7 Sorrow on Sunday (5 page)

He stood up, and said that if she was sure she would be all right he’d better be getting back to the station. He’d be in touch very soon. Mrs. Nimmo followed him, and out of earshot, she muttered to herself, “I know who’s behind this, no mistake. He’s bin asking for it, and now he’ll get it, good and proper.”

*   *   *

H
AYDN
N
IMMO HAD BEEN TROUBLE SINCE HE WAS
born. Arriving late, he was a ten-pounder and nearly split his mother in half. He was a fractious baby, and an unwilling schoolboy, drifting through a series of schools, playing truant and learning as little as possible. Finally, when all the well-meaning helpers had washed their hands of him, he left school and as soon as he could—in fact, before he legally could—he drove any vehicle available to him and his dodgy friends. Whenever there was a job that needed a quick getaway, Haydn was the man. He loved driving, and had passed his driving test first time with flying colours, which was not surprising considering his several years of experience.

“It was the one thing ’e was good at,” Mrs. Nimmo croaked to her sister Evelyn, who had several hours later heard the news through the grapevine and had come hurrying round to Sebastopol Street.

“He was a good boy,” she replied, “on the whole. Fancy him dying in a road smash. None of us can believe it. He was so good with cars.”

“Us” applied to the family Mrs. Nimmo had omitted to mention to the policeman. Generations of Nimmos had lived by their wits, mostly just the wrong side of the law. They were well known to the police, but each maintained
an unwritten family rule that they never talked about each other. When Haydn’s father had drowned in a gravel pit the other side of Long Farnden, though in broad daylight and with—for once—no trace of alcohol in his blood, the family had shaken their heads and remained mute. “Must’ve missed his footin’,” was the most they would say.

The two sisters were silent for a few minutes. Then Mrs. Nimmo began to fill the kettle. “Cup o’ tea, Evie?”

Evelyn shook her head quickly. “I must be going, Dot,” she said, glancing at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. “You know where we are if you need any help.” She paused. “O’ course,” she added, “we all know it couldn’t have been an accident, don’t we?”

After she had left, Dot Nimmo sat down heavily on the wobbling stool. Apart from a whine from next door’s dog, the house was heavy with a silence that would not be broken by Haydn bouncing through the door, full of news of his day to tell his mother. “Never again,” she whispered to herself. She put her head down on her grubby hands and wept for a long time.

L
OIS HAD EXPECTED TO SEE AN ACCOUNT OF THE ACCIDENT
in the local paper the next morning, but there was nothing. Maybe it had happened too late for the early edition.

“Did you hear about the smash Dad saw yesterday?” she said to Josie, who was up on steps stacking the high shelves in the shop.

“I’m too busy for gossip this morning,” Josie said. She had had a row with Rob, and was not feeling sociable.

“Oops!” said Lois. “Well, in that case, do you think I could have a loaf and a pot of raspberry jam? If you’ve got time, that is.”

Josie laughed in spite of herself, and put the food into her mother’s basket. “Here you are, and a pot of apricot that’s just beyond its sell-by date. Gran’ll eat it. The older the better, as far as she’s concerned.”

Lois’s mobile phone rang. She picked up her shopping and went outside, where the signal was stronger. “Hello? I thought it might be you. What d’you want?”

“A word with you, Lois, if you can spare a minute.” Lois did not reply, and Cowgill smiled at the other end of the line. His Lois. “Just checking in,” he continued, “to find out how you are.”

“You don’t fool me,” she said. “That’s
not
what you want to know, is it? You want to know what Derek has said about that road smash involving a white van.”

Cowgill sighed. “Right as usual,” he said. “I know Derek has made a statement, and a very good, detailed one, too. But people often remember things later.”

“Then why don’t you speak to him? I’m getting cold standing here, so if that’s all—”

“No, no, wait a minute, Lois. The young man killed in the crash was Haydn Nimmo. Straightforward accident with a loose horse, it seems. Still, anything that happens to the Nimmos has to be checked. A few years ago, his father, Handel Nimmo, drowned in those gravel pits down the road from you. Do you remember?”

“We’d only just moved here,” Lois said. “I only remember it because of the ridiculous name.”

“Nimmo Senior fancied himself as a joker,” Cowgill said. “Practical jokes as well as funny names. Played one once too often. We couldn’t pin his death on anybody, but we reckon it was in the family. Now there’s Haydn. It is almost certainly a genuine accident, but just could be something to do with the old feud. Keep it to yourself, Lois.”

“Don’t I always?” Lois said angrily. “Anyway, what can I do? They’re not exactly among our circle of friends,” she added.

“Talk to Derek. Listen to Derek. Ask Josie to keep her ears open in the shop. I don’t have to spell it out to you, Lois. Now go and get warm. Talk soon. And don’t forget, officially the police are satisfied there were no suspicious circumstances.”

Lois walked home fuming.
If he thinks I’m grilling my own husband, he can think again. And if Josie hears anything interesting, well and good. But I’m not recruiting her into Cowgill’s private army.
She reached home to find Gran making leek and potato soup, and propped herself up against the Rayburn. “You’re a wonder, Mum,” she said, and Gran nearly dropped her wooden spoon in surprise.

“Feeling all right, Lois?” she said.

H
AZEL SAT AT HER DESK IN
N
EW
B
ROOMS IN
S
EBASTOPOL
Street and looked at her watch. Soon it would be time for Maureen to bring Lizzie for a hug and kiss before her morning rest. Maureen was an old school friend, and by great good fortune lived next to New Brooms. When Lois offered Hazel the job of managing the office, the baby girl had been a problem. The two grandmothers could help out, but not all the time. Then Hazel met Maureen, who had her own child, and the perfect arrangement was made. Baby-minding suited single mum Maureen, and she and Hazel devised a rota so that Lizzie could see her mother several times during the day.

“Here she comes!” said Hazel, opening the door and taking her daughter from Maureen’s arms. “Been a good girl?”

“As always,” Maureen said. “She’s an angel most of the time. Hey, Hazel,” she continued, “you know them Nimmos up the street? Chronic lot, all of ’em. I’ve had trouble with smashed windows and graffiti on the door. The cowards know I’ve got no man in the house. It was a while ago, but I ain’t forgiven them. Well, look at this,” she said, handing over the morning newspaper.

“I saw a bit in yesterday’s late edition. About whatsisname Nimmo being killed in a crash. A horse ran in front of his van. Police were not regarding it as suspicious. Is that what you mean?” Hazel asked.

“This is a follow-up story,” Maureen said, and pointed to a picture with a few paragraphs. It was an interview with Mrs. Nimmo, and the photograph must have been taken years ago. An attractive blonde looked out, with a confident
smile. “You’d not recognize the old bag from that,” Maureen said. “But read what she says.”

It was a long complaint, full of resentment and blame. “My Haydn was a good boy. And a real good driver. He’d never have crashed unless some bugger had scared that horse and sent it runnin’. He’d been doin’ a building job, and was on his way ’ome with an empty van. Poor Haydn, he was bullied all his life, just one of life’s victims. It was hell at school for ’im. Used to come home crying his eyes out. Too scared to tell who the bullies were. Then he got in with the wrong gang. They bullied ’im too. Scared stiff of ’em, he was . . . Yes, o’ course I hope the police’ll get that sod what set up that loose horse. Don’t ’old yer breath, though. The likes of us don’t matter much. You learn that, in Sebastopol.”

Hazel lifted her eyebrows and hugged Lizzie tight. “Doesn’t seem to occur to her that with a name like that he was an easy target?”

“None so blind as those that won’t see, as Dad used to say,” said Maureen.

“Oh well, you’ll see, some other poor sod’ll pay for it, whether he’s guilty or not. Tit for tat. That’s the way they work. Now, Miss,” Hazel said, handing Lizzie a mug of orange, “drink this nicely for Mum.”

When Maureen had taken the toddler away for her sleep, Hazel swept away biscuit crumbs and thought about Mrs. Nimmo. Wasn’t she a mother, just the same as herself and Maureen? She must have loved—what was his name?—Haydn, just as much. Maybe more, since he was bullied at school. But some kids, even with loving parents, went off the rails. It seemed to be there from birth.

The telephone rang, and Lois spoke briefly. “I’m coming into Tresham this afternoon,” she said, “and I’ll drop in. Not sure what time, but earlyish.” Hazel smiled. She suspected that Lois liked to check up on her. Well, fair enough. She was the boss.

*   *   *

B
EFORE SHE WENT TO
T
RESHAM,
L
OIS HAD TO CALL ON
the Battersbys. Floss was back at work, and she needed to
make sure everything was going smoothly. She hoped the Colonel had calmed down, though doubted it. Derek had not yet been in touch with him, and did not intend to be, she knew. With any luck, the old martinet would be out, attending one of the many committees he chaired.

Floss had seen her coming and opened the door. “He’s out,” she whispered with a smile. “But she’s in, upstairs in her room. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“It’s you I’ve come to see, Floss,” Lois said. “Just want to make sure you’re feeling better. How’s the ear? Still painful?”

Floss shook her head. “Not really. I’m still taking the tablets, but it’ll be fine by tomorrow. Nice of you to come, though.”

“Better tell Mrs. Battersby I’m here now, else she’ll have her feathers ruffled. Her sort do.”

Lois heard Floss’s voice, and then Blanche Battersby came downstairs. The Colonel’s lady was smiling, and greeted Lois in a friendly fashion. “Floss assures me she is feeling fine,” she said. “I wouldn’t want her to be in pain.”

“Nor would I,” said Lois. “For one thing, she wouldn’t do the job properly.” Floss, standing behind Blanche, made a face. “Is there any news of the theft?” Lois continued casually. “Last time I was here, poor Colonel Battersby was so upset.”

“Yes, well,” said Blanche, “he had good cause . . . for once,” she added quietly, looking away. “No, there’s no news,” she continued, “at least, the police haven’t told us anything. I believe your husband, Mrs. Meade, had some experience of this nasty business? I know the Colonel is hoping to speak to him.”

“Mm,” said Lois. “Well, I must be off. I’m going into Tresham, Floss. Anything you need?”

As she walked into the yard, she saw a young lad in the distance, carrying an armful of dead twigs. That must be Darren Smith, the garden boy. She quickened her step and caught up with him. “Morning, Darren,” she said. She had heard of the Smiths in Waltonby. They were a mother and young son, and lived in a council house on the
Wycherley Estate. The father was still alive, but never came near them.

Darren looked round with a startled look. He did not recognize Lois, and was scared of strangers. He found it impossible to relate to people in the usual way. Words meant little to him, and he often repeated what had been said to him with no apparent comprehension, but he understood simple commands. He was like a person from another planet, where time, space, language and human behaviour were totally at odds with the one he had landed in. But his mother looked after him and loved him. She was in tune with him, made sure he got where he was supposed to go, and came back safely. His job with the Battersbys was ideal, and he worked hard. He loved the garden, but he loved the birds even more. He seemed to understand them, and looked anxious when a blackbird squawked its alarm as dusk fell.