by J F Straker
He was still gazing at the car when Derek Mollison joined him. ‘Well?’ Derek asked. ‘Any luck?’
‘No.’
‘And that’s final?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Derek pondered. ‘How about hire purchase? I hump up the price and give you the extra for a deposit. Would that help?’
‘Not really. I couldn’t meet the repayments. Not without her help. I couldn’t even pay the road tax or the insurance.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘Forget it, Derek. Put on a sticker and shove it out on the forecourt.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Derek said. ‘I’ve already given a first refusal. But I’m sorry you can’t make it. I really am.’
‘So am I.’ Andrew reached into the pocket of his anorak and handed Derek a Mars bar. ‘How’s Alice?’
‘All right.’ They each took a bite. ‘I saw you come out of the post office. Was Cheryl there?’
‘No. Why?’
‘No reason,’ Mollison said. ‘I just wondered. I mean, she seldom is, is she?’
Andrew nodded. He knew Derek’s reputation as the village Lothario, and Cheryl Mason, although married and considerably older than Derek, was an attractive woman and, according to Rory Bates, not averse to ‘a bit on the side’.
‘Ed Mason seemed upset about something,’ he said.
Derek grinned. ‘That figures. What was it this time?’
‘I don’t know. But he was giving poor Mrs Barnes a right bollocking.’ Andrew crumpled the Mars bar wrapper and tossed it into a nearby bin. ‘How about coming out for a drink? Or can’t you leave the shop?’
Derek hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘We’ll go over to the Falcon,’ he said. ‘I need to have a word with George Grover about his Vauxhall. It’s got hidden defects. Hang on while I tell Joe.’ Joe Oliver was his assistant. ‘Where’s the pooch, by the way?’
‘Sick.’ The ‘pooch’ was Blondie, Elizabeth’s 3-year-old Golden Retriever bitch. It had seemed right to Elizabeth that the Lady of the Manor should have a dog, and the right sort of dog. But although in her imperious way she showed it attention, it was mainly Andrew who exercised it. ‘A bug, the vet said. She has to go easy on exercise for a few days.’
Although Compton Rye (referred to locally as ‘The Rye’) is less than a mile south of West Deering via the ride through Rye Woods, by road it is two and a half miles via Compton Morris (referred to as ‘The Morris’) to the west or over three miles via Yellham to the east. The Falcon stands in the middle of the village, in a wide clearing among the trees; a small, rectangular box of an inn, with a pleasant beer garden that is popular in the summer. Derek Mollison led the way into the one long bar and ordered pints of real ale, and entered into a discussion with the landlord about work needed on the latter’s Vauxhall. Andrew sipped beer and reflected gloomily on his future. Why was his father not like other fathers, why was it not he who had the money and not Elizabeth? Forget your silly grandiose dreams, Elizabeth had said, not once but many times, look for a job that offers security. And his father had concurred. The old hypocrite, Andrew thought. Until he found Elizabeth, what had he ever done to secure his future?
His reverie was interrupted by the sight of Bob Marston staring at him from further along the bar. It was an unfriendly stare—not surprising, Andrew reflected, under the circumstances—and, uncertain how to respond, he raised his hand in acknowledgement. Marston scowled, seemed to mutter something under his breath and turned away. Andrew was not bothered by the scowl. It was in keeping with his mood.
A man detached himself from a group of three and put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. ‘The brakes have gone soft on me, Derek,’ he said, giving Andrew a friendly nod. ‘Could you do it next week? Any day except Thursday. I’ve got a job on Thursday.’
‘Not local, I hope,’ Derek said.
The man grinned. ‘Nothing like that. Strictly Cosher. All right?’
‘I’ll have to check,’ Derek said. ‘Ring me this afternoon, eh?’
‘Will do,’ the man said.
He patted Derek’s shoulder and rejoined his friends. ‘Do you know who that is?’ Derek asked.
‘No. Who?’
‘Tony Bassett, our local burglar.’
‘Eh?’ Despite his depression, Andrew was intrigued. ‘You’re joking!’
‘Straight up. He’s done time, too. Makes no bones about it.’
Andrew looked across at the man. Short, slim and middle-aged, he wore a hacking jacket and corduroy breeches under a short mackintosh. He was talking animatedly, an amused expression on his rugged face.
‘He looks pleasant enough,’ Andrew said.
‘Oh, he is. A very popular chap is our Tony. Always the life and soul of the party. But he’s a thief and a poacher and just about anything else, criminally speaking, that doesn’t involve violence. As crooked as they come.’ Derek looked at his watch. ‘I’ll have to go.’
‘Why? What’s the rush?’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Alice?’
‘No.’ Derek’s tone was suddenly curt. ‘Are you coming or aren’t you?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll hang on here for a while.’
‘How will you get back?’
‘Walk. It’s not that far through the woods.’
Derek turned to look out of the window. ‘It’s belting down,’ he said. ‘You’ll get soaked.’
‘Who cares?’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll probably be drunk anyway.’
*
Clad in a plastic mackintosh as voluminous as a tent, with a plastic hood covering her well-coiffured head, Elizabeth hurried through the rain to the back door of Mrs Pellingford’s cottage and went into the untidy kitchen. An odd assortment of plates was stacked on the stained deal table, and she selected the two cleanest. ‘Morning, Mrs Pellingford,’ she called loudly, and bent to the cupboard to look for spoons.
She was ladling chicken and potatoes and peas on to a plate when Mrs Pellingford emerged from an adjacent room. In addition to being extremely deaf the old lady was badly crippled by arthritis and progress was slow, achieved by a painful shuffle with the aid of an aluminium walking frame.
‘What is it, then?’ she asked.
‘Chicken,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘With stuffing and bread sauce.’
‘Sausages? I don’t like sausages. I told them. I don’t like sausages, I said.’ She crept nearer to peer at the food. ‘That’s not sausages.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s chicken. And there’s raisin tart.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Pellingford managed a quarter turn and stared out at the rain. ‘Very hard. Still, I expect it’s needed.’
Elizabeth gave up. It was always like this. Rather than acknowledge her deafness Mrs Pellingford chose to guess at what was said. She would not know, of course, that mostly she guessed wrong. Unless the situation demanded it, few people bothered to correct her.
‘I expect it is,’ Elizabeth said.
She spooned custard onto the tart, collected the empty dishes and the sixty-five pence left ready on the table, bade Mrs Pellingford good-day and hurried back to the car. The rain was even heavier now, and for a few minutes she sat watching it stream down the windscreen and listening to the staccato patter on the roof and wondering, not for the first time, why she had allowed Frances Holden to cajole her into the service. Cooking meals for elderly and often invalid villagers and then driving round the district to deliver them was not really a task for someone in her position; it was a waste of her time and her talents. She had agreed to help because she had pictured herself as a sort of Lady Bountiful, graciously distributing food to the sick and the needy. But it was not like that at all. Some of the recipients were sick, but in the Welfare State none were really needy, and although the majority were grateful for the service, they paid for their meals, just as she was refunded the cost of cooking and delivering them. So it was not a charity. Nor did it enhance her standing in the community. She was merely one of a group, along with people
like Cheryl Mason and Monica Ebbutt and Ivy Bates and others, few of whom she cared to mix with socially. It was all very well for Frances Holden, with her husband a doctor, or for Dorothy Follick, whose family had lived at Yellham Grange for countless generations. They did not have to build a position in the community, it was already assured—even though the Follicks were as poor as church mice and now lived in the gamekeeper’s cottage. For herself it was different. After nearly five years she was still regarded as a newcomer. It seemed that in rural areas wealth did not buy the sort of recognition she craved. She had to work at it.
She decided to ask Frances to omit her name from the new list that would be issued in January. Meals on Wheels were not for her; in terms of recognition it was unproductive. But today she still had three more visits to make, and she turned left at Yellham and drove the three-quarters of a mile to where a track led off across a field to Rye Woods. To her relief the gate was open, and she turned onto the track and bumped slowly over the deeply rutted surface into the shelter of the trees. Here the ruts were even deeper. Then the track petered out into a narrow footpath, and she stopped the car and got out. Extracting two food containers from the hot-boxes on the back seat, she set off along the path for Claud Philipson’s cottage. The thick foliage shielded her from the weeping clouds, but heavy drops of rain plopped noisily off the trees on to the plastic hood, and she kept her head down to shield her face and to watch for the brambles that reached out to tear at her mackintosh. Although the path was little more than one hundred yards in length some of the female helpers were scared by its eerie gloom, particularly in winter, and preferred the longer but more open route that led up to the cottage from Compton Rye. But not Elizabeth. She lacked the imagination to be scared by an atmosphere.
As she came out into the clearing surrounding the cottage she was again met by the full force of the rain. The once well-stocked and carefully tended garden was now a near wilderness, with the woodland undergrowth relentlessly encroaching. She hurried up the weed-encrusted path to the front door, paused in the porch to remove her hood and shake the raindrops from her mackintosh, rapped twice on the door and went in.
Claud Philipson was in the kitchen, where he spent most of his days, watching television. He gave her a nod and bade her good-morning and returned his gaze to the screen. Elizabeth knew most of his history. A retired builder and a bachelor, he suffered from a serious heart condition but had thwarted all Doctor Holden’s efforts to get him into a home. A Compton Rye woman, a Mrs Webster, came in twice weekly to do his washing and the necessary cleaning, and his niece, Kate Marston, visited him sporadically. His refusal to leave the cottage was generally ascribed to a spirit of independence, but there were those who held a different view. In his younger and more agile days he had gained the reputation of being a woman-chaser, and although now too old for chasing he still made passes at some of his female visitors, a licence that would have been denied him in a home. The passes were easily evaded and no one complained. ‘If it gives the old boy a kick, what’s wrong with a bit of slap and tickle?’ had been Ivy Bates’s cheerful comment, and Elizabeth had recently heard it rumoured that that hussy Cheryl Mason, for one, even encouraged him. He had never made a pass at Elizabeth, for which she was thankful—even though it might be seen as a slight to her femininity. She was only 39, and considered herself to be not unattractive.
She dished out the food and put the plates ready for him on the table. Usually the money was there to be collected. Today it was not, and she said briskly, ‘Don’t let it get cold, Mr Philipson, it’s not all that hot. And may I have the sixty-five pence, please?’
‘Isn’t it there?’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
He got up slowly and produced a handful of coins from a trouser pocket. Even at 78 and despite the grey pallor of his skin, he managed to exude an atmosphere of masculine virility. His hair was still plentiful, an unruly white mop crowning his craggy face; a small goatee beard gave length to his chin. He had large, powerful-looking hands, and his lean, upright body showed none of the flabbiness of age.
He counted the money onto the table. Elizabeth tended to discourage conversation on such visits, aiming to be in and out of the house as fast as decency permitted. After all, the longer she stayed with one the longer the others would have to wait for their meals and the colder their meals would be when they got them. Yet the rumour about Cheryl Mason had intrigued as well as disgusted her, and for once she was tempted to linger.
‘You weren’t looking too good when I was here last,’ she said, gathering up the coins. ‘Feeling better, are you?’
‘Better ain’t something I’m ever likely to be,’ he said, in his deep, throaty voice. ‘For me it’s all downhill.’
‘Oh, come now, Mr Philipson! You’re just being pessimistic.’ Greatly daring, she added, ‘You must get your lady friend to cheer you up.’
‘What lady friend?’ There was a challenge in his voice.
‘Well, like—’ No, she couldn’t say it. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t got a lady friend.’
‘Maybe.’ A sly grin lit his face. ‘You offering, then?’
She managed a laugh. ‘I’m sure you can’t be that hard up.’ Lacking the nerve to probe further, she put the money in her purse and picked up the food containers. ‘Well, I must be off. It’s after one o’clock and I’ve other calls to make.’
The rain was still pelting down, and she paused in the porch to adjust her hood. But as she hurried into the woods her mind was fixed on the rumour about Cheryl Mason. Just what did she and the old man get up to together?
*
Moira Bassett stared at her brother in dismay. Water dripped from his hair to run in rivulets down his cheeks. His mackintosh had darkened with the rain. His breeches were soaked, his boots and leggings caked with mud.
‘What in Heaven’s name have you been up to, Toby?’ she exclaimed. ‘You look half drowned.’
He reached for a kitchen towel to dry his hair. ‘It’s raining,’ he said.
‘I know it’s raining. But you couldn’t have got that wet just coming back from the pub.’
He ignored that. ‘Dinner ready?’ he asked.
‘Of course it’s ready. Been ready half an hour. But you’re not sitting down like that.’
‘I wasn’t aiming to.’
He removed his mackintosh and boots and went upstairs. When he returned, changed and dry, he sat down and watched her spoon stewed cod and mashed potatoes on to his plate. It was always fish on Fridays. The Bassetts had been brought up as Catholics, although Toby had long since ceased going to Mass. Normally cheerfully garrulous, he ate now in silence, the hint of a frown puckering his brow. Moira wondered what was bothering him.
‘Nothing’s bothering me,’ he said when she asked.
‘Come off it, Toby! Like I said, you didn’t get that wet just coming back from the pub. So where’ve you been, eh?’
‘I’ve been checking the traps, haven’t I?’
‘In this weather?’ Moira hated his poaching, as she hated his other illegal pursuits. But he was her brother and she loved him, and she knew she could never change him. ‘About all you’ll have caught is a cold.’
He put down his knife and fork. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, my girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve caught me the biggest rabbit you’ve ever bloody well seen.’ He shook his head. ‘Trouble is, I’m not sure I know what to do with it.’
Chapter Two
Although Westbourne House, the Compton Rye home of the Holden family, was undeniably old, it comprised such a medley of periods and styles that it was difficult to date accurately. The roof sloped and curled in all directions, the ground floor was on varying levels so that one had to watch one’s step or mind one’s head when moving from one room to another, the upper floor sloped from front to back, the floorboards creaked and groaned underfoot, doors did not fit neatly into jambs nor windows into frames. With so many outlets for heat loss the cost of running the oil central heating system was prohibitive, an
d the Holdens used it sparingly, relying on coal or log fires on all but the coldest days. Yet they loved the house. Situated some six hundred yards west of the village on the Compton Morris road, it had considerable charm, with a delightful garden and superb views to the south and west. During the fourteen years they had lived there they had talked repeatedly of rectifying some of the faults. But it had seemed that one undertaking would inevitably lead to another, and the probable cost of the total had shocked them into doing nothing. It would have to wait, at least until after the children had finished their education.
Frances Holden was one of the most popular women in the tight little community of the four villages. Her husband Tom, and Natalie and Victor, their two children, adored her. So did Whisky and Soda, the two cairn terriers, and Smudge the cat. Hiawatha, the tortoise, was not a demonstrative animal, but if he had affection for anyone it was probably for Frances, who fed him titbits and assured his comfort during hibernation. She was unflagging in her service to the community, both individually and collectively. The sick and the bereaved could always count on her sympathy, expressed in deeds as well as in words. Inevitably she was elected to most of the village committees, although she was president or chairwoman of none, preferring to serve rather than to lead. Now in her forty-second year, she seemed possessed of almost inexhaustible energy, which perhaps helped to account for her slim, willowy figure. No one, not even her husband, described her as beautiful. Her face was too thin and too long, giving undue prominence to the chin. Her blue eyes were too pale, her ears too flat, her mouth too large; her blonde hair, worn shoulder-length, seldom managed to look tidy. But she was a happy person with a warm and charming personality, and no one had ever been heard to speak ill of her.