Hartsend (14 page)

She remembered the smell of the plastic as it cooked, and Mum's insistence on keeping the kitchen door wide open. Kerr hadn't been all that interested after the first session, but she'd made endless rings and charms to be worn on string necklaces, and badges to be given away to selected friends and relations.

‘‘That's three pounds, please,'' Mrs Robertson said.

Evidently he'd bought something. Harriet didn't catch his reply.

‘‘Oh, thank you. And please do say thank you to your wife for the last bundle. She has such good taste. Those Liberty blouses just flew out of the shop.''

‘‘My wife?''

Harriet looked round at Mrs Robertson.

‘‘She always looks so elegant, I think. We do appreciate all her donations. If only more people would be so thoughtful.''

Harriet waited for him to correct Mrs Robertson. Instead he touched his cap and went out. Mrs Robertson kept the smile on her face until the door drifted slowly shut behind him, then began examining the contents of the bags.
You stupid, stupid greedy woman
, Harriet said silently, turning back to her shelves.
I hope you find something you totally can't live without.

No-one on the staff was allowed to buy items until they'd been on display for two full weeks. June had told her about an Italian silk scarf Mrs Robertson wanted so badly she kept putting it under other items. When the two weeks were up June pretended she'd sold it, but she relented afterwards.

Poor Duncan had left his book on the counter. It was an old hardback, the lettering on its blue spine too faded to read. While Mrs Robertson was fighting dirty marks on the carpet beneath the DVD shelf, Harriet slipped it into her own bag.

On the way home Duncan was overtaken by Miss Calvert, pedalling hard against the gradient. She lifted one mittened hand from the handlebars as she passed. He touched his cap in acknowledgement.

Miss Calvert wore bright berets in winter, set at an angle, an imitation, he assumed, of the continentals she so revered. Today's was scarlet, with a matching scarf tucked into her jacket. She couldn't be much more than forty yet he thought of her as being much older than himself.

Not an attractive woman. For one thing, she never truly listened to anyone but herself. A word of conversation instantly triggered in her a memory of somewhere she had been, a view of the Jungfrau, or a ‘‘first-rate'' hotel. If it was term-time, she would be pronouncing on staff shortages or some new folly of the local Education Department. All entirely predictable.

How predictable am I? he wondered. The pattern of his days hardly varied: Imperial Leather soap in the shower, Weetabix sprinkled with bran for breakfast (porridge in winter), no coffee after six pm, decaffeinated being anathema, the regular radio programmes he listened to, the TV programmes he despised and avoided … His life might easily seem dull to someone else, someone ignorant of the welter of thoughts that coursed around inside his head. He'd decided to work part time because it gave him afternoons to follow his own interests, not because he was old, or unable to cope.

That girl kneeling at the window, the minister's daughter, she had heard everything. She'd taken it all in.

He passed the Pensioners' Refuge, a white-painted wooden hut, next to the remaining beech tree in what had been re-christened the Millennium Garden. Storms in past years had brought down the other two. Their sad stumps remained, incised now with slogans and profanities by the village youth.

Mr McKenzie, who for many years had taken care of their garden, was standing in the doorway. He touched his forehead and Duncan saluted back. The man was old now, and stooped, but Duncan remembered watching one hot summer in profound envy as he and his two teenage sons, naked to the waist, the boys pale-skinned and the father deeply tanned, had chopped down an overgrown rowan and constructed a tier of raised beds out of old cobbled stones, so that his mother could grow herbs near the kitchen door.

Forty years ago, at least. The old man's passage through the village was slow these days, and getting slower; a few steps, then a long wait for the breath to come back, then a few steps more. It was perhaps made bearable, he supposed, by the fact that the old man was well known, that so many stopped to exchange a word. And yet with every year, there would be fewer of his vintage left, clay workers who had turned to other things when the factory closed.

Mr Mackenzie was wearing a traditional tweed cap very similar to his own. The label would be different, of course. He glanced back, noting the old man's training shoes, worn grey trousers, and black fleece jacket. It was likely that Mr Mackenzie did not own more than one cap. Or perhaps two. He himself had five: this all-purpose checked one, a waxed Barbour to be worn with his raincoat, a soft leather one for his brown tweed jacket, and two for summer, one in cream and one in light blue. He was fond of caps. They kept one's head appropriately warm or cool, and had brims broad enough to shade the eyes. He had always felt that a cap made a man look dressed whatever the situation. A cap enabled one to behave like a gentleman. Or did it merely enable one to look like an old age pensioner?

The simplest explanation, he told himself, was that the woman in the shop had mistaken him for someone else. She'd always struck him as being a little odd. She always spoke with particular care, as if she might too easily mispronounce words.

The girl had noticed everything. She would think it was amusing. She would tell her whole family the joke, and then she would tell the tale to her friend, Ryan Flaherty, and he would laugh too. He would tell his mother and she …

No. Mrs Flaherty wouldn't laugh. She would stop the boy short.
That's a terrible thing to say
, she'd tell him.
Mr Crawfurd's such a nice gentleman,
she'd say.
Imagine thinking him the same age as his mother.

‘‘Mr Crawfurd, there's someone at the door.''

Mrs Flaherty's shout roused Duncan from his reverie. He went unhurriedly down the stairs, cup in hand, trying to make out who it was through the glass. From the distant sounds of drawers opening and closing, Mrs Flaherty had evidently gone back to the kitchen.

The Reverend's daughter. Why was she here? Was she was collecting for some good cause?

‘‘I brought your book. You left it behind this morning.''

‘‘Oh, thank you.'' He took the small volume from her. ‘‘Yes, you were in the shop.'' How loud and rough his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again, ‘‘Very kind of you.''

She was shivering. He glanced beyond her for a car. She wasn't wearing a coat, just a cardigan. Boots yes, and a knitted scarf, but no hat, no gloves.

‘‘You're not on foot, are you?''

‘‘I just came from the shop. I usually just do Saturdays, but Mrs Robertson was short staffed.''

‘‘Mrs Robertson.''

‘‘The one with the blue eyebrows.''

‘‘They are rather blue, yes.'' He was unable to repress a slight smile.

‘‘I didn't mean to be rude,'' she said.

‘‘No. Of course not.''

‘‘Will I make another pot, Mr Crawfurd?'' A voice from the far end of the hall.

His mother was out. But Mrs Flaherty was in. Where was the harm?

‘‘May I offer you a cup of tea?''

When she said yes, he had to think rapidly. The kitchen would be best. Mrs Flaherty would be ironing in the utility room and could chaperone from there.

He seated the girl in the wicker chair beside the window.

‘‘So, do you enjoy working in the Hospice Shop?'' he began.

When she didn't answer he went on, ‘‘It's a very worthy cause. At least, I hear people say so, I don't know how much of the …''

To his surprise, she broke off and stood up. ‘‘Mr Crawfurd. I wanted to come and tell you … because I saw … I wanted you to know that …'' She took a deep breath as if to steady herself. ‘‘To apologise … Mrs Robertson … everyone knows the clothes are from your mother. She's a very … She's just weird. I'm really sorry.''

Before he could answer she was heading back towards the hall. He just managed to get to the front door before her.

‘‘Thank you so much for bringing the book,'' he said hurriedly. She looked as if she wanted to vanish into thin air. ‘‘It's quite a find,'' he went on, ‘‘I'm quite ashamed that I only paid three pounds for it. No dust jacket, unfortunately.''

Her face was reddening.

He heard himself wittering on, ‘‘That's the term used for the paper cover. It's always more valuable with the original cover. Well-known author on birds, James E Whiting. Perhaps you'll let me know if you come across any more …''

He closed the door behind her.
Idiot, idiot
he muttered under his breath. She would know perfectly well what a dust jacket was. It then occurred to him that Mrs Flaherty would still be constructing a cup of tea for his visitor and would have to be stopped. As he pushed the kitchen door, he suddenly remembered that the girl whom he had been momentarily entertaining might be said to have a connection to the said personage.

‘‘Good Lord!'' he exclaimed.

Mrs Flaherty jumped. The gold-rimmed tray tipped off the work top, cascading cups and saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl, biscuits, spoons, the whole caboodle onto the floor.

Words essaying comfort, and the rescue of pieces followed. It was not as bad as it might have been, but bad enough. The teapot had not yet been filled with scalding liquid, but the sugar bowl had suffered and was neatly split in two. He became alarmed when tears threatened, taking hold of her plump shoulders and directing her into the conservatory. He made her sit down, placing in her hand a clean handkerchief, ironed by herself on a past occasion.

His first instinct was to cover the mess with a tea towel, rather in the manner of covering a body on a battlefield. This, he quickly realised, would solve nothing. His mother was due home at any moment from her committee meeting. Mrs Flaherty could not be asked to help. He alone had to clear things up. The undamaged items he put back into their places in the cupboards, then was at a loss as to what to do with the spoiled sugar cubes. Finally he gathered them into a plastic bag, along with the broken pieces of the bowl. At the bin he hesitated. If they went into the kitchen bin, Mother would find them . Even in the wheelie bin outside they might not be safe.

He went upstairs to his own room. He took his summer sandals out of their box, placed them boxless back into the shoe cupboard, put the plastic bag inside the box and pushed the box under his bed. He got to his feet. Now to dispose of Mrs Flaherty.

She was exactly where he had put her.

‘‘I have tidied the kitchen myself, and there is no reason for you to feel upset,'' he said.

‘‘I'm that sorry, Mr Crawfurd,'' she began, ‘‘The good china …''

‘‘The fault was entirely mine, Mrs Flaherty, and I want to hear no more about it.''

‘‘Mrs Crawfurd's goin' to …''

‘‘No, she won't. And if she does, I will deal with it. You're not yourself, Mrs Flaherty. Perhaps you should have taken a few more days off. Miss Crosthwaite and I are both concerned about you and your worries.''

He liked this linking of himself with Lesley. Besides, it was true, they were both concerned for her well-being. Each in their own way. He felt quite exhilarated.

‘‘About me? She telt you about him?'' Mrs Flaherty's mouth fell open.

‘‘No, no,'' he said hastily, sensing danger in the shape of a long conversation, ‘‘not in any detail. None whatsoever. No, hold on to it meantime,'' he added as the handkerchief was proffered.

‘‘It's very nearly your stopping hour,'' he hurried on, lifting his wrist to make it plain that he was looking at the watch. Often it was helpful to give Mrs Flaherty visual aids when saying something important, ‘‘and after the shock I gave you … I believe we could call it a day, don't you. If you want to do a little more next time …''

 

In his study, he opened the Whiting, but could not concentrate. What a strange afternoon he'd had. Poor Mrs Flaherty. Odd that she and not the minister should be the one worrying about her child's relationship. There was the difference in religion of course, but it seemed to him that he had himself misjudged the girl. A little moody perhaps, but well-intentioned and thoughtful.

He stood to look at himself in the oval mirror above the fireplace. He hardly thought himself middle aged. His hair was as thick as it had ever been. Each month the village barber commented on it approvingly. And his teeth were his own. The back ones, – he studied them now, his mouth wide – were well-filled but the front ones were still straight and serviceable. ‘‘Metal fatigue,'' his dentist had assured him. ‘‘That's all you have to fear now, Duncan. And the gums of course. Keep up the flossing. Are you seeing the hygienist regularly?''

He was, though he didn't enjoy it. The hygienist was a small, fierce woman, armed with various sharp metal instruments.
Raise your hand if it hurts
. He didn't dare. Were his reading glasses possibly a little old-fashioned? The optician had mentioned new frames when he'd last had an examination but this seemed to him simply another way of increasing the bill. Leaning forward, he examined his nose. It was unremarkable, inherited, like his vigorous hair, from his mother's side of the family. With an index finger he stroked each side of his moustache. The hairs were mixed, more white than brown really. He laid two fingers above his upper lip and wondered.

The street lights came on as Harriet neared the bottom of the hill. She pulled her hood up, glad of the dusk, wondering if her face was still as red as it felt. Everything had seemed very clear cut when she set out. She'd looked up the telephone directory for the address, worked out where it was, and full of righteous indignation had marched to Mr Crawfurd's door. But before she could decide where to leave the book, on the shelf between the pot plants, or on the tiled porch floor, a woman in a blue checked housecoat had seen her through the bay window, nodded and pointed with her finger towards the door.