women's Institute, the church's flower and polishing rota, meals on wheels - surely that would have changed things?
She had been good, there was no doubt in anybody's mind - hers least of all. Surely the hideous thing she had hidden away would no longer be a terror to her. Jill took a torch from her handbag and advanced to the darkest corner of the attic.
She paused and then, with one swift movement, pulled the heavy purple hanging from a framed studio portrait. A gasp of pain and indignation broke from her. There had been no change. Carefully she examined the photograph in front of her. Those beautifully carved full lips, painted carmine, with their mocking smile; those cynical eyes, the colour of sapphire with their unconcealed "come to bed" look; the thick blond hair, swept back from her ivory brow, styled in the fashion of the day, brushed back in such a way that she appeared to be sprouting horns from her head. However could Julia have called her "homely"?
Jill's lips curled contemptuously for a moment, if only - but no, it could not, must not be so! The photo in Elizabeth's possession did not show any of this, not yet, but what if it too started to change? What if little Freddie and Lily learned the truth? What if they found out her dreadful secret? What if they discovered that their beloved grandmother had not just been a travelling demonstrator of kitchen equipment?
The thought was too horrible to bear, and taking a handy knife Jill plunged it into the photo. There was a crash and a cry was heard. A cry so horrible that even Ruth and Sam in the milking parlour heard it, and Mike and Neil, who happening to be passing the farm at that moment, winked knowingly at each other, and one of them remarked,
"Jill Archer lamenting the loss of her Aga again!"
Finally David thought that he should investigate and, seeing a faint light shining from a top storey window, he entered the attic. There he was rather surprised to see a recent picture of his mother on the table and totally shocked to see that seated at the same table was a beautiful young woman, in the process of lighting a cigarette. She uncrossed seemingly endless long legs, in a fashion reminiscent of Sharon Stone and, with a practised pout, exhaled a string of smoke. She ran her tongue around her lips in such a way that David felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Her large blue eyes seemed to undress him as she gazed lasciviously upon him.
"Hello duckie," she purred, "what can I do for you this evening ...?"
