She offered Rona a plate of biscuits. ‘The reason I wanted to see you,’ she continued, reseating herself, ‘was because I came across some papers at the back of my desk. They’d been lent to me when I was compiling the College history, and must have been overlooked when I returned the rest. I thought you might find them interesting.’
She smiled, savouring the moment. ‘Forty-five years ago, Middle School held a mock election and pupils were required to write their own manifestos. One of them was by a certain James Latymer, aged thirteen.’
Rona put down her coffee cup. ‘Really? Talk about coming events casting their shadows! I remember now, he was mentioned among famous old boys in the brochure. I should have interviewed him at the time, about education in his day.’
‘Presumably you still could.’
Rona nodded. ‘Oddly enough,’ she went on, ‘my husband has been commissioned to paint his portrait. He’s working on it at the moment.’
‘Now that is a coincidence. I’d forgotten he was an artist.’
Rona didn’t recall ever having mentioned it. Had Pops? She said quickly, ‘Yes, he has quite a broad range – landscapes, still life, portraits. He also gives evening classes, and teaches at the art school one day a week.’
‘A busy schedule,’ Catherine said smilingly. As soon as she’d spoken, she’d realized her gaffe, recalling too late that it had been Tom who’d mentioned his son-in-law’s profession. ‘I must look out for his work. What’s his name again?’
‘Max Allerdyce. He designed the latest set of postage stamps, but it’s not been issued yet.’
‘Versatile, as you said! Does he give exhibitions?’
‘From time to time, yes.’
‘I’m particularly interested,’ Catherine went on diffidently, ‘because I belong to an art appreciation society. Every so often we embark on a special project, selecting an artist, past or present, and studying his life and works in depth. We visit galleries, his birthplace if relevant, and any other places connected with his painting, accompanied by an expert on that artist. Is there any chance at all we might approach your husband?’
Rona smiled, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid not, it’s just not Max’s thing. He’s been asked several times in various connections, and always turned it down.’
‘Ah well, it’s our loss. Have you actually met James Latymer?’
‘No. Max says he’s pleasant enough, for a politician!’
‘It might be amusing to show him the manifesto, and ask if his priorities have changed.’
‘A leading question, certainly, but I can’t see him answering it!’
Catherine went to the bureau and took out several dog-eared sheets of lined paper, which she handed to Rona. The writing was a forward-sloping scrawl, and there were some succinct comments in red ink in the margin.
‘I suppose you’d need his permission to quote from it?’
‘No question.’ Rona was scanning the top sheet. ‘Apart from common courtesy, it’s his copyright.’ She flicked a glance at the sheet beneath. ‘May I take it home with me?’
‘Of course, but I’ll need it back eventually; I shall have to return it to the College with suitable apologies.’
Which, Rona thought, would involve her in another visit – unless she opted out and posted it back.
As she was leaving a few minutes later, Catherine remarked, ‘I met your sister in town. Did she tell you?’
‘She mentioned it, yes.’
‘I’d no idea you had a twin, and naturally I mistook her for you. I felt very foolish.’
‘No need to, lots of people do.’
‘Actually, as soon as I spoke to her, I began to have doubts. You’re not quite identical, are you?’
‘Not to people who know us, though if we try, we can create quite a bit of confusion!’
‘I can well believe it!’ Catherine said.
She stood at the door as Rona and the dog went down the path and got into the car, returning her wave as she drove away. Then she closed the door and returned to the sitting room, staring down at the tray of coffee cups as she thought over the visit. She’d hoped to learn, by some process of osmosis, whether or not Rona had seen her with Tom that evening, but she still couldn’t be sure. Either she hadn’t, or she was playing Catherine at her own game. And Catherine realized, despairingly, that she’d been hoping the outcome of this meeting would help her decide what to do.
There was no longer any point in denying she was deeply attracted to Tom – she still balked at the phrase ‘in love’. It had all been so totally unexpected, overwhelming her before she was even aware it was happening. In the fourteen years since Neil’s death, she’d had no interest whatever in men, gently rebuffing any venturing too close. She was financially independent, thank God – even comfortably off since her mother’s recent death – and despite having to give up teaching, the other love of her life, to nurse her during her last illness, her life was still full and interesting. She saw quite a bit of Daniel and Jenny, and despite her basic reserve, had made several friends since she’d come to Marsborough, mainly through the societies she’d joined. She did not, she told herself, need a man in her life, let alone one who was already married and whose daughters she had met.
She put her hands to her head. God, what a mess! Several times she’d decided not to see Tom again, had gone so far as to turn down one or two of his proposed meetings. What always undermined her, though, was the knowledge that he was profoundly unhappy. Was that her fault? He’d intimated that his marriage hadn’t been right for years, but she suspected it was only when the two of them so obviously enjoyed each other’s company that he’d appreciated quite how much it had deteriorated. In which case, she was at least partially responsible.
She knew, too, how much he was dreading his retirement at the end of the year, when he would be forced into his wife’s company. Catherine had a consuming, if ambivalent, desire to meet Avril Parish; she couldn’t conceive of a woman not appreciating Tom as a husband.
Tom! He filled her mind with disconcerting suddenness, bringing a sharp, painful stab of desire that literally took her breath away. She sat down abruptly, her heart hammering. That hadn’t happened before. It was over fourteen years since that particular urgency had assailed her. Holding her mind in abeyance, she forced herself to breath slowly and deeply until, gradually, the heat left her body.
No longer nearly so sure of herself, she gathered together the coffee cups and carried them through to the kitchen.
Rona, too, had found the visit vaguely unsatisfactory. It had reinforced her liking for Catherine, but left her with no inkling of the current position between her and her father. The manifesto was a find, though, she told herself more positively; surely Latymer would have no objection to her quoting from it? What politician was averse to a little extra publicity? He could even make capital out of it: ‘All my life, I’ve had political ambitions!’ No need to explain it had been a school exercise.
She garaged the car and walked back to Lightbourne Avenue, Gus trotting happily at her side. In the hall, she at once lifted the phone and dialled Max.
‘You haven’t by any chance got James Latymer there with you?’ she asked, when he answered.
‘No, I haven’t. Why?’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
‘You’ve not shown any interest before. Why now? Thinking of becoming a parliamentary candidate?’
‘Hardly. No, I’ve been to see Catherine Bishop – you know, the scrapbook woman I mentioned last night – and she produced a manifesto that he’d written for a mock election when he was thirteen.’
‘What was his platform? Save the Whales?’
‘I’ve not had time to read it, but at a guess it’s more altruistic than he’d go in for now.’
‘Such cynicism!’
‘She also wondered if her arts appreciation society could approach you.’
‘No way.’
‘That’s what I told her. But to come back to Latymer, wh
at’s the position, exactly? Is he still sitting for you?’
‘He’s done a stint and at the moment I’m working from preliminary sketches and photographs. He’s due for another session in a week or two.’
‘But I need to speak to him now, if I’m to incorporate any of it in the article. Barnie’s restive about its non-delivery as it is.’
‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Write to him at the House of Commons – or call in at the local offices. They might be able to help.’
‘OK, thanks. Speak to you tonight, then.’
She’d no sooner put down the phone than it started to ring, and she lifted it to hear Lindsey’s voice enquire, ‘All right if I pop round for lunch?’
‘As long as you take pot luck.’
‘Larder luck, you mean.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I could pick up something on the way if you like? Pizza? Fish and chips?’
‘There’s an offer I can’t refuse. Fish and chips would go down a treat.’
‘Put the plates in the oven, then. See you.’
The cool breeze had dropped, and they ate companionably at the kitchen table beside the open patio doors. A scent of herbs from the trough outside drifted tantalizingly in, overlaying the smell of chips.
‘I saw Catherine Bishop this morning,’ Rona said, shaking on more vinegar.
Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. ‘And?’
‘And nothing, really. If I’d hoped to glean anything, I was unsuccessful.’
‘Heaven knows what Pops sees in her. She’s no oil painting.’
‘I’ve told you before, she grows on you. And her face has character.’
‘It’s what that character is that worries me.’
‘I honestly can’t think there’s any malice there. She seems so pleasant and self-assured.’
‘Probably comes from always getting her own way. She was a headmistress, don’t forget.’
‘Mum looked ghastly on Sunday,’ Rona said gloomily.
‘Mum always looks ghastly nowadays. She just doesn’t seem to care.’ Lindsey speared a piece of fish angrily. ‘I’d like to take her by the shoulders and shake her, ask if she can’t see that she’s driving Pops away. Because that’s what’ll happen, whether to this Catherine woman or someone else. Damn it, he’s an attractive man, Ro; there’d be plenty of women only too ready to snap him up if he became available.’
‘Can’t you talk to her? You’ve always been closer than I have.’
‘And say what? “Take a look in the mirror”?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘And then duck! But I never get the chance to see her alone. I’m at work all week, and Pops is there at weekends.’
‘Suggest a girls’ day out one Saturday. Say you want to buy a new suit or something and would she like to go with you.’
Lindsey eyed her doubtfully. ‘Do you think it would work?’
‘It just might. Perhaps, in the glamorous surroundings of Netherby’s, it’ll strike her that what she’s wearing isn’t exactly le dernier cri.’
‘Talking of Netherby’s, guess who I met the other evening? Some people in the road had us all in for drinks, and our friend the “battered wife” was there, complete with spouse.’
‘Lord, I’d forgotten all about her,’ Rona said.
The Yarboroughs had moved into Lindsey’s cul-de-sac during the summer. Adele joined Max’s watercolour class, and on her first attendance he’d glimpsed bruising on her arms, which caused him concern. Rona and Lindsey, called upon to meet her and assess the situation, had concluded that, with the house move so recent, she’d simply banged herself while moving furniture.
‘Her husband works at Netherby’s, doesn’t he?’
‘Sales director, no less,’ Lindsey confirmed.
‘What’s he like?’
‘Seemed OK. Quite a charmer, in fact.’
‘And the fair Adele?’
‘Still fluttery and still wearing long sleeves.’
‘Could be she just prefers them,’ Rona commented, pushing her empty plate aside. ‘Max hasn’t mentioned her lately; perhaps she didn’t rejoin this term. How were they as a couple?’
‘Same as any other. Far from seeming afraid of him, she was on the clingy side.’
‘That figures.’
The sisters had not taken to Adele.
‘Anyway, they seem to be settling in, though there are still workmen’s vans there every day. God knows what they’re doing to the place.’ Lindsey glanced at her watch. ‘I must go; I promised to meet Jonathan for a coffee before going back to the office.’
‘Is he married, Linz?’
‘In the process of divorcing, actually.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. All right?’
‘It’s not just that “his wife doesn’t understand him”?’
‘God, Rona!’ Lindsey stood up angrily. ‘If I’d known I was going to face the third degree, I’d never have come! You’re worse than the parents!’
‘I just don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘That’s their line.’
‘OK, OK, sorry.’ She gave her sister a contrite hug. ‘When are we going to meet him, anyway?’
‘I don’t know – I’ll play it by ear.’
They went together up the basement stairs and Rona opened the front door. ‘Don’t forget what we said about Mum.’
‘Girls’ day out? It’ll be a barrel of laughs, all right.’
‘Please, Linz.’
‘All right, I’ll give it a try and report back.’
‘You’re a star,’ Rona said.
After she’d gone, Rona went up to the study and read through James Latymer’s manifesto. Without seeing those of the rest of his class, there was no way of making a comparison, but as far as she could judge, it made some sound points and was well put together. It would be interesting to know if it had earned him election.
Determined not to hold on to it indefinitely, as she had the scrapbooks, she made two photocopies, marking on one the passages she might, with his permission, quote in her article. Obtaining that permission was her next priority. Or one of them. Another thing she’d been putting off had been a final visit to Buckford to complete the photographic record. Better to arrange that now, while she was on a roll. She rang Chiltern Life and asked to be put through to Barnie.
‘I hear you’re expecting a US invasion,’ she greeted him.
‘We surely are,’ he returned in a drawl.
‘It’ll be lovely to have Mel and the children, won’t it?’
‘Of course, though I don’t doubt the entire house will be turned upside down, and anything approaching normal routine thrown to the winds.’
‘Worth it, though.’
‘You’ve been talking to Dinah!’
‘Come on, you old grump, you’ll love playing grandpa!’
He laughed. ‘You rumbled me! Right, what can I do for you?’
‘You’ll be glad to hear I’ve all but finished the education article, and I wondered when Andy would be available for the final fling?’
‘Hang on a minute while I check with him.’
There was a brief silence, broken by Barnie’s voice on the other line.
‘You’re in luck,’ he announced, when he came back to her. ‘He has a window free tomorrow, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Perfect. I’ll ring him direct, shall I, and make the arrangements?’
‘You do that. And once the family’s arrived, you must come round and see them.’
‘That’d be great. Love to Dinah in the meantime.’
Andy Hume was waiting outside the pub where she’d arranged to pick him up. At a little under average height he was shorter than Rona, a fact she’d always felt he resented. He stood huddled into his raincoat, its collar turned up against the thin, persistent drizzle and his precious camera well protected from the weather.
A man of few words, he simply nodded a greeting as he climbed in beside he
r. Photography was his overriding obsession, and as far as Rona knew, he’d no other interests or hobbies. Which, she felt, must be daunting for his wife.
‘Thanks for this, Andy,’ she said. ‘After all this time, it’ll be good to put the Buckford project to bed.’
‘Aye, it has dragged on a bit. What are you wanting this time?’
They’d already made one photographic foray together.
‘Well, last time we concentrated on how the town had changed over the centuries, taking shots, if you remember, from the same points as in the archive photos, to reveal a totally different view – shopping mall, police station and so on. But what struck me when I was there was how many buildings were actually unchanged, still standing where they’d always stood, and still in use. The churches are obvious examples, but some of the schools too – St Stephen’s in particular – and Market Square with its stone cross, and the Counting House, and Clement Lane, where the houses lean together and almost touch across the alley. And there are little flights of stone steps that lead from one level to another, and cobbled squares and ancient wells—’
‘Am I right in thinking we’re only here for the day?’ Andy interrupted drily, and Rona laughed.
‘The old bit’s confined into quite a small area. It won’t involve much moving around.’
‘You say you’re meeting someone for lunch?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind – the family I stayed with when I was up there. There’s a good pub nearby, which I’m sure will do you proud, and my friends know I’m on a tight schedule.’
‘OK by me,’ Andy said. ‘Let’s hope the rain lifts. These fine buildings of yours won’t look so good swathed in mist.’
‘The sky seems to be brightening,’ Rona said hopefully, but he merely grunted.
Her optimism was, however, justified, and by the time they reached Buckford, a watery sun had broken through the clouds and the wet pavements steamed gently in its heat. They parked in the multi-storey, and for the next couple of hours moved purposefully about the old town. Parts of it held strong memories for Rona, particularly the thatched almshouses and Witch’s Pond with its sinister stocks.
‘They actually ducked witches here,’ she told Andy as he angled his shot. ‘I’m glad the sun’s out; last time I came it was almost dark, and too atmospheric for comfort.’
Person or Persons Unknown Page 3