Felburgh

by Ivan B

  Jo suddenly stopped talking. Peter knew why.

  “Which leaves Minty’s room.” He remarked casually.

  Jo nodded. Peter took her hand and they went upstairs and stood outside the door.

  He looked like a man condemned. He turned and faced Jo.

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  Jo nodded again and Peter opened the door. Jo did not know what to expect, but what she saw was nothing like she imagined. The room was lined with bookshelves and on them were children’s annuals. She cast her eyes round the room: Beano, Dandy, Dennis the Menace, Eagle, Noddy, and Blue Peter all caught her eye. Peter sort of shrugged.

  “I started collecting them when I was at school and somehow…”

  Jo ran her fingers along the spines of the books, “are the collections complete?”

  “Not quite, some are easier than others. I’m still missing a 1954 Beano and the 1965 is almost impossible to find.”

  “Tried the Internet?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Definitely not! The fun is not just in having them, but also in seeking them out. It wouldn’t be the same if I could do it from an armchair.”

  Jo was mystified, but didn’t say so. She leant on the armchair to read some more titles and then stopped having realized what she was doing.

  “This armchair matches the one in your study, you don’t sit up here and read them do you?”

  Peter looked like a man caught in a rat-trap.

  “Well it seems pointless to have them and then not…”

  Jo went and put her arms round Peter’s waist.

  “My mum always said that men were little boys grown tall, and now I know what she means.”

  She stepped out onto the landing and then looked back in the room.

  “That’s odd. I would have thought that this room was bigger, it’s really no larger than a box room and it hasn’t even got a window.”

  Peter shut the door.

  “That’s because of the walk-in wardrobe off of the back bedroom. I think a previous owner must have made some alterations up here.”

  Jo looked perplexed.

  “Walk in wardrobe?”

  Peter led her to the back room where he had his prayer stool; behind it were a pair of wardrobe doors built into an alcove. Peter moved the desk and opened the wardrobe door.

  “Welcome to Narnia,” he said.

  Jo walked into the wardrobe and the small room beyond. This too was the size of an overlarge box room, but it also had a window. Jo studied the room carefully.

  “I don’t think that this is really a walk in wardrobe. I think it must have been a nursery. You could easily get a bed in here.”

  She walked back into the bedroom and then looked out of the bedroom window.

  “Which room do you prefer; this one or the double one on the other side of the house? They seem about the same size to me if you forget Narnia.”

  “The one next door,” Peter said unhesitatingly. “The view is better and it has two real built in wardrobes.”

  Jo turned to face Peter.

  “After my flat it seems awfully extravagant, but I would like to give this room to Danielle. Once she sees Narnia she will fall in love with the idea of sleeping in there and having this as her own living room where she can see her friends. After all we will have the rest of the house and… ”

  He silenced her by giving her a hug.

  “OK, sold to the man who is putty in your hands.”

  When they parted Peter waved an arm.

  “What about the decoration? You and Danielle won’t move in for some time, so if you want it painted or papered now is the time to do it.”

  They spent a happy hour walking round the house with Jo letting her imagination run wild. Eventually they got back to what they were already thinking of as Danielle’s room.

  “What about in here”, said Peter, “I suppose we let Danielle choose.”

  Jo looked at him as if he were mad.

  “You can’t be serious! It will end up looking like the inside of a blancmange.”

  “But it would be her blancmange. I know it will be hard for Danielle to adjust and if this is her room in every sense then maybe that will help.”

  “You know that she will want to do it herself.”

  “It’s herself that’s got to sleep in it.”

  They went downstairs and sat on the pew. Jo looked at Peter.

  “You said it would be some time before we moved in. What do you call sometime?”

  “That depends on you. If I could beat the system I’d marry you tomorrow, but I thought that you would like to wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know, just wait.”

  Jo said quietly.

  “We have a house that will be our home, apparently we’re not hard up, and it is killing me coming here twice a week. I want to live here and I want to be with you every day.”

  Peter put his arm round her.

  “Not wanting to misquote Daphne, what about marry in haste and regret at leisure?”

  Jo sensed something deeper in Peter.

  “You mean like before?”

  “I don’t know what I mean. Before, I rushed into marriage because of a legal deadline. I want to marry you yesterday, but I don’t want to push you into moving the relationship on faster than you can cope with.”

  Jo did not hesitate.

  “Yesterday seems a bit soon; could we manage August? Say early August; that would allow us a summer honeymoon and Danielle to be settled before her important school years start.”

  “Honeymoon?” Said Peter, “I haven’t even thought about the honeymoon.”

  Chapter 18

  ...Never Runs Smooth

  Friday morning, Peter and Aquinas had just finished eating their breakfast when there was simultaneously a hammering from the front door and the sound of someone shouting. Peter opened the door to find an enraged Freddy on his doorstep.

  “You bastard, you bloody bastard! You wait until I sign the contract with Kimberley and then you go and tell my wife. You bastard, you unscrupulous conniving priest of a bastard!”

  Freddy advanced into the hall, still shouting obscenities . But he stayed just inside the door. He might have been tempted to come in further if it were not for Aquinas who had taken up his favourite position of being between master and antagonist. Freddy paused for breath and Peter got a word in.

  “I have not told your wife. I have not told anyone. And if you wish a conversation with me you will have to stop shouting and cease from using obscenities.”

  Freddy was not to be instantly calmed.

  “Who else would tell me wife? Who else would be sanctimonious enough? You self-righteous son of a turd!”

  Peter fairly shouted.

  “I have not told anyone. Think man, how many women have you tried to seduce in the past year?”

  Aquinas decided to join in and gave a long, low growl. Freddy eyed the dog suspiciously and calmed down slightly.

  Peter continued.

  “It’s not only how many women have you tried to seduce, but how many people know of your antics? Been boasting down the golf club lately?”

  Freddy suddenly lost steam and leant against the doorpost. Peter said, in as normal a voice as he could manage.

  “When did she leave?”

  Freddy shook his head.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been away in London for three days. When I came home this morning she was gone.”

  Peter took a wild guess.

  “And who were you in London with?”

  Freddy didn’t answer, but guilt was written all over his face. Peter had no idea why, but he felt sorry for him.

  “Where does she normally go when she leaves you?”

  “Her mother’s,” Freddy stated in a sort of strangled voice.

  “Well you know where you next stop is.”

  Freddy stood upright and turned away. Then
he turned halfway to Peter.

  “Do you want to know something funny? I couldn’t remember having sex with Kimberley, but I wasn’t sure. When she signed the contract she told me her daughter’s date of birth and that she went full term. It wasn’t me. I let you browbeat me into giving her a house and it wasn’t me.”

  “But it could have been.”

  Freddy ignored him.

  “And do you know what’s worse? The Estate Board thinks the idea of providing reasonably priced accommodation for estate workers is a wonderful idea. It’s driven a coach and horses through my budget plans and they think it’s a wonderful idea!”

  “Well maybe something good has come out of this.” Remarked Peter dryly.

  Freddy gave Peter an evil look .

  “Sod you!” He said vehemently before he turned and left.

  Peter was about to shut the door when a police car drew up and Detective Constable Diamond got out. Today she looked more like a policewoman; she was in a two-piece grey suit with shiny black shoes. But she still had the enormous handbag. She didn’t bother with any preambles.

  “We’re trying to interview Mrs. DeBere, but she says she won’t say anything to us without an independent person being present. We’ve offered her a duty solicitor, but she said she’d rather have you. Poor soul still thinks that this is all a conspiracy and that her husband is a victim rather than the culprit.”

  “When do you want to interview her?”

  “Now.”

  Peter thought for a moment.

  “What’s the hurry? She must only just have arrived home. You’ve got Cameron; why not deal with it later?”

  She looked uncomfortable.

  “Sergeant Frome wants to do it now.”

  There was something in her manner that made Peter suspicious.

  “How long has she been home?”

  She pulled out her notebook.

  “She arrived home at nine-fifteen.”

  Peter looked at his watch.

  “But it’s only nine forty-five now.”

  She looked even more uncomfortable. Peter pressed home his attack.

  “Are you happy with this?”

  “With what sir?”

  “Interviewing the woman in indecent haste, she’s only just finished a long-haul flight.”

  She repeated tonelessly that, “Sergeant Frome wants to do it now.”

  Peter was decidedly unhappy.

  “Please, can I have the phone number and name of you inspector?”

  She went on the defensive.

  “I don’t think that is necessary sir. We only want to ask her a few questions.”

  Peter held out his hand.

  “Name and number.”

  “Detective Inspector Hamilton. He’s currently at the local police station.”

  Peter went into his study and phoned the station; after a bit of toing and froing, Peter got put through to the Inspector. He rapidly explained his position and his unhappiness. He finished by saying that it would seem to him that there is some undue haste here and in the interests of human compassion Mrs. De Bere should be allowed time to sleep and not be subjected to a questioning session now.

  The Inspector half-heartedly tried to close ranks.

  “Sergeant Frome is only doing what he thinks is best.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  “There is probably some merit in what he is doing.”

  “Will you put that in writing?”

  There was some silence at the other end. Then the Inspector clucked his tongue.

  “Let me talk to my sergeant, we may want to reconsider the matter.”

  Peter went outside and offered Constable Diamond a cup of tea. She said that she doubted she would be here long enough to drink it. She had a call on the car radio a few seconds later. She took it and then came over to Peter.

  “We’ve decided to interview Mrs. De Bere on Monday at ten o’ clock. Can you please be at her house then?”

  Peter nodded and she went back into the car. When she had finished the call she came over to Peter and gave him her card with the time and date on the back. She looked him in the eye.

  “He’s not a bad policeman. He doesn’t try and fit people up. He just likes to get one job wrapped up before he moves on to the next.”

  Peter said.

  “What’s your next job?”

  “Forgery. Someone has been flooding the market with counterfeit €500 notes.”

  Although Friday was normally his day off, Peter had decided to work. He still had to catch up on his work from his extra days off with Jo and anyway he had the postponed special council meeting in the evening. T his was always the problem with taking Friday as his day off as Friday evenings seemed to be the universally best time for meetings. He spent the rest of the morning working on his administration and then drove over to Margaret and Sid’s house. As Jo had threatened they had invited him to lunch and he could not really refuse. When he pulled up outside Peter realized that he was nervous; he felt like a schoolboy entering the headmaster’s study. ‘This is stupid,’ he told himself, ‘you’re a grown man and they are not her parents’; but it made no difference. However, once inside Margaret and Sid soon put him at ease. Sid was obviously pleased that he and Jo were getting married and Margaret was already making plans for the wedding; Peter only hoped that Jo agreed with them. It wasn’t long before Margaret put the meal on the table, and asked Peter to say grace. He obliged and they all tucked in. Peter, really for want of something to say, indicated a picture on top of the television.

  “Is that a picture of Jo when she was young?”

  He instantly realized from Sid’s expression that he had put his foot in it. Margaret stopped eating for a moment.

  “No, that’s Rosie our daughter, she died when she was eight.”

  “Sorry” said Peter, “I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.”

  “That’s all right”, replied Margaret, “There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.”

  After a few moments of silence she continued eating and talking.

  “Sid and I married thirty years ago, like all couples we assumed that we would have children; I hoped for four children, preferably two boys and two girls. I fell pregnant five years after we we’re married, right on time as far as our plans were concerned. But the birth was difficult. My heart stopped during the birth and they had to perform an emergency caesarean, thank goodness that Sid had insisted I had the baby in hospital. Rosie was fine, but I was in hospital for three months. My caesarean wound would not heal and it became infected, I was really very ill; the chaplain there gave me the last rites twice. Eva, that’s my sister in law, had had Joanne two days earlier and she volunteered to look after Rosie while I recovered. Rosie lived at the farm for the first five months of her life and then I was well enough to look after her. I know that Sid and Bert, that’s Joanne’s dad, were twins, but the likeness between Rosie and Joanne was uncanny. When they were together they could have been twins, except that Joanne seemed to get every illness going while Rosie was always healthy. I used to send Rosie round to play with Joanne when she was ill, but she never caught anything. Then when Rosie was eight she caught Meningitis and died. On the Monday she had a temperature; I thought it was ‘flu. Tuesday morning we called the doctor and he rushed her to hospital. She did not have a rash then, but he was worried about Meningitis, especially as there had been a case in the next village. Despite his early diagnosis, and the efforts of the hospital she died on Friday.”

  Margaret paused. Sid went to say something, but Margaret held up her hand.

  “I couldn’t bear to see Joanne, her every movement, her every look tore my heart apart. In the end I closed my heart. I never went to the farm; Joanne’s family never came here. I shut down my emotions. I could watch a weepy movie and not cry, see starving children on the news and not be moved. I was still in my thirties so I went back to my work with the police; there my emotional neutrality was considered an asset. On s
everal of my appraisements I was commended for being able to not to become emotionally involved. I didn’t even cry when Bert committed suicide”

  Margaret offered Peter some more vegetables.

  “But policing is hard work and I decided to retire at fifty. By then I was mainly working in the station, but the day before I was due to retire I was asked to do an early shift at Felburgh as the normal staff were away on a course together. Early shifts at Felburgh are legendary; the main problem is staying awake as nothing ever happens. I was just about to go off duty at ten o’clock when I received the call to go to Bert’s farm as some bailiffs had reported some difficulty in exercising their warrant.” She paused for a moment. “Joanne’s told me that you know what happened to her, so I’m not breaking any confidences. When I arrived at the farm there was a large van parked by the farmhouse, as I pulled alongside I saw that Joanne was standing on the front bumper pounding the windscreen and shouting gibberish. What really struck me though was that she was wearing a very soiled red party dress and looked like hell. When she saw me she ran inside. I followed and the inside of the farmhouse was a mess, the front room had broken crockery all over the floor and the kitchen was a tip. There was vomit and feces on the floor, blood on the walls and the kitchen table, which had a letter skewered to it by a carving knife. By now Joanne was leaning out of an upstairs window throwing ornaments at the van and yelling nonsense, at least I thought it was nonsense until I realized that she was switching languages every two or three words. The bailiffs were totally unsympathetic and unhelpful; the only comment the head bailiff said was ‘could we get her out of the way so that we can get on with our job’. I called Joanne’s GP and he turned up with a colleague and an ambulance. Her GP was wonderful; somehow he managed to calm her down and they took her off in the ambulance. I say calm her down; he spent nearly an hour talking to her and coaxing her into the ambulance; even when they shut the ambulance doors I could hear her raving inside. I called in on the radio and told the sergeant what had happened; I will always remember his reply. He told me to inform the next of kin, and when they arrived to go off shift. It hit me then that I was the next of kin; Joanne had nobody else. The bailiffs wanted to get on with stripping the farm of what was left, but I said they couldn’t do anything as the farm was now a crime scene, and please could they go back to where they had come from. When they had gone I ‘phoned Sid and he came over. He started cleaning the farm while I went to the hospital.”