‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, thank you. I shall enjoy using this.’ Her opinion of Verity did a turnaround; how generous of her to let this bottle be thus redirected.
‘I think most women like that fragrance,’ said Richard lightly.
‘I do, certainly,’ said Marigold, who, when younger, had sometimes sprayed herself with samples. Why shouldn’t she enjoy it now, just a tiny dab to add glamour for herself alone?
He took her around the garden after that, and while they were out there, the boys appeared and began kicking Terry’s football about. They were showing off, making a lot of noise, heading the ball to one another and toeing it as far as each was able.
Marigold admired their tree house.
‘They don’t use it much these days,’ said Richard.
‘How old are they?’ asked Marigold, and he told her.
‘Terry gave us an awful fright a few weeks ago,’ he said. ‘That’s why Justin was needling him at lunch. He and another boy, Mark Conway – he’s about a year younger than Terry – went to the park one Sunday and got into some scrap with a few older boys. It seems they took Terry’s ball and kicked it into the road. It caused damage to some cars and the boys might have been in trouble with the police, but luckily there was a witness who had seen what happened. Terry flew into a rage afterwards and didn’t come home. He was missing for hours. We had to call the police.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Marigold. She was horrified. ‘What a fright you must have had.’
‘Yes,’ said Richard. He did not tell her about the broken window.
Briefly, Marigold considered confessing that she was the mystery witness, but if she did so, what explanation could she give for not admitting to recognising Terry earlier? She and the boy had already connived at a deception. It had better stay that way.
While they were outside, Verity was in the drawing-room, finishing the sherry. She stood at the window gazing out over the garden where the two boys romped, co-operatively for the moment, and where her husband, in his waxed jacket, was walking towards the end of the garden with that weird old woman in her camel coat and speckled hat. They were talking animatedly.
He never talked like that to her. There he was, turning to look down at Marigold, and laughing.
Richard, remembering Marigold’s fine singing voice in church, had mentioned the choir of which he was a member and had asked her if she would like to join. They were giving a concert in the town hall the following Thursday. She should try to come.
Marigold promised to do her best, though her house move was taking place the following day.
‘I’m so lucky that they’re letting me move before completion,’ she said. ‘Everything’s signed, of course, and the solicitor will hold the money. I’d be very glad to join the choir if I’m found suitable.’
Watching them, Verity felt her anger rising. It was ridiculous, she knew, to feel jealous of a woman old enough to be her mother and who looked like a suet pudding, but she was.
13
Christmas passed relentlessly in prison. In the New Year, Alan Morton would be released on licence. To aid the process, he had been obliged to express remorse for killing June, when all he really felt was rage at his conviction. It wasn’t fair for him to be punished when she was the offender, deceiving him with Phil. Alan had convinced himself that she had meant to leave him. While serving his sentence, he had been a model prisoner, determined to avoid any action which might hinder his return to life outside, but he had made plans for the future. First came vengeance; next, total freedom, which implied escaping from the country.
While his mother was alive, he had bled her with emotional blackmail, painting hopeless prospects for the time when he got out unless he had some money put away. She had opened a building society account for him and had regularly paid in as much as she could put aside from her housekeeping allowance and the savings she had made when, after he grew up, she had returned to work. Before her marriage, she had been a secretary; she had revived her skills and found a post with a firm making furniture, and there she had stayed until his arrest. After that, she lost all heart, and soon, in any case, she reached retirement age.
Each time she came to see him, she told him what the sum now totalled, reminding him that he could adopt a new name easily; there was no need for any legal action. He could start again, wipe the slate clean and make amends in the years ahead. No one need find out about his past.
Her visits bored him, but he placated her with the assurances she sought and said he was following an educational programme, aiming at GCSEs in subjects which had eluded him at school. She chose to believe him, but it wasn’t true, though he did make an effort to learn Spanish. He was going to live in Spain after his release – Spain, or South America. When he had retrieved the gun, he would kill Phil Wickens who had seduced his wife and so caused Alan’s present plight; then he would rob a bank and with the proceeds go abroad. He had planned the bank raid with another man who would be freed soon after Alan; they’d met at the open prison where the last part of their sentences were being served.
It would have been so easy if the old man hadn’t died. A visit, a quick trip to the garden after dark, then bingo. After that, if the old man turned his toes up, not to worry: Alan would be on his way and somehow his inheritance would follow him. He hadn’t worked out yet how that could be arranged but there would be an answer. As he would not have been responsible for Tom’s death, there would be no ban on his inheriting the estate, and though he might have left the country illegally, he would not be a wanted man because he would not be connected with the bank robbery. He and Mick would leave no traces.
Before his last leave expired, he had been to Billerton, spying out the land. He’d stolen a car to drive there, one he’d found parked in a street near the school. He’d learned a lot in prison, and how to steal cars was among his new accomplishments. He’d picked an old one; newer models weren’t so easy to lift.
Phil Wickens was married. He had two children and was making a success of running the farm. No doubt his father had died. Well, learning his habits and picking him off with the shotgun would be easy. Or maybe he’d kill the wife and cripple Phil; that might be a better punishment. He’d have to catch them separately as he might need two shots for each of them. That would leave plenty of cartridges for the bank job. They’d saw the barrel off the gun for that; Mick knew more about guns than Alan and he’d regretted that it was not a more powerful weapon. Alan toyed with the idea of shooting him after the raid and going off with all the stolen money, but Mick knew about false passports and where to hide; he was more useful as an ally than a corpse. But perhaps all he needed was a visitor’s passport, obtainable over the Post Office counter on production of some documents. The solicitor acting for his cousin had told him that the house was to be sold and that such papers were safely in his office. They could be collected at Alan’s convenience. Soon, it would be most convenient.
How dared the old man leave it all to Penny! What a stab in the back that was, a blow to a man already down. And to think that she would sell the house! He could have settled there, become a respected member of the community, found a new wife, started a business, had the chance he needed to get his life organised. Plenty of people prospered after a spell inside.
Alan had spent hours brooding, turning it over in his mind, working up his anger.
He’d get the gun, whoever had bought the house. No one was going to stop him.
Mark had enjoyed Christmas. His mother and he had left home very early, arriving at The Golden Accord in time for breakfast. He’d already undone his stocking, and had given his mother some soap he’d chosen on Sharon’s advice; it was a success and she was delighted. His present, which was waiting at the hotel so that he could ride it in the grounds, was a mountain bike. Peter, the chef’s son, already had a good bike and they had ridden round together. The whole day was a festival. There had been a conjuror and there were games Mark and Peter and some other staff childr
en had joined in. The new manager was more tolerant than the last; he said he wanted people to be happy. Mark rather liked him. His name was David and he’d given Mark and the resident staffs’ children presents. Mark’s and Peter’s were tool kits for their bikes, so he must have known that Mark would need one. The bike was exactly the right size.
Peter told Mark that David was sweet on his mum.
‘P’raps they’ll get married,’ said Peter’s older sister, Hazel. It was she, hearing her own mother talking, who had identified the situation. Mark was too young to work out that this accounted for his own presence in the hotel over Christmas, and the freedom he had been allowed.
Once or twice there had been men who had called at the house, given Mum flowers, all that stuff, but none had come more than two or three times. Mum didn’t have a boyfriend, like, for instance, Sharon.
‘We’re all right, the two of us,’ she’d often said.
He’d agreed with her, but occasionally he felt the burden of responsibility; Mum had no one else. Of course he would look after her when she got old and feeble, and he meant to work hard, get a good job and earn lots of money so that she could take things easy, but it would all depend on him. Some help might be a good idea. He thought about it a bit, in bed that night: it would mean David being with them all the time. Would he mind that? He didn’t know. David seemed quite nice.
But Mum hadn’t mentioned it at all; she was no different. He decided to forget about it, which was easy when they went home after the weekend. They’d gone to see Scrooge, just him and Mum and Kylie in the end; Ivy was too busy. He’d enjoyed it; it was a sad story with a happy ending when the horrid miser saw the error of his ways. They’d had several days together before his mother had to go on duty once again.
He’d finished Swallows and Amazons, which he’d taken from The Willows, and had exchanged it for Coot Club, which he must return; the house would still be empty so he could go on borrowing books. Ivy said she’d heard The Willows had been sold but she didn’t know who had bought it.
‘They won’t be moving in yet,’ she had said. ‘These things take time.’
Ivy was worrying about Sharon. She had a new boyfriend, a young chap no older than herself, not working at the moment but intending to become a lorry driver. You had to have a special licence for that and Ivy thought you needed several years’ driving experience before you could apply, which he hadn’t had. He’d spent several nights in Sharon’s room with her and the baby, which wasn’t right. Ivy had spoken to Sharon who had lost her temper and said she was entitled to some fun and that Keith cared about her. Ivy thought he cared more for her own good cooking and for rent-free accommodation. The next thing would be another baby and a second absent father. Sharon was so careless. What if Keith and Adam’s own father, Jason, coincided on a visit? Then the sparks would fly.
Ivy was too busy with the present to dwell on these difficult problems. Two of the children she used to meet from school had moved away, but she had a new toddler to take care of all day. He had to get accustomed to her, be made to feel safe and happy. Sharon’s baby fitted in with him, but where was Sharon’s help? She was often out now, alleging she was job-hunting. Maybe she was.
Young Mark scarcely seemed to need her, except for eating up his tea with gusto. Susan might save herself some money by cutting down the time he spent, officially, with her. She was working more conventional hours now, and spent fewer nights away from home. Most days, she was back by eight at the latest. The new manager and her promotion had made a difference to her timetable. Still, Mark could get into mischief if he was on his own, free to run wild, though even now he had a busy social life; after his tea he often went to various friends such as Terry Gardner.
For Justin and Terry, once the novelty of their presents had worn off, the holidays dragged. Their stepfather spent hours in his workshop, sculpting away at his wood, or reading in his study, emerging at intervals to see about food if their mother was not functioning. Unlike many offices, Richard’s opened between Christmas and the New Year, to his relief. How her children spent their time then was up to Verity; she should make plans for them and take them out. She knew he would provide the cash.
Justin thought Terry’s trick of running off that night had been stupid. There were other ways to harass people and cause them grief. You could make bogus telephone calls, pretending there were bombs in shops, or that you’d seen a thief in action, or you could light a fire, run away and come back to watch the firemen put it out: just a little fire, not one to cause a lot of damage. It would be a breeze.
When his mother had set Cat’s books alight Justin had found it first frightening, then exciting. Cat had dealt with it quite quickly, but she must have been so cross with him to do a thing like that. It would have served Cat right to lose the lot. The older boys Justin had started to go around with in town got up to various tricks. They not only stole cars to drive for thrills, but lifted things from shops. Justin admired their daring.
Richard had been looking forward to seeing Caroline again. He hoped to spend a few hours in her flat one evening soon, not specifically to make love, though he’d be happy if things worked out like that. He simply wanted to be in a place where he felt easy, to enjoy domestic minutes free from wondering what the next crisis would be and how best to handle it.
Caroline told him she had enjoyed the Christmas break but soon disappointed him.
‘I’m sorry, Richard – I’m busy every evening,’ she declared, on the first day back.
People were, of course: it was the time for entertaining. Even he had his concert, hurrying home on an early train on Thursday. Miss Darwin should be in the audience. She had written a prompt letter of thanks to Verity; her handwriting was small and angular, like that of a classical scholar. Perhaps she was a classical scholar. It had been delivered while they were out.
He worried that Verity might stage a drama to prevent him going to the concert; a wrist-slitting had stopped him on a previous occasion. This time, though, she had forgotten about his plans and he was able to come home, have a quick shower, shave and put on his dinner jacket without alarms, then make himself a sandwich. There was still plenty of ham left; he had bought a huge piece of cooked gammon which, with the remains of the turkey, should keep the household going till he shopped again.
Ready to leave, conscience made him look in at the studio. Rapt, Verity was busy painting. On her easel stood a canvas depicting willows bending in the wind and stormy clouds above troubled grey waters where a small boat tossed; in it, threatened by alarming waves, a female figure lay, Ophelia-like, her head thrown back, reeds clasped in her hand. What troubled thoughts had prompted this? How allegorical was it? When he first met Verity, some of her work had been garish in tone, gaudy colours used for clothes and buildings, and for landscapes, like tropical scenes; now everything was sombre. Perhaps this represented her change of mood from hope to despair. Was he responsible for that? Surely, at first, they had shared moments of joy? Now, they seemed to bring out the worst in one another; there were times when he felt like strangling her and he could understand the rage that led to violence. So far, he had always managed to walk away.
She did not look up when he entered the studio. Perhaps she really hadn’t seen him. He left a Post-It note on the fridge to say where he had gone; then, banishing his gloomy thoughts, he set off to the concert. Tonight, he would think only of the music.
He saw Miss Darwin sitting in the audience. She had on the maroon dress she had worn on Christmas Day and her serious hair was regimented across her forehead, going into frizzy curls around her head. Was it a desperate perm, he wondered, or had nature dealt her this grizzled wire? He smiled at her as the overture began, the choir in echelon above the orchestra, which was composed of local amateurs and the best players from the school. She nodded in acknowledgement. After that, he forgot her.
Marigold enjoyed the concert. The singers were, she knew, heedless of everything except the music, voices blending,
surrendering to the sound they were creating. It was a sort of rapture; she imagined sexual love might be like that. It was the only way in which she had ever let herself go, and even then, the mingled voices were under the rule of the conductor.
The crisp, cold weather had broken and it was wet again. She put up her umbrella as she left the town hall and set forth homewards. Tomorrow she was moving. The Willows was empty now, with everything removed except a few items which it had been agreed that she could buy, notably the contents of the garden shed; she would need a full set of gardening tools and these had looked to be in good condition. She was taking the existing curtains and carpets; changes could be made later. She was excited: she admitted it, just to herself.
Richard, driving slowly out of the market square where he had parked, saw her trudging along. That determined stride, the rather flat feet in low-heeled shoes, toes turned out, the sober raincoat and the plastic hood over her head under the umbrella which the gusting wind was catching, could belong to no one else.
He slowed down and offered her a lift.
‘You are kind,’ she said, accepting gratefully.
‘Half a mile can be a long way on a night like this,’ said Richard. ‘Did you enjoy the concert?’
‘Yes. It was glorious.’
He was surprised to hear her use such an extreme word; moderation, he had sensed, was her mode.
‘I’ll let you know when rehearsals for the Easter concert begin,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they’ll love to have you, if you want to join. Something to plan for, eh?’
‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I’d like to.’
‘You move tomorrow, don’t you? What weather for it. I hope it clears up by then.’
‘At least they haven’t got to load,’ said Marigold. ‘Everything’s in store. I’ve only got a few things at the bungalow.’
‘You’ll soon get straight,’ said Richard heartily. Had she anyone to help her? The removal men would do it all, he supposed.
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