Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  Richard did not waste time expressing disapproval. Justin, as unpredictable as his mother, might have been rude if he had come with them. As it was, everyone else was, so far, being decorous in Miss Darwin’s pleasant room.

  Susan could not push from her mind the discovery that Steve might be the thief who had taken their hostess’ video, radio, and the decorated box: Steve, her own son’s companion, stepson of the trusted Ivy. All at once her arrangements for Mark had revealed major flaws; not only was he visiting people she had never heard of, but he was also spending time with Steve, who was dishonest. This must be faced and tackled before she went to work the following day. After leaving here, she would go straight round to Ivy’s once again. She longed to leave at once, not waste precious minutes chatting idly to these people, but she made an effort to be friendly.

  Richard tried to help. He mentioned two pictures which Verity had sold the year before, saying he was sorry to see them leave the house for the exhibition where they were bought.

  ‘That wasn’t what you said at the time,’ snapped Verity. ‘You said you were glad.’

  ‘I said I was pleased about your success,’ said Richard. ‘You would have been disappointed if they had not been sold.’

  She couldn’t know that he had bought them, secretly, trying to boost her confidence. While she was out, he had hidden them in sacking in the loft. How else could he dispose of them without detection? He could not bring himself to burn them or give them to some charity shop.

  He’d considered hanging them in his office, but he would not have been able to live with their gloomy purples and dull browns. There would have been comments from his colleagues, too, since by any standards the paintings were remarkable.

  Susan was too experienced to express a wish to see Verity’s work. She changed the subject.

  ‘We have all sorts of courses at the hotel,’ she said. ‘It’s a new venture, between conferences. We have a lot of them, and business visitors. Music is popular, too. We have concerts by good local amateurs.’

  ‘Quintets? That sort of thing?’ asked Richard helpfully, and Susan said that yes, they’d had quintets, and trios, but solo pianists were their most successful ventures.

  ‘Richard plays the piano,’ said Verity.

  ‘Do you?’ Susan asked. ‘How nice to be able to do that. You are a clever family,’ she managed, earning Marigold’s approval by this positive remark.

  ‘I’m not much good,’ said Richard. ‘But I enjoy it. Justin, Verity’s other son who hasn’t come today, plays well by ear.’

  Marigold helped them knock this ball back and forth for a short rally, then asked Verity, who was beginning to look sulky, if the family planned a holiday this summer. The Sunday papers were full of enticing advertisements for sunny climes; doubtless Richard exported his difficult relations to some foreign spot.

  ‘No,’ said Verity.

  ‘We’ve made no arrangements yet,’ said Richard. ‘Last year we went to Corfu.’

  ‘Yes, and me and Justin got really sunburnt,’ Terry said.

  ‘Did you? That must have been painful,’ Marigold replied. She peered into the teapot, which needed filling. ‘I’ll just go and fetch some more hot water,’ she said. ‘Mark, would you help me, please?’

  Mark, who had been silently stuffing, got up, still chewing, and followed her.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’ve got such a good appetite, Mark,’ she said.

  ‘We didn’t have a big lunch,’ Mark confided. ‘Mum usually cooks something good on Sunday nights when she’s in,’ he added loyally, but cooking was not Susan’s strong point. She had many of her meals at the hotel and had never bothered to acquire Ivy’s expertise.

  Miss Darwin boiled the kettle and topped up the teapot and the hot water jug. She showed Mark a key.

  ‘I had the locks changed yesterday,’ she said. ‘But I want you to feel that you can come here, just as you used to, when you want to. I’m not going to give this to you but we’ll keep it in a special hiding-place outside, where you can find it if you come here and I’m out. We’ll choose a place next time you come.’

  This might be a rash action on her part, but if she changed her mind, she could have extra locks fitted to the doors and windows and end the arrangement.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, beaming, and then added, ‘Miss Darwin, I know who took your box. I’ll get it back for you.’

  ‘The box doesn’t matter, Mark,’ said Marigold. ‘But the fact that it was stolen does. I think we both know who took it, don’t we?’ She should have thought of Steve earlier; of course he would have had access to his mother’s key.

  Mark nodded.

  ‘There were things before,’ he said, looking at the ground.

  ‘You mean he stole from Mr Morton?’

  ‘Not big things. Money, mostly,’ Mark said.

  ‘You weren’t happy about that, were you?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head.

  ‘We’ll talk about this another time,’ said Marigold. ‘Now we must go back to the others.’

  Mark’s mother had understood the situation; the miscreant boy’s stepmother was her child-minder. She might intervene. In her place, Marigold would have gone straight round to see the woman. Probably she would do exactly that.

  Marigold went to church resolved to postpone taking steps about it herself. Possibly the stolen property would be returned.

  22

  When she left The Willows, Susan’s intention, as Marigold anticipated, had been to confront Ivy once again, this time to demand that she challenge Steve about the burglary, but, driving off, she decided that an hour or so’s delay would make little difference to the result. She must ask Mark more about the box. Other things had been stolen, too; he might have seen the video recorder or the radio in Steve’s room.

  ‘We won’t need much supper after such a big tea,’ she said, adding, ‘I liked Miss Darwin.’

  Susan was good at assessing people, or so she thought, but now she was having doubts about Ivy, whom for years she had trusted. Elderly ladies often came to The Golden Accord for the cultural weekends, and Miss Darwin would have fitted in among them. She would expect good service and, having received it, would appreciate what was done for her. She would be civil to the staff, but not ingratiating, and would not respond well to any familiarity. She was, in fact, a person to respect.

  ‘I like her, too,’ said Mark. He had resolved to keep the matter of the new key a secret between himself and Miss Darwin. He hoped his mother wouldn’t raise the subject.

  She parked the car – they had no garage but there was hard standing outside the house – and they went indoors, where after they had shed their coats, she asked him about the stolen box.

  ‘You said Steve gave one just like it to Ivy. When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday. At least, that’s when I saw it,’ Mark replied.

  ‘Steve could have got into Miss Darwin’s house, couldn’t he? Ivy had a key.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mark nodded.

  ‘Do you think the box came from The Willows?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mark.

  ‘Stealing’s wrong. It’s a crime,’ said Susan. ‘People who do it and get caught can go to prison.’

  ‘Will that happen to Steve?’ asked Mark.

  ‘So you do think he’s the thief,’ said Susan.

  ‘He might say he’d bought the box.’

  ‘If so, to prove it, he’d have a receipt, or at least the shop might remember selling it to him,’ Susan said. ‘What about the video, Mark, and the radio?’

  Mark shrugged.

  ‘He could have sold them,’ he said.

  ‘I must go and talk to Ivy about this,’ said Susan. ‘You understand that, don’t you, Mark? It has to be sorted out, one way or the other.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mark wanted Miss Darwin to get her things back, and he thought Steve deserved to be caught. ‘Isn’t Steve too young to go to prison?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s not too young to get s
ome sort of punishment,’ said Susan. ‘I’ll go there now,’ she added. ‘You stay here. You can watch TV or put a video on. I won’t be long.’

  Mark was glad to stay behind. He did not want to witness Ivy’s reaction to the news of Steve’s crimes. When his mother had gone, he put on the tape of The Secret Garden, which Ivy had recorded for Sharon years ago. She had lent it to him. He liked the scene where Mary gave Colin a piece of her mind and he realised how selfish he was being. Perhaps that was what Steve needed: a piece of Ivy’s mind.

  Richard knew that Verity had not liked Susan Conway. As they drove away from The Willows, she made quite sure that he understood her views.

  ‘What a waste of time,’ she said. ‘Miss Darwin’s a boring old witch and that silly person, Mark’s mother, made me sick, pouring on the oil all afternoon, buttering her up.’

  ‘Miss Darwin wanted to return our hospitality, and she thought it would be useful if you met Susan Conway,’ he replied austerely.

  ‘So she’s Susan, is she?’ Verity had heard Richard use Susan’s first name at The Willows.

  ‘Well, of course she’s Susan.’ Richard answered, exasperated. ‘Everyone uses first names these days.’

  ‘Except Miss Darwin,’ said Verity.

  Marigold had begun formally, until Susan, won round because the old woman was clearly fond of Mark, asked to be called by her first name. No one, however, had been so casual with Miss Darwin, not even Richard, who had discovered her unlikely name when she joined the choir.

  ‘She’s of that generation,’ he said, turning in at their gate. ‘I wonder where Justin is,’ he added, trying to divert Verity’s grievance on to familiar ground.

  ‘He’ll come home when he’s ready,’ was her answer.

  Sensing that his mother was spoiling for a fight, Terry disappeared as soon as they entered the house. He’d found the tea party boring, but most things involving adults were.

  ‘It was rude of him not to have come with us,’ Richard said, despite the fact that he had welcomed Justin’s absence and proceeding to provoke inevitable conflict.

  ‘Why should he? Miss Darwin is your friend. So’s dear Susan,’ Verity pursued. ‘That’s where you go when you’re late home, I suppose. I should have guessed. Well, if she’s your type, you’re welcome to her – nasty, common little barmaid.’

  Richard took a deep breath.

  ‘I first met Susan Conway after Terry disappeared,’ he said. ‘This was only the second time I’ve seen her. Her son and yours are friends. That’s all. Why do you have to invent plots and mysteries and jealousies, upsetting everyone?’

  ‘I saw how you looked at her,’ said Verity. ‘As if . . .’ she sought about for a metaphor. ‘As if you could eat her up – lick cream from her navel,’ she added wildly.

  Richard had never licked anything from anybody’s navel.

  ‘I give up,’ he said, turning away. He’d go out to his workshop. Chipping at some timber would relieve his feelings. He’d taken up carving not only as a hobby but as a means of letting out his anger.

  ‘You stay here when I want to talk to you,’ cried Verity as he moved towards the door. ‘You humiliate me by your affairs with other women. That Susan’s a tart – she’s a whore, that’s what she is, working on her back in that hotel. It’s probably a brothel.’

  Richard, stung at last, said, ‘You’re contemptible.’ Where did these foul thoughts of hers originate? He raised his fist.

  ‘Yes – hit me – go on,’ Verity taunted him, thrusting out her pelvis. ‘That’s what you’d like to do, isn’t it?’

  Yes, he would. Richard glowered at her but he lowered his hand. So far, he had never lost control, and he did not mean to do so now. He turned his back and as he left the room, she picked up a china figure from a side table and flung it after him. It hit him on the shoulder, not his head, at which she had aimed, then fell to the ground, shattering into several fragments.

  Pity, he thought, walking on into the night. That was the second piece of Meissen she had smashed. The security light came on as he walked across the garden to his workshop. The key was on a ring in his pocket, with his car keys. Tonight, on impulse, he locked himself inside, something he rarely did, and when, some minutes later, Verity came banging on the door, yelling at him and swearing, he made no response. She’d cool down eventually, perhaps get a drink if she could find some alcohol. Then she’d weep, but she never apologised for these scenes.

  No wonder the boys’ father had taken off, he thought, not for the first time.

  He picked up a chisel and a mallet and began chipping at a block of wood held in the vice on his bench. He chipped and chipped, to no design, while outside in the garden, Verity shrieked and cursed. She’d give up in the end, and go away.

  She did.

  Justin had known his mother would fly into one of her rages either at The Willows or afterwards. He knew her so well because he was like that himself. Sometimes he was frightened by his own violent feelings, which he could not understand.

  She got angry when Cat was calm and took no notice of her temper or her outrageous remarks. Justin knew they were outrageous, but she was driven to make them because of Cat’s cool nature. At school, Justin would taunt other boys, trying to wind them up and start a row; if he failed, he longed to punch them, and sometimes he did, gratified by the reaction – either a fight, or tears. He was often in trouble because of this behaviour, but even at primary school, it had brought him to the attention of some older boys – Bruce and Greg in particular – and now they sometimes used him to watch their backs when they went thieving out of cars at the station or on shoplifting jaunts further afield. Steve Burton was also on the fringe of their gang and he had done a major job the other night, bringing in a VCR and a radio for Greg’s brother to sell.

  Justin was impressed. If he could do something like that, he’d earn respect from the older boys. Perhaps stealing a car would impress them, and it would be easier. Setting a fire would be easier still, and exciting.

  He’d been there when they lit the barn. He’d gone to the station, vaguely planning another assault on Cat’s Montego, and they’d turned up to steal a car. They’d taken him along and he’d seen Steve carry the petrol, heard the whoosh as the flames went up in a great roar, felt the thrill as the fire caught. They’d made a job of it, unlike Mum when she tried to burn Cat’s books that time. Justin had been posted as the look-out; they’d taken him back to the station where he’d left his bike and dropped him there, then driven off. He didn’t know what they’d done about the car; torched it, probably, after dropping Steve.

  That afternoon, Cat had asked him where he was going.

  ‘Out,’ Justin had answered.

  ‘You’re expected at Miss Darwin’s,’ Cat had stated in that neutral tone which Justin found so irritating.

  ‘I’m not coming. It’ll be boring,’ Justin said.

  He’d seen Cat wondering whether to order him to go with them. If he did, Justin would defy him; he couldn’t imagine calm Cat physically forcing him to obey. Anyway, it wouldn’t be possible; Justin was five feet six now, and he could do some damage.

  Cat had turned to Verity.

  ‘Justin is refusing to come with us,’ he had said, expecting her to say he must fall into line, but Justin knew she wouldn’t.

  ‘I don’t see why he should,’ she’d said, quite mildly for her. ‘I don’t want to, either,’ she’d added. ‘You’re forcing me to go.’

  ‘No one’s forcing anyone,’ said Cat. Justin had heard the note of strangled patience in his voice. One day, Mum would push him too far and he’d lose his cool. ‘I just want you to allow Miss Darwin to bring you and Mark’s mother together, since the boys are such friends.’

  Were they, though? Justin thought Cat over-estimated the importance of the friendship but he knew Terry wasn’t popular; he hadn’t yet acquired the toughness needed for survival. Mark seemed to have it in his nature, and hanging out with him had helped Terry.

&nbs
p; ‘It’s a waste of an afternoon,’ his mother had protested.

  What else was she planning, Justin had wondered; did she mean to watch telly? Or get drunk? Or both? If she went out, it would keep her off the booze, at least.

  ‘You go, Mum, for Terry’s sake,’ he said, avuncularly. ‘Then you can feel good about it afterwards.’ And take it out on Cat, he thought, sloping off before any further effort could be made to stop him.

  He’d got no plans, but as he’d mentioned meeting Bruce, he went to find him, only to discover that he and two other boys were working on the wreck of an old car which one of them had bought for a few pounds. The parts could be cannibalised for other cars; they were dismembering the corpse and taking out the working vitals.

  This bored Justin. He thought stealing cars was amusing but he saw no point in spending a cold, damp afternoon getting filthy. Besides, there was a limit to how many heads could bend over one engine. He was told to clean off the various parts assembled on the ground, but this important task soon palled.

  ‘Got to go,’ he said, and left them.

  He could return to the empty house, which would be warm and where there was food and his computer, or he could watch a video. He’d seen some horrifying ones at Bruce’s house; he hadn’t liked them, they were too scary, though he’d laughed like the others at the gruesome bits. Maybe he’d go round to Steve’s place first, see if Steve would like to come back with him. Steve was all right, but he lived with all those women – his stepmother and Sharon, and that little kid Kylie. Justin wasn’t sure how they were all related. It was funny, really – none of them had the right fathers. Steve’s was dead; Justin and Terry’s had deserted them; Mark never mentioned his. Even Adam, Sharon’s baby, had no dad at home. The men should get together, live in packs, thought Justin. The women didn’t need them except to give them money and so they could get kids. Women seemed to like small kids, and the men needed the women for sex and to cook. Tribes: that was what was wanted, he decided, aiming for Ivy’s house where he knew there would be rich cake, jam tarts and a welcome. He’d been there several times.