Hartsend (15 page)

But the woman hadn't come to the door. It was Poor Duncan himself, with bits of his hair standing up at the back and his moustache drooping, a mug in his hand, and his shirt tail escaping out of his trousers beneath the maroon sweater. She should have said no to the tea, but it seemed rude. And then she'd felt so uncomfortable, she'd blurted out all that stuff about Mrs Robertson instead of explaining sensible, so badly did she want him to know that it was only Mrs Robertson and no-one else was so stupid. Meaning herself. He'd looked shocked, as if he'd forgotten all about it.

There was something at her heels. A dog, a thin, grey-brown mongrel with spindly legs and a long thin face, sniffing at her. She stopped.

‘‘Go away,'' she said.

Its wet pink tongue hung loose from its mouth. It made to jump up with its paws at the front of her cardigan. She stepped back. It jumped again.

‘‘He's just being pally!''

Some boys were coming up the hill. ‘‘He'll no' hurt you, Missus,'' one called.

It was trying now to wrap itself round her boot.

‘‘Aye, he's just a wee bit randy. Kinda like yourself, Stevie.''

‘‘Call him off, please.''

‘‘Ooh, call him off please,'' one of them said, mocking her accent. Instead of doing anything to the dog, they gathered round. They were younger than her, but there were four of them. One pulled down her cardigan hood. ‘‘What's your name?'' he said.

‘‘Hey, Stevie.''

They looked round. ‘‘Hey, Ryan,'' the one in the leather jacket said. ‘‘How's things?''

‘‘You lot got nothin' better to do?''

They exchanged glances, and slowly began to walk away. One snapped his fingers and called roughly to the dog.

‘‘You all right?'' Ryan asked, his eyes on the departing boys.

She stared at the muddy streaks on her skirt. It would need dry-cleaning. She should have taken Mum's advice and gone for black or navy.

‘‘Come on,'' he told her, ‘‘I'll walk you to the main road.''

‘‘I'm not good with dogs,'' she told him.

‘‘I got that. So, how many points have I earned so far?''

She looked up at him.

‘‘For no' swearin','' he explained. ‘‘No' even at those eejits.''

‘‘Why did you say I wasn't real?''

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘‘No, seriously. Just because I don't swear, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot.''

‘‘I never said you were an idiot. I don't think you're an idiot. You're..'' He took a detour round the lamp post then fell into step beside her again. ‘‘… gorgeous.''

‘‘What?''

He didn't say anything, just looked at the river, a slight smile on his face. The arrogance! Though it was nice to know someone thought you were gorgeous. Of course, as she had often been reminded, being nice inside was more important. Was it really a compliment when it came from someone you weren't certain you liked all that much, who thought he could get away with anything just because he was hot.

‘‘Cross by the road bridge,'' he suggested. ‘‘You'll be ok. There's plenty folk around. It's no' five o'clock yet. What's the matter?''

‘‘Nothing.''

‘‘They're no' comin' back, if that's what you're worryin' about. What're you doing up this bit anyway?''

‘‘I had to deliver a parcel,'' she said.

‘‘To old man Crawfurd? I saw you come out his gate,'' he explained. ‘‘He's a weirdo. We used to play in the woods behind his house, and he'd come out and watch us with these massive binoculars. What was the parcel?''

She didn't want to talk about it.

‘‘Thanks again,'' she said. ‘‘I'll be all right now.''

She had gone a short distance when he called after her.

‘‘Hey. You want to do somethin' sometime?''

She shook her head. ‘‘I'm studying. Exams.''

‘‘Well, if you get bored, give me a phone.''

As if, she thought.

As usual, Mrs McKinnon did not park her cheery red Clio directly outside the Crawfurd house. The road there was rather steep, necessitating a hill start which was not her favourite manoeuvre. Instead she stopped where the road flattened out a little further on which allowed Mrs Crawfurd to make her way back down to her own gate with the assistance of the handrail on the sandstone wall, a handrail which, as visitors to the house were always told, was of historical interest, having escaped Lord Beaverbrook's hunt for iron during the Second World War when railings in the poorer part of the village had been cut away.

They had just begun their discussion about the afternoon's high and low points when the doctor's wife glanced in the mirror and said, ‘‘Edith, is that someone coming out of your front gate?''

Mrs Crawfurd looked in the side mirror.

‘‘Possibly. I don't know who it is.''

It was a woman, quite a young woman, judging by the skirt which ended above the knees, and the black tights and boots. The hair, what one could see of it escaping from the hood of her cardigan, was blond. Unfortunately the woman didn't cross the road before she was out of sight, so there was no opportunity to see the face, but young or old, the tights and the short skirt propelled her immediately into the category of ‘‘hussy.''

‘‘Were you expecting someone?''

‘‘I imagine it was another piece of mail gone astray,'' Mrs Crawfurd said calmly, ‘‘They've named one of the streets in the new estate Hawthorn Bank …''

‘‘And you're Thorn Bank. I see. It must be very irritating for you. Of course, you can just readdress it, you know. That's what I do. Most people don't realise they can do that, of course. As long as you don't open it. Oh, I know what I was going to say,'' she became animated, ‘‘Tell me, did you think Helen was a little subdued today, or was it just my imagination?''

They exchanged views on this and other subjects for quite a time, then finally Mrs McKinnon took her diary from her handbag. ‘‘So, our next turn for doing teas isn't till the 14th. Are you sure you want to bake, Edith?''

‘‘I have sponges and shortbread in the freezer,'' Mrs Crawfurd assured her. ‘‘Thank you again for the lift, Marjorie. Do drive carefully.''

There was no flier on the porch floor, nor any letter or parcel on the hall table. Presumably the caller had. … But what
had
the caller done? No easy solution presented itself. Nor was there any sound in the house, which was surprising. There was a distinct smell of lavender polish, but surely the vacuum cleaner should be on. Mrs Flaherty did things in the same order each time; she always came in to the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

‘‘Duncan!''

He appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘‘Did Mrs Flaherty come?''

‘‘Yes. Umm. I sent her home. Didn't think she was quite herself. I believe she's done most of it, though.''

‘‘I do hope so.''

‘‘I said she wasn't to worry. She could do a little extra next week.''

Mrs Crawfurd half turned, then called back ‘‘Duncan, dear?''

His head reappeared.

‘‘Did I miss anything? Any phone-calls?''

She could not bring herself to be more specific.

‘‘No, nothing.'' he said. ‘‘How was your meeting?''

She didn't answer. The Discussion Group seemed neither here nor there.

She made her way through the house. Everything seemed normal in the sitting room: floor swept, the Doulton ladies dusted, fallen petals removed from the arrangement of apricot-coloured roses on the pedestal table. She preferred scented blooms but the colour was heart-warming in winter. Across the hallway, the cloakroom floor was still damp but everything was otherwise satisfactory. In the kitchen, the sink shone and the ironing pile was neatly stacked on the table. The board and the iron itself were back in the utility room, and the newly washed clothes lay folded in the wicker basket on top of the tumble drier, as always. Mrs Flaherty, though the most trustworthy of cleaning ladies, (and Edith had met some untrustworthy ones in earlier times; there was the disappearance of the fur lined gloves in Devonport for example) had never quite grasped the significance of ‘‘low'' and ‘‘high'' on the drier control panel, and she preferred to do this little task herself. Could the blonde have been some relative of Mrs Flaherty's?

She was walking back through the kitchen when something crunched beneath her shoe. Sugar? A sugar cube? But no-one took sugar. Not herself, not Duncan. And Mrs Flaherty would never drink anything other than hot water when she came.

The blue and white box of cubes was in its usual place in the cupboard, the tab folded into the slot. She dampened a piece of kitchen towel and gathered up the pieces of sugar to drop into the bin. But the bin had not been emptied. Presumably Mrs Flaherty had become unwell before she had time to attend to it.

Who then had been using sugar? Had Duncan been entertaining someone? Mrs Crawfurd, still in her coat and gloves, carried her curiosity upstairs. Duncan's bedroom door was firmly shut. She raised her hand to knock. Then lowered it. She would not pursue the matter. There was a small mystery here somewhere, but she would not enquire. All would eventually become known.

Saturday morning began brightly, but clouds gathered gradually over the hills to the north. Duncan was not at peace. He watched his mother make her way round the various tables in the Church Hall, talking to this acquaintance and that. Before breakfast she had asked him to empty the kitchen bin, usually Mrs Flaherty's task. It was of course an entirely innocent request. There was no evidence in the bin. She might have noticed that the sugar bowl was missing. But if so, why had it not been mentioned?

Another small thing. Mother came to the Boys' Brigade Jumble sale every year, but it was unlike her to want him to bring her, since she had several friends who still drove. She also had made rather a point of his staying. He might see something he needed, she said, and besides, she felt she might get tired and want to come home. Winter, especially a wet winter such as this, seemed to drain her more than in the past.

Tea and coffee were being served in the downstairs basement hall, but she declared herself not quite ready, so he went down alone. It was a windowless room, with pale pink walls, decorated by pictures drawn by the Sunday School children and photographs of African orphans for whom they collected pennies. Duncan bought tea and a cheese scone, and stood beside a radiator with his back to the wall rather than sit at a table where he would have to make conversation. Lesley was sitting at the other side of the room. But she was with Miss Calvert. Still, there was a spare seat. Before he could decide, another woman sat down. Mrs McKinnon, underneath a very large black fur hat.

‘‘Mind if I share your radiator, Duncan?''

He moved over a little. Dr McKinnon propped something against the wall at his feet, a heavy squarish object in a plastic bag.

‘‘Did I tell you Marjorie has taken up Art? Arranging flowers isn't enough for her, she has to paint the bloody things. Costing me a fortune, all those squirrel brushes. And now we're collecting frames. I haven't a clue where she's going to put the finished articles. The girls won't take any more. If she offers you one, Duncan, say you'd like two and put them in the attic.''

‘‘Wouldn't she notice? Their absence, I mean? When she visits.''

‘‘I shouldn't think so.''

‘‘She would ask Mother.''

‘‘True. That stuff drinkable?'' he indicated Duncan's mug of tea.

‘‘Slightly stewed, I'm afraid.''

‘‘Always the same at these things. Ideal if you're in need of a diuretic. No, she doesn't miss much, your mother. She saw your visitor leaving the other day. I'll bet you didn't count on that.''

‘‘My visitor?''

‘‘Blond lady with black leather boots.''

‘‘That was the Reverend Smith's daughter.''

‘‘Ah.''

‘‘I took a bundle to the Hospice Shop for Mother, then I bought a book and left it on the counter. She very kindly brought it round.''

‘‘I knew there would be some dull explanation. Marjorie watches too much television. I won't enlighten her just yet. The minister's daughter, eh. Well, the mother's genes won out there. They'd better get started building the moat and drawbridge round that one.''

‘‘Too late for that.''

‘‘Really?''

‘‘She seems to have attracted Mrs Flaherty's son.''

‘‘Mary Flaherty's boy? Is he that age? I suppose he must be. Last time I saw him, I was suturing his head in my kitchen after he fell out of one of my trees.''

‘‘He's a very strange-looking individual.''

‘‘Probably what attracted her. The stranger the better. Katy and Lillian brought all sorts of peculiar boys home at that age. I kept well out of it, let Marjorie do the sleepless nights and tantrums.''

‘‘Where did you meet Mrs McKinnon?'' Duncan asked.

‘‘What? Oh, mutual friend introduced us at a birthday party. She had a car and I didn't, and she took me back to my digs. Why d'you ask?''

‘‘I just wondered.''

‘‘Duncan, why don't you go on one of those cruises?'' Dr McKinnon said, after a moment or two.

‘‘I'm sorry?''

‘‘Don't say you can't afford it. One of those National Trust cruises would suit you nicely. Scandinavia. Or the Antarctic. Lots of penguins. Even an albatross or two. Packed to the gunnels with single women and widows, those ships.''

‘‘I don't think Mother would …''

‘‘No, she wouldn't. Go by yourself, Duncan. You might even buy yourself some new clothes. I believe I've seen that jacket on you for at least ten years. Oh, happy day, we seem to be done.''