Jigsaw

by Anthea Fraser

  Emerging from the car park, she turned right rather than continue over the junction into the clogged thoroughfare of Guild Street. She drove as she did everything else, competently and calmly, and, having negotiated Alban Road, wove her way unhesitatingly through the maze of little streets to her new bungalow.

  ‘Good God, Mother!’ Daniel had exclaimed on his first visit. ‘You need a map and compass to find this place!’

  For herself, she preferred her home to be tucked away in a close, rather than on a busy main road, as her mother’s had been. It afforded her the sense of privacy that, over the last fourteen years, had become so essential to her. Odd, really, to think how her character had changed since her husband’s death. When Neil had so tragically and so unbelievably died at forty-two, the torrent of emotions she’d felt had seriously alarmed her, and for a while she had feared for her sanity. Anguish, fury at the fates and searing loneliness had vied for supremacy, but for the sake of twelve-year-old Daniel she succumbed to them only when alone.

  During those terrible months she’d grown increasingly paranoid about allowing anyone other than her son to come close. Even her mother, whose open weeping for Neil at first embarrassed and then irritated her, had been held figuratively at arm’s length. She had been, she now admitted, selfish in her grief, resentful of anyone else expressing a sense of loss, and gradually family and friends had stepped back, withholding open expressions of sympathy in admiration for what they saw as her courage and strength of character. They knew nothing of the endless nights she’d spend ranting in impotent fury and soaking her pillow with her tears. And gradually, month by month, year by year, the calm front she presented to the world had become grafted on to her personality, screening her from any involvement that might, in some unforeseen way, inflict future hurt. She could not withstand it a second time.

  No one suspected, either, just how bitterly she’d resented having to leave St Stephen’s and come back to Marsborough to nurse her mother. In fact, she thought now, the bank manager, whom she barely knew, was the only one who’d expressed understanding. ‘It must have been a wrench,’ he’d said.

  Indeed, the sense of loss in giving up a true vocation to nurse a fretful and ungrateful old woman had been insupportable. But then they’d never been close. Mary Jessop, fifteen years her husband’s junior, had played the part of child bride until her death at seventy-six, and in her teens Catherine had frequently been embarrassed by her ‘little girl’ attitude, her kittenish behaviour towards her husband and – to be frank – any other men with whom she came in contact.

  Regrettably, therefore, she had shed few tears at her mother’s death. Perhaps she’d gone to the other extreme and her detachment had become cold-heartedness. Whatever, it had allowed her to go dry-eyed through her mother’s effects and put up for sale the house in which she’d been born. Its position on the main road, coupled with its nearness to schools and the station, had ensured a quick sale at what Catherine considered a phenomenal price, and she had found the bungalow with a minimum of fuss.

  She’d not had a home of her own since leaving Buckford; her personal things had been in storage during the eighteen months that she’d nursed her mother, and she enjoyed having them about her again. The Buckford house hadn’t been large, and almost everything fitted in here. The few pieces that had not found homes – a wardrobe, a wall mirror and a wrought-iron table – Daniel and Jenny had been pleased to take.

  She turned into her driveway and garaged the car, pausing as she walked up the path to survey the small garden over which she’d been labouring. It was at last beginning to repay her efforts, and the effects of months of neglect under previous ownership were being overtaken by a profusion of scent and colour.

  And now, she thought as she closed the front door, she must decide what to take with her to Paris. She went into her bedroom and had just taken down her suitcase when the phone rang.

  ‘Mrs Bishop?’ said an unfamiliar voice. ‘This is Rona Parish. You were kind enough to give my father your number.’

  Catherine sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Yes of course, Miss Parish. I believe you’d like to talk about Buckford?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’d be delighted. As I told your father, I’m off to Paris for a long weekend, but I’ll be free on Tuesday, if that would suit you?’

  Rona hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ll be spending half the week in Buckford for the time being. Could we possibly make it Thursday, a week today?’

  ‘Of course. If you’ve a pen handy, I’ll give you my address.’ She did so, but when she started on directions, Rona cut her short.

  ‘It’s all right, I know where it is. I have friends in Barrington Road.’

  ‘Fine; about ten thirty, then? In the meantime, if you’re going up to Buckford is there anything I can help with? Names and addresses, for instance, of people you’re hoping to contact?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Rona said slowly. ‘As it happens, I’d been hoping to start with education. It’s not straightforward histories of the schools I’m after, so much as interesting sidelights – an eccentric headmaster, famous former pupils, and so on. It’ll have to be condensed into one article, since that’s all I can spare on any one subject, but I hope to give each school a mention.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I suppose there aren’t any scandals you can regale me with?’

  ‘Not without consulting my lawyer! Seriously, though, I can give you their addresses and suggest whom you should contact.’

  ‘That would be great. How many schools are there?’

  ‘Let’s see; there’s a private kindergarten, a Roman Catholic primary, St Stephen’s, of course, two secondary schools and a sixth-form college, though that’s relatively recent. And, of course, the estimable Buckford College. I’m pretty sure the names I have are up to date; I keep in touch with friends up there, and I’d have heard if there’d been any changes. If you think it would help, you could mention my name.’

  Immediately after the call, Rona rang her father.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Mrs Bishop, and she was great,’ she reported. ‘She’s given me a string of names and addresses so I can arrange appointments at the schools.’

  ‘I’m glad she could help,’ Tom said. ‘She’s a fan of yours, by the way; she’s read several of your books. I’ll be interested to hear in due course what you think of her.’

  ‘Thanks so much for putting in a word for me, Pops. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ Tom replied. Which, in every sense, was true.

  Friday evening was warm and sunny, and Max had elected to have a barbecue.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve been in summer before,’ Dinah said, looking approvingly round the patio garden. ‘How very attractive you’ve made this, with all the pots and statues.’

  ‘It’s not much more than a backyard really,’ Rona answered deprecatingly. ‘Nothing like your glorious garden.’

  ‘But a lot less trouble, I’ll bet!’ Barnie put in feelingly.

  ‘I particularly like the way you’ve contrasted shapes and colours,’ Dinah continued. ‘And scent! Just smell those stocks! I’ve always wanted a walled garden.’

  ‘Now she tells me!’ Barnie said humorously.

  They all laughed, but Rona was acutely aware of the tension just below the surface. ‘How’s Mel?’ she asked quietly.

  The Trents exchanged glances.

  ‘Not good,’ Barnie admitted. ‘Dinah’s considering flying out there.’

  ‘We were going anyway when the baby’s born,’ Dinah added, ‘but I’m wondering if I’d be more use now. She’s having to take a lot of bed rest, and poor little Sam doesn’t understand why she can’t play with him.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘It’s very difficult, being so far away.’

  Rona murmured understanding. She’d never seen Dinah so subdued. A small, dynamic woman with wiry black hair and a surprisingly deep voice, she was usually a whirlwind of energy, sweeping everyone
along with her enthusiasm. The Trents were a good ten years older than Max and herself, but Barnie, renowned at Chiltern Life for his short fuse, had been kind to her when she first joined the magazine, and after she met Dinah at an office party, a deep friendship had developed which, before her marriage, had involved frequent invitations to supper at their home. She still went over occasionally when Max was working, and Gus had a longstanding truce with the couple’s Siamese cats.

  Max had lit the barbecue and Barnie was helping him carry trays of prepared meat, fish and vegetables out to the waiting table.

  ‘Barnie tells me you’re about to visit my home town,’ Dinah said, sipping her drink, and, at Rona’s enquiring look, added, ‘You didn’t know I come from Buckford?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I’ll be able to pump you, then.’

  Dinah shrugged. ‘I doubt if I’d be much use to you. I haven’t lived there for thirty-odd years.’

  ‘But it’s the history I’m interested in,’ Rona pointed out.

  ‘Thanks! That makes me feel my age!’

  ‘Seriously, Dinah. For instance, where did you go to school?’

  ‘A local kindergarten, and then the college.’

  ‘Buckford College?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised! Actually, we were the first proper intake of girls. They’d only been allowed into the sixth form before.’

  ‘Who was the head?’

  ‘A man called Peter Rillington. He kept parrots, would you believe?’

  Rona clapped her hands delightedly. ‘That’s just the kind of thing I want!’

  ‘One day the wretched things got out, and he had us all scrambling round the grounds trying to catch them.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Some of them, and the rest made their way back when they got hungry. Needless to say, the head’s nickname was Polly.’

  ‘That really is great. Would you mind if I popped round one day with a tape recorder?’

  ‘Not at all, if you think it’s worth it.’

  ‘Come on, girls!’ Max called. ‘The steaks are nearly ready.’

  What with Catherine Bishop and now Dinah, Rona reflected as she picked up a plate, she could probably have saved herself the trouble of staying in Buckford.

  Lindsey had booked seats for that evening at the Darcy Hall, where a visiting Russian ballet corps was performing Swan Lake. As she walked into the foyer with Hugh, she was reminded of the time she and Rona had met Rob Stuart, a man she’d subsequently fallen for, and who had turned out to be very different from what she’d supposed. God, why did she have such bad luck with her men? she wondered irritably. Why couldn’t she be like Rona, and settle happily with the right one?

  Hugh was looking good this evening; his blue shirt matched his eyes, and his usually pale face had a wash of colour. Though whatever his appearance, she thought wryly, the attraction between them never faltered. How much simpler life would be, if that weren’t so.

  The magic of music and dance enfolded her, and Lindsey relaxed, putting her worries on hold. It wasn’t until much later, after their love-making, in fact, that they reappeared in full force. Hugh’s fingers had been moving gently over her and she was on the edge of sleep when he said softly, ‘I’ve some news for you, darling; I’ve been saving it till the time was right, and it seems to me it couldn’t be better.’

  She frowned drowsily. ‘What kind of news?’

  ‘Our period of rationing is over; soon we’ll be able to make love any time we want.’

  Suddenly awake, she moved her head sharply to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My transfer’s come through, sweetheart; I’m moving back to Marsborough at the end of the month.’

  She said stupidly, ‘But – you can’t.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘What do you mean, I can’t? I can and I am. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘But – where will you live?’

  His fingers stilled on her body. ‘You are joking?’

  ‘No, Hugh, I’m not.’ Lindsey heard her voice rising and made an effort to control it. ‘I’ve said all along that we can’t get back together.’

  ‘Just what the hell do you think we’ve been doing, every weekend for the last three months?’

  ‘I mean not permanently. I’m not going to marry you again.’

  ‘I don’t remember asking you,’ he said nastily. ‘Well, I must say, this isn’t the reaction I expected.’

  ‘Then it should have been. I’ve made it perfectly clear from the start.’

  ‘What you’ve made clear, my love, is that every time we meet, you can’t wait to tear my clothes off.’

  ‘It works well as it is,’ she said, humbled by the truth of his words. ‘Why change it?’

  He snorted. ‘If you imagine I’m going to settle for a Rona–Max solution, you’re very much mistaken. We belong together, Lindsey. You know it as well as I do, so what’s the point in fighting it?’

  ‘I don’t want to live with you,’ she said stubbornly, hearing her voice tremble.

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘No, Hugh, I won’t. This is my flat, and I don’t want you here. Not permanently.’

  ‘And what the hell would I tell the firm? Here I’ve been, moving heaven and earth to come back to my loving ex-wife, and now she refuses to have me.’

  She sat up, clutching the sheet to her breast. ‘I think you’d better go.’

  ‘At one in the morning? Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘To the guest room, at least; the bed’s made up.’

  ‘I’m not going to any bloody guest room,’ he said furiously.

  ‘Then I will.’ She slid her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh. I did tell you, you know I did.’

  ‘That was in the early days. Anyway, I’ve changed.’ He stretched out a hand and she took a step backwards, out of his reach. ‘I know I have a temper, it goes with my red hair, but it doesn’t mean anything. Being away from you made me realize how much I miss and want you, and you might as well admit it, you want me, too.’

  ‘Not permanently,’ she repeated weakly. Since he was making no move to get up, she added, ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ and, catching up her robe, hurried out of the room. A shaft of moonlight lit her way as she ran across the landing, half-expecting to hear him coming after her. She reached the guest room, closed the door, and stood listening, heart thumping. There was no sound, and after a moment she moved woodenly to the bed, pulled back the covers, and crept between the cold sheets. What in the name of goodness was she going to do now?

  The doorbell rang at ten o’clock the next morning, while Max and Rona were having a lazy breakfast in their dressing gowns.

  ‘Who the hell can that be?’ he grumbled. ‘The post’s been, hasn’t it?’

  Rona nodded. ‘You go; you’re more respectable than I am.’

  He got up and with bad grace went barefoot up the basement stairs. Rona heard voices in the hall and a minute later Max called, ‘Rona? I think you’d better come up.’

  Rona frowned, put down the paper and followed him upstairs, to find Lindsey in the hall.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I thought Hugh was coming up?’

  Lindsey burst into tears. Rona looked helplessly at Max, who shrugged his shoulders, said, ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ and thankfully disappeared back down the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry to spoil your Saturday,’ Lindsey sobbed, ‘but I’m frantic, Ro. I don’t know what to do.’

  Rona took her arm and led her into the sitting room, where the curtains were still drawn and last night’s coffee cups on the table.

  She pulled back the curtains, motioned Lindsey to the sofa, and sat down beside her. ‘Now, tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Hugh’s transfer’s come through. He’s coming back to Marsborough.’ Lindsey looked at her tragically with swimming eyes.

  ‘Oh God,’ Rona said flatly. ‘And I suppose you never got round to te
lling him in so many words that you didn’t want him back?’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘We had the most awful row last night. I – I slept in the guest room. This morning he was all white and po-faced and I told him to leave.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Eventually, but he made it clear this isn’t the end of it. He says he’ll be a laughing stock, having moved heaven and earth, as he put it, to get back here. Go on – tell me it’s my own fault.’

  ‘Well, you did want to have your cake and eat it,’ Rona reminded her, aware of sounding pious.

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Lindsey demanded rebelliously.

  ‘Nothing, if you can get away with it.’

  They looked at each other for a minute then, unwillingly, Lindsey smiled.

  ‘That’s better. In the meantime you’ve sent him packing, and at least he’s not in any doubt any more.’ She paused. ‘When’s he moving back?’

  ‘The end of the month. But suppose he turns up as usual next Friday? What should I do?’

  ‘Arrange to be out,’ Rona said crisply. ‘Better still, go away for the weekend.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Linz! Stay with a friend, go to a health spa – anything to be out of Marsborough.’

  ‘But I can’t go away every weekend,’ Lindsey said plaintively.

  ‘At least it will give you time to decide what to do.’

  Lindsey nodded and slowly got to her feet. ‘OK. Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘There’s no need to rush off. Come down and have some coffee.’

  She shook her head. ‘Max doesn’t want interrupting with my woes. I’m all right. There’s some work I could be doing, anyway. Don’t worry, Ro, I’ll survive. I just wanted a bit of TLC, that’s all.’