The Fountain

by Mary Nichols

  He chuckled. ‘You can set your mind at rest. We don’t do that anymore. The spark has gone.’

  ‘Your spark hasn’t gone. In fact, it’s well alight.’ She lifted her head to look at his face. He had small lines around the nose and mouth and a slight thickening of the jowls which betrayed his age, but the rest of him was strong and muscular; he didn’t sag anywhere. She stroked her hand across his chest, past his navel and down his inner thigh. ‘Shall we do it again?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘No, I told you, I’ve got to go. Council meetings go on and on, but not all night.’

  ‘I wish they did. I wish you could stay all night. It would be fun, really wild…’

  ‘No doubt it would, but not tonight.’ She was rousing him again, but he hadn’t got the energy or the time. He scrambled off the bed and dived for his underpants.

  ‘OK. But when?’ She was smiling up at him in her nakedness, revelling in it.

  He sat down again, bewitched. ‘I’m going to France on council business next month. Would you like to come? We’ll be staying in Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’ Her dark eyes sparkled. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yes, but we’d have to travel separately. I have to be seen as part of the official party, but we could be together once we got there, most evenings. All night. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but don’t wives go on these trips?’

  ‘Sometimes, but Barbara never wants to come. In any case, she’s got some charity meeting or other that week and, as far as she’s concerned, that takes precedence.’ She noticed the bitterness and smiled to herself. She had him just where she wanted him.

  ‘You’ll have to pay. I’m broke.’

  ‘Of course I’ll pay. But there’s one condition. You redo that design, cut out the you-know-what. I’ve backed you publicly and I don’t want to be made to look a fool.’

  ‘OK. It’s a deal.’ She twined her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘That’s one on account.’

  He laughed and kissed her back, full on the mouth. It went on some time before he broke away. ‘Now can I go?’

  ‘I’m not stopping you.’

  He put on his shirt and trousers and stuffed his tie in his pocket before slinging his jacket over one shoulder. Then he bent to kiss the top of her head. ‘Goodnight, witch.’

  It was a warm night and he didn’t bother to put his jacket on to go to his car, parked discreetly out of sight. The stars were out and a full moon cast a silvery light which was easily clear enough for Maggie, going home after an abortive search of the archives in the Gazette office, to recognise him. She almost laughed aloud. There was only one explanation for a man coming out of a block of flats in the early hours of the morning with his tie off, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his jacket over one shoulder, especially as he was walking with a swagger. The bastard! The conniving bastard!

  Barbara had set up her easel to make a start on a picture she was going to call ‘Autumn in the Garden’ and was sketching in the outline of the summer house and the trees when Isobel arrived.

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked, looking at Barbara’s paint-stained shirt.

  ‘Nothing I can’t leave. Do come in. The children are at school and George is away for the rest of the week so I thought I’d make a start on a new picture, to pass the time, you know…’ It wasn’t so much passing the time, as blocking out the knowledge that she was sure George had started another affair. Oh, she had no proof and no idea whom it could be, but she knew the signs. Bursts of insincere compliments, a pretended reluctance when he had to go out for meetings in the evenings; a woman’s perfume clinging to him; telephone calls which he stopped abruptly when she came into the hall; vagueness about where he was going in the evenings; his tetchiness when she questioned him. Of course, that could easily be the fact that he was sailing very close to the wind over the market contract, but she didn’t think so.

  She’d spent the morning at the clothing store and worked until it had never been more organised, with everything labelled and on the right shelf and the books completely up to date, but her intense activity had been noted and she didn’t want people thinking she couldn’t function without her husband and so she’d come home. Rather than get under Kate’s feet, she had gone upstairs and set up her easel, but even here there was no escape from her tumbling thoughts. George was in Paris and she was fairly sure he was not alone. It was Virginia all over again.

  She surprised herself by not caring very much. What did bother her was that it would become public knowledge, that it would hurt Alison and Nick, both growing up and old enough to understand, that the charities she served would consider her a liability rather than an asset, but most of all, that George’s sleazy business deals would all come out in the open. How could he take such risks?

  She suddenly realised that Isobel was still standing uncertainly in the hall. She smiled at her. ‘Shall we go into the drawing room? I’ll ask Kate to make us some coffee.’

  ‘Is that where you were working?’ She noticed the heavy eyes, the puffy cheeks and the liquidity in the voice, but decided not to comment.

  ‘No. I’ve got a studio where I can make as much mess as I like.’

  ‘Then why not go there? I’d like to see it.’

  Barbara went to the kitchen to speak to Kate, then led the way upstairs. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess.’

  Isobel stood looking round the studio in delighted surprise. Messy it might be but it was a kind of organised mess, and there were paintings everywhere, on the walls, stacked against them, piled on a table. ‘May I look at the pictures?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She wandered slowly round the room, picking one or two up to examine them more closely, turning her head sideways to look at those left on their sides against the wall. ‘They’re very good. I’ve seen the one of Melsham in your dining room, and the one of Alison, so I ought not to be surprised, but you really are very talented.’

  ‘It was what I was hoping to do after I left college. It fell by the wayside when I married George and we started a family.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘And please don’t say, what a waste. I’d never have made a proper living at it and I certainly don’t regret my children.’

  Kate brought in the tray and put it on a table already cluttered with pots and tubes of paint, pencils and tubs of brushes, and left them.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you?’ Barbara asked. ‘I’m always pleased to see you, but you didn’t come to look at my paintings, did you?’

  Isobel smiled. ‘You remember when the film people came and we started talking about a hydro?’

  ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t the only thing she remembered about that day, but it was something she had pushed to the back of her mind. Seeing Simon and then Jay-Jay inviting him to view the painting of Melsham marketplace had so nearly been disastrous. If Simon had taken him up on that… She stopped her errant thoughts to pay attention. ‘Pie in the sky, you called it.’

  ‘So I did, but you made me think. And when James had a slight stroke…’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. When did it happen?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago. He isn’t badly incapacitated, but he’s more doddery than ever. I suggested he should find himself a nice residential home where he can be looked after, but he won’t go while he thinks I need him.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t put off a decision any longer. I spoke to Miss Barcliffe, as you suggested. I suppose I should call her Mrs Erikson.’

  Barbara smiled. ‘I can’t get used to the idea she’s married either, but I’m sure she’d rather you called her Penny. What did she say?’

  ‘She said she would put the word around her contacts, see who might be interested. And she has a friend who’s been working for a large international company and would welcome the chance to manage a small privately run concern. She has all the right qualifications.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ She paused. ‘I
know it’s none of my business, but I thought finance was a stumbling block.’

  ‘There’s someone who’s interested in backing the scheme.’

  ‘Not George?’ she asked in alarm.

  ‘No, definitely not Mr Kennett.’ She spoke firmly. ‘Mr Barcliffe.’

  ‘Penny’s father?’

  ‘No, her brother. So, what do you think?’

  Simon. He had not married again. According to Penny, he had said he was waiting for that special woman, the one and only, to put in an appearance and until she did he would stay the carefree divorcee. She made an effort to still her wayward heart and speak levelly. ‘Isobel, it isn’t what I think that matters. If you like the idea and think it will work, then go ahead.’

  ‘I want you to be part of it.’

  ‘But I haven’t got anything to offer,’ Barbara said, taken by surprise. ‘No experience, no money…’

  ‘With Mr Barcliffe providing the finance, lack of money doesn’t matter. You’re a great organiser, Barbara, and you get on well with everyone. And it was your idea. Say you will, please.’

  ‘That’s very flattering, but I’m not really sure I’m cut out to be a businesswoman.’

  ‘I’ve asked Mrs Erikson too. She said it might be fun, an enterprise of women, except Mr Barcliffe, but he won’t be taking an active part in running it. So will you think about it?’

  Simon. How often would she have to meet him? She thought of refusing but realised how foolish that would be. It was a wonderful opportunity and the beauty of it was that it had nothing to do with George. ‘I’ll think about it, but I make no promises. It’s a big step…’

  ‘And one you’d take in your stride. Now, I must be off.’

  Barbara accompanied her to the door. ‘Thanks for coming, and thanks for asking me. I’ll let you know. Soon.’

  ‘Talk to Penny about it.’

  Barbara watched as Isobel set off down the drive to walk back to the manor. She knew what Penny would say. ‘Go for it. Show George what you’re made of.’ Could she? Dare she?

  The coming and going of the builder’s lorries, the dumping of materials and the arrival of men and equipment caused major traffic hold-ups. The shops fronting the marketplace were up in arms over loss of trade and demanding compensation and no one could find anywhere to leave their bicycles, prams and cars. ‘Before this shambles it was never difficult to park in Melsham,’ someone wrote to the Gazette. ‘Now it is becoming like every other big town, jammed with cars and nowhere to walk because the pavements are being dug up.’ There were others writing in favour, that the disruption would be worth it in the end, but tempers were running high and there had been more than one scuffle between a frustrated motorist and the workers who operated the stop-go boards to halt the traffic and allow lorries onto the site.

  Colin, whose temper had never been less than volatile, lost it completely when a large truck containing hard core, which he had been directing, became wedged in a tight turn and a long queue of cars built up, stretching right round the market and out onto the Norwich Road. The town came to a standstill. One of the motorists kept his hand on his horn and yelled at him, ‘Get that damned monster off the road and let people get on.’

  It was more than Colin could stomach. He strode over to the car, yanked open the door and dragged the driver from his seat. ‘You smarmy bastard!’ he yelled. ‘Sitting there doing bugger all while the rest of us work. You think honking that horn will make me jump, do you?’ He had the man by his shirt collar and was forcing him back against his car. ‘I don’t jump for no one.’

  ‘Get off, you great lout!’ the man shouted, trying to struggle out of his grasp. Other people came to his aid and tried to pull Colin off. That was too much for Colin’s workmates who waded in to help. There was a full-blown skirmish going on by the time the police arrived, simultaneously with Maggie Doughty. Order was restored, the lorry driver got his vehicle off the road and onto the market and the traffic jam was cleared.

  Maggie Doughty didn’t think the fracas on the market would merit more than a couple of inches on the inside pages, until she discovered the name of one of the protagonists was Colin Younger. Could she make anything of that? She stood, tapping her pencil against her pad, watching Colin go back to his work. Did he know George Kennett was screwing his daughter?

  ‘Mr Younger?’

  Colin turned to see who had spoken. He didn’t know the woman. She had short boyish hair, dark eyes with a lot of depth and a ready smile with no depth at all. She was wearing a shirt with a man’s tie, an ankle-length black skirt and a bucket hat pulled right down to her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m Maggie Doughty. Melsham Gazette. Can I have a word with you?’

  ‘What sort of word?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Not here. Later, after you finish. I’m doing a piece on the market. History of it, how things have changed over the years. I’m going to talk to all sorts of people, your boss and the mayor, the people who live and work on the market. So, how about an interview?’

  ‘OK. I usually stop off at the Fen Tiger for a pint on the way home. That do?’

  The pub was a small one tucked away on a back street. It was dismal and grubby. She bought him a beer and watched him as he drank half of it straight down. Then he put the glass on the stained table and smiled. ‘Fire away.’

  She began by asking him several innocuous questions. How old was he? How long had he lived in Melsham? Had he always been in the building trade? How long had he been working for Melsham Construction?

  ‘A few months,’ he said in answer to that. ‘But if you want to know about the firm, you’ll have to ask Mr Browning.’

  She smiled and bought him a second pint. ‘I will. He used to work for Kennett’s, before he left to start up on his own, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did Mr Kennett say about that?’

  ‘Not a lot. What could he say?’

  ‘They didn’t fall out over it, then? His one-time employee going off and getting the market contract? I should have expected him to be spitting feathers.’

  ‘Not so you’d notice. Fact is, they’re still as thick as thieves.’

  ‘And it takes one to know one,’ she said softly.

  ‘Hey, that’s below the belt. I’m not staying here to be insulted.’ He stood up, angry that he had been duped.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Younger. I’m not interested in that. I won’t mention it, I promise. I think we can help each other. I’d make it worth your while.’

  He noticed her sly smile and resumed his seat. ‘You want to dig the dirt on Kennett, that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s my civic duty.’

  He laughed. ‘Pull the other one.’

  She ignored the jibe. ‘Who’s financing Melsham Construction? I wouldn’t have thought Mr Browning would have saved enough from a manager’s pay.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know, do I? But I did see Mr Browning and Mr Kennett together at Newmarket races the other day.’ He’d sneaked a day off work and gone to the races, only to see Browning there, talking to Kennett. ‘I thought it was funny, considering I’d heard Kennett was none too pleased with Mr Browning for doing the dirty on him.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything. Can you find out more?’

  ‘What’s in it for me? I could lose my job.’

  ‘Not if you use your head. Ask your daughter. Her name’s Zita, isn’t it? She must know what’s going on.’

  ‘Zita?’ He looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes. She won the fountain competition, didn’t she?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Wasn’t it Mr Kennett got her the prize?’

  ‘It was a committee decision.’

  ‘Committees are made up of individuals, Mr Younger, and each has his or her own hidden agenda. It’s all about persuasion and power. I think your daughter knows that.’

  ‘What are you accusing her of?’

&n
bsp; ‘Nothing, Mr Younger. But you’ve heard the old saying: it isn’t what you know but who you know…’

  He chuckled. ‘Clever old Zita! But I can’t ask her, not this week, she’s in France on holiday. She won’t be back until the weekend.’

  ‘No hurry, Mr Younger. Next week will do. I’ll give you a hundred pounds for the name of Mr Browning’s backer.’

  ‘You think it’s George Kennett, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘If you’re right, it’s worth more than a hundred pounds.’

  ‘I’ll have to get my editor’s agreement. But it’s possible. Depends what you come up with.’

  ‘If this is true,’ Toby Greenbank said after reading her notes in his office, ‘it’s dynamite.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  Toby Greenbank was a cautious man: the paper couldn’t afford thousands in libel payments. ‘I dunno. Kennett’s done a lot for the town. He’d be chucked off the council, and in his mayoral year too. There’d be one helluva rumpus. It could ruin him.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Are you quite sure this isn’t a personal vendetta, Maggie?’

  ‘No, it’s in the public interest. We’re talking corruption and taxpayers’ money.’

  ‘If George Kennett is involved with Melsham Construction, he should have declared an interest. Have you checked if he did?’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘What about Companies House?’

  ‘Kennett isn’t listed as a director.’

  ‘So, you’ve only got Younger’s word for it and he’s an ex-con. You’d need to prove Kennett benefited financially and that he deliberately concealed this from the council.’

  ‘Younger said Kennett and Browning were still as thick as thieves.’

  He smiled. ‘Maggie, it’s all very well to have suspicions, quite another to prove them.’

  ‘Supposing I get proof?’

  ‘Then we publish, but we get the lawyers to double-check. Without their say-so we don’t print a word, otherwise Kennett will take us to the cleaners. He’s no fool, he’ll have covered his tracks pretty thoroughly.’

  ‘He must have made a mistake somewhere.’ She was adamant. ‘He must have.’