by Lis Howell
‘She should have told me first!’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter, dear,’ Mrs Arthur said placatingly. ‘Let’s have some tea.’
‘But you know having visitors always wears you out.’ Daisy turned to Suzy. ‘Mum can get very easily tired.’ She motioned with her head towards the bedroom door. Suzy and Rachel followed her.
‘I’m sorry, Suzy,’ Daisy whispered in the doorway. ‘I know it seems rude but Mum sometimes exhausts herself. It would have been much better to let her have a rest this afternoon. It’s very hard for other people to understand Mum’s illness. I sometimes think Babs hasn’t a clue about the stress she can cause.’
‘That’s OK. We’ll go now.’
‘Thank you.’ Daisy gave them a quick, unhappy social smile. She shut the door swiftly behind them.
Suzy waited until they had climbed up the Arthurs’ drive, past the rockery that distinguished Nancy’s front garden, and into the street. Then she put her hand on her friend’s arm.
‘I’m sorry, Rachel. I’ve never seen Daisy like that. She couldn’t wait to get rid of us. I can’t think what was wrong.’
‘Oh, I can.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you realize?’ Rachel looked at her. ‘Oh, never mind. I could be wrong.’ Then her eyeline flickered past Suzy’s head.
‘Hey!’ she said excitedly. ‘Isn’t that a car at your house? Suzy, it looks like you’re having a visit from Jude Law in his prime! This isn’t the gorgeous widower, is it?’
‘Sadly, no.’ Suzy squinted at the apparition walking down her path. ‘I don’t know who he is.’ She frowned and hurried towards her own house.
The beautiful young man came towards her. ‘Mrs Spencer? Jake’s mum? Could we go inside? I’ve got something I must tell you.’
Five minutes later, Russell Simpson was sitting on Suzy’s sofa with the kitten on his lap. Suzy hadn’t taken her jacket off. She was sitting opposite him, leaning forward, desperate to hear what he had to say.
‘So what’s this about?’ She felt slightly sick.
‘I’m a mate of Matt Bell’s. At least I was a mate of Matt Bell’s. I need to talk to you in confidence, Mrs Spencer.’
Russell squirmed a little on the sofa and then settled down. ‘I have to tell you all this so you understand. About two weeks ago I found out something about my family.’ Suzy tried not to push him, though she was desperate to know what this had to do with Jake.
‘I found a letter addressed to me.’ He stopped. Suzy was in an agony of suspense, but bit her lip. ‘The letter said that the person I thought was my dad, wasn’t my dad. And when I think about it now, I’ve heard rumours, and heard funny remarks in the past. But this was the first time I saw it written down as a fact.’ He swallowed. ‘The letter said that the man who really was my father was someone else.’
‘Who?’ Suzy knew he wanted her to ask, and that she ought to try and be sympathetic to this. But all she wanted to know was where Jake came in. Russell Spencer leant forward to re-engage her eyes.
‘You know him, Mrs Spencer. My dad.’
Suzy looked at the handsome face in front of her. ‘I know your natural father?’
‘Yes. Everyone does.’ Russell Simpson smiled and, as with one photo transparency over another, Suzy saw the resemblance.
‘Oh yes!’ she said.
‘You can see it, can’t you? I know you can! I’m a Strickland. Like my mum.’ He paused for effect. ‘And like my dad too!’
‘Tom Strickland is your father?’
He nodded, and smiled. He was quite gorgeous. Even in her anxiety to move the story on and find out what it had to do with Jake, Suzy couldn’t help staring. Russell had Tom’s big, muscular frame and a slim version of the beautiful face Sharon Strickland had under the puppy fat.
‘Matt and I got pissed that Saturday after I found out. We took Matt’s car. I was furious. I wanted to have it out with old Tom. We knew he usually went drinking at the Scar Inn. So we went up there to find him. He was staggering all over the road as usual. Matt was going too fast and . . . well, he hit him.’
‘So it was you! But where does Jake come in?’
Russell carried on, slowly and patiently. ‘When we got back there was mud and blood and bits of Tom’s old raincoat on the front of Matthew’s car. We knew the police were all around the place because Yvonne Wait had been killed in the church. Matt wanted to go back and drive the car through Tarn Ford to get the muck off. We went as fast as we could. But the ford was too full to drive into.’
He took a breath, and went on, ‘So on Sunday Matthew had to get it to a car wash. I wanted to go back to Newcastle to avoid my mum and dad. So we decided Matt should pick up Jake and take him to Carlisle. Matt gets allergies. He’s allergic to the car wash stuff. So he needed help.’
‘And Jake was young and easily impressed, and you thought you could bully him . . .’
‘Yes. Jake had been gagging to get in the car with Matt.’
‘And why have you had a sudden turn of conscience?’
‘Because Matt said he was going to see to it that Jake never talked. He was going to scare him a bit. That was going too far.’
‘What? I don’t bloody believe it!’ Suzy jumped up, disgust in her voice. ‘Well, you can tell Matthew Bell that if he lays a finger on my son — no, if he even thinks of laying a finger on my son, I will have him strung up by the balls, if we can find any, and left to swing until he screams for mercy.’
There was a silence. Suzy sat down again. In a way she had to admire Russell Simpson. No one had made him come to see her. ‘I suppose I should thank you. Except that you got Jake into this mess in the first place.’
‘In a way he got himself into it, Mrs Spencer. He’s been hanging around Matthew since Easter.’
Suzy looked at the floor. It was true. Jake had been longing for a trip in Matthew’s car. But what should she have done? Should she have let him go? Had she been too strict? Had she failed because he couldn’t talk to her like he could to his dad? How bad was it for Jake to have an absentee father?
‘And what about your dad?’ she asked.
Russell laughed disarmingly. ‘I’ve got used to the idea of Tom Strickland. I’d rather have been born than not. And now I know I’m a Tarnfield boy really. I like village life. I mean, the first thing I decided to do about this mess was to see the vicar. I used to be a choirboy for George Pattinson, you know.’
Suzy looked up. ‘You didn’t tell Nick Melling any of this?’
‘Shit, no. I called at the vicarage last night but the new chap looked at me as if I was something the cat brought in.’
‘You and me both! What about going over to see George Pattinson? People say he’s much better now.’
‘I might do that. Thanks, Mrs Spencer. And friend.’ He unwrapped his long body. He had Jane Simpson’s legs, Suzy thought, and he turned his brilliant smile on Rachel who looked like a rabbit trapped in headlights. I bet he has that effect on all women, Suzy thought.
Rachel motioned to Russell to follow her out and left Suzy sitting stunned on the sofa. Suzy heard him saying goodbye. He sounded innocently cheerful, not at all as she had imagined the famous Russell Simpson, playboy of the parish. She was aware her hand was shaking and that the tea Rachel had made and pressed into her hand was spilt on the coffee table. It was relief. So Jake had been bullied, and by helping with the car wash he’d been caught up in what was possibly a crime. But it wasn’t drugs. And he had learnt his lesson.
Rachel came back into the living room, open-mouthed. ‘Well, what a charmer! You can tell me the full implications later. So what’s next on this roller-coaster weekend? Shouldn’t we be cooking? Or at least opening some wine!’
‘I suppose we should. Look at the time!’ Suzy stood up. ‘But I still need to get my head around what Russell has told me. And maybe ring Jake at Nigel’s. Oh . . . and there’s something else . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, this has changed everything
. I think Robert’s going to be disappointed to find that Tom Strickland’s accident was nothing to do with the phantom flower arranger.’
‘Why should that disappoint him?’
‘Well, perhaps it means that we’ve been imagining the whole thing from the start!’
37
The weekend of the First Sunday after Trinity, continued
O Eternal God, our heavenly Father, who alone makest men to be of one mind in a house . . .
From the Thanksgiving for restoring Public Peace at Home
Matthew Bell dragged his backpack out from under the bed and started to ram it full of half-dirty clothes. He was mad as hell. He didn’t want to go to Joanne’s for a fortnight while he resat his exams. In fact, he didn’t want to resit his exams. He’d done no revision and he had no interest in them. What he wanted to do was go travelling.
It wasn’t fair. Other lads he knew had gone to Australia and New Zealand. One even had a relative who’d got him into the States. ‘The United States of America,’ he said aloud, rolling the consonants and deepening the vowel sounds. His mum would’ve let him go, but his dad said no. And even his mum had said he ought to do some wimpy gap year scheme. But that wasn’t what Matthew wanted. He had visions of taking a car and motoring coolly through the desert, music blaring. Shit, shit, shit, he said to himself.
He’d told his mother that morning that he wanted to get out of Tarnfield.
‘Well, you can,’ she’d said. ‘To our Joanne’s in Carlisle. Pack tonight and I’ll take you first thing in the morning. You’re not having the car. You can get the bus to Norbridge College from Carlisle. There’s plenty of public transport from there.’
And then Russ had turned up, which should have been great, but instead Russ gave him an earful about stupid little Jake Spencer. Matthew didn’t know what had come over Russ. He’d gone all mature and sorry. And he’d blabbed to Suzy Spencer, that big-headed cow who thought she was someone ’cos she’d once met Judy from The Richard and Judy Show. So seeing to Jake wasn’t on the agenda — more was the pity.
Still, there were things Russell didn’t know about. Matthew savagely yanked his desk chair towards him and switched on his computer. He wasn’t that brainy when it came to IT, but he wasn’t just into games and porn. He switched on his email. He didn’t use it much but he’d had the sense to get addresses for most of his cronies. Jake Spencer had been really proud to give his. Good, here it was.
Matthew bashed his bony fingers on to Create Mail. I’ll rattle him, he thought angrily. Spencer, he wrote, You tell your smart-arsed mam that my car was clean when we went to Carlisle. And if she tells my mam or enyone else, I’ll get all of you. Your sis as well. Gess who?
That made him feel better. ‘Matthew?’ he heard his mother yelling. ‘Get down here now for tea. And then we’re having a family conference. So you’re grounded.’
Shit, shit and double shit, he thought. Maybe it was just as well that he was going to Carlisle. Who knows, he might get out to a pub and find some totty. And it was nice to think he’d be leaving the fear of hell behind him. Hellfire, he thought. It would be nice to put a bomb through the Spencers’ window. That would keep them quiet.
‘Coming, Mam,’ he said, and then went downstairs.
* * *
In the Mid Cumbria Hospital, Jane Simpson sat by her husband’s bed. He was out of intensive care now. His heart attack had been mild, but he’d need more surgery in time. ‘A wake-up call,’ the consultant had said. ‘But it was a good thing your wife was there.’
‘I didn’t want to see you drop dead,’ Jane had said drily. She rather liked being a hospital visitor. And to her surprise, Russell had turned up at Jeff’s private ward. He hadn’t said much, but he’d come. When she’d called to tell him about Jeff’s heart attack, he hadn’t mentioned the lilac letter. But he’d said, ‘Poor Dad. I suppose all this is getting to all of us.’
Jane rarely thought about other people’s motives, but she was more sensitive to her son’s feelings than to anyone else’s. When Russell had been a little boy, before the money troubles and worries about the future had soured his relationship with his father, they’d had the odd moment of companionship. But Jeff was always too wrapped up confirming his place in the world to have much time for a child.
Even so, Russell had been a little darling before he went to boarding school. She remembered when he was in the nativity play at All Saints, when George Pattinson had come back to the village as vicar. Russ had been so sweet. He’d always been a good-looking boy.
‘Hello, Dad,’ he said when he came into Jeff’s room. That was really nice of him. It was her old Russell talking. She’d glanced warily at him a few times, but he’d said nothing about Tom Strickland. And then, after visiting time was over, he’d taken her to the hotel opposite the hospital for coffee. She had waited, tense, for the subject of his parentage to come up. But he had merely patted her on the hand and said, ‘Dad looks a bit brighter than I thought he would.’ They had chatted about the hospital. Jane was careful to say nothing that might provoke any outpouring. But Russell had been the model of restraint.
Then, as they went to their separate cars, he said, ‘Mum, I went to see George Pattinson on my way here. It’s been ages since I saw anyone from Tarnfield. Except that chav Matthew Bell.’
‘Good. That’s nice,’ Jane said. ‘What did he say?’
‘He asked me to go and see Tom, so I did.’ Russell’s face looked different, Jane thought. Clearer, somehow. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. And then she thought, my son looks happy.
Russell said, ‘Mum, Tom knew it was me with Matthew in the car that hit him. He’s always known about me, hasn’t he? I told him it was an accident. He said it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have got rat-arsed and tried to walk back in the dark.’
When she got home, Jane allowed herself a huge wave of relief. Things were changing for the better. With luck she could persuade Jeff to get out of this mausoleum and into a nice bungalow. Perhaps they could buy Phyllis’s place and do it up. The thought made her laugh into her sweet sherry. Russell didn’t hate her. Jeff was grateful to her. Above all, Yvonne Wait was dead.
She poured herself another drink. It went down smoothly like silk and tasted wonderful.
* * *
Saturday night at Suzy’s house was anything but smooth. Robert and Rachel had hit it off surprisingly well, but, after a few drinks and some dips as starters, Suzy could hear them bickering in a friendly way about politics as she was sorting out the roast chicken and watercress salad.
She sat down with them and told Robert about Russ Simpson.
‘So that’s what happened! It doesn’t explain the card with the Isaiah reference though.’
‘Isn’t it possible you misread it? And you never actually saw the petals.’
‘It’s possible I got it wrong, I suppose.’ Robert’s forehead wrinkled; then he shrugged and smiled. ‘Still, I’m really pleased Russ came and confessed. But will he tell the police?’
‘I don’t know,’ Suzy had said. ‘Perhaps that will depend on George Pattinson. I suggested that Russell went to see him. He seemed to want to talk to someone and he obviously respects George.’ Robert had said nothing, but a frown had creased the bridge of his nose.
‘So there you go,’ Rachel had said chirpily. ‘Another rational explanation. Don’t you think something straightforward like that might be behind all of this?’
‘You mean the reed through Phyllis’s hand and the hellebore leaves?’
‘Yes! I mean, isn’t it possible that you read too much into them? In fact neither of you saw the reed at all, did you? It was just that Strickland chap who told you.’
‘But the hellebore definitely said something. And there was Yvonne’s hair as well.’
‘She could have had it cut professionally. That may seem odd but it’s not as odd as some murderer cutting it off to match a Bible reading.’
‘You weren’t there, Rachel. There was defi
nitely a message, wasn’t there, Suzy?’
Suzy came over to the table with the meat. ‘It’s organic and free range,’ she said. Now Rachel was here, it was a lot more difficult to imagine what it had been like two weeks ago. The new season with its bright sunshine and fresh blossom, and the arrival of her friend from the world outside, had helped her put much of her anxiety behind. But Robert was adamant.
‘Don’t change the subject. You saw those leaves, Suzy, didn’t you? They meant something, didn’t they?’
Suzy sat down. She wasn’t sure what to say. At the time she had been convinced that the hellebore leaves had been placed in a pattern. But now all she could see in her mind’s eye was Daisy’s feet slipping all over them, and the sound of her voice saying ‘It’s awful, it’s awful’ over and over again.
‘Rob, I really don’t know any more. I just can’t see what it could mean or where it could lead. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone pulled Yvonne off the ladder but it could have been anyone. So many people hated her. And why write Bible messages? And as for Phyllis — well, we only have Tom’s word for the reed.’
‘But it was you who started me thinking. Why have you changed your mind? Again!’
‘Because the explanation for Tom Strickland’s accident is so mundane. The truth is, it was just about two lads tearing round the countryside looking for trouble. It’s obvious, in a way. I mean, putting motives aside, we should have thought of Matthew Bell as the hit-and-run driver straight away.’
‘And the card?’
‘The notelet was just a spiteful anonymous letter.’
‘So there you are,’ said Rachel, laughing. ‘It’s the perfect rural story, the sort of thing we Londoners always think goes on in villages. A dark stormy night, a drunken dirty old local, joyriders, incest—’
‘Incest?’ said Robert sharply.
‘Yeah. That’s a village problem, an incest thing, isn’t it? They’re all supposed to be at it in the country.’ Rachel laughed. ‘You know, this boy Russell whose father was really his second cousin.’