18
When Rowan awoke the next morning Hal was still asleep at her side.
Quietly, so as not to disturb him, she got out of bed and without putting on her dressing gown went into the bathroom.
She dropped the used tampon into the lavatory bowl, flushed it away and took a fresh one from the cabinet. Her head ached. After she’d showered she took two Paracetamol tablets. She was running true to her usual pattern now; the headache, she knew, would soon go away. It was the only thing in the way of pain that ever accompanied her periods. It was the least part of her discomfort right now.
After she’d brushed her teeth she sat on the bathroom stool with her hands clasped in her lap. She didn’t want to go back to the bedroom. She didn’t want to face him.
Yesterday she had waited so eagerly for his return from London. She’d known all day that she’d tell him as soon as she could; she’d have to; she couldn’t keep it to herself. But the right time for telling him had never come. He’d been morose and preoccupied, responding to her questions about his trip with answers that were little more than curt phrases—which in turn had become monosyllables. He had shown no interest in anything. She had told him that Alison’s husband was due to arrive on Sunday and that she, Rowan, had invited them for dinner on that day. Did he, Hal, have any other plans? No, he’d briefly told her, he had not. She had then tried to gain a more positive response by telling him of her conversation with Mrs Palfrey when the old lady had reminisced about her past and the man Leclerc. Nothing, though, had been able to draw him out of his quiet preoccupation. They had eaten dinner almost in silence, and the Good News with which she had earlier been brimming over she had kept to herself.
As it had turned out, she now thought, it was as well that she had.
It was very soon after that dinner that she had suddenly realized, with horror, what was happening within her body. Quickly then she had left him and come upstairs, there discovering that the blood was already staining the inside of her jeans. For a long time she’d just stood in the bathroom and wept, leaning forward, face bent low, clutching the side of the wash-basin. Her mouth wide open, ugly, she had been racked by her sobs.
Afterwards, in bed, she’d taken two sleeping tablets. She hadn’t used such things for ages—but she didn’t want to be awake when he came up . . .
Now she rose from the stool and went back into the bedroom. It was almost seven-thirty. He lay with his eyes closed. She got dressed as quietly as she could. Moving back to the bed she reached out to pick up her wristwatch and his hand came out and closed over her arm. Not looking at him she remained quite still. After a moment he pulled her down so that she was sitting on the bed. Then his other hand came up and around her body.
‘Please,’ she said as she moved his hand away, ‘don’t touch me.’
Without looking back she got up and went from the room.
19
Tom Freeman straightened above the herbaceous border, stretching the old, tired muscles in his back. Time was catching up on him; it was on the point of overtaking. This garden was too much for a man of his years. Not that they were aware of that—and they wouldn’t be, either. As far as they knew the work was well within his capabilities. But there, what, with their limited experience, did they know? He’d convinced them, all right—at the beginning when they’d expressed doubts as to whether he was up to the work. He’d persuaded them that he was ideal. Well, he certainly had the necessary experience—and as for the physical requirements, well, he could fool them there for a while longer.
He stood still, catching his breath. There was a sharp pain in his lower back. He must have pulled a muscle on Wednesday when doing that heavy spade-work by the rockery. It was his own fault; he’d chosen to do it. This morning it had taken all his effort and will-power to drag himself out of bed.
He looked at his watch. Two-thirty. Not long to go now, then he could get off home and rest. Come Monday he should be feeling a lot better. Just as long as he could keep going for a while longer; then it would all be over and he could relax.
Hearing footsteps on the path he turned and saw Mrs Palfrey coming from the direction of the house. She was walking quite quickly, and after a glance at her face he stepped forward to meet her. She said as she drew near:
‘Mrs Graham’s asked me to tell you that you’re wanted on the phone.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘No.’ She turned and started off back along the path. He caught up with her.
‘Who’s in the house?’
‘Only her—with a face like a wet week.’
‘Didn’t he get back—from London?’
‘Yes. Sometime yesterday evening. He’s gone out again now, though. All quiet and tight-lipped. I don’t think things are going too well with them today.’
‘Why’s that? Have you any idea?’
‘None at all.’ She stopped and turned towards him. ‘I was up in his study just now—after he’d gone. He had the morning paper open on his desk. He’d left it there . . . The Times . . .’
‘Yes . . . ? So what?’
‘It was open to the property page . . . flats and houses in London.’ She paused. ‘I told you: he doesn’t like it here. He’s not happy.’
She turned away again and moved off. When they got to the back door of the house she stopped in the doorway and gestured to his feet.
‘Don’t you come tracking a lot of dirt onto my clean kitchen floor.’
Dutifully he wiped his shoes on the coarse mat by the step and then followed her inside. She pointed to the telephone on the wall and he crossed to it and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello—this is Tom Freeman. . . .’
‘Tom?’ the voice on the other end said, ‘this is Jim Cleary.’
‘—Oh, hello, Jim.’ As he spoke the man’s name he glanced across at Mrs Palfrey. She was standing by the sink, watching him; listening. Cleary’s voice continued in his ear:
‘I think you ought to call in here, Tom . . .’
‘Oh—you mean today?’
‘Of course today. As soon as you can.’ Cleary paused. ‘There’s a certain somebody here right now. And it’s the first time. God knows when he’ll decide to come in again.’
‘Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Well, it’s up to you.’
‘Yes, I’ll be there. Thanks, Jim—you’re a good friend. Oh, wait—listen—I don’t want to go in while he’s there.’
‘His bike is outside so you’ll easily know. I’d better go now; he’s waiting.’
Tom Freeman thanked him again and hung up the receiver. His hands trembled slightly. He turned to Mrs Palfrey. She was looking at him with a very faint little smile. As he moved towards the back door he saw Rowan approaching through the dining room. She was carrying an empty cup and saucer. She didn’t look very happy, he thought; Mrs Palfrey was right.
‘Did you get your phone call all right?’ Rowan asked.
‘Oh, yes, thank you, Mrs Graham.’
She nodded, put down the cup and saucer and started back.
‘Oh, Mrs Graham—’
She stopped, turned towards him. ‘Yes?’
‘—We’re going to need something for those darn slugs. They’re getting at the lettuces.’
‘Well—’ she shook her head helplessly, ‘—do you know what to get for them?’
‘Oh, yes. There’re some pellets I could get. They’ll do the trick.’
She nodded. ‘Well, you get whatever you think is right and we’ll settle up with you, as usual.’
‘Fine. I might as well go and get the stuff now.’
‘Whatever you think is best.’ She looked as if she didn’t want to be bothered.
When she had gone he said to Mrs Palfrey, shaking his head: ‘God, I don’t feel like walking into the village. My bloody back is killing me.’ He sighed. ‘Still, it’s got to be done.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. Then she added, ‘I’m already way ahead of you.’
He stopped; watched as she took up her handbag and withdrew from it a small change-purse. She beckoned to him with one finger and he went over to her. Out of the purse she took a little wad of Kleenex which she carefully opened and surreptitiously held up for his inspection.
‘When did you get those?’ he asked.
‘On Wednesday.’
‘How?’
‘It was the easiest thing in the world. She can’t do it herself, you see—not with her wrist like it is.’ Her smile came again. ‘Her accident—it could have been a disaster—but as it turned out it proved to be very fortunate—for me.’
‘So it seems.’
He watched as she wrapped the nail-parings again and returned them to her purse, then he turned away, crossed to the door and left the house.
After collecting his jacket from the shed he set off towards the village. By the time he’d crossed over the river and turned left into the High Street he was already out of breath.
As he passed among the familiar faces of the villagers he realized how glad he’d be to see the last of them. He thought back into his past. Moorstone hadn’t been the place for him then, and he’d got away from it was soon as he’d been able to. Many of the others were content to stay. Not he. Small, country villages were not for him; never had been; at least not to stay in for any length of time. While it served his purpose, though, he had to be content as well. Not long now and his purpose would be served, and he’d be away, on his travels. In his time he had travelled the world. That was the thing with him—travelling, discovering places he had never seen before. It was different nowadays, of course, when everyone travelled everywhere on their endless package tours. Today it was made much too easy; the fish-and-chips brigade turned up in the unlikeliest places. Yet none of them really knew what travelling was truly about. He did, though. And his chance had come again. Through his stertorous breathing he smiled. Not long now and he’d be off. That being so it would be goodbye to Moorstone—not forever, of course, but at least for a very long time.
As he drew closer to the barber’s shop he looked across the street and saw the bicycle propped against a lamp post.
On his left was a small bookshop. He pushed open the door and went in. After giving a preoccupied nod to the proprietor—he knew him well—he stationed himself by the window, took up a book at random, opened it and stood watching the door on the opposite side.
It was almost five minutes before Hal emerged, got onto his bicycle and pedalled away along the High Street. Tom Freeman put the book down, went outside and looked off to the right. He could see Hal moving past The Swan towards the river; a few seconds later he was gone from sight. Without waiting any longer Tom Freeman hurried to the other side of the road and opened the door beneath the sign that said James Cleary: Barber.
Cleary smiled at him as he entered. He was a tall, heavy-set man with fair hair and a tanned, handsome face. ‘I saw you across the street,’ he said, ‘going into Max Britton’s shop . . .’
Tom Freeman nodded and wordlessly turned his attention to the floor around the hairdressing chair where bits of shorn, dark hair lay scattered on the linoleum. Cleary said:
‘I swept the floor before I started so there’s nobody else’s there.’
‘Fine. Thank you.’
‘Did you know he was coming here today?’
‘No idea. But how should I know?’
‘Lucky you were there when I phoned, then.’
‘I’ll say. I’m grateful, Jim, I truly am.’ He stood looking down at the bits of hair. There was relief in his expression.
‘I’ll get you something to put it in.’ Cleary tore a paper towel from a roll and held it out to the old man. ‘Or would you like me to do it?’
‘No, no—I think it’s better if I do it.’ Tom Freeman took the towel from him, stooped and picked up several wisps of hair. Straightening again he folded up the paper into a neat little rectangle and put it carefully into his inside pocket. His face was pale.
‘Are you all right?’ Cleary asked a little anxiously.
‘Just let me sit down a minute.’ Tom Freeman walked to the worn leather bench by the wall and sat down.
‘Would you like some water or something?’
‘No, no, I’ll be all right. Just let me sit here and get my breath.’ He sat there with his hands hanging over the inside of his knees. ‘I’ve had a few of these turns lately,’ he said.
‘You’ve probably been overdoing it.’
‘There’s no doubt about that.’
Cleary sat on the small padded stool next to the barber’s chair. After a little silence he said, as if to fill the silence and make conversation: ‘He’s got a good head of hair.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘Looks generally very healthy, too.’
‘He is. We got the reports from the doctor. On both of them. Paul Cassen said they’re both fine specimens.’
‘That’s nice to know. He—your man—Mr Graham—was telling me he’d been reading about Lewis Childs in the paper. You know about him, I suppose.’
Tom Freeman nodded. His breathing was a little easier now and his colour was returning. ‘Shame about him,’ he said. ‘Haven’t given him much of a chance, by what I’ve heard.’
‘No, true, they didn’t.’
‘They didn’t? Is it—different now?’
Cleary shrugged. ‘It seems as though he’s going to be all right. Didn’t you read about it in the papers? He’s recovering very well by all accounts. Coming out soon, I believe.’
Tom Freeman shook his head. ‘I don’t read the papers, and nobody’s mentioned him to me. But why should they? I didn’t know him. He was gone by the time I got back.’ He sighed and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, I’d better get off. I’ve got to buy some slug pellets too; I almost forgot.’
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘A bit better.’ The old man moved to the door, gave Cleary a tired smile. ‘Thanks again, Jim—for everything.’
‘Don’t mention it. We have to look after each other.’
‘I’m grateful.’
Cleary smiled. ‘Come and have a haircut before you leave us.’
Tom Freeman’s smile grew momentarily brighter. ‘Yes, I’ll do that.’
He took his time getting back to Crispin’s House. On the way he thought of what Jim Cleary had said about Lewis Childs. It gave him a slightly uneasy feeling in his chest.
When he got to the house he met Rowan just coming out into the yard. She gave him the hint of a smile as she asked:
‘Did you get everything you wanted?’
‘Yes, I did.’ He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
20
Just after noon on Saturday Hal was cycling along the High Street when he saw Alison emerge from one of the shops. He called her name and she looked around and smiled as he brought his bicycle to a stop at the kerb. ‘Well, hello,’ she said, ‘and what are you up to?’
‘Oh . . .’ he shrugged, ‘I’ve just been to the stationer’s.’
‘I see you’ve had a haircut, too.’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Very neat.’ Indicating her shopping bag she added, ‘I’ve just been getting a few things for Miss Carroll.’
‘And have you finished?’
‘The shopping? Oh, yes; there wasn’t much to get.’
He gestured to The Swan across the street. ‘Would you like a drink?—if you’re not in a hurry . . .’
Following his glance she shook her head. ‘Uh—no, thanks—not in that place. No, I think I’ll head on back to The Laurels.’ She paused, smiling. ‘Tonight will be my last night there.’
‘Geoff gets back tomorrow, so Ro tells me.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And soon you’ll be off for foreign climes. Exciting for you.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Look,’ he said after a moment, ‘I might as well walk back with you. I’ve got nothing much to do . . .’
‘Okay, that�
�d be nice.’
He took her shopping bag, hung it over the handlebar and they set off along the High Street.
‘What have you got against The Swan?’ he said.
She hesitated for a moment and then told him about the elderly couple—the man and the blind woman—being refused accommodation there. ‘And I know there was any number of rooms vacant,’ she said. ‘I know that because I’d only just booked up for Geoff and me. I wish now I’d gone to some other hotel—maybe in another village.’ She shrugged. ‘Still—it’s done now.’
Her mention of the old couple struck a chord in him; he couldn’t think what it was. Then as he pondered she went on:
‘God, but this time is going slowly. You know, I’m just counting the hours till Geoff gets here. Silly, isn’t it? But I can’t help it.’
‘What time do you expect to see him?’
‘He phoned yesterday and gave me all the details of his flight and so on. We worked it out that he should be getting down here sometime after lunch—about half past two or three.’
‘How will he get down here? By train?’
‘No. He says he’ll hire a car in London—and book a hotel for us while he’s there.’
‘If you went to London to meet him you’d save him all that journey.’
‘Oh, I’ve got all my junk to get back. And apart from that I want you to meet him. By the way, it’s still all right for dinner tomorrow, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Good. I must phone Rowan in the morning and see what time she wants us. We left it rather up in the air.’
‘What time will you be leaving Miss Carroll’s?’
‘As soon as Geoff arrives. I shall get all my things packed ready. Then we’ll take it all straight over to The Swan. We’ll leave for London the next morning, I suppose.’
The Moorstone Sickness Page 14