Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘Never you mind. Just things I’ve got to do.’

  The first thing he did was load up the car with boxes of plants. Dr Browne had said he could use her conservatory for his own plants as well as hers, and he intended to. The weather had been so bad lately that his plants all needed more light, and they certainly needed some warmth. Not something available at Candover House, where the seedlings struggled for survival in a dimly lit shed at the bottom of the garden. Once loaded, it proved difficult for Tarquin to get his ancient estate car going on such a wet and windy morning. It only started after he’d taken out the plugs and wire brushed them, then wiped and sprayed the plug leads with WD40. When it finally spluttered into grudging life he drove out past the chickens, still pecking about looking for something eat, and was followed up the lane for about a hundred yards by Rover who’d bitten through his leash yet again and was on the loose.

  Once on the road he felt more cheerful. Anything was better than being stuck in that dismal house with his mother and Wayne. As soon as he was in the conservatory at Silver Cottage he’d be all right. There was nothing he liked better than pricking out his seedlings. He felt almost light-headed. Pricking out was a therapeutic occupation. But before he could start on that he had the Brockett-Smythes to visit. They weren’t expecting him, but he was pretty sure they’d be pleased to see him.

  It was an inauspicious start. The major regarded Tarquin’s long hair with distrust. ‘Are you some kind of poofter?’ he asked bluntly, staring at the golden tresses.

  ‘If you mean, am I gay? The answer is it’s none of your business,’ said Tarquin firmly. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Why have you come? I don’t know you, do I?’

  ‘Not now. But once you did, very briefly. I went to school with your daughter and we have a mutual friend. Or rather we did have. Darren Evans. My name is Tarquin Girling.’

  The cultured accent helped put the major at ease, and the name Darren Evans turned the key. Tarquin Girling. Yes, he remembered now. How could he forget? But it was difficult to equate the Tarquin Girling of ten years ago with the strange-looking young man standing before him now. He let him in despite still having doubts about that long hair. In the major’s opinion it wasn’t right that a man should have better hair than a woman.

  He led the way through the spacious hall into the drawing room, which he pronounced ‘droin room’ when he let him in. The hall floor was tiled in black and white, like a large chess board, and was totally empty apart from a couple of huge, dark wooden cupboards, which were big enough to sleep in.

  The ‘droin room’ was shabby but comfortable. A large red rug, which had seen better days, covered the polished wooden floor, a selection of chairs and escritoires with spindly legs stood around the room close to the windows, and near the open fire were two large sofas, the stuffing spilling out at the ends where generations of cats and dogs had clawed them. On one sofa lay a large black and white greyhound, flat on its back with its legs in the air, ‘showing everything,’ as Mrs Girling would have said.

  ‘Move, yer bugger,’ said the major, and sat down on the sofa beside the greyhound. He indicated that Tarquin should sit on the other sofa. ‘Now what’s this about Darren Evans?’

  Tarquin came straight to the point. ‘I know you did business with him because I supplied the raw material. Now he’s gone I can carry on with it, if you still need it. But I need a store. Previously, I used Darren’s cottage, but that’s off limits now.’

  Major Brockett-Smythe was silent for a moment. He’d been worried sick since Darren’s death. How were they going to manage? Trouble was he didn’t know if he could trust this Tarquin. Would he keep his mouth shut the way Darren had always done? He made a decision. Not that he had much choice. He’d have to trust him. But he had to ask him something first.

  ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’

  Tarquin shook his head violently. ‘Of course I didn’t. Why should I? But if I did do it, I’m hardly likely to be telling you, am I.’

  That made sense. Damn silly question to ask now he thought of it. ‘S’pose not.’ The major gave a curt nod of agreement.

  ‘In fact,’ said Tarquin slowly, ‘I can’t think why anyone would want to kill Darren. He wasn’t harming anyone. I know he mainlined, but he’d been on heroin for years. Never had any problems getting or paying for the stuff. I suppose you saw to that.’

  ‘I paid him for services rendered, yes,’ the major admitted reluctantly. That had been worrying him too. Had he, inadvertently, been responsible for Darren’s death? Without his money Darren wouldn’t have been able to indulge his habit quite so freely, but on the other hand, as Darren had often told him, he’d have stolen if necessary, so his money had at least avoided that criminal activity. He leaned forward and fixed Tarquin with a stare. ‘Are you on the hard stuff as well?’ Tarquin shook his head. The major breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I can’t help wondering if Darren’s murder was something to do with that. I don’t want to be involved with big-time drug pushers. I’ve got my reputation to think of. Besides, I don’t want you to be murdered as well.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Tarquin. ‘Shall we do business?’

  The major wondered who had murdered Darren but decided there was no point in worrying. The police would find out who did it, they were paid to do that sort of thing. He put the thoughts from his mind and stood up. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got just the place you can use as a store.’

  Monday morning was busy in the surgery. It had always been busy in the London practice, and Lizzie, forlornly as it turned out, had hoped for somewhat quieter mornings in Stibbington. But the customary melee ensued with the usual type of cases presenting. A smattering of sore throats, which, according to the patients, definitely needed to be zapped with the strongest antibiotic on the market, preferably the latest one they’d just read about in the tabloid press and which, according to the media pundits, was a miracle cure. Lizzie went into the familiar routine, which she knew by heart, of explaining that such a condition was self-limiting and would go away of its own accord in time if left alone. Her words generated the standard response of incredulity as the patient sitting before her realized that she was not going to write a prescription. Lizzie guessed her popularity rating in Stibbington was plummeting by the minute as patient after patient left in disgruntled fashion without that magic piece of paper: the prescription.

  It was a snatched coffee break that morning. Stephen Walters was still off sick, which necessitated his patients being divided up between the other three.

  ‘D and V, that’s what Stephen Walters has,’ reported Tara Murphy with relish, ‘and all his kids as well.’

  ‘Where’s your pity, girl?’ asked Dick Jamieson. ‘It could be you.’

  ‘Pity is a luxury I can’t afford. And it couldn’t be me because I’m always very healthy,’ said Tara airily. ‘Never had a day off school, nor,’ she wagged a finger at him, ‘nor a day off sick since I’ve worked here.’ She slammed a filing cabinet drawer shut. ‘And if you doctors had any sense, you would doctor yourselves up before you got ill.’

  ‘Is she really as tough as she sounds?’ asked Lizzie as Tara left the office-cum-coffee room to make her way back to the front reception desk.

  ‘Tougher,’ said Dick, ‘but she’s wonderful on reception. Frightens many a malingerer away.’

  ‘Huh! She didn’t do such a good job this morning,’ grumbled Lizzie. ‘Besides the usual coughs and colds, I had a, Gran is getting on our wick and it’s time someone, eg, me the doctor, did something about it. My boss is driving me insane and I need a four-day anti-suicidal break so tell me I’m ill and give me time off. And, the best one, United are playing live on Sky TV and I need a ‘my breathing is wheezy’ certificate.’ Lizzie paused for breath.

  Dick laughed. ‘Are you happy in your work?

  Lizzie grinned. ‘Yes, don’t take any notice of me. I
just need a caffeine drip to get me going. But I must say Stibbington appears to have more than its fair share of malingerers.’

  ‘That’s because they are all trying out the new doctor,’ said Dick. He poured himself another coffee. ‘By the way, thanks for stepping in Saturday night. How did it go?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Lizzie. ‘But that reminds me. There was something I wanted to ask you. What do you know about Len Hargreaves and his daughter?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ said Dick. ‘But I’ve heard the gossip, of course.’

  ‘What sort of gossip?’

  ‘Oh the usual incest thing. Father and daughter sleeping together. Have done for years. Since she was a child, or so they say.’

  ‘I’d hardly put that in the usual category.’ Lizzie was shocked at Dick’s casual attitude. ‘Why weren’t the social services put on the case?’

  ‘Because nobody complained. The daughter never complained, and the old man certainly didn’t, not when he was getting what he wanted. Of course, he wouldn’t have been old when it started. Then he was a lusty man in mid-life.’

  ‘He still is lusty,’ said Lizzie, and told Dick of her encounter with the naked Len Hargreaves. She thought about the cowed woman she’d seen in the house. ‘What a life Peg Hargreaves must have had,’ she said slowly. ‘I still can’t understand why something wasn’t done about it years ago, when she was a child. Her life must have been ghastly.’

  Dick agreed but was more pragmatic. ‘These things have always happened. You must know that, Lizzie. Even now it happens, but there’s a limit to how much one can interfere in other people’s lives. If we did, we’d need a social worker dedicated to almost every family in the land.’

  ‘Good God, Dick. Do you think every family is dysfunctional?

  ‘Probably. In one way or another,’ said Dick, cheerfully. He looked at Lizzie’s outraged face, and said seriously, ‘We can’t put right every wrong we come across. We can only try when we’re asked to help. But, of course, if I’d known about this when Peg was a little girl, I would certainly have done something about it. But I wasn’t practising in Stibbington then, and when I arrived the pattern was set in stone.’

  Lizzie thought of Peg, alone with her depraved father in that depressing, nasty little house. The best thing that could happen for her would be for her father to die. ‘She hates him, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Of course she does,’ said Dick equably. ‘But she’ll look after him to the end, and I doubt she’ll accept much help. These old country families tend to prefer to cope with their own troubles.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m going to organize her some assistance through social services. She seemed quite keen on the idea.’

  ‘When you’ve organized the help she’ll refuse it. They like keeping themselves to themselves. I doubt that she’ll want anyone poking around that house.’

  Lizzie remembered the smell of cannabis. Perhaps Dick was right. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘Well, Dick,’ she said, ‘you might be content to let people muddle along; I prefer to get them sorted out.’

  Dick smiled benignly. ‘Perhaps you ought to do your visits on a white charger, then everyone would know you’d come to save them from themselves.’

  Lizzie snorted. ‘Laugh if you like, but I can’t help the way I am.’

  Dick was suddenly serious. ‘I know. But in a small place like this one has to tread carefully. This isn’t a shifting population; the majority of families have been in this area for hundreds of years. They’re a close lot. Keep themselves to themselves, and don’t like interference from strangers.’

  ‘Meaning me,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Meaning all of us medics,’ Dick said wryly. ‘We’re all strangers. None of us have got great-grandparents buried in the local churchyard.’

  ‘About time this place took a step into the twenty-first century,’ muttered Lizzie.

  ‘Maybe they will when it’s the twenty-second.’

  Lizzie didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. She was going to mention the cannabis but then decided against it for the time being. Dick would probably say, “So what?” Instead, she sipped her coffee and looked through the pile of notes Tara Murphy, and her assistant Sharon, had prepared for her that morning. Laptops and main terminal computers were pie in the sky as far as Tara and Sharon were concerned; Honeywell Practice still sent its doctors out with a wad of patients’ notes a mile high. The sooner the information was computerized the better, but the two girls were not the fastest workers when it came to working on the computer. However, there was nothing she could do about that other than nag occasionally, and hope that they’d all be fired with enthusiasm once they saw the new computers being demonstrated. It was as she was stuffing the notes in her bag ready for the morning visits that she remembered the motorcyclist.

  ‘Who rides motorcycles around here?’

  Peter Lee, one of the other partners came into the coffee room along with Maddy the practice nurse.

  ‘All the local lads ride bikes,’ Maddy told Lizzie. ‘The casualty officer at Stibbington Infirmary would much rather they didn’t, especially in this weather. They’re always skidding on wet leaves and turning up to have knees and elbows patched up.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Peter poured himself a coffee from the filter machine and wrinkled his nose. ‘God, this stuff smells stale.’

  ‘I’ll make some more.’ Maddy emptied the dark brown liquid down the sink.

  Maddy was the same age as Lizzie’s daughter, Louise, but the difference between the two girls could not have been more stark. Louise, stick thin, pale, and glamorous, was resolutely refusing to grow up. Maddy, plump, with a ruddy complexion from riding her bike in all weathers – Lizzie doubted whether her face had ever been near a jar of moisturizer – was middle-aged long before her time. But she was uncomplicated and friendly. She grinned at Lizzie. ‘Thinking of riding a motorbike yourself, then?’

  ‘Good idea,’ piped up Dick. ‘Keep the practice costs down. That would be almost as good as a white charger.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Lizzie good-naturedly. It was impossible to stay cross with Dick for long. ‘The reason I mentioned motorbikes is because twice I’ve nearly had a head-on collision with some mad man who rides without lights.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Spud Murphy from out at East End Farm,’ said Maddy. ‘He never bothers with lights. One of these days he’ll get himself killed.’

  Notes safely in her case, Lizzie snapped it shut. ‘If I ever meet him, I shall have words to say to this Spud Murphy,’ she said. So that was that. Mystery solved. It was one of the local lads; an irresponsible youth at that. ‘See you at surgery this evening. After I’ve done my visits this morning I’m going home. Tarquin Girling is coming round to do a bit of tidying up in the garden for me. I want to make sure he does what I want and gets on with it.’ She tapped her pocket. ‘You can get me on my mobile.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Business with the major concluded to his satisfaction, Tarquin bowled happily along in his ramshackle estate car heading towards Silver Cottage.

  At the top of the High Street he pulled into a parking bay at the side of the post office. On the opposite side of the road was a small general store and newsagent. Harris News had once been a thriving shop-cum-post office, but now most of their business had been poached by the new post office with its state of the art counters, electronic queuing boards, and stainless steel rail guards, which herded customers into narrow lines like so many cattle waiting to go to the slaughter. Unlike most young people Tarquin preferred things as they used to be, and consequently gave what little business he had to Mr and Mrs Harris in their down-at-heel shop.

  He entered the shop, the doorbell clanging behind him. Mr Harris came shuffling out from the back room as fast as his chronic arthritis would allow. His progress was painful to watch. No justice in this world, thought Tarquin, watching him approach. He shouldn’t be working, but the poor old devil probably can’t
sell the business for enough money to fund a decent retirement.

  ‘Morning, young man.’ That was another thing Tarquin liked about the Harris shop. They were old-fashioned, always polite and friendly, and never hurried their customers. Unlike the girls in the new post office who always had one finger on the mouse of their computer, never looked you in the eye, and were always in a hurry. No, the Harrises never hurried anyone. Never needed to. Time was the one thing they had in plenty.

  ‘Hello, Mr Harris. I’ll have a Cornish pasty please.’

  Mr Harris nodded towards a glass case, which housed a solitary pasty. ‘I’m afraid that’s the only one we’ve got, and it’s yesterday’s. If you like you can have it for half price.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tarquin dug deep into the pocket of his jeans for some change.

  Mr Harris wrapped the pasty in a plastic bag and handed it over. ‘Did you know that the Walshes have come back?’

  Tarquin stopped looking for change. His head jerked up and he stared at Mr Harris. Another world leapt into his mind. A kaleidoscope of sights and sounds. Tennis in the summer, the sound of laughter, the sweet smell of freshly mown grass, piano music, and an overwhelming sense of happy security. A lifetime in a split second, but a world away from the present. ‘The Walshes,’ he whispered.

  Mr Harris peered at him with pale, rheumy eyes. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ he said kindly.

  ‘All of them? Have they all come back?’

  ‘No. Just Mr and Mrs Walsh. Apparently, they missed Stibbington. Of course, they’re older now like the rest of us. Not so active. They’ve bought one of those flats at Forest Court down near the quay. Luxurious they are, so I’m told, and very expensive. But then,’ he added with a hint of wistfulness, ‘the Walshes always did have plenty of money.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Niall. I’ve often wondered.’ Tarquin was hardly aware that he was speaking out loud; so many thoughts and memories were crowding in on him. He got a handful of change from his pocket and sorted out the right money, still in a dream.

  ‘Niall will be here at Christmas. He’s a solicitor now with a good practice in London, apparently, and married with a wife and son of his own. They’re going to stay for Christmas at the House on the Hard because there’s no room in the flat. I know because Mr Walsh told me so himself. He gets his paper from me. Every day he walks up the hill from the quay to our shop and gets his paper, the Telegraph, says it’s his constitutional.’ After such a long speech Mr Harris was puffed, and sucked his breath in sharply, making a faint whistling sound.