by MARY HOCKING
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you. It’s no use arguing with Patsy – just say you will go and then cry off at the last minute.’
‘And be subject to constant rebuke afterwards? I tell you, Hugh, I have nightmares about the nuclear winter, sitting holed up with Patsy in her gas cape telling me it has all come to pass just as she prophesied.’
‘There is something very uncomfortable about absolute moral rightness, I know that. And I think it probably does more harm than good to any cause. But Patsy doesn’t mean to hurt anyone. It’s just that she suffers from the simple solution syndrome.’
Dr Potter had suggested that Patsy was a prisoner locked in a pattern of behaviour from which she could not escape. But what is that to me? he thought. She didn’t love me. If she had loved me, at my touch she would have been freed from her prison. That was all that was expected of knights errant, simply to touch the woman. That, and the killing of a few dragons on the way . . . He experienced the faintness of extreme weariness as he thought of these things. Instinctively, he looked out of the window, seeking, beyond this room in which the faded green velvet chairs, the silk-tasselled lampshade, the china figures on the mantelpiece and the photographs in their silver frames, all contributed to an atmosphere of languid regret, something to record in his diary which would redeem the day from failure. Deutzia’s gardener had laboured lovingly on the long flower border. In the early evening light, huge orange poppies, bold purple lupins, yellow iris and soft umber pansies all shimmered with that radiance – perhaps an effect of the angle of light – which makes each brilliant petal and every green leaf seem stencilled on the blue of the sky. He recalled how this morning, walking down the lane, he had seen buttercups on a green verge, their stalks barely visible, so that the bright flowers seemed to leap in the air. He was conscious of the great energy which had been loosed in life and sitting in this decorous room, he felt that both he and Deutzia were observers of a feast to which they had not been invited – or had refused to participate.
Deutzia was saying, ‘They are sharp enough when it comes to their own interest. When the council was thinking of developing that meadow just beyond the stream, Patsy and her friends all protested as loudly as their Conservative neighbours – in the name of the environment, of course.’
‘Didn’t you protest?’
‘Yes, because I like my view. But then, I am spoiled and selfish.’ She not infrequently made this sort of statement, needing a robust denial. He, however, was silent, angered not so much by her refusal to help his mother as by the old resentments and feelings of inadequacy which her talk of Patsy had stirred up within him.
She said, ‘This is a very small place, Hugh, and I cannot stand, I have never been able to stand, other people’s displeasure. It is weak of me, I know, but I am very sensitive.’
He saw, looking at her flushed, crumpled face, that she was genuinely unhappy. Earlier on, she had referred to a couple whom she could not neglect, but no reference had been made to the needs of her own children. It would seem that she had accepted that to them she was merely a nuisance. Hugh recalled that she had not been a loving mother, but it seemed hard that accounts should be rendered so late in life, long past the possibility of redeeming the debts. He said gently, ‘I am truly sorry, Deutzia. It was wrong of me to have spoken of claims.’
Deutzia folded her handkerchief and tucked it carefully in her sleeve. ‘Has your mother asked for me?’
‘She doesn’t ask for anyone – not even us.’
‘Has your father asked for me?’
‘My father seems to be trying to manage on his own.’
Deutzia said, ‘If they had asked, I might have come.’ There was a hint of sadness in her voice. One might almost have thought that, for a moment, she regretted that this effort was not to be demanded of her.
When he left one of Deutzia’s neighbours was cutting the grass and its dusty smell sweetened the air. He felt again that sense of the energy to which every common weed attested – the Church taught that this energy was love, but if it was frustrated or refused, what then became of it?
Murdoch watched a woman turn over a pile of avocado pears, then walk away looking angry. He stared down at the pears, wondering what had made her so angry. Tentatively, he prodded one. It was hard. He prodded a number of them. All hard. But there were so many – surely supermarkets would not waste this amount of space with a display of unripe fruit? He passed on to the pineapples where he found himself standing beside the angry woman who was tearing at a leaf at the base of one of the pineapples. He deduced from the contemptuous way in which she threw it down that the leaf should have come away more readily. He wondered why she had not simply squeezed the pineapple. Perhaps constant pummelling, while acceptable for avocados, was not good for pineapples? He picked one up and pulled at a leaf which came away at once. He could smell the juice. The woman gave him a furious look. Pineapple was not on his list, tinned or otherwise, but he had no mind to give up his prize and he put the pineapple in the trolley and moved on.
He consulted his list. Only a few items remained to track down. Capers was one of them. Janet did not like capers but Stephanie did and as Stephanie was coming to stay Janet had said that he should buy capers. He could not see why, but as it was the longest conversation they had had in a week it seemed important that he should do as she asked. An exhaustive search revealed capers in vinegar. Did they always come in vinegar? Nothing had been said about bottled capers. A young man was advancing towards him pushing a huge trolley loaded with reinforcements for the shelves, his manner conveying much of the contempt for human life displayed by the railway porter, but his vehicle, having no warning buzzer, giving the quarry even less chance to escape before impact. Murdoch pushed his trolley sideways across the aisle and stepped away smartly. The collision had more effect on the store’s overloaded trolley than on Murdoch’s more modest one and a cascade of tins, packets of tea and sugar, and cartons of milk fell on the floor. One of the milk cartons broke open. The young man came round the side of the trolley spoiling for battle. He was an angry young man but not a brave one and something about Murdoch’s waiting stance reminded him of a wrestler he had seen at a fair. The man had taken on all comers with small damage to himself. The most intimidating thing about him had been the way his feet were planted on the ground as though only an earthquake could shift them. The young man’s face crimsoned with the effort of controlling his temper.
Murdoch, well aware that apology would lose him his advantage, said unconcernedly, ‘I wanted to ask you – have you any dried capers?’
The young man said through closed teeth, ‘The dried goods are in the next bay.’
‘Thank you. Now if you could move your trolley a little to the right I could extricate mine.’
‘Anything to oblige.’ The young man jerked the rail of the trolley viciously and it turned on its side, tumbling the remainder of its ill-balanced load onto the floor.
Murdoch pushed his trolley to the next bay. The dried goods consisted of apricots, prunes, figs, dates and a miscellany which even he realised would be unlikely to include capers. However, he saw that he was near the pasta section and made a selection of macaroni and spaghetti before returning to the scene of the collision. Here the manager greeted him with upraised hand like a policeman on point duty. ‘If you don’t mind, sir. The floor is rather slippery.’ An elderly woman coated in milk was being helped away. Murdoch said, ‘Perhaps you could hand me a bottle of capers.’
The manager picked his way daintily to the shelf. When he returned with a bottle of capers he was looking thoughtful. ‘Aren’t you the gentleman whose wife was taken ill here a few weeks ago?’
Murdoch said, ‘More importantly, I am the gentleman who was rammed by one of your assistants who was in charge of a vehicle over which he had inadequate control.’
The manager turned on his heel, not a wise manoeuvre in the circumstances. He slipped and sought to steady himself on the now empty trolley which took off at sp
eed down the length of the bay, the manager skidding behind it. Murdoch watched as they approached the T junction where, perhaps in an effort to avoid collision with the oncoming poultry stall, the manager flung out an arm and grabbed the egg rack with foreseeable consequences. Murdoch walked away.
‘Oh, that manager!’ a woman exclaimed. ‘He’s not up to it. I’ve said that all along. They appoint them too young and now he’s gone off his head.’
The tone of sorrowful pleasure was unmistakable. Murdoch turned to her. ‘Mrs Pringle!’
She gave a start and gathered her shopping bag to her breast like a shield.
‘You haven’t been to us for the last couple of weeks.’
‘It’s my sister,’ she said. ‘She’s not well.’
‘You’ve never failed us before,’ Murdoch said, ignoring what he had no difficulty in recognising as a red herring.
‘She has these upsets.’
‘Don’t you want to come any more? If not, say so.’
‘And it’s a large house. She can’t manage all on her own.’
‘Can we expect you next week?’
‘I said to her, “You ought to find somewhere smaller”.’
‘And why, if you couldn’t come, didn’t you let us know?’
‘It’s all very well, putting everything on me.’ These were tears in Mrs Pringle’s eyes. ‘I told her, “I’m getting older,” I said, “I can’t do as much as I once did”.’ She backed, weeping, into one of the check-out stalls.
Murdoch was aware of the girls in the check-out stalls averting their eyes, he could almost hear them praying, ‘Please don’t let him come to me!’
He walked down to the far end of the stalls where a middle-aged cashier was intent on helping an old man put his purchases in his shopping bag.
‘No, that’s yours, Mr Perry,’ she said in a jolly voice. ‘You’ve just paid for it, dear, so you don’t want to give it back to me, do you?’
Murdoch unloaded his trolley and she began to ring up the purchases while keeping one eye on the old man who was furtively trying to unload his shopping bag. She paused to beckon a young assistant. ‘Take him outside, will you, Robin. He’s all right once he gets outside.’
She turned back to Murdoch. ‘Sorry, dear. Oh! This is a Nine Items Only queue. Didn’t you see the notice?’
Murdoch said meekly that he had not seen the notice and the woman behind him sighed.
‘Well, I’ve started, so I’ll have to take them now.’ She dealt briskly with the purchases and said, clearly and slowly, ‘Twenty-one pounds and fifty-three pence.’
Murdoch took out his chequebook. The woman behind him sighed again. The cashier said, ‘No cheques at this counter, dear. Not at the Nine Items Only counter.’
Murdoch took out his wallet. His fingers were trembling and the woman had to separate the five pound notes for him: there were only three. ‘Is that all you have, dear? Nothing in your trouser pocket? Oh well, we’ll have to have a cheque then, won’t we, as I’ve rung it all up. You do have a banker’s card, do you, dear?’
As he fumbled for his card, watched contemptuously by the woman behind, Murdoch thought that he knew how Janet had felt when she sat on the floor among the grapefruit. On the whole, he thought it had been quite a sensible thing for her to do. He found the card and when his cheque had been accepted, he managed to load up the trolley and wheel it out to the car without the cashier having to summon Robin to his assistance.
As he drove out of the car park he saw the old man standing looking around him vacantly. The old man might well have found a place in one of Murdoch’s books had he felt him, but on this occasion he saw him. He braked and, ignoring impatient hooting from the car behind, called to the old man. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ The old man came obediently forward. It occurred to Murdoch afterwards, but not at that moment, that the old man was probably taken to the town’s House of Friendship during the week and imagined himself to be on the way there. For whatever reason, he allowed himself to be installed in the back seat – Murdoch did not think the business of negotiating a seat belt in the front was within his compass. ‘Where?’ he asked, as he drove forward, ‘do you live?’
The old man looked cunning. This, of course, Murdoch should have foreseen.
Back in die supermarket he managed to attract the attention of Robin. ‘He only lives a few blocks away.’ He gave the address.
The old man had got out of the car, leaving his purchases behind, by the time Murdoch returned. It took some time to find him.
A few blocks away it might be on foot, but not, thanks to the town’s intricate one way system, by car.
‘Are we going to have a sing-song?’ the old man asked as the car crawled down the crowded high street. ‘I like it when we have a sing-song.’
‘Perhaps you would like to sing now?’ Murdoch suggested, hoping thereby to alleviate any regret the old man might feel on finding himself in his own home with no musical diversion in prospect.
‘I can sing “White Wings”,’ and the old man began to sing in a quavering but surprisingly sweet voice, ‘ “White wings, they never grow weary . . .” ’
Twenty minutes later Murdoch stopped the car in front of a small terraced house facing immediately onto the pavement. He stood waiting patiently while the old man fumbled for his key. After a time the old man lost interest and stood looking vacantly down the street. ‘Where be the chapel, then?’ he asked.
‘They have pulled it down to build that block of flats,’ Murdoch said. ‘Did you go there?’
‘No, I went to The Black Bull.’
The front door had a handle. Murdoch tried it and the door opened. The old man went in.
Ten minutes later, driving out of the town, a disturbing thought occurred to Murdoch. He stopped in a lay-by and examined the back seat. Then he turned the car and drove back to the town. The front door had been secured and he could not summon the old man, but the woman next door took the purchases from him.
‘Been at it again, has he, the naughty old thing?’ she said kindly.
‘Does he have any family?’
‘Not that you’d notice.’
Whereas, Murdoch thought, as he drove away, I seem to be noticing rather too much. He was upset and when he reached the lay-by he stopped the car again. He sat hunched over the wheel, his head resting on his folded arms. After quite a long time a helmeted head appeared at the window.
‘In trouble, sir?’
‘To everything there is a season. Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.’
There were no fumes of drink and the constable was shortly going off duty. He decided to treat this as a piece of harmless eccentricity. ‘Then I’ll leave you to get on with it, sir, so long as it’s in your own back garden that you’re thinking of having a bonfire.’
‘You are constantly answering unseen challengers. How did you get yourself in this state?’ Dr Potter asked.
In any contest, the person who plays on the home ground has the advantage and this holds true not only of sport but of social engagements. The hostess is mistress of her domain, the guest who does not conform to her will is more likely to undermine her own confidence than that of the lady of the house. It had been a mistake, Stephanie acknowledged grimly, to insist that there was no need for her to come to Dr Potter’s consulting room since what she had in mind was an informal talk between fellow professionals. That ‘fellow professionals’ had been another mistake – psychiatrists being so morbidly jealous of psychologists that they could not acknowledge that their work was in any way comparable. The unfortunate result of these mistakes was that Stephanie was now seated in Dr Potter’s living room.
Dr Potter lived in an old farmhouse situated at the end of a long, narrow, unmade-up lane with no turning places. Anyone would have thought that tradesmen and postal services would have refused delivery but, judging by the number of times which Stephanie had had to reverse down the lane, this was not the case. She had arrived in sight of the farmhouse late and
in a state of nervous and physical tension. On seeing yet another vehicle about to come through the farm gate she had hooted vigorously thus causing violent disturbance within a horsebox. The driver of the vehicle had descended and addressed Stephanie in language wholly unacceptable in a woman – and Stephanie had no little experience of the grey areas of acceptability. She was aware that Dr Potter housed several ex-convicts in her home, but this woman, a small, coppery vixen, had laid about her with that air of complete confidence which one imagined to have characterised landowners in the days of serfdom. Stephanie could only conclude that this was the woman with whom Dr Potter lived.
When the occupant of the horsebox had been appeased and towed away at funereal speed, Stephanie had got out of the car, only to be threatened by two sheepdogs who came hurtling out of a barn followed by a scrawny young woman who seemed to have come to watch the fun rather than with any intention of rendering aid. Stephanie, who was a magistrate, could not remember having heard that Dr Potter had come up before the bench charged with owning a dangerous dog. She had pursued her way, not exactly undaunted, but with some determination and had reached the front door with no greater misfortune than having trodden in a cow pat.
‘You should look where you are walking on a farm,’ Dr Potter had greeted her.
‘I was too busy keeping an eye on your dogs, since your “farm hand” did not seem disposed to call them off.’
‘A lot of resentment to be worked through there, I am afraid. But I don’t need to explain that to you.’
Dr Potter had led the way into a big room with lattice windows which would catch the western light. At this hour of the morning it was dark. The floor was stone-flagged with rugs cast about here and there to trip the unwary. Stephanie and Dr Potter had seated themselves on either side of a large brick fireplace with a pile of logs to one side of the empty hearth. It was too warm to need a fire. Even so, Stephanie, who had grown up in a house where the lighting of fires was an essential to winter warmth and comfort and therefore a symbol of love and care, had experienced a feeling of desolation as though the hour and the season had conspired against her.