Hartsend (16 page)

Mrs McKinnon had risen from her chair, and was waving to them.

‘‘Remember what I told you about the paintings, won't you?'' the Doctor said.

Disgruntled, Duncan watched him join the women. It was the word ‘‘dull'' that had triggered it, the man's assumption that anything connected with him would be ‘‘dull,'' would have a ‘‘dull'' explanation. It had stung more than a little. He dropped his chin, trying to see himself. What was wrong with his jacket?

 

‘‘Well, whoever made these is not half the baker your mother was,'' Eunice Calvert announced, inspecting the inside of her scone. ‘‘I can't see more than three sultanas in total, and I suspect they were made with very cheap margarine.''

Lesley felt the eyes of both women regarding her sadly.

‘‘You must find the house very quiet, dear,'' Mrs McKinnon ventured as she pulled on her gloves.

Lesley smiled and nodded. Mrs McKinnon was such a gentle, well-meaning soul. She must, once upon a time, have been a very caring nurse.

‘‘The thing is, you have to remember what she would have wanted.'' Eunice wiped her lips with a paper napkin, a Sunday School Christmas leftover, Teddy Bears decorated in holly leaves and red berries. ‘‘You have to give thanks for all the happy memories, Lesley, and go forward into the rest of your life.''

‘‘But it's early days yet, Eunice,'' Mrs McKinnon pleaded.

‘‘Of course it is. I'm not suggesting it isn't. But the fact remains that we all have to consider how we …''

‘‘How are we all, ladies?'' Dr McKinnon beamed down at them. ‘‘Have you made some exciting find? Not more wool, Eunice.'' He poked at the plastic bag hung on the back of her chair.

‘‘My Primary Sevens enjoy learning to knit, even the boys. Hardly any of their mothers know how. ''

‘‘I have drawers full. I should give you some,'' Lesley said.

‘‘Oh, you'll use it up yourself,'' Eunice said.

‘‘Actually I hate knitting.''

She had silenced them. Eunice was baffled. Mrs McKinnon looked stricken.

‘‘Perhaps painting would …'' the latter began.

‘‘Behave yourself, Marjory,'' Dr McKinnon said. ‘‘Lesley needs less clutter, not more. If this continues,'' he hefted his parcel higher, ‘‘we'll have to move to a larger house.''

When they were out of hearing Miss Calvert said, ‘‘He's such a very big man, don't you think? Most men shrink as they get older but he seems to get bigger somehow.''

Lesley felt irritated. What did the woman want? A world populated by men under five feet four?

‘‘Now, as I was saying …''

Lesley interrupted, ‘‘Forgive me, Eunice. I really must have a word with one or two people. Please don't wait for me. I have my umbrella.''

She carried her cup and saucer over to the kitchen hatch. There was no-one serving, so she put them beside some others, and turned round, right into Duncan's Barbour jacket.

They both apologised, then Duncan said, ‘‘Did you find something on the stalls?''

‘‘Just a book.''

‘‘Something interesting?''

She slid the small volume out of its bag. A Ladybird book.
The Story of Joseph.

‘‘A bit ridiculous at my age,'' she said. ‘‘I had this as a child, but it got warped after I dropped it in the bath.'' She thought he might smile at this but he didn't.

‘‘You know, some Ladybird books are very valuable,'' he said, as they moved to let two small girls dance past. ‘‘The early editions, especially in good condition. And it's important to have the dust wrapper.''

How earnest he always was. He was an early edition himself, complete with dust wrapper, pages unmarked.

‘‘I think there's a whole box of these in our roof space,'' she said.

‘‘Really?'' He grew more earnest. ‘‘You should search the web sometime and check them. Not that you haven't got plenty of other …''

‘‘You've shaved your moustache.''

He cleared his throat. ‘‘Ah. Yes. Is it all right?''

‘‘It looks fine. What made you decide …''

‘‘I did it last night.'' He coughed again. ‘‘Actually, you're the only person who's noticed, apart from Mother. That is, she looked at the space where it had been,'' he tapped his upper lip, ‘‘but she didn't comment. I suspect she doesn't approve. I must confess, the wind felt a little cold this morning,'' he smiled shyly at his own joke. ‘‘Probably the wrong time of year to do it.''

‘‘Well, in summer you'd be left with a strip of white skin, and the rest of your face tanned.''

‘‘Right. Hadn't thought of that one. I thought more people might notice,'' he added.

But no-one looks at you, she thought, feeling a little shiver of sadness. Faithful Duncan, always ready to be of use and never appreciated.

‘‘Well, if you want my opinion, I think you look much better without it.''

‘‘Really?''

‘‘Yes.''

It was true. Without the moustache, his face was … softer?

‘‘No going back then. Right. I should perhaps check whether she's ready to depart.''

Lesley walked with him towards the stairs. Just before they reached the door into the main hall she said, ‘‘Duncan.''

‘‘Yes?''

‘‘What you were saying, about the Ladybird books. I don't have a computer. Could I look on yours sometime?''

‘‘Of course. Whenever you like.''

Walter opened the back of the van and looked with satisfaction at his new fish tanks. He laid hold of the nearest one, bending his knees to avoid straining the back, a life-long habit he had always tried to pass on to his apprentices, then hesitated. Mouth pursed, he closed the van doors and turned the key.

When he went through the gate into the back garden, he saw Lesley on the other side of the hedge, taking sheets down from the washing line.

‘‘Not a bad drying day,'' he called. She waved back. How awfully like her mother she looked, with that scarf tied round her head. The sheets would be more frozen than dry. A tumble drier was what she needed. Ruby never hung clothes out between December and the end of February, except for tea towels and the like.

He had a quick look at the goldfish then continued up the long path towards the back door.

‘‘Mr Robertson.''

He turned. She had left the clothes line and was just visible across the hedge.

‘‘I've been thinking about double glazing. You mentioned you knew someone reliable …''

He said he would find the man's card and slip it through her letter box, entering his own kitchen with a smile on his face, glad that she was doing something to benefit herself, and glad too that he had been the one to give the good advice in the first place.

‘‘That was a long day, dear,'' Ruby said, not looking up. She was chopping carrots. He could smell onions frying. What she meant was, what have you been doing all day.

‘‘Oh, I just had a wee wander around the town while I was in.''

He had gone into the city with the gift voucher Walter Junior had sent for Christmas. It had taken him five minutes in the store to be certain there was nothing he particularly liked. The next hours had been happily occupied in collecting the fish tanks, discussing his ideas with the proprietor of the Tropical Section, and reading his newly purchased magazine in the cafe nearby.

‘‘Did you have some lunch?''

‘‘I had a cup of tea.'' And a slice of something called Mississippi Mud Pie.

‘‘And did you get a new jumper?''

‘‘There was nothing I fancied. That smells good, dear''

‘‘Lentil and carrot soup,'' she said, ‘‘and there's beef olives.''

‘‘ Lovely. Home made? Not the ones from the butcher's?''

‘‘Of course not,'' she said. ‘‘How could there be nothing you liked, Walter? I saw lovely cardigans before Christmas. That old green one's not fit to be worn in public. ''

Tropical Freshwater.
He unrolled the magazine and fingered the glossy cover.

‘‘I don't know how they keep finding new things to say every month,'' Ruby said. ‘‘Would you like me to make some croutons?''

He wondered what Lesley was having for tea. She seemed to be getting thinner and thinner.

‘‘Are we having Lesley in sometime?'' he said.

Ruby stopped chopping, knife in mid-air. ‘‘What for?''

‘‘You said you thought we should have her over for tea, now that she's on her own.''

‘‘She doesn't seem to be on her own very much, if you ask me.''

Walter hung up his jacket, and, glancing back to see that he was not observed, went through to young Walter's bedroom.

He sat down on the bedside chair. In his mind's eye he cleared the room, except for the desk and the bookshelves. They could stay. The breeding tanks would sit against the side wall away from direct sunlight and the outside wall of the house. He had settled on Guppies after much deep thought. A few top quality fish would suit him. They were hardy little fish, but high stocking levels would mean more frequent water changes, and he could not risk leaving this to Ruby. The filtration was crucial.

First of course he had to overcome Ruby's resistance. The best thing might be to confront her with a ‘‘done deed'' as the Americans put it. He'd order a skip and get a couple of the lads to empty the room. She'd make a fuss, there might even be a tear or two, but it wouldn't last long and she'd be on to something else soon enough.

‘‘I've jumped the gun a bit,'' Walter explained.

‘‘How big are they exactly?'' Lesley asked.

‘‘Not very big, ‘‘he told her. ‘‘The big one holds about forty five litres.''

‘‘But they would be empty.''

‘‘Oh yes, of course. I was going to put them under the roof of the garage, but it's not good for them to be in such a cold place, you see. Even with the wee heater on. And it wouldn't be for long. I just need to find the right moment. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you.''

‘‘No, it's all right,'' she said. Though it wasn't really. ‘‘Would the front sitting room do? I haven't got central heating, but the storage heaters keep it reasonably warm, and it gets any sun that's going.''

She hung up the phone and turned to her visitor. He was looking properly ministerial today, in a dark suit and clerical collar.

‘‘My next door neighbour,'' she explained coming back to her chair. ‘‘He's bought himself new tanks for breeding guppies and he needs to store them somewhere for a few days until he breaks the news to his wife.''

‘‘I haven't heard that one before. Very odd,''

‘‘Oh, this village has more than its share of odd people. Hardly anyone's normal.''

He smiled, ‘‘Apart from you and me.''

He seemed not to realize she was being serious. Mother had blamed the many eccentricities and peculiarities on inbreeding; cousins intermarrying year by year in small hamlets where, without effort or ambition, sons followed fathers into a trade, farming or the brickmaking works. There was just enough employment, Mother said. Less would have driven them out, more would have brought new people in.

Mother always said
. The words took shape in her head. No, she told herself. Mother had no voice now. Her opinions, right or wrong, didn't count.
Don't let her bloody well ruin the rest of your life.

The minister couldn't read her mind, but he was watching her, letting her choose what to say, where to go. Waiting for her to unburden her secrets? Well, he was in for a disappointment. That wasn't why she'd phoned him. It had been her intention merely to outline Mrs Flaherty's problem and ask for an answer. But the daughter had answered the phone. He was on his mobile. He asked, via the daughter if he might call round on his way elsewhere. He had not taken off his coat, signalling that he did not intend to stay long. She in return had not offered to make tea.

‘‘I wanted to speak to you about someone I know,'' she began briskly, ‘‘not a church member, but someone I feel obliged to, if that makes sense. She's having quite serious problems. She doesn't want to ask anyone for help. I think she needs to, but I don't know who to speak to, or how to go about it.''

In case he still imagined she was talking about herself, she added, ‘‘This person has a family, grown up children, so she isn't on her own, but she says she can't tell them what's happening. She's very protective of them.''

Tooprotective. There was a difference in taking care of your children and becoming a doormat for all and sundry. Especially when the children earned more than Mary herself did.

‘‘And you feel you can't break this confidence and tell them. What's happening exactly?''

‘Very little' was the true answer. Mrs Flaherty was a circuitous story teller, and Lesley had had to listen hard to work out what exactly she was afraid of. It was more a case of what might happen.

‘‘She was separated from her husband a long time ago. Separated rather than divorced. He abused her rather badly, and was rough with the children, so she threw him out, with the help of her parents, who were still alive at that point. She moved here with the children. Now he seems to have reappeared, and wants back into the family.''

‘‘And she doesn't want him back?''

‘‘She's terrified of him.''

‘‘And the police won't be interested, since he hasn't done anything. Or has he?''

‘‘So far all he's done is make phone calls. He's told her he's a changed man.''

‘‘It can happen. Presumably he wasn't abusive when they first met.''