Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  “Eight-fifty, luv,” says George, and as Carol reaches into her purse he adds, “Any idea what the news is up at the Old Vicarage?”

  Lily experiences a wave of nausea as the young lad slaps another cut of meat onto the counter.

  “I was just coming to that,” says Carol, perhaps put out at having her thunder stolen. When she answers, it’s the younger woman she addresses. “This body they’ve found. Philip’s saying it’s him . . .”

  But Lily struggles to hear the rest. Her ears are full of the sound of Barry’s rasping blade as he hacks off a strip of thick, white fat, his knife scraping along the bone.

  “You used to work up there, didn’t you?” George asks.

  Carol is in her element. “Always said he’d come to no good, that one. He was a tyrant, you ask anyone. No place to raise a child. And the times I had to throw good food away just ’cause he decided to change his plans!”

  Lily wants to turn and leave, but it feels like her feet have taken root.

  “Of course, the police will want to talk to me again, no doubt. Not that I can tell them owt I didn’t six year ago, mind. I told them all about how it was up there, all sorts coming and going at all hours. I, for one, weren’t the least surprised when they found out he was a wrong ’un.”

  And now George notices Lily.

  “Well, here’s someone who can tell us what’s what. Ey up, Miss Bainbridge? What’s all this about a body then?”

  Everyone turns at once. Mrs. Mink pauses in the midst of negotiating her snap coin purse. The fat man wipes his nose. The daughter-in-law stares at her blankly. And Carol flushes a bright crimson.

  It isn’t George’s fault. He has spoken in innocence. Being comparatively new to the village, he knows where Lily lives but not about her personal connection to the Old Vicarage. Her connection to Gerald. But Carol knows. Her cheeks blaze like ripened tomatoes and the daughter-in-law looks down at her feet, making Lily wonder just what Carol has told her.

  Time stands still. Lily wants nothing more than to turn and leave, but if she does it gives them permission to go on, to talk about it even more. “I . . . I don’t know . . .” she manages, and it’s true, she realizes. She doesn’t know.

  I know what you did.

  The bell announces a new arrival, and the spell is broken. George’s voice cuts across the shop loudly: “Oi, soft, lad! Watch what you’re doing.” He moves along to aid Barry in a particularly tricky bit of butchery. Mrs. Mink turns back to check on the progress of her order. Carol and the daughter-in-law pick up where they left off, but in much-hushed tones.

  Lily’s feet come back to life. She turns to flee but walks straight into the newly arrived customer. She mumbles an apology and tries to get by, but the man puts a hand on her arm.

  “Miss Bainbridge, I’m glad I’ve caught you.” Reverend Thorogood squeezes her arm a little. “I wondered if you’ve decided about the Whitby trip on Saturday. Only there’s just a few places left, and I know how much everyone would love to see the two of you.”

  A breeze reaches Lily through the half-open doorway, cooling her burning cheeks. She takes a step forward . . . to fetch Edna her pills from the bag she’s left by the front door. She hurries through the passageways of the Old Vicarage, but by the time she gets back to the kitchen Edna has been joined by Carol. She hears them sniping at each other before she’s even back in the room.

  “There’s no biscuits again,” Carol is saying. “You want to have a word with that lad.”

  Edna ignores her. Lily hands over the pills, and Edna takes two of the yellow ones.

  “Don’t suppose you know if he wants me to cook this weekend?” Carol addresses Lily, just as she always does if given the chance.

  And Edna answers, just as she always does. “Mr. Cartwright’s entertaining this weekend”—emphasizing the title—“so he’ll be using the caterers. Not you.”

  Carol rolls her eyes and tuts loudly. She heads back to the kitchen and Lily laughs nervously, relieved the encounter hasn’t escalated.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Edna is always snippy after dealing with Carol.

  “Nothing.”

  She’ll want tea after taking her tablets, so Lily goes to switch the kettle on . . . and the Reverend Thorogood is shaking her and calling her name.

  “Miss Bainbridge? Lily? Can you hear me?”

  He has hold of her by both arms now and is talking loudly at her. She wishes he’d lower his voice. Everyone is looking again, she’s sure of it. She manages to push past the man and then she is out, back into the full heat of the day but free of all the stares. She hurries round the corner and into the churchyard, imagining she can hear the vicar still calling out to her, over and over. She half-closes her eyes and lets the wind carry her name away between the headstones.

  * * *

  —

  The short drive to Wentworth’s house takes them past the churchyard where yesterday Tyler first met the man tending graves. On the way there he fills Doggett in on the conversation with Edna Burnside.

  Doggett sits perfectly still for once, but as they arrive at their destination and get out of the car he says, “You were too soft, son. You should have pushed the woman.”

  “Is that what you did six years ago?” he asks. “How did that work out for you?”

  Doggett ignores him.

  Joe Wentworth answers the door in the same grubby work clothes he was wearing yesterday. Maybe he’s slept in them. Doggett explains who they are, and he lets them into the house.

  The cottage is shabby and dated; Wentworth looks perfectly at home. He shows them through to the living room, where the two detectives are forced to stand much closer to each other than either is comfortable with. The concept of minimalism has obviously passed the gardener by; every conceivable space is full. Tyler counts three sofas, two armchairs, and an assortment of mismatching dining furniture. It’s just possible to make out the shape of a sideboard running along one wall but barely, as it’s hidden beneath the cumulative parts of what must be at least three bicycles. Every surface is covered with clothing, books, empty boxes, pots and pans, bits of old machinery. The windowsill groans under the weight of myriad ceramic figurines. And in between every item of furniture, there are Babel towers of paper stretching heavenward. Newspapers and magazines, football programs, brochures, leaflets, receipts. As though Wentworth has never thrown away an item of printed material in his life. Only one chair is empty enough of clutter to be functional, and that’s soon filled with the crumpled form of Wentworth himself.

  A high-pitched yap announces the arrival of a Yorkshire terrier that careers down the steep staircase from whatever flea market the upstairs passes for, and launches itself straight at their legs. It alternates between them, unsure which poses the bigger threat. When he tires of watching their discomfort, Wentworth whistles through a gap in his teeth and the dog jumps into his lap. He strokes it into submission with an earthy hand. “Paper said you’d found a body.” He gestures to the arm of his chair, where a folded broadsheet lies open at the crossword page. “Was it him then? Cartwright?”

  Doggett gives him the “We are not at liberty” speech and begins the usual routine questions. But Tyler can already see the answers reflected in the room. Does he live alone? There’s little enough room in the house for one man and his dog, let alone anyone else. How long has he been in the village? Long enough to accumulate the collected junk of several lifetimes. Was there ever a Mrs. Wentworth? One or two of the figurines show more taste than Tyler would ascribe to the gardener, and an attempt has been made at some point to match the furnishings with the décor, though the pattern’s easy to miss among the chaos. Most tellingly, perhaps, the face of a plain middle-aged woman peers out at them from the occasional photograph, smothered by the mess but not yet completely lost.

  “Gone,” says Wentworth, following Tyler’s gaze. “Took off
a few year back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” says Doggett. He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “Can I ask why she left?”

  “You’ll have to ask her, won’t you?”

  Something about this man disquiets Tyler. What is it? Surely not just the clutter and mess?

  “Tell us about Gerald Cartwright,” says Doggett.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What was he like? Did you get on?”

  “Didn’t really know him.” The dog whimpers as Wentworth catches its fur with a blackened nail.

  “But you worked for him? At the Old Vicarage. Let’s see.” Doggett consults his notebook. “Monthly payments to a Joe Wentworth.” He looks up. “That’s you?” Doggett looks back down at his notes again, goes on without waiting for an answer. “Going back six years before his disappearance. I assume it was for gardening?”

  So their presence here is not just a whim based on Tyler’s hunch. Doggett was planning to speak to the man all along.

  Wentworth grunts what might be an acknowledgment. “Didn’t know him, though.”

  “I assume he consulted you on what he wanted. Daffodils here, pansies there. That sort of thing.” Doggett glances at Tyler and grins.

  Wentworth clears his throat. “We talked about the garden.”

  “So what was he like?”

  Wentworth is silent.

  “For example,” Doggett explains, “did he know exactly what he wanted, or was he the sort what didn’t know if he was Arthur or Martha, if you know what I mean?” Again the DI looks at Tyler.

  Wentworth’s hand begins to shake, and he reaches for his tobacco tin. The ghost of Mrs. Wentworth looks down on them disapprovingly while her husband fidgets in his chair, disturbing the dog. It whines, gets up, turns full circle, and then settles in his lap once more. He begins rolling a cigarette on its head. “I suppose he knew what he wanted. He were used to getting his own way.”

  “Is that right? What makes you say that?”

  “Just an impression. What with his job and all.”

  “Was he liked?”

  Wentworth shrugs.

  “In the village, let’s say. Was he popular?”

  The gardener finishes his preparation and shoves it between his lips without answering. He reaches out for a box of matches.

  “Did you like him, Mr. Wentworth?” The emphasis in Doggett’s voice is unmistakable.

  The matchbox rattles in the gardener’s shaky hands but as he strikes the match, the shaking stops. He touches the lit match to the end of the cigarette and takes a deep drag, transformed by the tobacco, fortified. He looks directly at Doggett for the first time, exhales a cloud of blue smoke. “Didn’t really know him,” he says, and his voice is strong and confident now.

  Doggett obviously senses the change, and any attempt at a pleasant façade drops. “When Gerald Cartwright disappeared six years ago, you were never questioned. Why was that?”

  “No one came.”

  “That’s not entirely true, though, is it? When we knocked on your door you’d gone away.”

  “Holiday.”

  “For six months?”

  “Didn’t want to be around all the fuss. Bloody reporters.”

  “Or maybe you were avoiding us? You’ve been in trouble with the police before, haven’t you?”

  Wentworth remains calm, blowing his sweet smoke in their faces. He chooses to treat the question as rhetorical. He turns the spent match in his hand, over and over.

  Doggett spells it out. “Indecent exposure.”

  “That were twenty year ago.”

  “Seems they caught you playing silly buggers in Weston Park. Nice spot for it from what I gather.” This time Doggett avoids looking at Tyler.

  “Charges were dropped,” says Wentworth.

  “No, Mr. Wentworth, you accepted a caution. That’s why we still have it on record. I take it that was about the same time Mrs. Wentworth left?”

  The match flicks from Wentworth’s hand, arches gracefully through the smoke, and disappears behind a pile of newspaper. “Don’t you lot have nothing better to do than come round here, beggarin’ about stuff what happened twenty year ago?”

  Tyler looks again at the room. Is this what he finds so disturbing? This man’s double life? Born in the wrong time, trapped in a loveless marriage, unable to be himself. As he looks at this friendless, dirty man, hidden away in his time-capsule cottage, the house and its treasure trove of bric-a-brac are transformed. It isn’t a house at all. It’s a prison. A place where he shuts himself away from a chaotic, frightening world that chooses to judge him. The dog has got it right; he and Doggett are the intruders, walking through the man’s memories, trudging across his soul. Suddenly Tyler understands his disquiet; one day this could be him.

  “DI Doggett, can I have a word?”

  Their eyes lock. Doggett turns away first but does so slowly, not a defeat so much as a tactical withdrawal. “All right, Mr. Wentworth, don’t bother getting up. We’ll see ourselves out. Just don’t go booking any long holidays, will you?”

  They begin their exit, stepping over the mess carefully and precisely. The dog hampers them by leaping from its master’s lap and yapping, their movement a signal to reengage. As they reach the hallway, Doggett raises his voice over the barking. “You want to be careful with those matches, Joe. Especially with all this paper lying around.”

  Tyler opens the front door and steps into the fresh air. He takes a deep breath, relieved to be out of the smoky atmosphere. Doggett follows, slamming the front door behind them and dulling the dog’s objections.

  “You realize,” Tyler says, “the fact he sleeps with men does not necessarily make him a pervert. Or a murderer for that matter.”

  “He was cautioned for indecent exposure; he’s hardly a pillar of the community.”

  “He had consenting sex in the park. You know as well as I do that you could go down there any night and find half a dozen men doing the same thing.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.”

  Tyler follows Doggett back to the car. “That was all for my benefit then? Is that what that was?”

  “No need to be paranoid, Sergeant.” Doggett looks back at the cottage. “No, he’s hiding something. I can feel it.”

  Tyler follows Doggett’s gaze. The yellow nets at the window are twitching. As angry as he is at the DI’s attitude, he finds himself agreeing. There is something off about the guy; he can feel it, too. Something grubby and unwholesome that went beyond the disarray of the cottage. Still, he’s not about to give Doggett the satisfaction. “Clearly the man has been hiding something his whole life, but what does that have to do with Gerald Cartwright?”

  “I’m buggered if I know,” says Doggett. “And that isn’t an invitation.”

  “You realize I can report you for shit like that?”

  “No doubt.” There’s a smile playing on Doggett’s lips as he opens the car door. “Or you could just punch my lights out.” He gets in.

  Tyler yanks open the driver’s door, gets in, and slams it behind him. He turns the key in the ignition and grinds the car into gear. “I’m trying really hard not to do that anymore. At least, not to superior officers.”

  The car speeds away from the curb, tires squealing.

  “Careful, Detective Sergeant,” says Doggett calmly. “We’re not on a bloody racetrack.”

  “Fuck you! Sir.”

  “Not on a first date, son. Not on a first date.”

  * * *

  —

  By the time Lily reaches the path that leads up to their cottage, she is panting. She crashes through the gate and then bursts through the unlocked front door. “Edna!” She hurries through the kitchen, down the two shallow steps into the dining room, and she stops. “Oh!” They have company.

 
He gets up to meet her, and her flight is forgotten as he takes her in his strong arms, crushing her against his chest. She’s like a kitten caught by the scruff of the neck; she feels herself go limp.

  “Oscar,” she says, snuggling her head under his arm. He smells of something flowery. Strange how men wear perfume nowadays. He has his own smell, too, one she could never mistake. A clean, wholesome scent that reminds her of when he was a baby.

  “Hi, Aunt Lil.”

  And just like that all the alarm she was feeling is gone. She forgets how tall he’s grown. Handsome, too. The years he’s been away at school have transformed him into a man.

  “What the devil is the matter with you, Lillian?” Edna asks, and Oscar begins to pull away. She clutches him to her a moment longer. Everything is different now Oscar’s here.

  “Well?” says Edna, spoiling things as usual.

  “It doesn’t matter,” says Lily, finally allowing Oscar to let go.

  “It doesn’t matter? You came through the kitchen like you had Old Nick up your nightdress.” Oscar laughs, so Lily does, too. “It’s a wonder you didn’t hurt yourself.” Edna’s added that last attempt at sentiment in order to turn her stinging rebuke into something more considerate. Edna’s always at her best when Oscar is present. She supposes they both are.

  “Well, since you’re here now, you can sort the tea. The kettle’s just boiled.”

  Oscar offers to do the honors, but Edna pulls him back and catches Lily’s eye.

  “It’s fine,” Lily says. “I can manage.” She turns back to the kitchen and hears them whispering to each other before she’s fully out of the room. She pretends not to notice.

  She’s calmer now she’s home. After so many years here, the world seems distant, unable to touch her. As she busies herself with a tray of cups and saucers and tea plates, she thinks of the women at the butcher’s. It was only natural. People like to gossip, don’t they? She should know that better than anyone. They must think her mad, running out like that. She’s not even sure why she did it.