by Rebecca Tope
‘See you then,’ he threw back over his shoulder, as he trotted down the path from Drew’s office. Karen came to the front door of the adjacent cottage and waved, but Den didn’t see her.
‘He’s in a hurry,’ she called to Drew, as the elderly Fiat pulled away.
Drew locked the office door, and hopped over the low fence dividing his work premises from his home. ‘Maggs waits for no one,’ he said. ‘Why – did you want to talk to him?’
‘Sort of. Did he say anything about the supermarket bomb?’
‘Only that he was glad it didn’t concern him.’
‘You saw the police here, I suppose?’ She looked him in the eye, and he realised she was perturbed.
‘No.’ He frowned. ‘When?’
‘Damn it, Drew. You must have seen their car. They parked it across the gateway. They asked me a whole lot of questions, because I was there at the time of the bomb. Whether I’d seen anyone I knew.’ She chipped irritably at a fingernail, staring unseeingly at it, waiting for her husband’s response.
‘So which is the bit that bothers you?’ he asked mildly.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It felt scary, that’s all. I mean – supermarkets are a sensitive subject around here. They didn’t seem to understand that, and I didn’t want to be the one to explain it to them.’
He pulled her to him, and rubbed gently between her shoulder blades. ‘Nobody expects you to,’ he chided. ‘You’re still in a state of shock, that’s all. They should have been more careful than to come blundering in less than two days after it happened. I bet they never asked how Steph was, either.’
Karen shook her head. ‘No, they didn’t,’ she pouted.
‘Then they don’t deserve your help. Let them work it out for themselves. You’ve got enough to worry about.’
She wriggled away from him, making an exaggerated expression of anger at the blundering police.
‘Yes, I have, haven’t I,’ she agreed.
CHAPTER TWO
Three towns in the area provided venues for farmers’ markets, with Bradbourne hosting theirs every other Tuesday. Seven stallholders presented themselves this week, arriving before eight o’clock and setting up their displays. Geraldine Beech was, as always, at hand, fielding questions, complaints, disruptions and disasters. The area designated for the stalls was not ideal: Bradbourne had an old town centre with narrow streets. Its Market Hall was firmly under the control of the mainstream traders, selling picture frames, sweets, books and Taiwanese toys. No way would the ‘organic brigade’ be permitted access to those portals. They therefore clustered at the widest part of the main street, down at one end where there was a sort of square. Unfortunately the square was bordered by shops selling meat, vegetables and bread. The competition with the farmers was all too obvious, and all too full of animosity.
Lukewarm support from the Town Council had provided ‘no parking’ cones, and very little else. Once the local shopkeepers had realised this, they blithely disregarded the cones and parked their vehicles obstructively on the square. Geraldine Beech, undaunted, arranged the stalls between and beside the cars and vans, blocking them in on occasion. By the time everything was set up and the first shoppers drifting up, tempers were frayed and emotions running high.
Oswald Kelly, who kept ostriches and sold their meat, and was therefore inevitably known to all as ‘Oswald-the-ostriches’, always made a big production about his ‘tasters’. Small crumbs of warm meat were provided for would-be customers. He had to keep a heater going all morning, powered by a small generator which made a large noise. Stallholders on either side complained they couldn’t hear their own customers over the racket, and the Council inspector clearly didn’t like it either, when he did his rounds. Oswald made helpless deprecating gestures, but did nothing to reduce the nuisance. Tall and thin, a big white apron wrapped around himself, he presented a gloomy demeanour, despite the somewhat ludicrous ostrich feather that he wore in his white chef’s hat. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, from time to time. ‘I’ll soon be out of business at this rate.’ Ostrich meat sold slowly.
Maggie Withington sold bread, and did a roaring trade. There was never enough, and by ten o’clock she had usually sold out, and was impatient to pack up and go home. But she couldn’t because she was always blocked in, and to dismantle her stall and take it all home would leave a gaping hole that Geraldine would not permit. So she counted her profits, tucked it all away safely and then went off to stroll around town and get herself a cup of coffee.
Geraldine had her undoubted favourites. Karen Slocombe was one of them. Quiet but friendly, reliable and good-natured, she caused very little trouble. She was also interesting to talk to. It generally happened that the two would slope off to a side street coffee shop in the middle of the morning and spend a pleasant twenty minutes in companionable gossip.
The gossip this week was mainly about a developing romance between two other members of Geraldine’s favoured list. Peter Grafton and Sally Dabb were both married, and seemed to be complacently convinced that nobody had noticed a thing. Their stalls were side by side, and they often had to be shouted at by customers before they would disengage from their intense conversations. Peter’s fruit juices and Sally’s pickles were dependable stalwarts of the market, neither presenting any competition to other stalls – which was probably why everyone seemed to like them.
Over coffee with Karen, Geraldine chuckled tolerantly, having commented on the increasing intimacy between the two. ‘Have you ever seen Sally’s husband?’ she asked.
Karen shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He doesn’t come to any of our meetings, does he?’
Geraldine gripped her mug of coffee with a strong brown hand, and tossed her grey-blonde curls dismissively. ‘Doesn’t want to get involved. He’s an electrician; about five foot five – at least two inches shorter than Sally, with nasty thin hair and a strong Birmingham accent. When you compare him to Peter … well, who can blame her?’
Karen’s smile was queasy. ‘It just seems – well, so …’ she stuttered. ‘Blatant, I suppose.’
Geraldine patted her hand maternally. ‘When you get to my age, you learn to live and let live.’
For the hundredth time, Karen wondered exactly how old Geraldine was. It bothered her that she couldn’t find an answer to such a simple question. The woman had no children, no husband, not even any parents as far as anyone knew. She just was. Her face was weathered, but could have been a battered fifty as easily as a mobile sixty-five. And for some reason, Karen had never felt able to ask outright. It felt like a secret that Geraldine seemed anxious to preserve, which struck Karen as silly, but insurmountable.
Using a phrase like ‘when you get to my age’ was pure provocation, and Karen sighed impatiently. ‘But Sally’s got that little boy,’ she objected crossly. ‘Doesn’t she know what a risk she’s taking? It can’t possibly have a happy ending, can it?’
Geraldine shrugged. ‘Who can say? It might turn out to be best for everyone.’
Karen felt even angrier. ‘Of course it won’t. Peter’s got a perfectly nice wife. How long’s he been married – five years? It’s all wrong. So many hurt feelings.’
‘Hey, don’t get in a state about it. I’m not even sure they’ve, er, acted on it, yet, anyhow. It could just be a harmless flirtation.’ Geraldine kneaded her own neck absently. Karen watched in fascination, noting that there was scarcely any spare flesh under the woman’s chin. No ‘wattles’ as Americans called them.
The conversation turned to the price of greens and organic beef. Karen knew herself to be a heretic when it came to matters organic. She refused to pay the high prices charged by the producers of meat or milk with the magic label, unable to convince herself that they were justified. The myths surrounding meat production irritated her more and more, as she talked to local farmers and understood more of their problems. But she had learnt to keep quiet on the subject in the presence of Geraldine and most of the others. She still didn’t have enough hard
facts to sustain an argument, and was loathe to place herself in purdah on account of her opinions.
Feelings ran high when it came to chemical fertilisers, antibiotics and pesticides, and her moral credit was healthy, thanks to Drew and his natural burials. If it was possible for a funeral to be organic, then Drew’s were. Karen’s garden produce was fresh and healthy, with judicious daubs of mud on the carrots and swedes to authenticate them. When questioned, she would openly admit to an occasional dressing of commercial fertiliser, but denied ever using toxic pesticides. Nobody had yet made the connection between the presence of dead human beings just the other side of the fence and the exuberant growth of her crops. Not that there was any direct connection, Karen would have insisted – it was just a rather disconcerting thought.
There were those amongst the market stallholders who wouldn’t dream of poisoning their systems with coffee, or tea or alcohol. Karen, who had actually been known to buy the concentrated caffeine drinks designed to keep drivers awake on tedious motorways, openly rebelled at such extremes. And yet she liked these people. She respected their principles and the air of something like purity that hovered around them. Perhaps that was why she felt so uneasy about the affair between Peter and Sally being conducted right under her nose.
Back at her post for the final hour or so of the morning, she threw herself animatedly into the task of selling everything on her stall. Spring greens, early lettuce, broad beans, and radishes were the only varieties she had on offer, May being a lean month, harvest-wise. The lettuces were already starting to look tired, despite only having been pulled that morning. The cool weather should have kept them fresh for a while longer, she thought crossly, the image of the bright green and apparently eternally crisp offerings in the supermarket entering her mind unbidden.
She knew many of her customers by sight if not name. Scarcely any of them were under thirty-five and most were well over fifty. There were very few men of any age. This was largely due to it being a weekday morning, of course. It was only to be expected that ‘housewives’ would make up the great majority of shoppers. But people worked in offices in many of the buildings close at hand.
They could, if they chose, run out for ten minutes to buy some fresh local provisions, instead of calling in at the supermarket on the way home. There was cheese, meat, bread, vegetables, pickles, jams, honey and fruit juice all available. Apart from milk, this range seemed to Karen to cover everything they might need for their evening meal. And yet almost nobody would consider making the market their sole source of food for the day.
She’d raged about it to Drew and Geraldine and even poor old Den, many a time, until they were all tired of hearing her. ‘You’re doing your best to change it,’ Drew assured her. ‘But if the market’s only there once a fortnight, how can you expect people to remember? You’re asking them to change their routine, one day in fourteen. It’s against human nature, Kaz. Surely you can see that?’
The fact that she could see it only made the whole thing more frustrating.
Hilary Henderson, who sold honey and homemade jam, strolled across, as she often did, for a chat. ‘Doing OK?’ she asked.
Karen indicated her almost-bare stall. ‘Fine,’ she nodded. ‘How about you?’
‘Only one jar of last year’s honey left. I had four hundred in September. They’ll all have to wait a while now, until the next lot’s taken off.’
‘How many hives have you got now?’
‘Seven. I just got a new one.’
‘It must be a lot of work. And all that jam-making as well.’
Hilary laughed, her mouth unselfconsciously wide, despite some blackened and crooked teeth. She was a broad woman with well-developed muscles, who made no concessions to social niceties. She had wiry black hairs growing from her chin and bushy black eyebrows. Unlike Geraldine, she made no bones about the rapid approach of her sixtieth birthday. Mother of five children, wife of a farmer, she was outspoken, sociable and disconcertingly intelligent. Her small brown eyes, almost lost in a network of wrinkles, saw everything that went on. Keeping seven hives in full production was just one of her innumerable occupations.
‘No more work than you’re doing,’ she said, with her comfortable Devon tones. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a slouch, Mrs Slocombe, because I wouldn’t believe you. Look round you – Sally, Geraldine, Maggie – they all work a twelve-hour day in one way or another. ’Tis the way women are. Nothing surprising to it. Work or die, seems to me. What else is there to life?’
Karen regularly found herself wishing she knew Hilary better; that they had time for longer chats over drinks or even a meal once in a while. There was a sense of suppressed emotion about her – something hot, like rage, though tempered by a lucid intelligence and genuine friendliness. At meetings, Hilary Henderson always made passionate speeches about the obstructive Town Council and the timidity of the food producers. She had no time for regulations, shrugging off the edicts about labelling and precise weighing that she and her husband were supposed to adhere to.
Being one of Hilary’s pets was not always comfortable, but it was infinitely better than being on her blacklist. For some reason Oswald-the-ostriches was in this latter category. Hilary was constantly casting bitter and contemptuous glances his way, and losing no opportunity to ridicule him and his product. His noisy generator only fuelled her dislike, and more than once she had sabotaged it by throwing a blanket over it, or disconnecting a vital piece of its workings.
Karen gazed around at the whole untidy scene, wondering as she often did just what she was doing there. It felt, if she was honest, like a pointless exercise. She didn’t make any serious money at it; she didn’t change anybody’s habits or opinions; she liked the people well enough, but didn’t really care about them. It had meant she had to enter into an inflexible childminding arrangement with a neighbour, which she and Stephanie, if not two-year-old Timmy, found irksome at times.
But she knew she’d carry on. Telling Geraldine otherwise was too daunting a prospect. Suddenly, she caught the eye of Peter Grafton, over the ranks of bottled apple juice that hadn’t appeared to sell too well this morning. He, like her, seemed to be scanning the whole market, and Karen had the impression that although their eyes had met, he hadn’t fully registered her identity. He seemed distracted, almost afraid, in those few seconds of connection. Afterwards, Karen strained repeatedly to recapture the precise look on his face.
Because as she watched, something awful happened to Peter Grafton’s throat. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, jaunty as always. Before he could clap a frantic hand to the place, blood spurted. Some sort of stick was incomprehensibly fixed right through his neck. Nobody else had noticed. Everything continued as before, in the clatter of Oswald’s generator and the rumble of traffic. Karen screamed. Then she turned to look behind her, where the pavement was thinly occupied, with a hedge behind it, the public lavatories and a pedestrian walkway to the town’s main car park beyond that. There was nothing to see: just a slowly increasing stillness as everyone very gradually reacted to events. When she turned back again, Peter was gone, too. Karen began to think she must be in a dream.
Then the turmoil started. Not the panicked general expression of fear and confusion that there’d been after the supermarket bomb. This was acute and personal distress. And there was a word contained in it. ‘Peter!’ it howled, at the highest achievable pitch. Karen pushed around her stall towards the spot.
Sally Dabb was kneeling over Peter’s prostrate form. Shoppers and stallholders coagulated into ranks of helpless observation. Then one of them shoved forward, throwing herself down beside the bleeding victim. Sally continued to scream, but no one else seemed moved to join in. Strange how unafraid we all are, thought Karen, simultaneously noting that she was in fact very much afraid. She had been watching as Peter received some sort of bolt or arrow through his vulnerable throat. She could feel the skin of her back contracting at the thought that the same thing could at any moment happen to her.
In the street, only yards away, traffic continued to flow, albeit slowly, as the drivers understood that there was something going on. Karen was rooted where she stood, unable to think of anything constructive she might do. The aftermath of the supermarket bomb superimposed itself on her awareness, until she wasn’t sure where she was, or what was happening. At least Stephanie’s not here she thought. This wasn’t as bad as Saturday had been. She’d coped then, and she’d cope now.
Unlike at the supermarket, the police seemed to take an age to arrive. The crowd grew bigger; nobody appeared to be in charge, not even Geraldine. Sally had stopped screaming and simply sat on the ground, legs curled beneath her, holding Peter Grafton’s hand. Every few seconds she would raise her head and look round at all the faces, eyes wide.
The woman who had broken ranks and pronounced Peter’s death was Mary Thomas, Karen slowly realised, with no sense of significance. Mary Thomas was out and about a lot – asking her usual brisk questions, pushing her face into yours, as if waiting to snatch up your replies before they were half out of your mouth. She was wealthy, intelligent, highly competent and intrusive. You’d expect it to be Mary Thomas who stepped forward at a time like this.
Suddenly the whole scene began to disintegrate. An ambulance appeared, closely followed by a police car. People were moved back but asked not to disappear. With an efficiency that greatly redeemed the police force in Karen’s eyes, they collected names and addresses and eye witness statements. Nobody moved Peter’s body, and the thought suddenly came to Karen that he probably wanted to be buried in Drew’s field. At least, that’s what he would have wanted, if he’d been able to express a preference.