Jigsaw

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Oh, they made excuses, of course. Lindsey’s expecting Hugh – again – and Rona and Max will be up in Buckford.’

  ‘What are they doing up there?’

  ‘Rona’s taken it into her head to write about the town for its eight-hundredth anniversary, which, mind you, isn’t till next year, so I don’t know what the rush is. You’d think they could have put it off for a week.’

  ‘Well, the invitation was rather short notice, love,’ Tom said placatingly. ‘They’ll have made plans.’

  ‘That’s right, take their side, as usual.’

  He sighed, took off his reading glasses and polished them. If this was a foretaste of retirement, he’d rather stay on at the bank. Trouble was, he hadn’t the option. The heart attack he’d suffered a few months back had sapped his strength and he still tired easily. Though he’d fought against it, it had been decreed that early retirement was the sensible course, but as the weeks remorselessly ticked past, the prospect filled him with increasing dread.

  What would he do, for God’s sake? It wasn’t as though he’d a host of hobbies he was longing to indulge in. He wasn’t much of a golfer, nor particularly interested in stamp collecting, though he still had a few albums he’d embarked on in his youth. For nearly forty years his life had been intrinsically bound up with the bank, involving daily interaction with a host of people, many of them coming to him for help or advice. He revelled in its bustling activity, the challenge of meeting targets, discussions with senior staff – in short, holding a position of authority; unlike at home, where he was frequently made to feel useless and in the way.

  And that, he admitted to himself, as he replaced his glasses and retreated once again behind his paper, was the crux. How would he and Avril get on, when they were thrown together all the time? As it was, the weekends were more than enough, and, to his shame, by Sunday evening he was longing to escape back to work.

  He glanced surreptitiously at his wife, who was flicking through a magazine with patent lack of interest. How had they come to this? he wondered sadly. They’d been in love when they married and, as far as he remembered, for quite a while after. There had been happy family holidays with the twins, evenings when they booked a babysitter and went out for meals or to the theatre. But over the years, without really noticing, they’d drifted apart. For a long time now their love-making had been practically non-existent and they no longer seemed to have anything to say to each other. His illness had briefly brought them closer, but as soon as it was clear he wasn’t going to die, she’d retreated again. It occurred to him, with a jolt, that Avril might be dreading his retirement just as much as he was.

  Laying aside his paper, he went to look at the photographs arranged on the corner table. Almost obscured at the back was their official wedding group and he reached to pick it up, experiencing a welter of emotions as he looked down at his radiant bride, and at his younger self, smiling nervously and holding tightly on to her hand.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  He jumped. ‘Looking at our wedding picture.’

  ‘Why?’

  To remind himself of past happiness? He answered obliquely, ‘We were two different people, weren’t we?’

  ‘A couple of innocents,’ she agreed acidly, ‘who believed in Happy Ever After.’

  He turned to face her, the photograph still in his hand. ‘And haven’t you been?’

  For a long minute she held his eyes before turning back to the magazine. ‘Oh, you know what they say: “Into each life some rain must fall.”’

  ‘Are you happy, Avril?’ he persisted, suddenly, urgently, needing to know.

  But she wouldn’t be drawn. ‘What’s happy?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘I reckon we’ve done as well as most people. At least we’re still together.’

  ‘When I retire,’ he said on impulse, ‘we should do something really special. Go on a world trip or something.’

  She looked at him in amazement. ‘Tom Parish, what has got into you today?’

  ‘Seriously, would you like to? It’s ages since we did anything – exciting.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we’ll wait and see what your package is before we decide how to spend it.’ And, ending the discussion, she determinedly picked up the magazine.

  Dispiritedly he replaced the photograph and returned to his chair.

  Mum really didn’t need to be so negative all the time, Lindsey thought irritably as she turned on the shower. Pops was a saint to put up with her.

  The thought, taking her unawares, gave her pause. It had never occurred to her to analyse her parents’ relationship; they were simply themselves, unchanging over the years while she and Ro had grown from babies to schoolgirls to wives. And ex-wives, she added ironically. Men may come and men may go, but they went on for ever. Except that they didn’t, of course. Pops’s heart attack had been an indication of that. They were mortal, and one day, unthinkable though it might be, they would die. So – eat, drink and be merry, and all the rest of it.

  She was thinking in clichés this evening, but nevertheless, now that she considered it, there didn’t seem much merriment in her parents’ marriage. Soaping herself vigorously, she examined this new and disturbing idea. Of course they were fond of each other; look how Mum had panicked when Pops was ill. Perhaps it was just that they took each other for granted. Perhaps, after a certain number of years, all married couples did; she wasn’t in a position to know.

  But Mum always seemed so discontented these days, making no attempt to look her best. It was years since she’d worn make-up except on special occasions, and without it her pale skin and colourless brows lacked definition. Nor did she dress smartly any more; all her blouses and skirts looked the same, and she simply flung an old duffle coat over them to go out.

  Admittedly, her mother’s latest grievance, and the cause of all this analysis, was at least understandable: namely, that instead of dutifully going home for Sunday lunch, she’d be spending the weekend with Hugh. Lindsey conceded that she had a point; she herself knew, better than anyone, that she was playing with fire in taking up with him again. Their marriage had been a disaster, a see-sawing emotional maelstrom from which, at the time, she had been thankful to escape. He had a furious temper that could spring up from nowhere, and though he’d never actually hit her, he’d come close to it several times. The only reason she’d stayed so long was the strength of the physical attraction between them, and it was that same attraction, infuriatingly undiminished, that made it so hard to withstand him now.

  When they split up, he’d arranged a transfer to the Guildford branch of his accountancy firm and there had been no further contact between them until, earlier this year, he had written to say he’d made a mistake and wanted her back.

  She lathered shampoo into her long dark hair, massaging her scalp and lifting her face to the stream of water as she recalled the panic she’d felt, the determination not to let him back into her life. But events had overtaken them, giving him the opportunity to gain a foothold which, so far, she’d been unable – or unwilling – to dislodge. One thing was certain, though: she didn’t want him transferring back to Marsborough. As she’d hinted to Rona, the present situation suited her well enough, though she accepted it could not continue. Ro was right; it wasn’t fair to Hugh to let him rearrange his professional life, and then shut the door in his face. She owed it to him to make plain there was no future for them, and to do so before he achieved a transfer.

  She stepped out of the shower, towelled herself dry and padded through to the bedroom. Still, there was no time to plan any speeches now, she told herself, switching on the hairdryer; there was still the pastry to make, and he’d be here in an hour. Time enough to work it out on Monday – which, as she ruefully admitted, was what she told herself every week.

  Max was cooking the meal, as he always did when he was home.

  ‘How did you get on at the library?’ he asked Rona, who was leanin
g against a counter watching him as she sipped her customary vodka.

  ‘I unearthed some nuggets that might be worth following up. One thing I’d like to look at while we’re there is the parish church; some Royalists barricaded themselves in it during the Civil War.’

  ‘Have you decided how you’ll plan the series?’

  ‘A few ideas. Nothing more.’ She watched him slurp a generous amount of wine into the sauce.

  ‘Pity it’s not Marsborough celebrating its eight-hundredth. You’ll be wearing a track up and down, and it must be a good two and a half hours’ drive.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ she admitted. ‘I think I’ll spend a couple of nights a week there, at least in the early stages.’

  He turned to look at her, wooden spoon in hand. ‘Planning to desert me, are you?’

  ‘Not at all; you spend Monday and Tuesday nights at Farthings, and I’ll be home on Wednesday. You won’t notice the difference, and it would only be for about four weeks, while I do the initial research. After that, the odd day-trip should suffice.’

  He grunted, turning back to the cooker. ‘Have you booked us in anywhere for tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, the Tavistock, right in the centre of town.’

  ‘Hope it’s not too noisy.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. It’s only for one night.’

  ‘Is that where you’ll base yourself?’

  ‘At that price? Hardly; I’ll find a B&B.’ She sniffed appreciatively. ‘That smells good.’

  ‘It will be,’ he said complacently. ‘Now make yourself useful and lay the table. It’s nearly ready.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’ She reached up and kissed the back of his neck.

  ‘And don’t interfere with the cook, or he won’t be responsible for the consequences.’

  ‘Promises, promises!’ she said, and went to do as he asked.

  Two

  For the last few weeks, since she’d been feeling unwell, the events of a few years ago had been preying on her mind, and, for the first time, Edna Rosebury began to question whether she’d been right to keep silent.

  At the time, it had seemed that passing on what she’d seen would simply have caused trouble and benefited no one. What was done was done, and nothing she could have said would have changed anything. But the niggling doubts that she’d suppressed were now resurfacing to torment her.

  With both hands on the arms of her chair, she eased herself upright and stood for a moment, stretching her back. It did her no good to sit still for too long; her old joints seized up and made walking painful. And if she couldn’t walk, she reflected, life wouldn’t be worth living. It had been one of her passions all her life, and with her great friend Maisie she had over the years covered most of the county, its hills, its moorlands and its valleys. But Maisie had been dead these ten years or more. Now, most of her walking was done late at night, when there was no one around to approach her, to ask if she was all right and if she’d like them to see her home.

  She loved the old town when it was sleeping, when the only movement apart from her own was the sleek shadow of a cat on its nightly prowl, the only sound the occasional hoot of an owl from the trees in the churchyard. Sometimes, in the warm summer nights, she’d come upon a couple of young lovers huddled in a doorway, oblivious of her presence, and would be touched by a fleeting sadness. True, she had never known a man’s love, but her life had been filled with children, generation after generation of them, whom she had taught at Sunday School and who, for the most part, had kept in touch and later sent their own children into her care.

  And it was, of course, on one of these nightly rambles that she had seen . . . She clamped her mind shut on the unwelcome memory. Had Maisie still been around at the time, she would have had someone with whom to discuss it, and together they might have reached a different decision. But it was too late to worry about that.

  The stiffness having eased, she made her way across the room and, supporting herself on the sill, stood at her window looking out across the square. With the church, the post office and the pub, it was the heart of the old town, virtually untouched by the modernity that intruded on the outskirts, and the view from this house where she’d been born hadn’t changed over the years. The pub sign, with its familiar face, long dark hair and goatee beard, had been her weather guide for over sixty years, since she could gauge by the angle of its swing the direction and strength of the wind. Glancing at it now, she wondered, as she often did, if anyone else appreciated the poignancy of its name – the King’s Head – when, over four hundred years ago, the king depicted on the sign had lost his.

  As she watched, Gordon Breen emerged from his front door, crossed his garden to the gate in the fence, and let himself into the churchyard. She glanced at her watch. Just after eleven. Nuala would have finished cleaning by now, and would shortly be coming across to check on her. She was a good girl and Edna was fond of her, but she did so wish she wouldn’t fuss.

  She was turning from the window when a couple on the pavement outside caught her eye, bent over a map of some sort while their dog sniffed interestedly at a lamp post. Tourists, no doubt. She moved aside as the woman glanced in her direction, unwilling to be caught studying them, and after a moment they crossed the road and went through the gateway into the church grounds. They were in luck; Gordon was always ready to answer questions about his beloved church and its history.

  Smiling to herself, Edna returned to her chair and prepared to await her niece’s arrival.

  ‘How old do you think it is?’ Rona asked, as they walked up the long, curved path to the church.

  Max shrugged. ‘Eight hundred years, if the town’s anything to go by, though some parts will be older than others.’

  ‘Amazing to think it’s stood here, virtually unscathed, throughout wars, famines and pestilence.’

  ‘Pestilence?’ Max repeated with a laugh. ‘Where did you dig that up?’

  ‘Plague, then.’

  ‘Whatever, but I bet you we’ll find that it’s locked.’

  They crossed the tiled porch and Rona lifted the latch on the heavy oak door, which swung inwards.

  ‘I should have taken you up on that,’ she told him.

  An odour redolent of churches everywhere met their nostrils, compounded of polish and musty old hymn books and strongly scented flowers. Sunshine was streaming through stained-glass windows and lying in pools of crimson and blue on the black and white tiled floor. Rona stared about her at the arched ceiling, the glowing wood of ancient pews, the brilliant colours of the glass.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ she murmured, awestruck, and turned quickly as a voice behind her answered, ‘Thank you!’

  A grey-haired man in sports jacket and flannels, wearing a dog collar, came forward with a smile, his hand held out. ‘Always good to hear unsolicited praise,’ he said. ‘You’re most welcome to St Giles’s. I’m Gordon Breen, the vicar. Do feel free to look round.’

  ‘Is it all right to bring the dog in?’ Rona asked tentatively.

  ‘Of course. Hello, old fellow.’ The vicar bent to pat Gus, who waved his tail ingratiatingly.

  ‘We were wondering how old the church is,’ Max said.

  ‘The first building on the site was wooden, and burned down in the fourteenth century. They lost no time in starting on this one, though not everything you see is that old, by any means. There’ve been various alterations over the years, some more sympathetic than others.’ He nodded towards a table laden with pamphlets. ‘There’s a booklet over there, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Didn’t Royalist soldiers take refuge here during the Civil War?’

  ‘They did. We have one of Cromwell’s cannon balls in the vestry, if you’d like to take a look at it.’

  ‘Thank you, we should. I’m Rona Parish, by the way, and this is my husband. The reason we’re here is that I’m planning to write a series of articles on Buckford, to coincide with next year’s anniversary. I hope you’ll let
me interview you at some stage on parts of the church’s history that aren’t in the guide book – scandal among the clergy, and so on?’

  He laughed. ‘Plenty of scope there! Seriously, though, you’ll have stiff competition. I’ve already been approached more than once.’

  ‘I’m sure, but I want to concentrate on unusual or little-known facts. Each article will have a different theme – the town itself, then its churches, schools, and so on.’ She smiled. ‘You haven’t such a thing as a Fount of All Knowledge, have you? Someone who knows all there is to know about the place, and would be willing to talk to me?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve several of those. Old Miss Rosebury, across the square, has lived here all her life. I’m sure she’d be delighted to have a new audience for her stories. As to the schools, Catherine Bishop would have been your best bet, but she retired and moved away. She was head teacher of the local primary, which, under one guise or another, dates back several centuries. She actually compiled an archive on it – a kind of scrapbook crammed with all kinds of weird and wonderful facts. It was such a success, she was asked to do one for the grammar school and the college as well.’

  ‘She sounds ideal. Have you any idea where she went?’

  ‘All I remember is that her mother was an invalid and Catherine left to look after her. I could probably find out her address.’

  ‘If you could, it would be fantastic. I wonder – but we’ve already taken up enough of your time. I’m sure you have things to do.’

  ‘As it happens, Saturday’s my day off. I only came in to see if our cleaner had finished.’

  ‘Then we’re imposing on your free day,’ Max apologized.

  ‘Not at all. If I can help in any way, I’ll be delighted.’ He turned back to Rona. ‘You were going to ask something?’

  ‘It’s just that we live in Marsborough, which is rather a long way to commute. It seems more sensible to stay up here for a couple of nights a week, just while I’m gathering material, and I wondered if you could recommend any where?’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t—’ He broke off, frowning and rubbing his chin. ‘On second thoughts, though, perhaps I could, though I’d have to check first. How long are you here?’