Hartsend (24 page)

‘‘We can't keep the table, sir,'' the man said. ‘‘Unless you'd like to order …''

Duncan put more than the cost of the wine down, and fumbling his coat and hat off the crowded rack for himself, made for the door.

In less than fifteen minutes he was at Lesley's house.

There was a light on in the hall. The storm door wasn't locked. He pressed the doorbell. Nothing. He tried the inner door. It opened.

With a sense of mounting anxiety, he stepped into the dimly lit hall.

‘‘Lesley?'' he called hesitantly. ‘‘It's me.''

He tiptoed through the ground floor, glancing fearfully into each darkened room. He'd never thought of himself as particularly imaginative, but now one image only presented itself to his brain. Lesley struck down by a burglar, lying in a pool of blood. The kitchen light was on. Nothing seemed out of place. A few dishes in the draining rack. The pulley overhead was draped with drying clothes, including several feminine garments. Hurriedly he tried the back door. It was locked. Should he call the police? If not the police, then who?

Lesley's window faced straight into her neighbours' kitchen across a thick privet hedge. There was a woman at the sink. Would she think he was the burglar? Hesitantly he raised one hand in greeting. There was no answering wave from behind the net curtain,

He moved back to the hall. ‘‘Lesley? Are you here? Are you all right?''

He had one foot on the bottom stair when she appeared at the top, smaller somehow than she ought to be, a pale yellow quilt gathered round her.

‘‘Duncan?''

‘‘Are you all right?'' he repeated. He began to climb.

‘‘No! Stop.''

He stopped.

‘‘How did you get in?''

‘‘The door …'' he said falteringly.

One small hand emerged from the quilt, reaching for the newel, as if to steady herself. She was barefoot. Had she been in bed?

‘‘Are you unwell? I phoned several times. …''

She began to speak, then sighed.

‘‘Should I call a doctor?''

When she still didn't answer he said desperately, ‘‘Should I make some tea? Or a Lemsip?''

‘‘Fill the kettle, Duncan,'' she said. ‘‘I'll be down in a moment.''

Averting his eyes from the pulley, Duncan prised the lid from the kettle and filled it from the tap. Like most of the things in the kitchen, it had seen better days. The gas cooker in particular worried him. He might suggest she had it tested. Thank goodness nothing was seriously wrong. A chill, a sore throat. A migraine perhaps. Mrs Fleming occasionally suffered from migraines when she hadn't had enough sleep. Over the last year he had come to understand that there was a world of difference between his occasional bad headaches and a migraine. Poor Lesley. She never complained. He imagined she'd lost track of the time. And how thoughtless of him, phoning so many times if she'd been trying to sleep. But now he could make amends. He lit the gas, put the kettle on the ring and prepared to listen for the first sign of a whistle.

It was just beginning to shrill loudly when she appeared. The quilt had been abandoned in favour of a grey cardigan. She had brushed her hair, and her face was less pale. Probably she had splashed some cold water on it. It was a trick he often used himself to wake after a nap in the chair.

‘‘Let me do that,'' he said, as she opened the cupboard.

‘‘It's all right. You sit down. Here's your mother's sugar bowl, in case I forget.'' She put a box on the table.

He watched her come and go from fridge to drawer to cupboard. How pale and small her feet were. Didn't she mind the cold linoleum?

‘‘There's some biscuits in the tartan tin. Behind you.''

Obediently he stretched for it, and took off the lid. Inside were what his mother called ‘‘bought'' biscuits; custard creams and ginger nuts and dusty-looking chocolate chip cookies.

Lesley put a mug of tea in front of him, and one for herself on the other side of the table.

‘‘Milk?'' she said.

He poured a little from the jug, then a little more. Too much. It slopped over onto the brown oilcloth.

‘‘I'm sorry, I wasn't watching properly …''

Lesley pulled some sheets of kitchen paper from a roll and put them down over the puddle of liquid.

Why didn't she say something? What was he doing wrong? He wasn't really a tea drinker and he'd put in so much milk it was lukewarm. He took a large swallow, as if it might improve with familiarity.

‘‘I don't think I've ever been in your kitchen,'' he said desperately.

‘‘What do you think of it?''

He tried to think of something positive and polite. The yellow vitrolite wall-tiles reminded him of old hospital corridors. The Belfast sink had a brown streak below the cold tap, though he didn't doubt it was clean.

‘‘I hate every inch of it,'' Lesley said. She took a sip of tea. ‘‘I hate this house, I hate this village, and I think I might possibly …''

She broke off. She straightened, as if there were hooks in her skin, as if invisible cords were pulling her head and shoulders towards the ceiling.

He'd never seen her like this. Slowly, slowly, he put down the mug, as if sudden movement might panic her, make her fly into the glass like the collared doves when he went out to refill the seeds. He hated that sound, hated to see the imprint of their fawn-coloured bodies on the patio window …

‘‘I ought to go. I'm so sorry I woke you. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. When you …''

‘‘I'm not all right, Duncan. And I don't think I'm ever going to be all right, whether you're sorry or not.'' She drew the cardigan tight, folding her arms. ‘‘I mustn't blame you, I suppose, since you haven't a clue, have you?'' She unlocked the kitchen door and pulled it open. A cold draught swept in.

‘‘What have I done?'' he said.

She shook her head.

‘‘Go home, Duncan.''

He was at the front gate when he remembered the sugar bowl. It would have to stay where it was, he decided.

June was already in the Hospice Shop when Ruby arrived. She was applying mascara, using the mirror on the wall behind the cash desk.

‘‘The kettle's just boiled,'' she said, ‘‘but Letty isn't back yet with the milk. I told her not to rush, the pavements are that slippery this morning.''

Ruby looked at the high heels on June's suede boots, and thought her own thoughts. June was in charge. Which was why they were always behind in the opening and sorting of bags. June would rather chat with customers than get down to work.

‘‘Shall I get started on the bags?''

‘‘Oh, thank you pet,'' June said.

Pet. Not for the first time Ruby wanted to scream. It was infuriating to be ‘‘pet'd'' by someone younger.

She gave the back room a brisk spray of Woodland Breeze then emptied the first plastic bag onto the table. Shirts and trousers. Men's tan leather shoes, a good make, nicely polished. They'd soon sell. Men didn't seem to mind wearing other people's shoes.

She hoped Walter wouldn't have to wait long at the Surgery. He'd left the house before her. She'd told him to phone and let her know how it had gone before he went to work but whether he'd heard and whether he would remember was not certain. He was becoming very absent minded, just like his father. She frowned at a tie with a distinct mark over the stripes. Neglected gravy stain? Too late now. Into the Discard bin it went. She heard the door open and the sound of Letty's voice, cheerful as ever.

She herself could hardly remember what it felt like to be cheerful. She generally slept like a baby, but in recent days she'd found herself lying awake next to Walter's snoring body. Once, when the sound reached a crescendo, she had actually kicked him. It had achieved nothing; he was asleep again before she was.

And now he was looking for sympathy, complaining of stomach pains. For years she had devoted herself to this man, making nutritious, economical meals, catering to his every whim. The idea that there could be something wrong with his stomach was a piece of nonsense.

‘‘It's wind,'' she told him. ‘‘You eat too fast. I've been saying it for years.''

It wasn't wind of course. She knew fine what it was. A guilty conscience. She'd waited and waited for him to tell her why he'd been in Lesley's garden in the dark. This pain was his guilt breaking out. She tugged in vain at the imitation gold clasp on a white handbag. Sometimes money was left in handbags, or nice little handkerchiefs that could be washed and sold separately. Less nice were unwrapped mints that had melted into the linings.

‘‘That's the tea made, Ruby,'' June called.

‘‘… Mrs Birnie was buying bread for Sammy's sandwiches, and she said it was a disgrace.'' Letty had evidently returned from her errand with much to tell. ‘‘and the police no' takin' a blind bit o' notice.''

‘‘You shouldn't listen to Mrs Birnie,'' June said, bringing the biscuit tin from under the counter. ‘‘That woman picks up gossip like a cat picks up fleas.'' She took up her mug, then put it down as her mobile phone rang. ‘‘Back in a moment,'' she said.

Ruby had frequently found out interesting things about the village from Letty, but it was important to ask at the time, because the girl forgot quickly. She offered Letty a chocolate digestive.

‘‘Start at the beginning Letty dear, and go slowly,'' she said. ‘‘What else did Mrs Birnie say?''

As the train drew in to her station, Harriet pulled on a light waterproof over her blazer and took off her uniform scarf and tie. From here on, it was safer not to look like someone from a private school. It had been a long, exhausting week of exams, and she felt completely miserable, not helped by her period starting that morning. One more miserable thing to do and she would be free to lie on the sofa with a large bag of salt and balsamic vinegar Kettle Chips and watch junk TV.

A bus took her to Hartsend. She didn't know the name of Ryan's street, but she remembered where it was: beside a street lamp, with low hedges in front and all the curtains the same, upstairs and down in brown and white stripes. There was no name on the door. She rang the bell, and when nothing happened, knocked on the glass panel. Moments later the door opened a few inches. She saw a chain stretched across.

‘‘We're no' wantin' anything.''

‘‘It's just a letter,'' Harriet said. ‘‘For Ryan Flaherty. Is this his house? ''

The chain was loosened, the door opened, and the woman stared at her. Harriet hadn't really looked at her that day in the shop. Her hair was held back from her from her forehead by a pink plastic band with teeth, the kind that little girls wore. A dark green jumper stretched over her front. Either she wasn't wearing a bra, or it was too loose to give her any shape.

‘‘It's … it's just a personal letter,'' Harriet said.

Ryan's mother, if it was she, took it without speaking, and closed the door. Was he at home or not? Harriet walked quickly away in case the door should reopen and a familiar voice call her back.

When she reached her own house, the kitchen light was on. She took out her key, but the door was unlocked. Which it shouldn't have been.

‘‘Dad?''

‘‘I'm in the sitting room.''

He was on the sofa, shoes off, and a mug balanced on his stomach, watching football.

‘‘I thought you were going to be late home,'' she told him.

‘‘Oh, they cancelled it, thank goodness. Not enough to make a quorum. Combination of illness and road closures. I'm so glad. I'm absolutely knackered.'' He turned the sound back up.

‘‘Why didn't you come to the station, then?'' she asked. She had to say it twice, dropping her bag for emphasis.

‘‘I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm really not that long in.''

Long enough to make yourself coffee though.

‘‘What's for tea?'' she said.

On the screen, a man in a white shirt jumped high in the air, his foot striking a red-shirted man in the groin. Her father groaned loudly with the rest of the stadium.

‘‘My exam was very hard, since you ask. And my period started and my stomach's very sore.''

‘‘Fine,'' he said.

‘‘Dad!'' she yelled.

He started, spilling his drink over his shirt.

‘‘Harriet, what are you …'' he got to his feet, wiping at himself with short, exasperated bursts of words and half words.

‘‘I've just told Ryan Flaherty I don't want to see him ever again.''

He seemed to struggle for a moment, then he said, ‘‘Why?''

‘‘Because that's what you told me to do.''

‘‘When did I say that?'' He seemed genuinely puzzled.

She gripped the top of the sofa. ‘‘On the way home the other night. You said you didn't want me to see him.''

‘‘I think I said you ought to. …''

She hated it when he began to slow down his words as if she was stupid, as if she was five years old …

‘‘No, you said, ‘I want you to keep away from him.' ''

And now he was using the hand gestures as well, ‘‘I said you should keep away from him if he'd been drinking, Harriet. I didn't mean …''

‘‘Yes, you did. And I've just seen his mother and his house and the hedge is all weeds and holes and it's awful. No wonder he's miserable. Anyone would be miserable in that house. I wish we'd never left Aberdeen. I wish we'd never come to this horrible place. I can't even travel on the bus home without getting spat on, or chewing gum in my hair. And I'm tired of making the tea every night, when I'm not even hungry!''

She slammed the door behind her. Half way up the stairs she conceded that her last statement was not completely true. She went furiously through the kitchen cupboards, grabbing the Kettle Chips, a family pack of Kit Kats, and a can of Coca Cola. As an afterthought, she twisted two sensible bananas off the bunch in the fruit bowl and stuck them in her blazer pockets.