A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘No,’ Jill admitted, ‘though it’s only been five weeks and they’re both very busy.’

  ‘The fact remains that they don’t know exactly what we’ve done with the house and could be imagining all sorts of horrors. They – or rather Richard – might feel better once they satisfy themselves that we’ve not made any major changes – in fact, all we’ve done structurally is close off the entrance to your flat and put in the en suite.’

  ‘Then do invite them. Apart from anything else, I’d love to see them.’

  ‘Right, I’ll phone this evening.’

  ‘That was Georgia on the phone,’ Victoria said, coming into the sitting room where Richard was watching the news. ‘She’s invited us for dinner next Friday.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Richard said, his eyes still on the screen.

  ‘You could sound more enthusiastic. It’s nice of her, and it will be interesting to see what they’ve done to the house.’

  ‘Interesting is one word for it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Richard! You can’t go on avoiding them – they’re your family!’

  ‘I presume you’ve accepted?’

  ‘Yes, I have – there was nothing in the diary. We must get them a house-warming present, and your mother too.’

  He did not reply.

  The next phone call came just after midnight, as they were about to turn off the light. Victoria reached for her mobile to find Nigel on the line.

  ‘Hope you weren’t asleep.’ His voice sounded jerky, out of breath.

  ‘Nigel! Whatever is it?’

  ‘There’s been an attempted break-in at The Gallery.’

  ‘What?’ She struggled to sit upright and Richard turned enquiringly.

  ‘It’s OK – or reasonably OK; they didn’t manage to get in. The alarm went off and Beryl phoned to let me know.’ Beryl was the owner of the café, who lived above it. ‘I’m there now. There’s a crack in the glass of the door and starring round about it, but that’s all.’

  ‘It must have been that snooper,’ Victoria said.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Richard demanded, levering himself up, but she waved him to silence.

  ‘Him or one of his pals. He didn’t look the type, but he could have been – what’s the phrase? – casing the joint. As, if you remember, I suggested before.’

  ‘We must get on to the police!’

  ‘And tell them what? They won’t be interested if no one was hurt and nothing was taken, and it wouldn’t be much help to say a middle-aged man has been seen hanging around. We couldn’t even give an accurate description, and it’s probably nothing to do with him anyway.’

  Victoria conceded that he had a point. ‘Do you want me to come down?’

  ‘Lord, no,’ Nigel said, to her relief. ‘There’s nothing we can do but I thought you should know, in case you got in before me in the morning and freaked when you saw the crack.’

  ‘What could they be after, though? We don’t keep cash there overnight.’

  ‘They wouldn’t know that. Anyway, we’ll give it more thought tomorrow. See you then. ’Night.’ And he rang off.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Someone tried to break into The Gallery but it seems the alarm scared them off.’

  ‘Good God! What have you got in there, the Mona Lisa? And what was that about a snooper?’

  ‘Someone was hanging around there last week.’

  ‘Hanging around how?’

  ‘Looking in the window, pacing about on the street outside and stationing himself at a window table in the café.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound exactly criminal behaviour.’

  Victoria snuggled back under the duvet. ‘Now I probably shan’t be able to sleep,’ she said plaintively.

  ‘Well, please try,’ Richard replied, and reached up to switch off the light.

  Victoria felt round the rough edges of the crack with one finger. ‘What would you say caused this?’ she asked.

  Nigel shrugged. ‘A jemmy? Isn’t that what burglars use?’

  ‘To break glass?’

  ‘Whatever it was it didn’t work, for which we can be thankful.’

  She shivered, looking round her at the paintings lining the walls. ‘I know I dismissed it when you were worried last week, but suppose you were right? There’s been that spate of art thefts recently, especially in this area – that big heist in Crowborough last week and a couple of stately homes before that. They took some very valuable miniatures.’

  ‘But as you said before, the stuff we sell is not in that league; none of the paintings is worth more than five hundred max.’

  ‘Then why did someone try to break in?’

  ‘God knows, but there’s no point in worrying ourselves sick,’ he said philosophically. ‘If we see that bloke again we’ll make sure we get a good description of him, but it’s my bet he won’t be back. Not if he’s connected with this.’

  ‘But suppose they try again?’

  ‘We can only hope that now they know the thickness of the glass, not to mention the alarm – which presumably they thought they’d have time to dismantle – they won’t bother. Now I don’t know about you, but I could do with a good strong coffee, so let’s put the kettle on before we have any customers.’

  And, shrugging aside her worries, Victoria followed him into the room at the back of the shop.

  It was the first day back after half-term and Richard had been lunching with the governors. It was as he cut across the playground on his return that he saw the child, a sturdy little boy whose red-gold hair stood out among all the fair and brown heads. There was little doubt whose son he was. He paused for a moment, watching as the children excitedly chased each other, and was about to move on when disaster struck. From one minute to the next the red head disappeared under a heap of tangled arms and legs as the other children fell on top of him, and there was an ear-splitting scream of pain.

  He set off at a run towards them, seeing Sue Little, who was on playground duty, running from the opposite corner. Several boys began to extricate themselves, tearfully nursing grazed knees and elbows, but – Toby, was it? – was at the bottom of the pile and his injury looked more serious. White with pain, he was crying in harsh, staccato sobs, one arm bent beneath him.

  Richard knelt beside him, and, glancing up at Sue as she reached them, ordered tersely, ‘Fetch Nurse, would you, and let his mother know.’

  She hurried away and he turned to the circle of children anxiously watching. ‘Go back to your classrooms, boys, break’s almost over. Those of you with grazes can wait in Nurse’s room; she’ll be back when she’s seen to Toby.’ They obeyed in subdued silence and Toby’s sobs intensified.

  ‘Try not to move, Toby,’ Richard said quickly. ‘Your mother’s just coming. Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you right.’

  Maria and Joan Pendley, the school nurse, arrived simultaneously, Maria’s face even paler as she dropped to her knees beside her son, taking his free hand. A bell was sounding the end of lunchtime break and Sue Little, resuming her duties, began shepherding the rest of the children inside.

  Joan, meanwhile, was quietly and calmly questioning the child, whose sobs lessened slightly as he answered her. She looked up at Richard. ‘It could just be tissue damage but it might be a fracture,’ she said. ‘He’ll need to go to A&E, I’m afraid. I’ll ring for an ambulance.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ Richard said. ‘It’ll save time.’

  Maria was saying, ‘Oh, we really can’t expect—’ but he cut across her.

  ‘It’s no trouble. It’s quicker this way and it would be better if you sat with him in the back rather than driving yourself.’

  Joan nodded and turned back to her patient. ‘Now, Toby, we’ll help you to get up, but you must move very slowly and carefully so as not to hurt your arm.’

  Richard watched as the two women gently raised the child, who was again screaming with pain, and helped him to his feet.

  ‘I’ll bri
ng the car round,’ he said. ‘Oh, and Nurse, a few of the other children involved are waiting for you, some with nasty grazes that will need dressing.’

  He set off for the car park, using his mobile as he went to inform the head of his temporary absence and arranging for Ben Chambers, who he knew had a free period that afternoon, to stand in for him.

  The journey to the hospital, driving extra carefully to avoid bumps, took a good fifteen minutes, during which Richard was aware of Maria’s soft voice comforting her son, whose hiccupping sobs punctuated her words.

  It was a further ten minutes before he found a parking space in the crowded car park and was able to follow them into the building, where he took a seat in the main lobby. Glancing at his watch, he hoped he wouldn’t have too long to wait.

  London

  The plane began its descent towards Heathrow, and since the film he’d been watching was just ending, Paul Devonshire removed his headphones and glanced out of the window. So here he was, back in old England after two years in the States on a work project. It would be good to be home, but in his absence things had moved on, chief among them the shocking death of his friend Greg in a suicide bombing. One of his first actions on returning from a business trip had always been to phone him and meet for a jar to catch-up.

  It was a sobering experience when one’s contemporaries died, especially when they were longstanding friends. He and Greg had met at university and had shared digs, girlfriends and pretty much everything else during the time they were there. Later they’d been best men at each other’s weddings and, though he and Laura had long since parted, had kept in touch.

  One poignant aspect of Greg’s death was that he’d never achieved his potential. At uni he’d been an outstanding student and everyone confidently expected a double first, but he was inherently lazy and to his tutors’ frustration achieved only a third-class degree. Consequently his succession of jobs, though respectable enough, were well below his capabilities – a point exemplified by the fact that he soon became bored and moved on.

  ‘You could be a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist!’ Paul had railed at him. ‘The whole world’s your what’s-it!’ But Greg had laughed. The only times he exercised that brilliant mind was to master the game of poker, at which he was virtually unbeatable, and to write a highly regarded column in the Sunday Chronicle which he submitted under a pseudonym.

  It must be about fifteen years ago, Paul reflected, that, on one of their irregular meetings, they’d been discussing a topic of the day about which Greg held strong opinions. Since he’d been a leading light in the debating society, it was no surprise that he’d stated his case with clarity and perception and Paul had laughingly conceded the point. ‘You made me see it in a completely different light,’ he’d admitted. ‘Why don’t you write to the papers? Put like that, it might make people think.’

  ‘And bring a mass of approbation on my head from the opposition? No, thanks!’

  ‘Then use a pen name and get your point across without hassle.’

  He’d thought no more about it until a month later, when a copy of the Sunday Chronicle had come through the post, with See Page 4 scrawled in red ink on the front page. And there, under the byline Jake Farthing, Paul had read not the letter he’d half-expected but a complete, well-argued piece.

  When he’d phoned Greg to congratulate him, he’d been sworn to secrecy. ‘They want me to do a regular column,’ he’d said, ‘but they don’t know my real name and I don’t want them to, or anyone else for that matter. Then I can write what I think without having to soothe any ruffled feathers.’

  The column had swiftly acquired cult status, being variously described as astringent, perceptive and succinct, and his anonymity added to public interest. No photograph appeared at the head of the column, and the many invitations to appear on TV panels or current affairs programme were always declined. At one time a ‘Who is Jake Farthing?’ competition was launched, with readers invited to submit suggestions as to his identity, suggestions that afforded Greg and himself much amusement. On one occasion he’d even been quoted in the House of Commons on a particularly contentious issue.

  Paul was roused from his musings by the arrival of the flight attendant to collect his headphones, and switched his thoughts to more practical matters such as where he could stop on the way home to stock up with basic supplies.

  A voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.’

  Home sweet home, Paul thought, and couldn’t repress a sigh.

  Foxclere

  Richard lay awake a long time that night, reliving the drama of the afternoon. He’d been waiting twenty minutes or so before Maria came to seek him out to report that Toby had been assessed by a triage nurse. He would shortly be seen by a doctor and taken for X-ray but the initial opinion was that there was no fracture. She’d spoken quickly, obviously anxious to return to her son, but though it was clear she’d scarcely been aware of him, every fibre of his body had been concentrated on her, her green eyes distractedly looking about her, her fleeting smile.

  God, he thought, a wave of heat washing over him, what was the matter with him? This young woman, whom he’d met only twice, was a junior member of the school where he was deputy headmaster. There’d no doubt been raised eyebrows when it was learned he’d taken her and Toby to the hospital, but the fact that he’d actually been on the scene when the accident occurred would be explanation enough. Any further meeting between them – which he found to his consternation he most fervently desired – would be dangerous indeed.

  ‘I seem to spend my time thanking you for coming to my rescue!’ she’d said with a smile, briefly laying her hand on his arm.

  Enough!

  Careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, Richard turned his pillow in the hope of finding a cool patch. Then he closed his eyes and began reciting the French and German alphabets alternately until, at last, he fell asleep.

  Blaircomrie

  Beth paused in the doorway, surveying the sole occupant of the room.

  ‘Mr Stewart not down yet?’ she asked, frowning. It was unlike Johnnie to be late for meals.

  Eric Barnes shook his head. ‘I’ve not seen him this morning.’ His smile was slightly disapproving. ‘Must have been a good session last night.’ He was ruffled, Beth knew, by the fact that Johnnie went out each evening, depriving him of company.

  ‘I’d better give him a knock,’ she said, ‘or he’ll be late for work.’

  She laid a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, then ran up the stairs and knocked on Johnnie’s door. There was no reply. She knocked again; still no response.

  ‘Mr Stewart?’ she called, knowing Mr Barnes would be listening.

  Silence. Tentatively she turned the knob and pushed the door open a couple of inches, stopping in dismay when she saw the neatly made bed. Either Johnnie had gone out early – which seemed unlikely – or he’d not slept here last night.

  Her heart began a slow, muffled beat. She hadn’t heard him come in the previous evening, but then she seldom did. She thought back frantically to the last time she’d seen him, which was after dinner when she’d come out of the kitchen as he was crossing the hall en route to the front door. Catching sight of her, he’d smiled, said, ‘See you!’, and left the house. He hadn’t been carrying so much as a briefcase and there’d been no hint that he didn’t intend to return.

  She brought herself up short. She was getting ahead of herself. Of course there was a simple explanation. He must have spent the night here, got up early and made his bed, then for some reason, possibly work related, left before she was awake. But if so, why hadn’t he left a note to let her know? Surely he’d have realized she’d worry?

  She made her way slowly down the stairs.

  ‘Did you manage to wake him?’ Eric Barnes called from the front room.

  Beth hesitated, reluctant to tell him the truth but knowing it was impossible to hide. She paused in the doorway. ‘He wasn’t there,’
she said simply.

  Mr Barnes frowned. ‘Not there?’

  ‘His bed looked as if it hadn’t been slept in, but he might have gone out early for some reason.’

  ‘It must have been very early; I’ve been awake since five with toothache and I’d certainly have heard his door.’

  Beth moistened her lips. ‘Well, no doubt he’ll explain when he comes back this evening.’

  But he didn’t come back.

  FOUR

  Stonebridge, North Yorkshire

  Some hundred and twenty miles south a funeral was taking place in a small Yorkshire town. The organ was playing softly as they entered the church and David Gregory, bearing his mother’s coffin, caught his breath as a shaft of multi-coloured sunlight filtered through the windows, touching it briefly as though in blessing. He glanced at his brother, wondering if he’d noticed, but Will, concentrating on keeping time with the other pall bearers, was staring straight ahead.

  At the chancel steps they lowered the coffin on to the stand awaiting it, then, as the official bearers returned down the aisle, he and Will slipped into the front pews to join their family. Julia, standing between the twins, glanced at him briefly, her face unreadable, while in the pew in front Sylvie reached for Will’s hand and Henry and Nina, Sally’s parents and his own grandparents, stood unmoving with bowed heads.

  The service began but he only half-heard it, still unable to believe this wasn’t some terrible nightmare, that he’d wake up to find the last ten days hadn’t happened. It was all so senseless, so avoidable; if they could only turn the clock back so that Mum hadn’t taken that particular route home, and the other driver hadn’t suddenly shot out from a side turning, and … But what was the use? It had happened and they were all having to deal with it. His overriding concern at the moment was to get through the eulogy without breaking down.

  That prayer at least was answered; he delivered the words he’d rehearsed in front of the shaving mirror recalling his mother’s life and her courage in facing its challenges, starting with the death of her husband weeks before Will’s birth, the stresses of single motherhood and the gradual building up of her chiropody practice.