by MARY HOCKING
‘For good.’
‘Daniel? Coming home for good?’ Mrs. Prentice sat back in her chair. Dorothy, thinking she was contemplating some tart comment, looked in amusement at her mother and was surprised at something she had not seen for a long time in the old, faded face. Mrs. Prentice was unenthusiastic about the present and not disposed to romance about the past, and as she maintained that she had no stake in the future, life was rather dreary for her. But now Dorothy saw a gleam of anticipation in her mother’s eyes which was neither ironic nor entirely malicious.
Chapter Two
The trees were shedding their leaves now. Harry Clare could see the remnants of birds’ nests like black bobbles in a tracery of lace. The holly berries were already under attack by the birds, although at present there was plenty of other food and no reason for them to raid their winter store in this way: so much for the idea that they had a built-in intelligence system! His wife had been obsessed about birds; during the last months of her illness she had asked him to fill the bird-bath several times a day. Poor Olwen! Harry thought about her as he walked slowly through the cathedral precincts. The memory did not arouse any grief; she had been poor Olwen for so long that he could not remember a time when she had had a personality as distinct from a sickness. Lately, when he was reminded of Olwen, the only thought that came into his mind was that it would soon be two years since her death and he was now free to marry again. A pleasant thought. His housekeeper did her best, but there were comforts she could not be expected to supply.
Unfortunately, there were few places in the town which were conducive to thought of any kind, pleasant or otherwise. Once Harry left the cathedral precincts behind he came into Eastgate which was jammed with cars, nose to bumper, all the way to the market cross. Petrol fumes hung heavy in the air and a continuous roaring in his ears told him that elsewhere in the town the traffic was still on the move. Harry looked at the familiar scene in wry amusement. He had lived in Yeominster all his life and did not like to see the vitality being crushed out of the little town. A pity about the invention of the motor vehicle. But it was here to stay, and one could either cry about it or laugh about it. Harry had long ago decided that, as with so many other things in life, laughing was the best policy. He looked at his watch. It was five to three. He was late returning to his office, but his clients’ tax affairs would not suffer if the senior partner was absent for another ten minutes. He decided to do a detour and turned down a side-street into one of the oldest parts of the town where the streets were narrow and cobbled. But there was no escape. A heavy lorry was stuck half-way down St. Peter’s Passage, and, more distressing still, it had already shaved the plaster off the overhanging upper storey of a fourteenth- century house which Harry considered to be one of the minor glories of Yeominster. The driver was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette; he grinned ruefully as Harry approached and said, ‘Bloody silly-buildings like that, in this day and age!’
Harry said, ‘You don’t think it was bloody silly to try to bring your vehicle down here?’
‘What was I to do, mate? Traffic’s jammed solid up there.’
It was useless to remonstrate with him. As a local councillor and a chairman of the conservation society, Harry did his best for the town, but he was a reasonable man and his expectations of success were modest. His philosophy was that one must accept what cannot be altered, in oneself, and in the world about one. Nevertheless, on his return to his office he was still sufficiently ruffled to say to his secretary:
‘If I was a young man, I’d demonstrate about the traffic. I might even lie down in the road!’
‘They’d just drive over you,’ she answered. ‘And, what’s more, no one would bother to pick you up afterwards.’
She followed him into his room. ‘I’m sorry to add to everything, but Mr. Hepple telephoned and asked if you would ring him back.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘As long as you ring before half-past four. You know what head masters are.’
She went away and returned with a tea-tray. At tea-time she often served him snippets of local news. She was one of those quiet, discreet women who attract confidences. This time it was: ‘Had you heard that Daniel Kerr is coming home?’
‘Daniel Kerr!’ The fourteenth-century house, and now this! He took a spoonful of sugar before he said mildly, ‘Surely not?’
‘It’s quite true,’ she assured him. ‘Mrs. Kerr had a letter from him yesterday.’
‘Good heavens! That news travelled fast, even by Yeominster standards.’
‘I know because my niece is in Emma’s form at the comprehensive school,’ she laughed.
‘Was Emma pleased?’
‘Beside herself. Georgina, who is a self-contained child, said it was quite embarrassing.’
‘I can imagine that.’ He had been talking to Emma only the other night at the social evening organised by the Yeominster Conservation Society. She was fifteen, all flaming hair and burning cheeks, full quivering lips and eyes that implored something that life was not yet ready to give and might never offer. She was very mature physically, with breasts and thighs that rebelled against the constraints of blouse and skirt. A disturbing creature. One felt that if one as much as brushed against her skin one would receive an electric shock. Harry had experienced a quite overwhelming desire to brush against Emma’s skin. She was so appallingly alive, and it was so intensely painful to her that one felt an urgent need to tap some of that surplus energy as much for her sake as one’s own. Harry sighed.
His secretary said, ‘Would you like more tea?’
He started, and hoped she did not think he had been all this time imagining Emma. ‘I’d better speak to Hepple now,’ he said briskly.
Hepple said, in the sardonic tone he had long ago adopted as a protection against his pupils and was now his protection against all human kind, ‘It is good of you to spare the time to ring me, sir.’ The ‘sir’ was Hepple’s way of putting what he regarded as a proper distance between himself and the chairman of the governors.
All Hepple’s relationships had to be charted and the territory in which each could operate carefully staked out.
‘I thought I had better catch you before you left.’ Harry winked at his secretary who had come in to put more hot water in the teapot. ‘My secretary assures me that all schools close down at half-past four.’
‘The state schools may do.’
‘But things are different in direct grant schools?’
‘If it would be more convenient for you to speak to me at six o’clock, I shall still be here,’ Hepple said acidly.
‘Forgive me! I was being facetious. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I should like to discuss the short list for the science post with you. At your convenience, of course.’
‘I hope we’re going to be able to make an appointment this time,’ Harry said gently, as he flicked through the pages of his diary.
‘We shall have to, or cease to offer science.’
‘Come now, you’re a pessimist, Head Master!’ Harry liked an occasional revenge for the “sir”. ‘I could manage next Monday afternoon. Would that give you time to call up the applicants?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Hepple’s voice became muffled and Harry guessed he was talking to his secretary; after rather too long a pause to suggest complete accord, he said, ‘We shall be able to get the letters out by the last post today.’
‘We have a distinguished scientist returning to the town, I hear,’ Harry said.
‘Daniel Kerr would be unlikely to be interested in a post at Mansfield School,’ Hepple replied dryly.
Harry wondered how the news had reached him. Giles Kerr attended his school, but Harry did not think that Hepple kept in daily touch with the home-life of his pupils. Hepple himself supplied the answer. ‘I have Mrs. Kerr coming to see me. She is worried about her son’s future – not without cause, I may say. My secretary informed me of Mr. Kerr’s return in case it might be relevant,
though I can’t think why it should be.’
‘His father’s return might unsettle Giles, I suppose,’ Harry hazarded.
‘It is his father’s absence which has unsettled him,’ Hepple responded tardy. ‘Next Monday afternoon, then. Will you do me the honour of having lunch here?’
‘That,’ Harry said, ‘will be delightful.’
Hepple could think of no suitable response and they bade each other good-bye.
‘Why ever did we appoint that man?’ Harry said to his secretary who had come in with post for signature.
‘You wanted Mr. Kingsland from Rugby and Joe Smurthwaite wanted Mr. Allen from the comprehensive school. You compromised and had Mr. Hepple.’
He looked at her quizzically. She thought he was a snob, but her expression told him she was nevertheless very fond of him. He signed the post and then told her that he would be out for the rest of the afternoon. ‘I must see Gerald Grey before the party meeting tonight.’ On his way out of the office, he went into the men’s lavatory. The fanlight was slightly ajar and the window of the clerks’ room must have been open because he could hear voices quite distinctly.
‘He can’t be going out again! Malcolm Pridie protested. ‘He’s only just come in, and this morning . . .’
‘He had Mrs. Cutts all the morning,’ Harry’s secretary said.
‘Ought to know better at his age – give himself a heart attack if he carries on like that.’
Harry washed his hands and wondered why the hot water never ran hot.
‘You shouldn’t talk about my Harry like that.’ He recognised the voice of a shy little girl who could barely raise her eyes to look at him when he encountered her in the post-room. Several of the men made uncouth sucking noises and the girl protested with exaggerated naïveté, ‘Don’t be like that. He’s super!’
It was all quite good-natured. Most employers had to put up with it, Harry supposed. Nevertheless, he paused to look in the mirror which one of the young men had hung on the wall. There was much to reassure him. He was good-looking. His silvering hair was cut very short, no concessions to modernity in the way of sideboards; he knew the importance of grooming, shagginess is not for the middle-aged. And, in any case, there was no need to hide behind a fuzz of hair, the face had good clean lines and the features were worthy of display. The brown eyes were large and set well apart, giving a nice sense of balance to the face; perhaps the whites were not as clear as they had once been, but freshness can pall. There was, too, a hint of indulgence in the generous fullness of the lower lip, the slight thickening of the jaw-line; but if one cannot indulge oneself a little at forty-nine, things have come to a pretty pass. Moderation, Harry told himself, patting his stomach, moderation in all things. He had a firm body, not quite as compact as it had been, he had put on a little weight round the middle, but there was as yet no hint of flabbiness. On his way out, he was confident enough to say to Malcolm Pridie, whom he met in the corridor, ‘I hope you never talk about any of the clients when you’ve got that window open.’
He walked to Gerald Grey’s office which was in Westgate, on the far side of the market cross. The estate agent was in a highly excited state. Yeominster was threatened: this was Gerald Grey’s message and had been for some time. It was true. There were, in fact, several threats to the town. It was the smallest county borough in the south of England and had suffered many take-over bids, the latest of which, by a vast, uncaring county council, seemed likely to succeed. But it was not the threat to the town’s independence with which Gerald Grey was concerned. His face brick red, sandy eyebrows raised so that huge furrows corrugated his forehead, he strode about his office rehearsing for Harry’s benefit the speech he intended to deliver at the party meeting on the subject of the proposed by-pass.
‘And I expect you to back me up,’ he said to Harry. ‘You’re not mayor yet.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Harry laughed.
‘Just that you sometimes seem to be preparing for it, old man. Less and less willing to commit yourself.’
Harry, who found commitment boring, as well as being bad for business, answered easily, ‘I haven’t your stamina, Gerald. Besides, I like to be sure of my facts.’
‘Facts! If it’s facts you’re wanting, I’ll give them to you. This town is stagnating. Stagnating! And now they talk about giving priority to the scheme for the by-pass!’
‘The town needs a by-pass.’
‘A by-pass will kill the town.’ Gerald Grey leant forward and thrust his face at Harry, the eyes protruding as he said, ‘What does the word mean? Eh? Tell me that! It means to sidetrack. That’s what will happen to Yeominster if that scheme ever goes through; people will go round it, no one will come into it.’
‘That will make life much more pleasant for the folk who live here.’
Gerald Grey greeted this remark with the weary impatience of the penal reformer asked to sympathise with the victim of violence. ‘It always comes back to that. People will never look to the future.’ He looked to the future all the time; he had invested in land which would lose value if the scheme for the by-pass was approved.
He flopped into his chair and stared bleakly at his desk. After a moment, his eyes focused on the scribbling-pad beside the telephone. He said, ‘Daniel Kerr is coming home. Did you know?’ ‘I think I must be the only person in Yeominster who didn’t know.’
‘It doesn’t concern you, I suppose?’
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
‘Wonder where they’ll live,’ Gerald Grey mused. ‘Chap will want a place of his own. A man like him, a man of some substance, isn’t going to live with his mother-in-law.’
Business, Harry thought, must be bad if Gerald Grey had nothing better in mind than to angle for the custom of Daniel Kerr. Then, being a keen observer of his fellow human beings, he realised what it was that occupied Gerald Grey’s mind. Knocke Hall: a splendid Georgian house standing on one of the best sites in the centre of the town! Gerald Grey must many a time have cast covetous eyes on it, and now he saw a chance of the dream becoming reality-Daniel Kerr would take Erica and the children away, and Mrs. Prentice would decide to sell the property.
‘The old lady won’t part with Knocke Hall,’ Harry told him.
‘At her age, she’d be a fool to hang on to it.’
‘At her age, people become very foolish.’
‘Oh well, maybe you’re right. But you know Mrs. Kerr quite well, don’t you? If ever you should hear that they intend to make a move, you might put in a word . . .’
‘Kerr may go abroad again,’ Harry said.
‘Surely not? A chance to settle down with his family, live in a civilised country. This must have come as a blessing in disguise to him.’
Harry, who did not wish to take the conversation any further, drew Gerald Grey’s attention to a matter which he wished to raise at the party meeting.
Chapter Three
It was an ebullient evening, with a high wind and a great comedian of a moon rolling its bald head along the rim of the Downs. It called for a walk, which was as well as Dorothy’s car was at the garage being serviced. The wild night and the small town were somewhat at odds with each other. The town was undergoing its winter transformation. All the summer visitors had gone and the community was becoming self-contained, concentrating on the television set, the drama group, the evening class; the trips to the estuary, the picnics on the Downs, were over for all save the few eccentrics who walked all the year round. Close-weave coats and thick-knits had come out of cupboards. Faces turned to the bright displays in shop windows; the Downs seemed remote and irrelevant, the tracks which led up to them were muddy, and when one got to the top of a hill there would be nothing but cold air and a prospect of more hills, bleak and inhospitable, the once delightful valleys blurred by ground mist.
Dorothy, an all-season walker, regretted that the early darkness prevented her walking on the Downs in the evenings. It always depressed her when autumn came and the town turned in on
itself. But this year the feeling of claustrophobia was worse than ever. This year she would be thirty-six, nearer forty than thirty. Erica said she was fortunate to have made a useful place for herself in society. ‘And become cemented into it?’ But in spite of this rebellious retort, she tried to be philosophical. It was not such a bad life. Her days were spent doing worthwhile work; in the evenings, she had the warmth of her mother’s home, tea and toast, the long read by the fire. A slow dwindling into middle-age. Ah well . . .
Mr. Soames was having trouble with his garage door as she turned into Bates Yard.
‘You’ll have to re-hang that door,’ she told him cheerfully as he struggled to lift it an agonising inch.
‘I haven’t the time,’ he said shortly.
‘Half a morning’s work.’ She dismissed the excuse briskly. ‘A little outside exercise would do you good.’
He was not grateful. She went on her way, face ruefully puckered. She must overcome this tendency to tell people how to manage their affairs, otherwise she would be intolerable by the time she was forty.
She opened the gate and made her way up the drive to Knocke Hall. The wind surged across the lawn and along the borders—a dry sound, the wind in the dead leaves. Twigs skittered beneath her feet. Somewhere a dustbin lid came down with a clatter. In the lighted porch, she paused, one hand on the door, looking out into that exultant darkness, a woman one might expect to find at almost any door in any country town: unobtrusive in a navy suit, figure kept trim by hard work and exercise; light brown hair, neatly cut, a pleasing enough effect but not elegant, the shape of the head a serviceable round in which to contain the usual features not in themselves remarkable, clear grey eyes, a straight nose with a scatter of freckles, a firm but cheerful mouth. Not a face that would ever stand out in a crowd, unless one needed help of a practical kind. She was the person who is always asked the way to the nearest public lavatory.
The front door swung open. ‘I thought I heard you come up the drive!’ Erica said. ‘Did you get your car back?’