The Lavender Lane Legacy

The Missing Melody

Dorothy Pruitt had lived at Number Seven, Lavender Lane for eleven years, and she could tell you the time of day by the sounds outside her window.

At seven sharp, Mr. Abernathy's gate gave its rusty squeak. At half past, the post van rattled over the cobbles. And every evening at six o'clock, without fail, came the sound Dorothy loved most of all. Margie's piano.

It drifted out of the open windows of Number Twelve, soft and sweet, curling down the lane like woodsmoke. Sometimes it was an old hymn. Sometimes a dance tune from long ago. The whole street seemed to breathe easier when Margie played. Dogs settled. Kettles went on. Neighbours paused at their gates to listen.

Dorothy would sit in her armchair with her tea going cold and let the music wash over her. It had carried her through the worst winter of her life, the first one without Harold. She had never told Margie that. Perhaps she never would. Some things were easier to feel than to say.

But this evening, something was wrong.

Dorothy looked at the clock on the mantel. Six twenty-three. The lane outside was quiet. No piano. No music at all.

She set down her teacup and frowned. Margie had not missed an evening in eleven years. Not once. Not even with a broken wrist, two winters back. She had played left-handed, slow and wobbly, but she had played.

"That's odd," Dorothy said to the empty room.

The room, as usual, said nothing back.

Earlier that morning, the lane had been its usual busy self.

Dorothy had been out front by eight, deadheading her lavender. The bushes lined her front path like a row of plump purple soldiers, and the bees were already at work. She liked to get out early, before the heat. It gave her an excuse to see everyone, though she would have denied it if asked.

"You're fussing over those plants again," came a voice over the hedge. "They'll grow whether you pat them or not."

That was Ethel Bean, Number Nine, out with her little dog Pickles. Ethel was seventy-six, round as a teapot, and sharper than a new pin.

"They like the attention," Dorothy said. "Same as Pickles."

"Pickles likes sausages. There's a difference." Ethel stopped at the gate and leaned on it. "Did you hear about Vivian?"

Dorothy sighed. News about Vivian Sterling was never good news, at least not lately. "What now?"

"She's put a notice on the board at the shop. The farm at the end of the lane. She's selling it."

Dorothy's secateurs went still. "Selling Lavender Farm? She can't. It's been in that family forever."

"I know it's been empty since the spring. But still." Ethel's voice dropped, though there was no one to hear. "And there's talk it won't stay a farm. Talk of developers. Flats, Dorothy. Flats at the end of our lane."

Pickles yapped at a bee. Dorothy straightened up slowly, her knees creaking. The farm at the end of Lavender Lane had sat quiet and empty for months, ever since old Margie's cousin passed. Dorothy had assumed it would just be sold to a nice family with a dog and a vegetable patch.

"Dorothy? You've gone a funny colour."

"I'm fine." She wasn't, quite. "It's only a notice, Ethel. Talk is cheap."

"Talk is all we have till something happens." Ethel clicked her tongue at Pickles. "Marge will have a thing or two to say about it. You know how she loves that farm."

That was true. Margie played the piano at every village do, and every summer the fête spilled out of the farm's big barn. It was practically the heart of the lane.

"I'll look in on her later," Dorothy said.

"You do that. And Dorothy?" Ethel's eyes twinkled. "Wear your good cardigan. Agnes from the shop says there's a new gentleman ...