A Question of Guilt

by Janet Tanner

  I was going to have to toughen up again, not a doubt of it, when I went back to work if not now, so it might as well be now. My hand hovered over the telephone.

  ‘Sally! Hello! Are you there?’ Rachel’s voice from the hall. She’d obviously let herself in. I felt guilty relief at the welcome reprieve.

  For the next hour Rachel and I sat chatting over coffee and custard cream biscuits at the kitchen table. Mum had come in, rivulets of rain that had dripped from the hood of her Barbour running down her face, and her trousers creased from where they’d been jammed into her wellington boots.

  ‘It’s a quagmire out there,’ she said, cheerfully enough. Mum had never been one to let bad weather get her down; just as well, since a farm has to be run whatever the elements throw at you – the animals fed, the cows brought in for milking, the eggs collected.

  ‘Steve’s not going to be happy with me,’ Rachel said anxiously. ‘There was no way I could avoid the puddles in the lane, and he only took the car to the car wash on Sunday.’

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘You worry too much, Rach. Muddy splashes, scraped wing mirrors – you need to get a run-around of your own or you’re heading for a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘And how could we afford to run two cars?’ Rachel demanded. ‘It’s not going to happen, unless we come up on the lottery, or I get a full-time job.’

  ‘So what do you think about Sally’s new boyfriend, then, Rachel?’ Mum asked.

  ‘I think it’s great.’ But Rachel sounded somehow a bit hesitant. I’d noticed she’d gone quiet earlier when I’d been talking about Josh, and thought I was imagining things, but now there was no mistaking it.

  ‘Come on, Rach, show a bit of enthusiasm!’ I urged her. ‘You were the one who wanted me to ditch Tim and find somebody new.’

  ‘I know, I know! And I’m really pleased if he’s all you say he is,’ Rachel said.

  ‘He is!’

  ‘You don’t really know him, though, do you?’ Rachel said cautiously.

  ‘Well, you never know anyone if you don’t give yourself the chance,’ I argued.

  ‘That’s true. But you shouldn’t let yourself get carried away – get involved too heavily too soon. It sounds to me as if you’ve fallen head over heels for this chap, Sally, and I don’t want to see you hurt.’

  It was almost an echo of what Mum had said to me, and I began to feel as if they were ganging up on me.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake!’ I exploded.

  ‘Just be careful, Sally.’ Rachel had her serious face on, which, to be honest was the one she wore most often. ‘There are a lot of rotters out there, who’ll tell you whatever they think you want to hear. You’re sure he’s not married, for starters?’

  ‘Unlikely. He’s invited me to his cottage for our next date.’

  That took the wind out of her sails for a minute. Then she recovered herself.

  ‘OK, so he’s not living with anyone. But I still think you should be careful. He could be telling you a whole pack of lies about himself, and you’d be swallowing all of them. He could have a violent streak, or be some kind of pervert with all kinds of porn downloaded on his computer. It’s no good you making that face – I’m just saying. Don’t get carried away until you know him better.’

  ‘She’s right, Sally. He might seem nice, but you never know . . .’ Mum cautioned.

  I raised my eyes heavenward.

  ‘Honestly, just listen to the pair of you! Nobody would think I decamped to the big city when I was eighteen years old, and I’ve managed to live there without getting myself raped or murdered ever since. I’m a big girl, OK?’

  ‘Just saying,’ Rachel repeated in a conciliatory tone.

  ‘Shall we change the subject?’ I suggested.

  We did, going back instead to tentative arrangements for Rachel to drive me down to Dorset. But for all my insouciance, I couldn’t help a tiny niggle of unease. I really liked Josh. More than liked, if I was being honest. And really, I couldn’t imagine him being any of the things Rachel was implying he might be. A liar, a wife-beater, a pervert – or even just a heel. It didn’t tie in with the Josh I’d been dating – was, possibly, even falling in love with.

  But the truth of the matter was I really knew nothing whatever about him beyond that he was a newspaper photographer, and very attractive to boot. I didn’t have a clue as to what he’d been doing before he came to Stoke Compton, his family, or where he called home. Somehow we’d never got around to talking about any of those things – or if we had been close, the conversation had always slipped away in another direction. When Josh had mentioned taking his sister’s children to Longleat, it was the closest we’d ever got to his background, and even then he hadn’t expanded on the bare remark.

  I didn’t actually know a single thing about him. But what the heck? Surely I could rely on my instincts to warn me off if there was anything dodgy about the man who was beginning to loom large in my life?

  ‘How about one day next week then?’ Rachel was saying.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I said, and let my anxiety about meeting Dawn’s parents supersede the niggling doubts I was suddenly having about my whirlwind romance with Josh.

  Late afternoon, and the rain was still falling, a thick drizzle now, with a gusting wind tossing it in flurries against the windows. I’d spent the last couple of hours on my computer, and sitting around, I’d got chilled to the marrow without even realizing it. I dragged myself upstairs to find a thick sweater, and sat down again, staring thoughtfully at the two telephone numbers I’d unearthed, one of which I felt sure must be for Dawn Burridge’s parents.

  It was quite possible, of course, that there wouldn’t be anyone at home at this time of day, but if I didn’t try, I wouldn’t know. And if I didn’t at least attempt to make the call now, I wasn’t sure I’d ever do it at all.

  I decided on one of the two numbers, and before I could change my mind, dialled it. After just a couple of rings, an answering machine kicked in, and I killed the call. This wasn’t something I could leave a message about. Without much hope I tried the second number. It rang interminably and I was just about to hang up when it was answered. A man’s voice, abrupt, as if he was less than pleased to have been interrupted in whatever he had been doing when the telephone rang. But my nervousness had melted away as if by magic; it was like riding a bicycle, I thought – once you were back in the saddle it just came naturally.

  ‘Do I have the right number for the parents of Dawn Burridge?’ I asked smoothly.

  The man answered my question with one of his own.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Sally Proctor,’ I said. ‘You won’t know me, but I’m trying to get in touch with them.’

  ‘Were you a friend of Dawn’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I live in Stoke Compton. Are you Dawn’s father?’

  ‘Her brother.’

  Ah. So I was on the right track.

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to either her mother or father?’

  ‘You’ll have a job to speak to Dad,’ the man said tersely. ‘I’m afraid he passed away just before Christmas.’

  I was, I have to confess, a bit shocked.

  ‘Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that . . .’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘I’m not sure whether Mum is up to talking to anyone,’ the man went on. ‘Losing first Dawn, and then Dad . . . she’s not in a good place just now.’

  ‘No, I can imagine . . .’ I broke off as I heard a woman’s voice in the background.

  ‘Who is it, Andrew?’

  A few moments’ silence ensued; Dawn’s brother had covered the receiver with his hand, I imagined. And then, to my surprise, the line opened up again and the same voice I’d heard in the background, oddly sharp, yet with a Dorset burr, was speaking in my ear.

  ‘This is Grace Burridge.’

  ‘Mrs Burridge.’ My nervousness had returned, but I was, thankfully, able to control it. ‘This is Sally P
roctor.’

  ‘So my son said. You were a friend of Dawn’s, I understand.’

  ‘Yes.’ This time I felt really guilty for the lie. ‘Can I say how sorry I am for your loss?’

  ‘You can say it, but it won’t bring them back, will it?’ she said flatly.

  ‘No, I realize that. Mrs Burridge, the reason I’m ringing is that I was wondering if I could come and see you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Dawn . . .’ I was expecting her to ask me why I wanted to talk to her, and I really hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to say. Instead, to my surprise, there was complete silence at the other end of the line. ‘Mrs Burridge?’ I ventured.

  I heard what sounded like a muffled sob, followed by another silence. I waited. Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all.

  After a moment when Grace Burridge must have been collecting herself, she spoke just two words.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You don’t mind talking to me?’ I wanted to be sure I’d understood her correctly.

  ‘I expect I’ll upset myself. But it’s nice to talk to someone who knew her . . . not many people want to talk about her at all. They cross the street, you know, rather than have to think of what to say to me. Yes, my dear, if you want to talk about Dawn, you’re most welcome.’

  I really did feel guilty now, dreadfully, horribly guilty. But it was too late to tell her the truth now. And besides, if I was able to get justice for Dawn, surely that wasn’t such a bad thing?

  ‘When do you want to come?’ Grace Burridge asked.

  ‘Would one morning next week suit you? I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  Grace Burridge snorted. ‘Huh! I’ve enough of that on my hands now. I’m on my own here most days, except for when Andrew pops in, like now. No, you come whenever you like. Just give me a ring and let me know when to expect you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Burridge. I’ll do that.’

  I put down the phone and sat for a moment massaging my temples with my fingertips. That conversation had been horrible, and there would be worse to come.

  Time, I reckoned, for a cup of tea!

  I headed for the kitchen. The delicious aroma of frying onions wafted out to greet me.

  ‘Something smells good!’ I enthused.

  ‘Just a casserole for tomorrow.’ Mum was at the Aga, wearing a dark cook’s apron and stirring meat and vegetables in a cast iron pot. ‘It’s going to be a busy day, and a casserole always tastes better when the flavour’s had a chance to develop.’

  ‘You must give me the recipe so I can make one for myself when I go home,’ I said, checking the kettle for water and putting it on.

  Mum laughed. ‘And when will you have time to cook, Sally? You’re always on the go.’

  ‘You never know.’ The way I was coming to feel about Josh was actually making me yearn to do the simple, homely things I’d never bothered about in the past. Things I’d certainly never wanted to do for Tim. The niggling doubts that had assailed me when Rachel had pointed out that I knew nothing whatever about Josh had subsided now as if they’d never been. I only knew that when I was with him it felt so right, and the thought of cooking for him was just one of the things that gave me a warm, rosy glow of anticipation.

  ‘You want a cuppa?’ I asked Mum.

  ‘Do you know, I wouldn’t say no,’ Mum said. ‘Have you had a good afternoon?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Dawn Burridge’s mother.’ I went on to tell her about the conversation, setting out mugs, milk and sugar on the worktop as I did so.

  ‘Poor soul! What she must be going through.’ Mum shook her head sympathetically. ‘If I was to lose you and your dad, I don’t know what I’d do. You will be careful, won’t you, Sally, what you say to her? You don’t want to go making things even worse than they are for her.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I promised. But truth to tell I was worried about the forthcoming interview, very aware that there really was no easy way to tell Dawn’s mother of my suspicions, and wondering if I’d done the right thing in contacting her. Talking to her would have been bad enough under any circumstances, but with Dawn’s father having died so recently it really was a minefield. Perhaps I should make further enquiries before going to see her. I really needed to be a good deal surer of my ground than I was at the moment. Yet who would know better than Dawn’s mother if she’d been worried about something in those last weeks of her life, frightened even?

  The kettle was boiling; I propped my crutches against the edge of the table so as to have two hands to make the tea.

  ‘Careful, Sally!’ Mum warned.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m fine . . .’

  Just at that moment the kitchen door burst open, making me jump, and I banged the kettle down quickly so that I could regain my balance. But if any boiling water splashed out, I didn’t notice.

  ‘Oh – Mrs . . . Mrs . . . come quick . . .’ Sam Groves, Dad’s farmhand was in the doorway, breathing heavily as if he’d been running. His face was red, too, but it was his anguished expression that made my heart almost stop beating, the near panic in his voice.

  ‘Sam – what ever . . .?’ Mum, still clutching her wooden spoon, was like a frozen statue.

  ‘Quick, quick, phone for an ambulance . . .’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Oh my lord, it’s the boss . . . the cows . . . they stampeded in the lane . . . oh, for the love of God get an ambulance . . . he’s been trampled. Jack’s been trampled by the herd!’

  Thirteen

  In that first startled moment my heart seemed to stop beating. All the blood left my body in a rush and I was as chilled and shocked as when I was caught in the avalanche, and my legs as weak and helpless as when the snow whipped the ground from under me.

  This couldn’t be happening, Dad trampled by his beloved, docile herd of cows? It made no sense. But there was no denying it; Sam, the farmhand who was normally stolid and imperturbable was in a state of utter panic.

  ‘Oh my lord . . .!’ Mum’s usually ruddy face was drained of colour. She made a dive for the phone; I took it from her.

  ‘I’ll do it. Go on, Mum, go to Dad.’

  I stabbed in 999, realized I had no line, and managed to lose what I’d dialled as I fumbled stupidly with the button that would give me one. By the time I’d redialled, Mum was shoving her feet into her wellington boots with no care for the chunks of wet mud that were falling from them and miring the kitchen.

  ‘Emergency. Which service?’

  ‘Ambulance.’ My throat was so dry I could scarcely speak.

  Mum grabbed her coat and ran out the door, pulling it on over her cook’s apron. Sam followed her, so there was no chance for me to ask him any more details, but as far as my emergency call was concerned it hardly mattered. I knew the stretch of lane along which the cows were driven for milking; the routine was always the same, and had been for as long as I could remember. As for Dad’s condition, that was something I was going to have to find out for myself.

  When I’d finished speaking to the ambulance control room I grabbed my walking boots and struggled into them, my hands shaking so much it was all I could do to tie the laces. My Berghaus was hanging on a hook in the hall; I flung it on. As I swung into the farmyard as fast I was able, I saw Scrumpy standing shivering beside her kennel, tail down, head hung low. She took a couple of steps towards me, then retreated, the picture of a dog in disgrace. Scrumpy always went with Dad when he was out and about on the farm; when the herd stampeded she must have fled, and now was feeling as guilty as if the catastrophe was somehow her fault.

  I was halfway across the farmyard when I remembered – Mum had been in the middle of cooking when Sam came bursting in. Had she left something on the ring of the Aga? The onions I’d smelled frying, perhaps? If so, the pan could catch fire and the whole kitchen go up in flames. I struggled back inside, sick with fear. With the present pervading aura of nightmare, no disaster seemed beyon
d the realms of possibility.

  The cast-iron casserole was still on the ring, but safe enough – Mum had reached the stage of adding stock, which was now bubbling furiously. I lifted it off and set it down on the nearest worktop, not caring whether or not it would damage the wood work surface. The dish was so heavy I couldn’t manage to limp any further with it, and a scorched work top was the least of my worries just now.

  One of my crutches had fallen on to the floor; I rescued it, and hopped outside.

  It was still raining, a horrible thick drizzle. By the time I reached the track my hood had come down and my hair was clinging damply round my face. I ignored it. I didn’t have a free hand, and I didn’t want to stop to pull my hood up again. I could see the cows milling about outside the milking shed; they’d obviously made their way to their usual destination, and seemed quiet enough now, apart from some jostling and the occasional plaintive ‘moo!’ Up ahead, about a hundred yards away, I could see Mum on her knees on the lane, Sam beside her. And though they were blocking my view, an outstretched leg told me it was Dad they were kneeling beside.

  The sick feeling pulsed now in my throat as I swung on along the track, stumbling sometimes as my crutch hit a muddy rut, but somehow managing to recover myself. Then I slowed, my breath coming in shaky gasps.

  Dad was lying across the verge, his head cradled in Mum’s lap. There was blood everywhere, streaking his paper-white face, clotting in his hair and pooling in the mud. His arm was at an impossibly crazy angle, his eyes were closed. For a heart-stopping moment I thought he was dead.

  ‘Dad?’ I sobbed.

  ‘He’s breathing,’ Mum said. She sounded unbelievably calm now, as if from somewhere she had found reserves of strength.

  I bent low, wishing that, like Mum, I could get down on my knees, but since I wasn’t able to bend my leg, I couldn’t do that. I could see now that the blood was coming from a huge gash on the side of Dad’s head, but it looked to me as if he’d taken a blow from a flying hoof rather than been trodden on. I wished desperately that I’d thought to bring towels or even a sheet or pillow case, anything with which to stem the bleeding, and a blanket to cover Dad with, but I hadn’t. Just getting to him had been all that had mattered.