Fall of a Philanderer

by Carola Dunn

  “That’s all right.” He helped himself to a home-baked roll still warm from the oven, and Belinda passed him the butter. “And this is all right! I haven’t had a chance to look about the town yet. The person who recommended Mrs. Anstruther’s to me mentioned a hotel called the Schooner Inn. Do you know it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Daisy said cautiously, “but until today it’s been raining since we arrived, so we haven’t done much exploring. The town’s tiny, though, more of an overgrown village, so I’m sure you can’t miss it.”

  “Ah. I thought I might pop in for a drink later. What have you girls been doing while it’s been raining?”

  “Playing games,” said Deva. “Mrs. Anstruther has lots. Do you know how to play pachisi? It’s an Indian game but it’s called Ludo in England.”

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “What about Halma?” asked Belinda. “It’s best to have an even number of people, so poor Mummy didn’t play.”

  Mr. Baskin grinned at Daisy, obviously guessing she had not been heartbroken at her exclusion. “I’ll be happy to challenge all comers at Halma this evening,” he proclaimed. “If that will suit Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Daisy agreed. After the morning’s exertions and an afternoon on the beach, the girls shouldn’t have enough energy to argue over every move, even if Baskin’s presence didn’t deter them. In the event, he played so brilliantly that he made Bel win one game and Deva the second, without either suspecting a thing. A clever man, Daisy thought, admiring his manoeuvres. She wondered if he would have given her the third game, had they played any longer. However, he went off for his drink.

  “Isn’t he a nice man, Mummy?”

  Daisy would have agreed wholeheartedly had it not been for his question about the Schooner Inn. Not that she had the slightest objection to his popping into a pub for a pint or a g-and-t or whatever his favourite tipple might be. But she fancied his frank bonhomie had suffered a slight eclipse when he mentioned the place.

  After Mrs. Hammett, however unlikable, had added her warning to Mrs. Anstruther’s, on top of Daisy’s uneasiness with the man himself, anyone in any way associated with George Enderby was to be mistrusted.

  3

  The sun shone again next day. Once again high tide covered the beach, and Daisy had less difficulty than she expected persuading the girls to walk in the cool of the morning. They took the track leading away from the town, up onto the high cliffs.

  The track soon became a narrow path across wiry, sheep-cropped grass, or between thickets of blackthorn and heather, with occasional outcrops of rock. After the long climb, Bel and Deva enjoyed lying back in the springy heather, eating chocolate, while Daisy enjoyed the spectacular view, along with her share of the chocolate. She was eating for two, after all.

  The sea was an unbelievable emerald hue, dotted with white sails. Besides the girls’ chatter, the only sounds were an occasional distant baa and the ecstatic song of a lark, invisible in the cloudless blue above.

  The girls soon recovered their energy and ran about exploring. Daisy sat on a fragrant patch of wild thyme and they brought her a miniature bouquet of autumn squills, harebells, and pink thrift to tuck in her buttonhole. Then Deva discovered what looked like a path down the cliff to a little cove.

  “May we go down, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Maybe there’s caves, and pirate treasure,” suggested Belinda.

  Daisy surveyed the upper part of the path, the lower part being invisible from the top—if it existed. It started out relatively wide and smooth, but soon narrowed, the surface turning to uneven bedrock and shale. The outer side was open to a sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the deep green sea. Breakers frothed white at the foot of the rocky headlands on either side of the cove, where gulls and gannets circled and swooped.

  The urge for exploration upon her, Daisy might have been willing to tackle the path if she hadn’t been pregnant. As it was, she said, “We’ll see. When your father gets here, we might do it. Just remember that if we go down, we have to climb up again.”

  By the time they returned to the guest-house, rather late for lunch, the tide was on the way out. The girls were itching to go to the reappearing sands, where what had been a lively, rushing stream after the rains had now calmed to dammable dimensions. They were also ravenous, in spite of the chocolate, and did full justice to salad, cold meat and baked potatoes in their jackets, not to mention the plum tart with Devonshire clotted cream.

  Afterwards, they ran off to the beach while Daisy sat on over a cup of coffee. She ought to write some picture-postcards, but she had forgotten to buy any at the newsagent yesterday.

  Mrs. Anstruther came in to clear the table, as Wednesday was her maid’s day off.

  “You look tired,” said Daisy. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee with me. Give me an excuse not to move.”

  “Well, I will, then.” Mrs. Anstruther took a cup and saucer from the sideboard and joined Daisy at the table. “To tell the truth, I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

  “Worry?”

  “I shouldn’t’ve said what I did yesterday.”

  “About George Enderby? You weren’t the only one to warn me against him.”

  “It’s a small town.” Stirring into her cup a spoonful of coloured coffee crystals, she stared despondently into the swirling liquid. “I suppose everyone knows about him and me.”

  “No names were mentioned. No women’s names, I mean.”

  “No?” Mrs. Anstruther perked up momentarily, then her shoulders slumped again. “But someone’s bound to know. Someone will decide Peter ought to know. If it was winter, I could go up to London to meet him. At least we’d have a couple of days together before he finds out. But with all three rooms let, I can’t desert my guests.”

  For an alarming moment, Daisy found herself on the verge of offering to run the house for a couple of days in the absence of the landlady. She caught herself just in time. If it had been only her and the girls, she might have, but with Donald Baskin in residence and Alec arriving, it simply wouldn’t do. Besides, Mrs. Anstruther did most of the cooking, and Daisy had never progressed much beyond scrambling eggs. Instead, she offered a wordless murmur of sympathy.

  “It seems like a bad dream now. He’s a cad. I can’t believe I ever thought he was charming, ever trusted a word he said. It’s no excuse, but I was lonely. Peter’s often away for months on end. I expect your husband comes home from the office every day in time for dinner.”

  “Actually, his hours are irregular and he’s often away for a few days. Never months, though.”

  “Is he a traveller? A commercial, I mean.”

  “No, a sort of civil servant.” Daisy had seen all too often how people looked askance at the wife of a policeman. “The trouble is not so much how long he’s away but that I never know in advance when he’s going! My work helps me stay sane.”

  “Yes, that’s why I take in paying guests, apart from the extra money. But that still leaves the winters. What do you do?”

  “I write. Articles for magazines. Actually, I do a certain amount of travelling myself, though not often or for very long. So Alec has to put up with my absences, as well as vice versa.”

  “What about Belinda? Doesn’t she mind?”

  “If we both happen to be away at the same time, which doesn’t happen often, she usually goes to stay with a school friend. In fact, bringing Deva with us is intended to be a part return for Mrs. Prasad’s kindness in taking care of Bel now and then. Of course, I get the best of the bargain, as the two of them keep each other occupied and leave me in peace!”

  Mrs. Anstruther smiled. At least Daisy had managed to take her mind off her troubles for a few minutes.

  She decided to quit while she was ahead. “Speaking of peace, I must use mine to write some picture-postcards. I’ll just pop round to the newsagents.”

  “There’s a better selection at the post office. I expect you’ll need stamps, too.”

  “The post
office it is, then.”

  “It’s just past the …” Mrs. Anstruther stopped, then appeared to brace herself. “Just past the Schooner Inn.”

  “I don’t suppose he’ll jump out and ravish me in the street,” Daisy said lightly.

  “No, of course not.” She shivered. “I’m beginning to turn him into a sort of bugbear. Do you know, I always do my shopping during licensing hours, when he’s indoors being the jolly landlord.”

  “That sounds to me like plain common sense.”

  “Do you think so? I feel so cowardly! You’re such a sensible person, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Why subject yourself to coming face to face with the rotter if you can avoid it?” Daisy finished her coffee and stood up. “I’d better get going or I won’t finish writing those cards in time for the evening post.”

  She went out the back way and down to the beach, to tell the girls where she was going. They were busy damming the stream with the aid of a couple of small boys and their father. The mother, knitting, looked on indulgently from a deck-chair. She smiled at Daisy and said, “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  “Thanks. I shan’t be long.”

  Walking along the track, Daisy met Sid with his cart and bade him good afternoon. In response, he waved his holey hat and grinned, then he raised a rusty mouth-organ to his lips and gave her a verse of “Widdecombe Fair” accompanied by a clumsy little dance. Daisy applauded. He bowed, and continued on his way.

  Daisy wondered what she should do if she met George Enderby. He hadn’t actually said anything overtly offensive to her. It had all been innuendo. Though his departure had been unmannerly, to cut him would lend too much importance to the brief episode. On the whole, she thought, a cool nod would do. She certainly wouldn’t fall into conversation with him again.

  Not that he’d want to talk to her, of course, now he knew she was encumbered with a pair of children.

  From the quayside, the main street ran uphill to the left. The newsagent was on the corner, next to a chintz-curtained tea-shop. Turning the corner, Daisy saw that the narrow, cobbled street was quite busy. She noted the contrast between the holiday-makers, women in bright cottons and men in blazers, and the residents in their staider everyday wear.

  Halfway up on the opposite side, the Schooner Inn’s three storeys loomed over its two-storeyed neighbours. An uncompromisingly rectangular building of grey stone with dark blue paintwork, it had a somewhat forbidding aspect relieved by window-boxes overflowing with scarlet geraniums. Over the door hung a gold-lettered sign on which a two-masted ship with triangular sails cut through an improbably blue sea. The door and windows were all wide open on this warm summer afternoon.

  Just beyond, Daisy saw the post office, its letter-box and telephone booth echoing the red of the geraniums. Crossing the street, she heard a buzz of voices from the hotel’s tap room. It sounded as if George Enderby had married into a flourishing business.

  The post office turned out to have a small lending library as well as postcards and other stationery. After choosing half a dozen postcards, Daisy spent some time browsing through the books. She selected a couple for herself and a couple she thought would appeal to the girls, paid the cost of a two-week subscription, and stepped out into the street.

  The public bar next door was quiet now, lunchtime licensing hours over. Three men stood chatting on the front step, two visitors and an aged inhabitant.

  A laden hand-barrow came up the hill. Daisy recognized the man pushing it as the porter who had taken the baggage from the quay to Mrs. Anstruther’s when they arrived on the motor-ferry from Abbotsford, the nearest railway station. A couple and three children followed the barrow. It stopped in front of the Schooner Inn and the three men on the doorstep moved aside.

  As Daisy started to cross the street, a raised female voice came through the window from the bar:

  “No, you are not going for a bloody walk! It’s Mrs. Penton’s day off, as you’d know if you took any interest in running the place, and you can bloody well stay here and help clear up for once. Your farmer’s daughter will just have to wait!”

  The two visitors looked at each other with raised eyebrows and grinned; the ancient shook his head forebodingly; the newly arrived couple paused, taken aback, then the man shrugged and said, “We’ve booked rooms,” and turned to the porter. At the same time, Daisy heard George Enderby’s placatory voice within, but not what he said.

  His wife’s response was all too audible. “Oh yes, I know about her. You didn’t really imagine I didn’t, did you? And she’s not the first, by a long way!”

  On the other side of the street, a plump young woman with a shopping basket had stopped, turning an aghast face towards the hotel. Now she hurried on, her head bowed so that her expression was hidden by the brim of her hat. Oh dear, Daisy thought, another victim.

  “Oh, I’ve given up caring about them,” came Mrs. Enderby’s strident voice again. “The poor fools were taken in just like I was. They soon find out how much your sweet talk is worth, don’t they? As long as you pull your weight, I don’t give a damn any more. But you’ve started to skive off and leave the work to the rest of us, and I’m not putting up with it. The Schooner’s still in my name, remember. You do your bit or you can pack your bags! I—”

  At that point, the nearest window slammed down. Several people who had been transfixed, all agog, stirred into shamefaced life, including Daisy. The dismayed couple from the ferry shepherded their children into the lobby, nervously sidling from the frying-pan into the fire. The porter carried their bags after them. The old man, cackling, hobbled away down an alley. The two men he’d been talking to exchanged another glance, their faces red with suppressed sniggers, and strolled towards the harbour.

  Daisy crossed the street, realizing too late that Mrs. Hammett was standing on the opposite side.

  “There, what did I tell you?” she said with all too obvious satisfaction. “Scandalous, I call it, washing their dirty linen in public. There ought to be a law against it. I’ve a mind to complain to the licensing authorities.”

  “I rather doubt they’d be interested,” said Daisy, and hurried on, wishing she’d let the blasted woman fall, eggs and all.

  After tea, Belinda and Deva were so exhausted from their busy day that they were more than happy to lie on a rug on the lawn reading the library books. Mrs. Anstruther suggested giving them an early supper and sending them early to bed.

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” Daisy was quite tired herself. “As long as it won’t make too much work for you?”

  “Not at all. I can put together a shepherd’s pie in half a tick. Children usually like that. And there’s the rest of the plum tart for afters.”

  “Perfect. I don’t suppose you’d be able to sit down with me and Mr. Baskin for dinner, would you? Not that I think he’s another George Enderby, but gossip does seem to fly in this place. It would be more comfortable, if you can manage it.”

  “I could,” Mrs. Anstruther said hesitantly, “if he doesn’t mind. And if you don’t mind me getting up to clear and fetch between courses, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Not at all. I’ll give you a hand. Just don’t ask me to cook or you’ll regret the results!”

  Donald Baskin returned from his day-long ramble just in time to change into his flannels, now pressed, for dinner. “No room for a dinner jacket in my rucksack,” he apologized. He professed himself delighted to have the landlady dine with them. “But what about the girls?” he asked.

  “They’re already fast asleep,” Daisy told him. “You won’t have them inflicted on you this evening.”

  “Oh, but I enjoy them. I’m a schoolmaster, as I think I told you. After hordes of little boys, it’s very interesting to spend some time with two little girls.”

  Over cream of mushroom soup, followed by fresh-caught mackerel and then lamb cutlets with new potatoes and peas from the garden, they talked about Baskin’s school and what he’d seen on his walks about the countryside. Mrs. Anstruther
introduced the subject of Daisy’s writing, which interested him. But over the summer pudding, he reverted to a topic the ladies would much rather have avoided.

  “The Schooner seems like a friendly pub,” he said. “It was full of both local people and visitors when I dropped in last night. Have the Enderbys owned it long?”

  “Nancy’s grandparents built it,” said Mrs. Anstruther, “and her father left it to her when he died, her being the only child. To tell the truth, I think she found it a bit much to cope with on her own, before she married. It was getting a bit run-down.”

  “When was that? They’ve had enough time to do it up very nicely.”

  “A couple of years ago. No, three. He came on holiday that summer, and next thing we knew they were married. Quite a surprise, it was. She hadn’t known him more than a week or two.”

  From the way Cecily Anstruther spoke, the look on her face, Daisy suspected George Enderby had not come to Westcombe on his own.

  “He just turned up out of the blue?” Baskin asked. “Where did he come from?”

  “Do you know, I’ve no idea. That’s odd. He never talked about his past, except for a scar—a wound he got in the War.”

  “Where?” Baskin flushed. “I mean, where was he fighting? What unit was he with?”

  “In Belgium when he was wounded. Wipers, he said—that’s what the soldiers called Ypres, isn’t it? He was in a tank, but I think they started as a cavalry unit. Would you like some more pudding?”

  Where was the scar? Daisy wondered. She hadn’t noticed one. Somewhere only a lover would see it, no doubt. Mrs. Anstruther obviously didn’t want to talk about it, as Baskin realized at last. He accepted a second helping and told them funny stories about his War service in Mesopotamia, then took himself off to the Schooner for his pint.

  Just what was his interest in George Enderby? It seemed to Daisy more than idle curiosity. The obvious deduction was that here was another deceived husband, in search of his erring wife’s betrayer. But what did he hope to gain from finding him?