OK. I was sitting up. What about the next move? Standing up?
No, nothing seemed to be broken. I could walk. Run? Come on: all that adrenaline pumping through the old veins was supposed to aid fight or flight. It might permit an ungainly jog.
Was I aiming to prevent a disaster? Even if I could have taken wing, it might have been too late. Would have been.
Then I realised I could hear no screams. Perhaps he’d dropped speed enough not to be lethal. All the same, a couple of mums might have noted the make. I hoped so. Because – and I hang my head to admit it – I couldn’t recall a single thing.
Of course I could, I told myself as I puffed onwards. It was big. A people carrier? It could have been one of those frog-eyed Italian jobs. No. It was even uglier than that. A ubiquitous white van? They always bullied their way around. One with bull bars? It was 4x4s that needed bull bars, to fend off the herds of wild cattle rampaging through our lanes – or not. So was it a 4x4 that had driven at me?
The thought processes were as tedious as that. I’d been run down – yes, it had been driven straight at me – by a damned great 4x4. A metallic blue one. And only slowly did it dawn on me that it could have been the one that I’d seen Corbishley leaning up against, affable as you like, for all he’d huffed and puffed about the driver afterwards.
Suddenly my bumble to the school picked up pace. If I’d wanted information before, now I’d get it or die.
It was only as I gazed at the world through a forest of legs that I realised that there is only so much that mind can achieve over matter. It was as if my matter gave out when it was clear no kids had been involved. My legs had folded all on their own, the rest following. Now, over my head anxious Mummerset voices were talking about the relative merits of first aiders and ambulances. One of the schoolteachers had training, it seemed, and she was getting the first aid box right now. Others opined that a dressing on that poor head was all well and good but what if I had concussion?
A sharp new voice – also female – broke through the whispers. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way, Mrs Welford. It’s DI Lawton here. Can you hear me? No, don’t try to move.’
‘I’m fine,’ I insisted. But my voice let me down. And I realised I was perilously close to tears.
For some reason A and E at Taunton was deserted – they almost welcomed someone to fuss over. Truth to tell, I almost welcomed being fussed over. Especially when every last test proved negative, and the cut that had produced a quite disproportionate amount of blood proved to be so far up my forehead that my hair would certainly cover it and any subsequent scar.
The bonus was that I suddenly had an interested police ear. Not DI Lawton. She was well above such mundane things. But an obliging girl, PC Bernie Downs, who asked careful questions and didn’t mind waiting while I sorted out sensible answers. I didn’t actually implicate Corbishley in the incident, except to say he’d been talking with the driver of a similar 4x4 only a few minutes before. Let the police talk to him: just at the moment I couldn’t. There was talk of keeping me in, for what they tactfully called ‘observation’, for heaven’s sake.
‘You mean you want to watch the bruises coming out!’
‘And one or two other things.’
‘No can do. I’ve got … there’s a short service at church – I have to—’ Aware that my incoherence wasn’t doing my cause any good, I shut up.
But it was no good. Despite my fretting – what would people think if I missed an evensong dedicated to Tim? – the medics took ages to find painkillers and the paperwork to set me free, and it was only when I threatened to discharge myself that they shifted up a gear.
The police girl, kind and solicitous as if I were her mother, offered me a lift but I took a taxi, wanting to be as unobtrusive as possible, a vain hope, of course, given the efficiency of the village jungle drums. There was already a little bunch of flowers where I’d been hit and a couple by the back door of the White Hart. Weird. I thought people only left them when there’d been a fatality. As soon as I’d paid the driver, I forced my clanging head groundwards to have a look at the one on the verge. It was either that or bend the knees and pick it up, not a serious possibility at the moment. I wished I hadn’t bothered. RIP, indeed. Anonymous, of course. I got the message. To be fair, those by the door were altogether nicer, and signed, to boot. It seemed I did have some well-wishers in the village. I just hoped someone remembered to tell Andy why I’d skipped his and the bishop’s gig. Meanwhile, I phoned PC Downs to tell her about the wreath. I had to leave a message, but I hoped for the best.
‘If you really want instant dismissal, without references, you make a fuss,’ I told an anguished-looking Robin when he started to flap. ‘Just get on with your work and leave me to do my best. I’ve got both Lucy and Lorna to help out. For God’s sake, if you have me at death’s door, you’ll put them into a panic, too.’
Robin at last seemed to understand and let himself out of my flat. But the look he shot over his shoulder was distinctly old-fashioned. ‘It’s no use pretending nothing happened, not in a village,’ he said.
‘Just play it down,’ I said. ‘Stupid grockle clocks elderly licensee. That sort of thing.’
‘As opposed to – hang on, Josie, you think this is connected to the St Jude’s fire, don’t you?’
I jabbed with a minatory digit, which was turning into an aubergine. ‘Not one word to anyone but me and you’re out. Tonight!’
‘Not if you’re expecting Pix to tackle the turkey Marsala – you know he always overcooks it.’ He returned fully to the room, and squatted beside me. ‘You’ll tell Nick?’
‘I suppose.’ This was what it must be like to be old. Taking orders – for your own good – from kids.
‘No suppose about it. It’s better to tell him than leave him to work it out.’
‘OK. On one condition. You go and get that RIP wreath and shove it – put some gloves on first, mind – shove it in the shed. I don’t know what they can and can’t get DNA off these days. Besides which, it’s untidy, littering the place up like that.’
‘So you will tell the police?’ Robin insisted.
‘Already have.’
‘And Nick?’
We exchanged old-fashioned looks, well tempered with affection that was certainly genuine on my part, and he slipped out.
Nick. Yes, Nick. As I struggled into the shower and thence into some clothes that didn’t demand I wriggle to get into them, I gave him some thought.
Why had he looked smug yesterday? I’d never got a chance to ask him. I probably wouldn’t this evening, not unless bell-ringing practice was cancelled as a mark of respect. And then it’d be him doing the interrogation, wouldn’t it?
Hell: more and more bruises were coming out. I did my best, with several layers of foundation and a magic pen designed to cover blemishes, but it wasn’t a very good best. Earrings? My lobes winced at the thought, though not as much as my fingers at the prospect of rings. And there was no way I could crush my hand through my favourite bangle. OK. I’d have to admit it. I’d been in a road accident. But as far as my clients were concerned, that was it. Full stop.
Shoes. Oh, my God.
What I really wanted to do was sink in front of the TV news with a glass of wine and baked beans on toast, but that wasn’t how it worked in – what was it Andy had called it? – the hospitality trade.
The news! I ought to catch the news for the latest take on St Jude’s. But all I was in time for was a weather man so miserable he made Nick look positively joyous telling me it might be fine tomorrow.
Shrugging metaphorically – my shoulders weren’t up to the literal kind – I put on a smart front-of-house smile and went down to do my job. Lucy Gay had laid up, and would currently be feeding all her brothers and sisters and supervising their homework. Only when they were settled to her satisfaction would she come down in the rather chic waiter’s outfit we’d picked out and do her stuff. She was a draw: the older clients cooed over her devotion t
o the kids, the younger men chatting her up for all they were worth. She flirted and chatted, but as soon as the rush was over would disappear once more, this time into the bar to tackle homework while pulling desultory halves of cider for the locals. In fact, I often decreed the rush was over long before it was, to make sure she got decent grades, because if ever a girl was destined for better things than waitressing it was Lucy. My assistant manager? She’d end up running the Ritz, if I had anything to do with it.
I’d got as far as the reception desk when Nick surged in, steaming with fury.
‘At my age!’ he fulminated, slamming his open hands on the wood. ‘With my experience! And I fall for the oldest trick in the book!’
He was too taken up with his problem to notice any damage to me, and I was happy to keep it that way. Asking a few more questions might help. ‘Which is?’
‘I’m on my way back to the kids’ evensong when some bloke shunts me, and when I get out to investigate, his mate jumps in and nicks my briefcase. And my laptop.’
‘But not the Honda itself?’ I pursued.
‘I might be cabbage-looking but I’m not that green. I took my key with me.’
‘And this is in Taunton? Hardly a hotbed of urban crime!’
‘Which is why I fell for it, I suppose.’
‘What about the Honda?’
‘Hardly a scar. Expertly done. Shit!’ He slammed his hand on the desk again and let off a stream of invective.
Mindful of my customers’ sensibilities, I interrupted. ‘Much in the briefcase?’
‘Hardly anything. Don’t know why I bothered to take it in.’
‘You were flourishing it like a flag last night.’
‘Only because I’d got a list of chicken processing plants to check out. Hell, they’ll have gone. But I’ve still got them on file on my work computer, so not to worry.’
‘Except someone knows you’re interested in chicken processing plants.’
‘Which I’m entitled to be, given my job.’
So why the anxiety? Well, Nick would even be anxious if he won the Lottery on roll-over night.
‘Bell-ringing tonight?’ I used a doubtful inflection.
‘Hardly.’
‘Quite. So why not go and have a shower and then come down here and get some food inside you: it looks like a quiet evening, and I can really recommend the herb-roasted chicken.’
His smile flickered. ‘Your special roast potatoes?’
‘Is there any other sort?’
‘The other thing,’ Nick said, as if there hadn’t been a half-hour gap between his last words and these, ‘is that I’ve got to go up to Heathrow. I shall be on the road about five and I’ll get breakfast en route.’
‘Heathrow? That’s hardly your patch, is it?’
‘Everyone’s patch for the next few days. All five of us FSA inspectors, plus Customs and Excise and Trading Standards. There’s going to be a purge on people bringing in bush meat.’
I pondered. ‘That’s dried wild animals from Africa, right? Totally illegal?’
‘But on sale all over London. And wherever there’s a large African community. A real health risk, not just to humans but to animals, too. We absolutely don’t want it getting into the food chain. So I may be spending time in Bristol, Cardiff and even dear old Brum.’ He grew almost animated. ‘A purge worthy of Stalin, that’s what we’re having. And it’s a three-line whip. All leave cancelled,’ he concluded, slumping as if there were no chicken in prospect.
‘So how long will you be away?’
‘So that you can let my room, and offer my favourite table to someone else!’
‘Of course.’
We exchanged companionable grins. ‘As long as it takes, I suppose. Probably till Sunday. There’s talk of it for the following weekend, too, in the hope we’ve lulled them into thinking it was all over.’
‘Any idea why your lords and masters should want to have their purge now?’
‘None.’ He looked me straight in the eye. ‘Which worries me.’
I nodded soberly. As I made my way to the next table, I pressed his shoulder. Goodness knew why: part of our tacit deal was that we never got remotely physical. But this was a matey gesture, not a mating one, and I was sure he wouldn’t take it the wrong way.
He tended not to have a dessert, but once I’d cleared his main course, I returned to his table. ‘I can recommend the baked apples. Stuffed with the last of our homemade mincemeat.’
‘With thick, gooey yellow custard? With a skin?’
Finger on lips, I whispered, ‘It’s supposed to be proper organic egg custard here!’
His mouth drooped. ‘Oh. Not Bird’s?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Lucy Gay had joined the lads in the kitchen, and smiled when I came in with the private order. ‘Looking so much better, isn’t he?’ she asked, proprietorially. She and her siblings regarded him tolerantly as a sort of uncle. He didn’t go much for horseplay, but was great when it came to mending things, and he read aloud – Lucy insisted on a nightly family get-together – with more drama than the whole RSC put together.
‘Much.’
‘But this church business – it’s hit him hard. I hope it won’t set him back.’
‘He was a policeman, Lucy: they get hardened to sudden death,’ Robin threw in, over his shoulder.
‘Not always. He’d got something called post-traumatic stress disorder when he first came. Made him really weird, didn’t it, Josie? This time, I know they weren’t real friends, but you could see he was upset. Poor Nick.’
‘He’ll tough it out,’ Robin said.
He would. And I would too.
The last pan washed, Robin said, ‘I suppose she needs a decent father figure – better than the last one, anyway.’
Without blinking, Pix asked, ‘What was wrong with the last one? Apart from dying and leaving a family of five orphaned?’
I counted off my fingers. ‘Alcoholic. Unemployable. Went totally to pieces when his wife died.’
‘And blew himself up preparing a bomb for the White Hart, don’t forget, Josie,’ Robin concluded. ‘They don’t talk about it much in the village because of Lucy.’
‘I bet they talk about it like buggery behind her back. Sorry, Josie. Can’t get the hang of this no swearing rule.’
‘So I’d noticed.’
Pix peered at me. ‘You’re going to have a real shiner tomorrow. Maybe two. What did Nick say about the accident?’
I aimed to look mildly amused and exasperated: it probably came out sheepish. ‘He – well, it didn’t come up.’
‘It bloody well should have done. I was hoping he’d offer to take a few days’ leave to keep an eye on you.’
In my heart, so was I. ‘There’s a crisis on. A national one.’
‘Not more carcinogenic food dye!’
‘Not this time. But it’s dead serious. I couldn’t ask him, and even if I did, he’d have to say no. Have to.’ Even if I pleaded, which I’d never done yet and wasn’t proposing to practise now.
As for Andy, his name never came up. So I had no one to confess to but myself that I was disappointed he hadn’t popped in to see why I’d missed the service.
It wasn’t, I reflected as I tried to find a halfway comfortable spot in bed, as if I didn’t know half a dozen potential minders. Professional minders, that is. Heavies, prepared to use muscle and – well, anything else necessary. I only had to make a phone call.
That’s what Tony would have done, would have wanted me to do now. But that sort of thing was from my past life, the one I’d so firmly put behind me.
Income apart, of course.
CHAPTER TWELVE
True to his word, the next morning Nick slipped out without disturbing anyone. I was awake, of course, having stupidly refused to take the maximum dose of the painkillers the hospital had provided. But I was too muzzy – and in much too much pain – to be able to leap out of bed, don a demure wrap, sprint down the corrido
r after him and make any selfish suggestions about his staying put to guard me. In any case, after the slowest set of stretches ever and a very leisurely shower, a cursory Internet scan showed me exactly why bush meat should be kept out of the country. Ebola fever, for instance: I wouldn’t fancy an epidemic of that. It’d make bird flu look a complete doddle.
It might even make my present state look a complete doddle.
If I hadn’t seen all the X-rays for myself, I’d have stormed back and demanded a recount: surely simple bruises couldn’t hurt this much? But I was definitely in one piece, and I knew from bitter experience the best way to deal with pain was to work through it.
To be honest, tidying Tim’s things wouldn’t have been my idea of therapy, but Andy phoned me before I’d got enough caffeine in me to pass for alert. He jumped straight in without mentioning my absence the previous night. ‘The police say they’ve finished with the rectory. They’ve not made much mess, but then, it doesn’t look as if it was very tidy to start with. And the kitchen’s a typical bachelor mess.’
‘Are we talking thorough spring-clean or a superficial Hoover?’ I might just manage the latter.
‘Just enough to make it acceptable, I should think. After all, it might just help the parents’ healing process to sort through all his belongings.’
‘And if they don’t want to?’
‘Professional house clearers, I’m afraid. The police recommended a couple of firms. But I’d hate that.’
‘Me too. So count me in if necessary. Meanwhile, I’ll make the place presentable, don’t you worry.’
At least I was now awake enough to play down the hit and run when a reporter phoned.
‘Just getting clumsy in my old age,’ I assured him. ‘And how’s that lovely little girl of yours? Sara? You know we’re having a proper play area in the spring?’
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