Hartsend (6 page)

None of which she wanted. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. Had she been grinding her teeth in the night? She looked at her drink. It was a pretty colour, but tasted no better to her than lemonade, an insipid lemonade at that. Why was such a fuss made over it? There was no alcohol in their own house, a legacy of her grandfather's steadfast adherence to the principles of the Rechabites. My house, she corrected herself. My house, where all that has been hidden will be laid bare. Was that the Bible or Shakespeare?

All will be laid bare
.

All? She drank some more, and more again.

‘‘Miss Crosthwaite?''

It was the minister, gesturing at her, inviting her to come to the table. He really did look like a cowboy without a horse.

Greetings from Calgary
, Hector's postcard had said on the front in bright yellow letters, with a mounted policeman holding a long lance with a pennant. On the reverse he'd written,
Hope you're not working too hard. Will write again when I'm settled. Best wishes your friend Hector.

She had tried to think of some explanation, but in the end there was only one. Mother had ruled out forever the mounted policeman, the impossible shininess of his boots, the assured curve of his legs around the horse, the pure and perfect scarlet of his uniform.

She put down her empty glass, picked up a full one, and went in to the dining room.

‘‘Did you know this was champagne?'' Lesley asked the minister.

He nodded. ‘‘And a very fine champagne it is.''

She moved, and stumbled a little.

‘‘I'm fine, thank you,'' she said, shrugging off his hand, which for some reason seemed to be attempting to dust her sleeve.

‘‘Why don't you sit here, and let me fill a plate for you.''

She sank down into a chair. Above and around her head, people were talking with their mouths full, exclaiming over the food, moving in and out. The minister didn't come back. So much for good manners. Dark suits and bright dresses blurred and the noise level rose, though no-one bothered to talk to her. She might as well have been a cushion. Finding her glass empty, she placed it very carefully on the arm of the chair, then, feeling that might be too precarious, she picked it up again. Very slowly she leaned forward and managed to place it on the floor where, she realized a moment later, it was just as likely to be knocked over. Really, this was all very difficult. They should have put tables near the chairs.

Duncan's mother was coming towards her across the room, a plate in one hand.

Lesley said, ‘‘Thank you so much. I'm so sorry. I was having such a problem knowing where to put this beautiful glass. Crystal glass. It's very kind of you. Kind of you.'' She burped, but only a very small burp, which she managed to turn into a discreet cough.

Duncan's mother didn't answer. She hovered for a moment then for no apparent reason turned away without handing over the plate of food. Puzzled, Lesley watched the immaculate white chignon and its owner disappear into the corridor that led to the kitchen and the pantry. She knew that pantry. At one of Duncan's childhood parties, playing hide and seek, she and another little girl had hidden there in the dark, and when found, had panicked, bringing down the roller towel and its fittings.

‘‘I was so frightened. I thought we had broken it, ruined it for ever,'' she said.

The important cousin's skinny wife looked down at her, eyebrows raised.

‘‘Nobody told me it wasn't, you see,'' Lesley explained. ‘‘We just ran back to the others. So nobody knew it was me, except that other girl. And now you.''

The woman didn't smile back. No sense of humour. Her loss.

‘‘I was never good at hiding. Or seeking, come to that. My mother was. Did you know that? She hid Hector's postcard from me. God knows what else she hid. And not a thing I can do about it now.''

The words reverberated, but whether inside or outside her head she wasn't sure. She sat back. So much noise. Where was it coming from? Where was John Wayne with the promised food? Duncan was in front of her now, and yes, he had brought food, but when she reached up to take it from his hands, the plate unbalanced. Most of the contents flew onto his waistcoat.

She repressed a giggle and tried to get up to rescue a large prawn from his silver buttons. The other way round, she corrected herself. The prawn was dead, there was nothing to be done for the prawn, it was the button she needed to help …

‘‘Oh, I'm so sorry, Duncan. Your poor, lovely waistcoat. Cheer up. Here, have a …'' she stared at the object on her palm, ‘‘cherry tomato.''

Being helped onto her feet was quite fun, and being half carried into the corridor and into the kitchen was rather like a waltz. It was all different from what she remembered. Lots of white, lots of lovely shiny steel. Where was the pantry? Dr MacKinnon's big, red face blocked her view. His breath was very garlicky. She let him hold her wrist but it was hard to hear what he was saying.

‘‘I believe I would like to go home now,'' she said.

‘‘Miss Crosthwaite!''

‘‘I am perfectly alright, Dr Gordon,'' she called, continuing to walk down the driveway away from him.

‘‘Yes, I know, but my car is at the gate and Dr McKinnon doesn't want you walking home by yourself, not at this hour.'' He was perfectly sober, having stayed with fresh orange juice all evening. She had refused coffee, so McKinnon, satisfied that she was not going to faint, had instructed him to drive the lady home, blaming the combination of champagne and temazepam. Their hostess had become indignant: if she had known Lesley was on medication … The elderly bachelor son was worse than useless, flapping about in the background like a demented stork. What a crew.

She stopped abruptly.

‘‘My boots,'' she said. ‘‘I left my boots.''

‘‘I'll fetch them for you.''

‘‘No. No, leave them.''

‘‘Fair enough,'' he said. ‘‘You can recover them another time.''

Now, finally, she accepted the offer of his arm, even leaning against him. She was wearing perfume, something old fashioned he recognised but couldn't name, something he thought his mother had worn.

‘‘You'll have to give me directions,'' he said. ‘‘Remember, I'm one of the pesky newcomers.''

‘‘You must think …''

‘‘I must think what?''

But she didn't finish her sentence.

He got her into the car with no further difficulty. He'd dismissed her initially: one more menopausal spinster. Then he'd seen her face change at the use of the word ‘‘tinker'': he wondered if there was more to her. She'd seemed profoundly unhappy, despite the fixed smile. Only when they slowed to a stop outside her gate, and he looked up at the dark house did he remember being told that she had lost her mother recently.

In his best bedside voice he said, ‘‘This is a very hard time for you. I think everyone understands that.''

‘‘I don't care if they understand or not.''

‘‘Good for you.''

She twisted round to face him. ‘‘Why did you come here?''

Her face was jaundiced in the yellow light from the street lamps.

‘‘I was asked to see you safely home.''

‘‘No, here. This village.''

It was the first time anyone had asked him. ‘‘I needed the job,'' he told her. ‘‘I've been a locum for a long time. It was a case of …''

‘‘This is a terrible place. Terrible things happen here. Terrible things have happened to me.''

He waited for more, but nothing came. He got out and went round to open her door.

She peered at him. ‘‘How can you be a doctor?'' she said. ‘‘You're so young.''

‘‘Thirty two. Not so very young.'' He held out a hand, but she made no move.

‘‘I never thought I would be fifty. I have no idea how it happened. One day I was seventeen and now look at me. I might as well be dead.''

‘‘Come now, don't talk like that. Let's get you safely home.''

She let him help her out.

‘‘You'll feel better in the morning, once you've had a good …''

‘‘Oh, go to Hell,'' she said loudly, slamming the car door. She pushed open her gate and closed it behind her with unnecessary force.

He watched her progress up the path. It occurred to him that there might be stacks of prescription medications in the house after the mother's long illness. It would be irresponsible not to check. He dialled Dr MacKinnon's mobile number.

‘‘There's a little custard left,'' Ruby called through the hatch into the dining room.

‘‘No thank you, dear. That was just fine.''

Why was there always just a little custard left? Because Ruby still cooked enough of everything for Walter Junior, who had left home three years before. He was always offered the little custard, or the little stew or whatever, and always said no, in the hope that someday, some happy day, Ruby might accept that Walter Junior was not coming back, not even for special days like this. They didn't make much of New Year down south, he'd told Ruby, trying to help.

‘‘Tea? And a biscuit?''

‘‘Just tea, dear. That would be lovely.''

‘‘I'll bring you a Digestive in case.''

He studied the fish tank for several minutes, looking at each of the residents to make sure they were swimming correctly, that their eyes were clear, that each fin was erect. He loved his fish. Their effortless meandering from frond to frond with no contact or conflict seemed to him a way of life little short of perfection. No-one was allowed to touch the tank or do anything to it and its occupants. He had had a bad scare some years back, when Ruby decided to clean the outdoor pond. Happily tonight all seemed to be well with each little Platy and Angel Fish. He dabbed his lips with the napkin, and made his way through to the sitting room. Tonight's pudding had been tinned pears in fruit juice. He wasn't over fond of pears, particularly in juice. Sometimes they had a sharpness that annoyed the tongue, but he wasn't allowed the ones in syrup any more

Healthy eating was Ruby's latest thing. The weekly shop was taking a lot longer, now that she had to read for e-numbers and saturated fat. He missed a few of the old favourites. A little of what you fancy, they used to say, even though there was less to fancy back then. You had your carrots, onions and peas, your potatoes mashed or chipped. The young ones had laughed at him one day at work, when he said he remembered where and when he'd first tasted sweetcorn. Ruby was on at him to grow their own vegetables come Spring. The back garden was big enough, but he wasn't persuaded. Her enthusiasms tended to diminish if ignored for long enough.

He switched on the TV, turned the sound right down, and rested his head back on the settee, closing his eyes. His uncle, also named Walter, had been a great gardener. There was a greenhouse in the garden in Peebles, not a particularly large one, but inside it Uncle Walter had a vine that produced luscious black grapes year after year, apparently unharmed and untainted by the smoke from Uncle Walter's pipe.

‘‘Piddle,'' Uncle Walter had announced solemnly, one early summer afternoon, when they were standing together, looking up at the small green fruits, the man puffing on his pipe, the small boy passively inhaling. ‘‘That's the secret, laddie. Plenty of piddle. Great for the parsley too.''

He remembered still the feeling, half terror, half joy that thrilled through his eight year old body. Was he going to be asked to contribute? Would he be able to pee on demand? But the invitation didn't come. He knew now that Uncle Walter would have used a jug or a bowl when he went to the bathroom, the greenhouse being in full view of the neighbours, but for years the image of his uncle spraying cheerfully in the greenhouse and over the parsley bed cheered him when school or life in general became dull or difficult.

What would Ruby make of that one, he wondered. Where's your e-numbers now?

‘‘Here you are, dear,'' she set his cup and plate down and returned to the dishes in the kitchen. It was always tea now. She wouldn't let him drink coffee in the evening. ‘‘We're not as young as we were,'' she said. He knew he was meant to say something flattering about her when she said this kind of thing. Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn't. What life really boiled down to, he mused, biting into his organic Digestive, was knowing when to play dumb.
Kid on you're daft and you'll get a hurl on the barra.
Playing dumb took a certain amount of finesse, all the same. He bought a large Dairy Milk every morning when he stopped for his paper, but he never brought any of it home, not even a couple of pieces for a sly nibble. Ruby would have smelt it when she turned out the trouser pockets for the wash. He stared at the silent screen. For the first time it occurred to him that retirement might involve difficulties he had not so far considered.

‘‘Walter,'' she sat down beside him with her latest copy of Puzzle Monthly and her rubber-tipped pencil. ‘‘I've been wondering.''

‘‘Have you?''

Behind the glasses, her eyes were large and earnest. ‘‘I've been wondering if we should ask Lesley next door to come in for tea now and then. She'll be lonely. I don't like to think of her on her own.''

He said nothing.

Much later, when the TV had been switched off, and Ruby had already gone upstairs, he was checking that the front door was locked when he heard a bang. Car door, he told himself, not loud enough for fireworks. These had been going off through most of the evening. No doubt there would be more at midnight.

‘‘Did you hear that?'' Ruby called from upstairs.

‘‘Hear what?''

‘‘There's a car at our gate.''