Jenny shied away from her thoughts. She didn’t feel up to reliving all those horrors yet, she would concentrate on the nice things, Simon’s anxious face, Robert’s carnations, breakfast.
Simon talked to her as she ate, but he stood at the window with his back to her watching his parents’ house.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked.
“No, everything’s fine,” he told her quickly. “Margaret says I’m to leave you alone until lunchtime, but I’ll be around, keeping an eye on things, so don’t worry.”
Breakfasted, Jenny could feel a delicious languor stealing over her, so she let him go without any qualms and drifted into sleep.
When she woke again, the sun had gone from het window and her unwound clock had stopped, but she felt tired of bed. She would get up, dress, she thought, and remembered with dismay her lost clothes. What had Bernard Hawker done with them? She wondered. Thrown them down in the churchyard for the police to find? He was spiteful enough to wish to implicate her. She didn’t think there were any obvious marks of identification, no school name tapes, anyway! No handbag or wallet.
Margaret seemed very glad to see her. She offered remedies of every description and insisted on Jenny having a glass of red wine with her lunch.
“Simon’s eating with Rosemary,” she explained. “He says that she’s hit a new low. He’s worried about Nigel too and says that he’s paranoid. Of course grown-up children do have this theory that their parents are incapable wrecks; impotent, senile, ‘past it,’ but actually we’re just as good, except that our brains and reactions slow up a bit.”
Simon reappeared after lunch and his face brightened when he saw Jenny dressed and apparently in good fettle.
“You look as though nothing had happened,” he said happily. “What a recovery!” And relieved of his anxiety for her, he confessed to his other problems. “The old man has six outsize bags of pesticide in the trunk of the car,” he told her gloomily. “He doesn’t know that I’ve spotted it.”
“Pesticide?” asked Jenny. “But couldn’t he have bought it for the garden? To kill slugs or caterpillars or something? My father’s always buying things to murder greenfly.”
“But he’s got enough there to exterminate every bug in two hundred acres. He couldn’t possibly need that much. And it’s pretty lethal stuff. I daren’t take my eye off him.”
Jenny felt a hopeless inertia blanket her, she had no suggestion to offer. She realized that she hadn’t recovered from yesterday, all her initiative had vanished. She looked helplessly at Simon.
“It’s all right, I’m organized,” he said. “The Mini’s out in the drive ready for action. I’ve filled her up and checked the oil, water and battery. All I can do now is to jump aboard and roar in pursuit. If I lose him, well, I lose him, but there are only two ways he can go, so I may be lucky.”
“Can I come?” asked Jenny anxiously. “I know I won’t be much use, but I don’t want to stay here. Margaret and I together might defeat Bernard, but if he brought the others…” she shuddered.
“I’m sure you shouldn’t rush about after all that dope, but I suppose it could be the lesser of two evils,” said Simon. “He may not go into action today, but if he plans to get the Easter holiday makers he’s got to act soon. You’d better warn Margaret that you’re coming with me and we’ll leave in a hurry. I told her that I had suspicions of the old man, but she only made pooh-poohing noises, as though she was about ninety, and reburied her head in the sand. I went and saw my parents’ doctor too. And he doesn’t believe that there’s anything wrong. He said that ‘mother’s troubles were usual in women of her age’ – treated me as if I’d never heard of the menopause – and that ‘father’s outpourings about the tourists were an excellent sign, he had an outlet, a safety valve. It was only people who bottled things up who came to grief.’ It sounded to me a bit like that old theory that those who talk about suicide don’t do it and that’s been proved wrong.
“Look, give me your coat, Jenny, and your flashlight and anything else you might want. I’ll put them in the car, ready for a quick getaway.”
Jenny got her coat and a thick sweater and went to warn her employer.
Margaret said, “You seem to be making a rapid recovery, but don’t overdo it chasing Nigel around Cornwall. He’s probably bought this weed killer stuff for his veterinary girl friend and I’m sure sons often have this feeling that their fathers are mad old men. A delayed Oedipus complex as like as not.”
They waited. Jenny tried to read, but her mind insisted on wandering off – reliving snatches of yesterday’s horrors or worrying about Simon and Nigel.
They ate curried chicken for dinner and afterward, Margaret watched television while Jenny fought with sleep, nodding in front of the set. At eleven, Margaret switched it off.
“You’re not going to be so absurd as to sit up all night, I hope,” she said.
“Simon said he’d slip over and tell me the moment his father went to bed,” Jenny explained, “but usually he goes at half-past ten.”
“Well, rather you than me,” said Margaret yawning. “Anyway, I’m off. Don’t forget to put the lights out.”
Jenny had opened her mouth to say “Good night” when there was a crashing knock on the front door and Simon’s voice shouted, “Jenny!” through the letter box. Jenny shot out of the house and found him waiting in the car with the engine running and the passenger door open. She flung herself in and they roared up the drive.
“Watch for headlights,” said Simon. “Oh yes, look, in the village.” He swung to the right. “I hope it is him. They were the only lights, but it’s odd that he’s heading for the sea.”
“Perhaps he’s going to see his veterinary girlfriend,” suggested Jenny sleepily. “It would be rather nice, I mean we wouldn’t have to do anything about that.”
She suddenly felt that all this mad activity was beyond her, she couldn’t cope. Simon must deal with it. And the knowledge that he could and would seemed very sweet. She tightened her seat belt and then let sleep overpower her.
She woke as the car bumped slowly along a narrow track. Simon was driving without lights, relying on the moon. The car ahead stopped. Simon pulled quickly into the side and turned off the engine. They waited in silence. Nigel got out, fumbled in the back of his car and produced a large saw, then he took the path to the cove below.
“I’m going to park beyond him,” said Simon, “because I think he’ll just turn and drive back – this track doesn’t lead anywhere. Do you want to stay in the car, Jenny? We can lock the doors and I shan’t be long. I just want to see what he’s up to. If he’s collecting firewood for next winter we can go home.”
Jenny decided to stay. She still had this terrible need of sleep and she didn’t see how Bernard could find her here. Simon left her the keys and then woke her with a tapping on the window; his face had fallen into lines of unaccustomed gloom.
“He has sawn down the ‘No bathing. Dangerous Currents’ notice at the foot of the track. I waited until I saw him chuck it into the undergrowth, then I ran back; he won’t be long.”
“Oh dear.” Jenny assimilated the news slowly. “That’s what he meant by cramps.”
“Shush,” Simon held up a warning hand. There were faint rustling noises followed by the slam of the car door, lights and the sudden uproar of an engine. The could hear him turning. Simon edged the Mini forward and followed.
Jenny felt more alert. It was definite now, Nigel was going to make certain that his spell worked, he wasn’t trusting to witchcraft. She supposed that someone could rush down and put the no bathing notice up in the morning, but what else was he going to do?
They were driving inland now, for a time, Jenny toyed with the hope that he’d done his night’s work and was going home, but then she realized that he was heading too far north. They had crossed half the moor and were almost at the main road when he stopped, taking them by surprise. Simon turned hastily up a farm lane and, with Jenny at his heels, ra
n back to the road. Nigel had parked neatly in a gateway and they could see him ahead walking briskly toward the main road, carrying a parcel. There wasn’t much traffic, a trickle of cars and trucks, but he waited at the comer until the road was clear and then crossed quickly to the other side. Walking toward Bodmin he began to scatter the contents of a large brown paper bag on the left hand lane of the road.
“What is he doing?” asked Jenny. “It looks as though he’s sowing com. ‘We plough the fields and scatter…’”
“Corn isn’t shiny and doesn’t give metallic tinkles,” said Simon gloomily. “They look like nails to me. God he’s a monster. All those wretched people who left the Midlands and London after work will begin to arrive here soon. There’ll be rows of them with punctures all around. Come on, let’s get back to the Mini, we don’t want him to see us when he turns around.”
They took the Mini to the end of the lane and waited. Presently, they heard Nigel slam his car door.
He turned and drove slowly past them. They crossed the moor again. It was looking wild and beautiful and very primitive under the moon. I shall never see a moon again without thinking of witches, thought Jenny. Now they were high up and among farmland and Nigel was driving with less certainty. Simon pursued in fits and starts switching the fights off and on as he caught up or fell behind. At last, Nigel stopped at a small deserted cross roads beside a wood. Simon reversed hastily putting the Mini out of sight behind a sheltering bend. They got out and crept along the side. Nigel was unloading a bag of pesticide from the trunk. He had parked outside a tall wicket gate, set in an even taller wire-mesh fence. He carried the bag to the gate and, with considerable effort, heaved it up and finally over. It landed with a soggy plop on the far side. Jenny and Simon advanced as near as they dared and then crouched, huddled together, in the ditch. Nigel worked on doggedly, but with more and more frequent stops to rest or mop his brow. When the sixth bag was over, he produced a short aluminum ladder from the back of the car and propping it against the gate, he climbed over and pulled it after him. Jenny and Simon crept nearer. They could hear his heavy breathing as he manhandled the plastic sacks clear of the gate and then, heaving one up on his shoulders he marched away into the shadows. Jenny and Simon hurried to the gate; beside it was a large notice board which read
NORTH CORNWALL WATER BOARD
PRIVATE. KEEP OUT.
“We’ll have to stop him this time,” said Simon grimly. “Pesticide in the water supply could be lethal. And I bet they skip some of the pollution tests over public holidays. Where’d he put that ladder?” The ladder was propped against the fence, but within reach and he managed to drag it back and over the gate. He climbed up, dropped down and turned to help Jenny. There was no sign yet of Nigel coming back for another load.
“Let’s start by chucking this lot out,” said Simon grabbing a bag. Working together, they undid Nigel’s work in a few minutes and the five bags of pesticide lay in the road.
“Now we’d better see what he’s doing with the sixth one,” said Simon. They were in a grassy glade, shadowed by the wood across the road and the water board’s steep-sided grassy mound. They looked for Nigel and at last, Jenny saw him on the top of the reservoir, a thin, dark figure dimly silhouetted against the fading sky. Then he bent down and began to move about on all fours like a questing hound.
They crawled cautiously up the side of the reservoir and peered over the top. Nigel was trying to pry open a manhole cover with the claw of an outsize hammer. Suddenly, he abandoned the attempt and, muttering angrily, moved across to a fat ventilation pipe which ended in a protective curve. The mouth of the pipe seemed to be covered with mesh and Nigel attacked it viciously with hammer and wirecutters. His jabs were effective. Simon groaned softly and then moved nearer and watched as his father enlarged the hole. Soon it was large enough for him to insert a hand and, apparently pleased with what he found, he got up and fetched the sack of pesticide. Cutting open a corner, he began to feed the sack into the pipe, forcing it around the curve. Simon got up. Jenny stayed where she was, it would be better to leave the confrontation between father and son, she thought.
Simon said, “Now Dad, you can’t do that. You realize that you’ll kill every baby in Ermeporth?” Nigel started.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Watching you,” said Simon. “Look, be realistic, the healthy adults may get away with stomach pains and prickling hands and feet, but to the old and sick and the babies it could be lethal.”
Nigel continued to stuff the plastic sack up the pipe. “Someone has to do something to halt this invasion,” he said, assuming the voice of a responsible minority. “If they had acted sooner such harsh measures wouldn’t be necessary. But you can’t run everything for the weaklings; that’s a suicidal policy, that’s where the world is going wrong. These sociological attitudes are all that’s left of Christianity nowadays and they’re the worst part of it. We’ve got to get back to nature, to natural selection and the survival of the fittest. It’s no use sacrificing everything to present comfort and present happiness. We must all be prepared to suffer a little to ensure a worthwhile future. What do a few babies matter compared with keeping the place habitable?”
He was working away, squeezing the pesticide up the funnel he’d made into the pipe. In another moment the poisonous powder would enter the water supply. Simon bent down and pulled sharply at the sack.
“No, Dad. You can’t do it,” he said. “I won’t let you, it’s murder.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, leave it alone,” said Nigel trying to push him away. “You may be too sentimental to act, but I’m not. If you don’t like it just clear off and leave me to get on with the job.”
“No,” said Simon giving the sack a hefty tug and releasing it from the pipe. Nigel struck out at him.
Simon grabbed the open corner of the sack and Nigel grabbed him by the arm. They began to wrestle for the sack, lurching around the top of the reservoir.
Jenny moved nearer. Simon saw her and, snatching the sack from his father’s hold dropped it on the ground. While they fought on, Jenny grabbed it and dragged it after her down the side of the reservoir and along the grassy glade to the gate. Getting it over was another matter. She heaved it rung by rung up the ladder in front of her, balanced it on the gate and then pushed it over. She looked back, the men were fighting at the foot of the reservoir now. She dropped down into the road and ran for the Mini. Though she parked right beside them, the sacks were very heavy to load into the trunk. She heaved and struggled, keeping one eye on the wrestling Forrests. She realized that Simon was fighting a rearguard action, that the moment she had the car loaded, he could withdraw from this embarrassing battle. If only the sacks were lighter, she thought, propping the second one between her body and the car as she struggled to lift it in. As she maneuvered the third into heaving distance, Simon called, “You get ready to drive, Jenny, I’ll load the rest.”
“Half a minute,” she shouted. She didn’t see how he could load more than three bags in the time it would take Nigel to climb the gate. She heaved the third sack in, ran to the driver’s seat and hooted the horn. Simon broke off the fight and sprinted to the gate. He was over lengths before his father reached it, and pulled the ladder after him. Then he flung the remaining bags into the trunk, slammed it shut and propped the ladder back against the gate which a furious, but breathless and speechless Nigel was shaking fiercely.
“Where do I go?” asked Jenny, starting off along the unknown road.
“It doesn’t really matter, we just want to lose him.” Simon answered breathless too. “Don’t be too reckless; he won’t catch us unless you land us in a ditch.” He looked behind. “No sign so far.”
Presently, he said, “Let’s head for the sea, but keep to the wider roads, we don’t want to end in a farmyard. Steady, Jenny, he’s not on our tail; in fact there isn’t a sign of him, not a light to be seen. I think he’s gone home. Well, he won’t be able to get any more pes
ticide till after Easter, and if we can dump this lot somewhere safe maybe the urge will pass. But where, that’s the question? I don’t know anyone around here nowadays.”
“Why not the Cavendishes?” suggested Jenny. “Then we won’t have to do a lot of explaining.”
“Ermeporth,” said Simon, “and you know the house?”
“Umn,” Jenny nodded.
“It’s a good idea. I don’t suppose Robert’s going to like to be awakened at one thirty, but seeing that he’s a family friend and a fellow member of the coven…”
“Is it only half past one?” asked Jenny. “I feel as though this day had been going on forever.”
“Look, stop and let me drive,” said Simon.
Robert appeared sleep-ridden, wearing a resplendent silk dressing gown and prepared to be disagreeable. But his mood changed when he saw the sacks of pesticide and was told that he and the rest of Ermeporth would have been drinking them over Easter if Nigel had had his way.
“Christ!” he said. “It sounds as though he really has gone off his head. Actually in the reservoir? This isn’t funny. And what do you suppose he’s doing now?”
“Well, he hasn’t any more of this,” said Simon unloading the sacks, “or at least I searched Kilruthan pretty thoroughly and didn’t find any. I suppose he could be scattering nails anywhere and God knows what else he may have thought up.”
“I’ll come over,” decided Robert as they hauled the last sack into the house. “You go on, I’ll explain things to Mavis and dress and then I’ll come over. I don’t like the sound of this at all.”
Jenny went to sleep on the way back to St. Marla and only wakened as they plunged down the drive. “Do you think Margaret will give me a bed again?” Simon asked her. “I don’t think I can sleep in the same house as the old man after what’s happened.”
A Place With Two Faces Page 14