“Very nice for him. I hope he makes the most of it. I’m a tourist and a gawper now, and I’m going to join them.”
It was as she was turning away that the woman lobbed her a question that stunned her like a blow from a club.
“You’ll be going up to see yer Mam, will you?”
Chapter 4
The Black Horse
It was Charlie who bore the brunt. When he saw Lettie Farraday, white with shock, tottering towards him down the hill, saw her shoulders heaving with barely suppressed sobs, he went forward, put his arm around her, and supported her into the Saloon Bar of the Black Horse. He found a dark corner free of tourists or locals and let her sink into a sofa seat.
“Brandy,” he said firmly. “That’s what you need. And have a good cry if you want to. Nobody’s paying any attention to you.”
That wasn’t entirely true. As he went up to the bar to get the brandy he saw several people casting glances at Lettie out of the corners of their eyes. Her clothes, her make-up marked her out as not English. Some of the elderly locals were creasing their foreheads, and some of those who were clearly in the area for the Sneddon Weekend were already eyeing off the drinkers to work out who was there on the same mission. In any case an elderly woman in a state of shock and weeping in the corner of a pub will always arouse attention, usually of a contemptuous kind.
“Right—get this down you,” said Charlie, putting the double brandy down in front of her. “And then have another if you feel the need.”
“I shall feel the need,” said Lettie with conviction. “What an old fool I am . . . But then, it was such a shock, you see. Such an awful surprise.”
Charlie kept quiet, not wanting to seem inquisitorial. But when she looked up he raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, I assumed they’d died years ago.”
“Who?”
“My parents. Believe me, I would never have come back here if I’d known.”
“You’d had no contact since you went to America?”
“I did send them a postcard in . . . in 1939 it would have been. To give them an address and tell them I was married. That was my first husband, and his name was Ciesinski. To tell you the truth, I knew a name like that would send them into fits. Not English, probably a Catholic, sure signs that I’d gone irretrievably to the devil. So I knew they’d never contact me . . . I was glad. I suppose I really sent the card to say I was all right and that all was over between us. But they must have known that. I would never . . . Oh God, stop me when I keep saying that.”
Charlie was pleased to see she seemed to be regaining some spirit. Self-mockery was a good sign.
“Anyhow, now you find they’re still alive?”
“My mother. Just my mother. That woman out there says she’s in some kind of home at Hipperholt. That’s twenty miles north. She said it with a knowing, malicious kind of smile on her face. She must have known it would be a horrible shock.”
“But if your mother is alive . . . I don’t know how to put this tactfully—”
“She must be as old as Methuselah? Right. You don’t have to be tactful with me, young man. I’m seventy-five. My mother was twenty-four when she had me. Jesus Christ! Next year she’ll be getting a telegram from the Queen! She’ll complain that she didn’t bring it herself! Well, just so long as they don’t expect me to be around to pose with her for the photographers!” She paused to sip her brandy. “Good Lord—what must you think of an old woman who cries when she finds her mother is still alive?”
Charlie shrugged.
“If I like the old woman, I decide that the mother must have been a bit of a monster.”
Lettie Farraday considered.
“Monster? No, not that. Narrow, bigoted, hard, joyless . . . I had a childhood in which there was no joy . . . I felt nothing for her—either of them—because they couldn’t love. You have to be taught love; it’s not a one-way process. I loved my brother. When he died I got out.”
“What did they do, your parents?”
“My father worked on a farm down the hill. My mother was mostly at home, but she did occasional cleaning for people. She worked for the Sneddons, actually.”
“She worked for the Sneddons!”
The voice came from behind Charlie’s shoulder. A young couple had edged their way forward, and had been listening. Charlie had seen them in one of the old advertising mirrors on the wall, but as Lettie didn’t seem to object he had said nothing. He had recognised them as the young couple he had heard talking on the train, and now he looked at Lettie to see if she wanted them given their marching orders. But she seemed well on the road to recovery, and not displeased by the attention.
“Oh yes, every Thursday. Sweeping, dusting scouring. Susannah Sneddon was a bit of a slattern. It was hard work because everything was so dirty, and they didn’t have vacuum cleaners or running hot water or anything like that. They did towards the end have electricity, which marked them off from most people in the village. That was so that they could write in the evenings comfortably. My mother liked hard physical work. It made her feel good. It made her grimmer as she erased every stain and chased dirt in every corner. She thought how grubby other people were, and how inferior to herself. Cleaning houses gave her a sort of perverted spiritual pleasure.”
The girl behind Charlie had been drinking in every word. She now leaned over his shoulder, an expression of intense interest on her face, or rather, an expression of something more than interest: she was drinking all this in, like a leech sucking blood. Charlie shifted uneasily in his seat, but the girl insisted on introducing herself.
“I’m Gillian Parkin. I’m writing my Ph.D. thesis on Susannah Sneddon. This is my boyfriend Gregory Waite. He’s not really a Sneddon person.”
“Well, hi, Gregory! You and me both,” said Lettie Farraday, a full return of her old spirit.
“You can’t mean that!” wailed Gillian. “You knew them. You must have so much knowledge that you can share with the rest of us!”
Lettie shrugged.
“Have I? I used to go up with my mother sometimes in the school holidays. But look: say the person you were writing your thesis on was Browning, and you went along to a séance and got in touch with the woman who did his rough cleaning. How much of interest do you think she’d have to tell you?”
“I’d be interested in what kind of porridge he had for breakfast,” said Gillian stoutly. “And you saw her, you know what she looked like.”
“There are photographs—there’s a good one on the back of Orchard’s End.”
“But photographs then were usually posed,” put in Gregory Waite quietly. “What kind of physical impression did she make?”
Lettie Farraday considered.
“Not altogether pleasant. But I may be confusing physical impression with something else. You see normally when I went up there with my mother Susannah would be out walking—I suppose she organised it like that, so that the day the house was cleaned was her day for thinking and planning. She might come in just before we finished, and let my mother make us all a cup of tea, though she never had any conversation much, or any interest in how we lived. But if she did happen to be writing that day she’d bundle us off upstairs, insist on quiet—well, to a young girl it all seemed a bit pretentious.”
“What about the physical impression?” persisted Gregory.
“Heavy. Or rather running to heaviness. There was something quite attractive about the face, and perhaps there once had been about the body too. She rather let herself go. She wouldn’t be the only girl who had had her emotional life ruined by the First World War. I’m trying to be fair, you see, but to my young eyes there was something else—a sort of self-regard, a feeling of being different from the rest of us, that she cherished. That didn’t help to make her more attractive to me.”
“Did you hear of any boyfriends?”
“None. I suppose she could have found herself a husband if she’d wanted to.”
“Why do you say that?” Charli
e asked.
“She earned money—not bad money. There was a lot of talk about that in the village. Someone saw a cheque from a publisher for two hundred pounds. A farm worker in a tied cottage was taking home a weekly wage in shillings not pounds at that time. It seemed to us an immense sum, just for writing.”
“And yet the farm was such a poor place.”
“Joshua wasn’t much of a farmer.”
“Did the money go to the farm, do you think?”
“I’ve no idea. It could have done, if Susannah wanted to stay put, like Emily Brontë never being happy away from Haworth. But I can’t say she ever showed any great love for the farm itself, only for the countryside around.”
“Was it your mother saw the cheque and spread the gossip?” asked Charlie.
“I shouldn’t think so. My mother—with all her faults, and they were legion—wasn’t one for gossip. She never had the sort of friends you need to gossip with. Oh God—why did you bring her up? What am I going to do?”
She looked beseechingly at Charlie.
“Do you want to see her?” he asked
“No . . . Oh, I don’t know. I never for a moment imagined the question would come up.”
“Don’t you even have the sort of grisly curiosity that asks: ‘What on earth will she be like at ninety-nine?’ I’m afraid I would.”
“Well . . .” Lettie shot him a quick, humorous glance. “I do rather think I would like to see.”
“She may be in the sort of state where it makes no difference one way or the other. She might not know you.”
“No . . . I suppose I could ring the Home.”
“That’s what I was thinking. On the other hand she may be mentally very spry.”
“Oh God! Spare me! She’ll probably lecture me on my wicked ways. I’m too old to get involved with that kind of thing.”
“You could have a nice ding-dong row,” Charlie suggested.
“No—she’s too old for me to involve her in that.”
“But what is—was—your mother like?” asked Gillian.
“Young lady,” said Lettie, leaning forwards, “I left home at fifteen and went to America at twenty, and since then, beyond a postcard, I have never tried to communicate with her. I think that tells you all you need to know about what I think of her, and how welcome she is as a topic of conversation. Now”—she looked at her watch— “I think my taxi will be waiting. Are you intending to walk down the hill, as well as up, Charlie?”
“Not if a better way presents itself. One of the things I’ve learnt since coming to Yorkshire is that steep hills are as gruelling down as they are up.”
“Whoever would have thought anything else? You can come with me and help me up to my room.”
She looked enquiringly at the young pair.
“I’m staying here,” said Gillian.
“And I’m sleeping on the floor, and taking off tomorrow to get away from all this Sneddonry,” said Gregory.
“Then I’ll say goodbye to you, and goodnight to you, young lady. We shall no doubt talk—or at any rate see each other—during the Weekend.”
“Did I rather slap her down?” she asked Charlie in the taxi.
“Not really. You made it clear the subject is a painful one. She’s bright, if a bit intense. She will have understood.”
“Hmmm—intense she was. It’s that mania we talked about.”
At the door to her room Mrs Farraday turned to thank Charlie.
“I’m sure you’ve had more than you’ll have wanted of an old lady’s company for one day. I’ve got a lot of hard thinking to do. But I want you to know I’m grateful, Charlie, I really am . . . Charlie Peace: didn’t your mother know about the murderer?”
Charlie grinned. It was an old question.
“Don’t blame my mother. It’s a nickname. My real name is Dexter.”
“Dexter! Now that’s a nice name. I once had an American friend called Dexter. I shall call you that.”
Charlie had noticed, in the course of the evening, that Lettie Farraday’s speech had become less American, more English, and even more Yorkshire. That obviously had not meant a lessening of affection for things American. Coming to Yorkshire was not, for Lettie, coming home. It was being away from home.
Charlie clattered down the stairs to the foyer, intending to go straight back to his room in the Haworth Road. But as he passed the door into the bar he saw the darkly handsome man who had arrived earlier, now standing at the crowded bar trying to catch the barmaid’s attention. On an impulse he swerved aside, went into the bar and managed to stand beside him.
“Diabolical service,” he said, when the man had failed to get noticed yet again. “You’d think they’d have put more staff on for the Conference.”
The man turned to look at him. The expression on his full, regular features said as clearly as words that neither Charlie’s accent nor his colour qualified him for friendly notice. Charlie knew the expression well.
“You would,” he said shortly, and turned away. Obviously a thought struck him, for he turned back. “Are you here for the Conference?”
“That’s right.”
The man smiled, though still with a certain aloofness. He was motivated, probably, by nothing more than some dim sense of Sneddon oblige. While he condescended Charlie caught the girl’s attention.
“Oh, miss, an orange juice, please. And what are you having?”
“Scotch and soda. I’ll pay, of course. You seem to be better than me at getting noticed.” Charlie smiled ambiguously. He thought that with looks like that Sneddon wouldn’t often have a problem. “No, I must say I’m feeling a bit apprehensive about this Conference.”
They had moved away from the bar, but not sat down. Charlie felt that sitting down with this man, now fumbling for the price of his Scotch, would be to overestimate the thawing.
“Oh?” Charlie said, as if he had no idea who he was speaking to. “But you’re going?”
“Yes,” he said, his expression rueful, almost shamefaced. “I’m the nearest living relative.”
“Really!” Charlie’s voice and bearing suggested that he was enormously impressed. “So you’re representing the family?”
“I am the family. But I’m not looking forward to being among all those culture vultures and devoted fans. I really know nothing whatever about the books.”
“Not admired in the family?”
“Hardly ever mentioned, frankly. I grew up knowing I had some sort of cousin who’d once written novels, and that was about it. Once all this stuff about a Society or Fellowship or whatever started up I sat down and read a couple of the books—had to discipline myself and set aside two evenings when I’d very much rather have been doing something else.”
“And?”
Once more the expression was rueful.
“I found I’d very much rather have done something else. Shocking, I know. You must be an admirer.”
“I find them interesting,” said Charlie cautiously. “You say she was some sort of cousin . . . ?”
“Yes. My grandfather was her cousin, to be precise. But he and his family moved South long ago—well before the war. I don’t even know this area, I’m afraid. I’ve been to Yorkshire only once in my life, and then it was to York, not to this side. So I’m afraid I’m going to be a great disappointment to the aficionados.”
“They’ll be thrilled just to have a member of her family here. Or their family, I should say.”
“Oh God—don’t mention Joshua. Just a look at one of his books was enough.”
“Yes. They’re an acquired taste I haven’t acquired. But there will be fans of his too, remember.”
“So I’ll have to find some polite formula. Thanks for warning me. But I’m in the City. I have to be polite and tactful to all types of people. I once had lunch with Robert Maxwell and survived to tell the tale. I’ll think of something . . .”
His eyes strayed around the bar. He was about to say “Well, it’s been nice having this chat.�
�� Charlie drained his glass.
“Well, it’s been nice having this chat. I must be off. I expect we’ll see each other up in Micklewike tomorrow. Best of luck with the fans.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it.”
Charlie dredged up from memory an O-level quote.
“ ‘I will see thee at Philippi.’ ”
Randolph Sneddon looked bewildered, as if he thought it might be the next village to Micklewike.
That night, making notes of the day’s encounters, Charlie put by Sneddon’s name the comment: “Not very bright.” Then frowning he crossed it out, because that wasn’t at all the impression the man had made as a whole. After some thought he substituted: “Sharp at some things. Money? Self-interest?” He somehow didn’t think that many people would be encouraged to get close to Randolph Sneddon. He was quite sure that he wouldn’t be.
Chapter 5
Inauguration
The village hall of Micklewike had been built in the ’thirties, five minutes from the centre of the village, on the edge of a small estate of council houses. Here, over the years, the local amateurs had performed Tons of Money, Night Must Fall and Haul for the Shore until the television habit had become so deeply ingrained that it was impossible to get the villagers out into their bleak, windswept streets for a night in a draughty hall. These were, in any case, performances more for the benefit of the actors than the audience. Nowadays there were aerobics classes held there, and karate classes, and the occasional lecture or school concert. But for much of the time the hall stood dispirited and unused. It was here that the Sneddon Fellowship was to be born.
Mr Suzman had been uncertain how many would be attending the inaugural meeting. He had a rough idea how many were lodged in local hotels, inns and bed and breakfast places, because he liaised closely with the Batley Bridge Tourist Office. What he did not know was how many would prefer to stay at more distant places such as Haworth or Skipton, nor how many locals within easy driving distance would decide to come to the inaugural junketings. When he drove into Micklewike an hour before the meeting was scheduled to begin he was pleased to note that the meagre places for parking in the village were starting to fill up. He had a last-minute pow-wow with Mrs Marsden at the farm, then took himself down to the village hall. Here he had another pow-wow with Mrs Cardew, an elderly resident of Micklewike, whom he had persuaded to take notes at the meeting, and whom he hoped would eventually act as (unpaid) secretary to the Fellowship. For the title, and the cost of the postage, he anticipated getting a great deal of work out of her. Then he went to stand at the door of the hall, mingle with one or two familiar faces outside, and generally to act as mine host and onlie begetter of the Fellowship. But while he was welcoming and mingling outside in the watery sunlight he was all the time keeping an eye on the number and kind of people who were assembling around him in dribs and drabs, smiling tentatively at each other, and generally beginning the business of coming together.
A Hovering of Vultures Page 4