An Affair to Remember (14 page)

“Oh no!”

“I’m afraid so, dear. Plainly he was searching for something he assumed to be buried there. When Josh offered some assistance, he claimed, the major, that is, he’d been hunting for one of his shirt buttons. Josh, however, quick off the mark as always, told me he could see no buttons missing from the major’s clothing, and it was his opinion he had been digging for something quite different. Indeed, he offered the theory the major was no major at all, but had recently been let out of one of Her Majesty’s prisons and returned to the village to dig up the loot. ‘Why else’, he argued, I have to admit quite persuasively, ‘should a gentleman like him buy a shop in a place like Kimbleford?’ When I suggested that if such was his aim, would it not have been more prudent to have come by night to Brown End, equipped with the appropriate implements, rather than take his chance in broad daylight using only his hands and a sharp stone, Josh appeared unconvinced, it being his view that the major had simply acted on the spur of the moment, and not having a spade handy had used his hands instead. He also added an interesting rider to the effect that no one in their right mind would go near those trees after dark anyway, it being well-known throughout the neighbourhood that they were haunted and should be avoided at all costs, citing his Granny Bogg as the definitive authority on this aspect of the affair.”

“Poor Sam,” Beatrice had said, not far off tears, “he must have felt such an idiot – when he came round, I mean.”

“You believe him to have been in some kind of trance?”

“Of course, what else? After all, the same thing happened to me, didn’t it? If you hadn’t found me, we don’t know what I would have done.”

“Caught pneumonia?”

“Please don’t laugh, Sel, it isn’t funny. Just imagine what it’s like to have another person living inside you, who every now and again takes over and makes you do extraordinary things…”

“It’s a situation, dear, I’ve lived with all my life…”

Beatrice, defeated, buried her head in her hands. “You don’t understand.”

“More than you would imagine, dear.” Getting up from his chair Sel had come over to hers, bent down and kissed the top of her head. “That’s enough for now, off you go and meet your gallant major, and before repairing to my lonely couch I’ll compile a little list of things for you to do tomorrow while I am away entertaining the good citizens of Coltsfoot. I think, in the light of today’s happenings, an interview with Granny Bogg is called for, if, and I assume she is, still alive. Now, do I know any tame archaeologist? It looks as if a ‘dig’ might well be in order; from the flimsy evidence we have so far at hand, it’s quite possible those ash trees mark the site of a temple, but of course we need an expert opinion.”

“What about the rooks?”

“The rooks, my dear, will have to lump it.”

The rain’s coming down hard by the time Beatrice turns the Mini into the car park at The Trojan Horse. Nine o’clock, but with relief she sees Sam’s car is still there and draws up beside it. The Trojan Horse looks distinctly uninviting in the rain; probably not much less so in the sun, come to think of it. Long ago there stood on the site a notorious smugglers’ tavern known as The Mulberry Horse, a well-known local villain by the name of Brandy George having made it his headquarters for many years. Brandy George had, however, eventually come to a sticky end – found one morning by a terrified ostler, hanging from a rafter in the stables – after which the inn had sunk into decay, becoming in its final stages a mere hedge tavern purveying crude cider to the local farm labourers.

The building was finally demolished just before the outbreak of World War Two, re-built in the latest 1930s road house style and re-named The Trojan Horse, it being thought at the time that to continue with the old name might remind would-be punters of the place’s evil past. During the war it became a popular meeting place for American servicemen, and many a local girl had lost her all after a gin and orange or two in its Buffalo Bill Bar. The 1960s brought yet another face-lift; the Wild West motif (photos of Dodge City, Mustangs on the move and a life-size plaster statue of Hopalong Cassidy) was replaced with something considered to be more representative of that hedonist decade: the Buffalo Bill Bar became the Pink Panther Bar, blown up photos of Bob Dylan in the toilets and piped muzak. However, despite all the money lavished on the place by successive breweries, it stubbornly retained the raffish and sinister character of its past; somehow the shade of Brandy George could not or would not be laid to rest.

Beatrice, hurrying out of the rain, finds Sam standing disconsolately in front of a space invader machine in the public bar. The noise around them is deafening. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he shouts above the din, “it’s nine o’clock.”

“I couldn’t get away,” Beatrice shouts back, uncertain as to whether or not to kiss him and deciding not, “Sel insisted on me having a brandy after supper – he’d heard from Josh Bogg about you digging in the rookery.”

Sam, in the act of taking a gulp of beer, chokes: “This bloody place, you can’t fart without someone reporting on you – look, there’s another bar along the passage which should be a bit quieter, it’s impossible to hear oneself think in here…”

The Pink Panther Bar does turn out to be quieter, a lot quieter in fact; Jack Fulton and Clarrie Woodhead holding hands at a table under a life-sized photograph of Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau are its only occupants. A stunned silence ensues, during which the two couples face each other in varying degrees of incomprehension.

Beatrice is the first to speak, plunging in in her best, smoothing-things-down, social secretary voice (well someone had to say something, and it had always worked well when a board member lost his cool and walked out at a meeting). “So glad you’re feeling better, Mrs Woodhead. I always swear by those pills when I have a headache.” The barman, a relative of the landlord, who helps out when they’re busy, pricks up his ears at the mention of the name of Woodhead, and looks at Clarrie with interest.

Jack, pulling himself together, lumbers to his feet, cigar in hand: “Allo, allo, allo, what ‘ave we here. Aren’t you the little lady who refused to let old Jack give her a lift the other day? He never forgets a face, does old Jack – nor a body either for that matter.” He eyes the seething Beatrice with the practised eye of a connoisseur. No one else says anything. Jack, aware that what he has said hasn’t gone down too well, turns his attention to Sam. “Evening Major Mallory, I haven’t yet had the pleasure, but I’ve met your good wife, Emmie, here and there. Now, what can I get you two good people to drink…?”

“Nothing thank you.” Beatrice surreptitiously digs Sam in the ribs, he jumps to attention.

“Thanks for the offer, but Miss Travers and I have a few things to discuss so…”

“I bet you have!” Jack gives him a friendly poke in the ribs.

Clarrie rises to her feet, “I must be going anyway,” she says with dignity, “Mr Fulton and myself had some business to transact; he knows of a contractor who might be interested in clearing the rookery.”

“You’ve connections in the area, then Mr Fulton? My wife tells me you’re in the cattle food business and hail from Barnsley.”

“I’m a human fuse box, old boy, a human fuse box – connections everywhere,” Jack laughs heartily at his own joke; it’s plain no one else’s going to. Then they notice Beatrice. At the mention of the possible demolition of the rookery her expression has changed from nervous embarrassment to furious anger. She looks at each of the other three in turn with angry, reproachful eyes, then, stretching out her hand, picks up a heavy glass ashtray that happens to be standing on the bar counter in front of her and holds it aloft. They watch, fascinated. “Steady on, pet,” Jack steps forward and lays a soothing hand on her shoulder. Angrily she shakes it off. The barman, coming to life, although plainly out of his depth, suggests he doesn’t want any trouble – such nice, respectable looking people too, you never could these days, could you, be sure of anything.

“
I
will
not
have
the
rooks
disturbed
,
do
you
hear
me
?
I
Will
Not
Have
Them
Disturbed
,” Beatrice’s voice is harsh, deep, quite unlike her own, “
and
those
who
tamper
with
them
will
live
to
regret
it
.” With that she hurls the heavy ashtray across the room, hitting the photograph of Peter Sellers head-on and causing it to fall to the floor in a welter of broken glass and twisted frame, then with one last, furious look, stalks out of the bar. There follows an appalled silence, until Jack, always one to rush in where angels forbear to tread, expresses his view on the matter.

“Well, fuck me…!”

*

“Good morning, Mr Woodhead’s secretary speaking, how can I help you?”

“You’re alright, then, thank God for that.” Sam is sweating in the call box on the bridge.

“Oh Sam, it’s you. Surely it isn’t necessary for you to ring from a call box, I mean the money might run out and –”

“What on earth does it matter where I ring from?” There’s a note of desperation in Sam’s voice. “I should have thought we’d enough on our plate without getting steamed up over trivialities.” A tap on the phone box door; Mrs Terapin, from the caravan site, is peering at him through the glass, he tries without success to ignore her. They’re wasting precious time, he knows they are, but it’s essential he keeps calm. Beatrice seems herself again, although, and his heart pounds at the thought, any minute she might change. He clears his throat: “It’s a bit difficult to ring from home, you see Emmie –”

“What does it matter about Emmie? Everyone will know now, it’ll be in all the papers, especially with Clarrie being involved, and…” a sob comes down the line. Sam gulps, he can’t bear her to suffer, but what can he do?

“Look,” he says, trying to sound reassuring, “I’ll be round at lunch time; we’ll talk things over…”

“No!” Beatrice’s shriek causes him to remove his ear from the receiver, even Mrs Terapin recoils, “Surely you’ve noticed every time you come near me something extraordinary happens? Last time was bad enough, now I’ve got to appear before the Magistrates, and –”

“Oh God, no!”

“Oh God, yes… You can’t have people going round hurling things at pub walls for no reason at all.”

“But you were upset about the rooks –”

“Shut up about the bloody rooks! Look, I can’t talk any more, I just can’t. I’ll try to be in touch later. Bye.”

Sam stand there helplessly. What is he going to do now, what in God’s name is he going to do now? Slowly he picks up his remaining change, piled neatly on the box ready for use, turns to find Mrs Terapin smiling at him malevolently. “Evening Major, turned out nice again, hasn’t it?”

*

The reception desk at the Durlston Arms Hotel in Belchester, eight am; Emmie Mallory, jaw set, eyes blazing: “I wish to see Mr Jack Fulton, it’s most important.”

“He’s in the dining room, madam, having his breakfast. If you’d care to wait…?” Emmie has, however, already swept past; she’s seen Jack through the glass doors to the restaurant. He’s seated at a corner table,
The Sun
newspaper propped against the teapot, wiping egg off his moustache. Emmie, an unwished for genie out of a bottle, appears in front of him. “Now then, Jack Fulton, what’s all this about you in a bust-up at The Trojan Horse last night? You told me you was having drinks with a client.”

“The top of the morning to you too, Mrs Mallory,” Jack, smoothly anxious, tries against the odds to keep up appearances. The woman at the next door table watches, slit-eyed with curiosity, as Emmie plonks herself down in the chair opposite. After a moment or two, however, when it doesn’t look as if there’s going to be a bust-up after all, the woman, disappointed, gives up and turns back to her shredded wheat. Jack sips his tea, and like Sam, tries to keep calm.

“Now Emmie, love, we mustn’t be a naughty girl, must we? You can’t burst in on old Jack like this, he –”

“Never mind all that,” Emmie’s blood’s up; she’s sick of being fobbed off with a load of bullshit about seeing clients, “what were you really doing last night?”

Jack, smiling uneasily, wags a finger, “Keep your voice down, pet, people will wonder what’s going on, I have my reputation to keep up.” Emmie snorts derisively and the woman at the next door table, having finished her shredded wheat, comes to the conclusion there is, after all, going to be a bust-up, and settles down to watch. Jack continues in a voice both aggrieved and soothing (or so he hopes), “It was business, pet, really it was. That Mrs Woodhead rang asking me to meet her, she wanted to discuss clearing the rookery at Brown’s, thought as I had connections in the area, I might know of a suitable contractor. I couldn’t say no, now could I? The Woodheads are important people round here, they –”

“Pull the other one! If that’s what she wanted you could have gone to see her at the house. And it’s not the first time, is it?”

“First time for what, pet?”

“As if you didn’t know! The first time you’ve been out with that Clarrie Woodhead. And what’s more there’s a rumour going round she’s in the family way – disgusting, I call it.”

“What about your hubby, then?” Jack, needled at last, asks. “Has he told you what he was doing last night poncing round with that nutcase of a secretary?”

“Keep my husband out of it!”

“He keeps you out of it by the look of things,” Jack says unwisely, unable to stop himself. Emmie picks up the milk jug and empties the contents over his head.

*

“The Dr Adcassell is here, Señorita.”

Sel, apprised of the previous night’s happening, had summoned Dr Hardcastle before he left for Coltsfoot that morning, also taking the opportunity to ask him to look in on Clarrie.