‘Yes,’ he shouted back.
‘Where’s your walking-stick?’
There was quite a long pause. ‘I lost it some time ago.’
‘You never told me that.’ She stepped out of the cupboard, shut the door and led the way out of the house. As they began to walk down the drive, she linked her arm with his and said: ‘He’s had that stick for years and years. Reckons it brings him luck because he bought it from an old gipsy who spat and blessed it. Funny his not being more upset about losing it.’
‘What … what size was it?’ he asked.
‘Why? Have you seen one lying around somewhere?’
He shook his head. ‘How thick was it?’ he persisted.
‘About like that.’ She joined forefinger and thumb to show a circle about two centimetres in diameter. ‘We’ll have to try and get him another. Provided one of us spits on it, that should be all right … John, what on earth’s now going on in that head of yours?’
‘A hell of a headache.’
‘You’re not getting out of a walk that easily! Come on, step it out. As my old virgin schoolmistress used to tell us all, there’s nothing like a good walk to make you less liable to think nasty thoughts.’
He walked with her in the hot sunshine, but his thoughts remained nasty.
CHAPTER XXV
SPREIGHT FARM lay on rich, well-drained loam. The fields were large following the dragging up of many thorn hedges, but care had been taken to leave sufficient hedging to retain character and prevent any wind erosion. The new variety of rye grass was growing very strongly and it promised two tons of hay, or the equivalent, to the acre. There was enough spare land beyond the cows’ grass requirements to grow barley and oats, both of which did well on the soil, and enough drying and storage space for all that might be harvested. The equipment was extremely good. Automatic bulk feeding of silage, automatic slurry disposal out to the fields, bulk milk tank, herringbone parlour, cow kennels, mill and pelleter, Dutch barns, hay elevators, 165 and 135 MF tractors, high-output bailer, forage harvester, flail mower, hay conditioner … One hundred and seventy-five glossy-flanked Friesians, milk average steadily climbing, twenty-five followers to premium bulls … Pilot bull beef scheme showing a first-class foot input to weight increase ratio …
It was the farm of Tatham’s dreams. He and Basil — chosen after interviewing nearly twenty applicants and almost as dedicated as himself — ran it, only having to call in contract labour at the peak work times of the year.
In April, when the morning air was sharp and sparkling and the sunshine was chased across the countryside by merry puffballs of cumulus, Tatham — having risen at five to milk — ate his usual large breakfast: two eggs, three rashers of bacon, three tomatoes, two pieces of fried bread, toast, and marmalade, three cups of coffee. He read the morning newspaper which was propped up against the coffee jug.
Mrs Willow, small, thin, slightly cross-eyed, far jollier than her features suggested, looked into the dining-room. ‘Anything more wanted?’
‘No, thanks, Mrs Willow.’
‘I’ll be off to the village to do the shopping, then.’ She left.
She reminded him of a chirpy sparrow, hopping here and there and always busy. She came all day, six days a week, grateful now that her husband was dead to earn a good wage.
He finished the last piece of toast, poured out the final cup of coffee, and lit a cigarette. For the moment he stopped reading and leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and looked round the room. Oak-beamed ceiling, one wall oak-beamed, inglenook fireplace with seats and places for warming the pewter mugs of ale … Elvina would have loved the mellow beauty of this farmhouse, just as she would have loved the farm. She would have chosen no different memorial. And inside five years, he’d prove his boast to her.
Satisfied with his world, he resumed reading the paper and almost immediately he saw a short paragraph which made him start with surprise. He read it through a second timje and then he pushed back the chair, stood up, and walked over to the east window. He stared out at the untidy garden — no true farmer ever had time to mess around with a garden.
His troubled thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the front door. Basil stepped into the hall. ‘John, are you there?’
He crossed the room to the hall, once the outshot and whose roof reached up to the galleried landing above. Basil, dressed in open-necked shirt and jeans, said: ‘D’you want me to start the cows off in the new paddock?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered vaguely.
A puzzled look crossed Basil’s face. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Not really, just a bit of unexpected news.’ Tatham spoke more briskly. ‘Can you manage the cows on your own? There’s something I want to do.’
‘Sure, just so long as that old wall-eyed cow which is bulling doesn’t start getting too frisky.’ He left.
Tatham stayed in the hall. He lit a cigarette. That paragraph in the paper had somehow, in a subtle manner he couldn’t begin to define, made up his mind for him after weeks and months of indecision. He entered the sitting-room — more oak beams, roughly shaped this time — and crossed the Mir — or was it an Abadah? — carpet to the telephone. He dialled the international exchange and gave the number, Llueso 383. Miraculously, there was no delay. Scraps of Spanish, a couple of sharp clicks, and then the ringing began.
‘Hullo,’ said Judy. ‘Llueso three eight three.’
‘Judy, it’s John. John Tatham.’
There was a pause. ‘I thought you’d forgotten how to get in touch with me. I sent you via your mother the card with our new address and telephone number and never heard a word.’
‘I’d apologize, only I don’t feel all that sorry: I needed time to think.’
‘I see. And having thought?’
‘I wondered if you’d like to fly over and see the farm?’
The words came in a rush. ‘Yes, I would. Is tomorrow too soon? If I can get a flight. What’s it like and are you happy? Are the cows giving all the milk they should?’
‘They’re doing so well you can have a bath in milk if that’s what you’d like. Ring me when you get a booking and I’ll meet the plane — always provided it doesn’t clash with milking time, of course.’
‘Of course!’ She laughed. ‘I know my place in English farming society.’
‘That’s good. Can I have a word now with Lawrence?’
‘You may, provided that when you’ve finished talking to him I can have another word with you.’
‘It’s a deal.’
After a short pause, Ingham said: ‘Hullo, John.’
‘Lawrence, I’ve just read something in the Daily Telegraph I thought you’d be interested to hear. Herr Naupert has sold a Renoir he discovered in Mallorca, authenticated by two leading art experts in Germany, to the Backenhoff Gallery in Essen for just under one million marks. You can tell your friend with the Vandyke beard that he really is the genius he calls himself.’
There was no comment.
Judy came back on the phone. ‘John, what on earth have you said to Larry to send him stamping off, looking as though he’d had his liver cut out?’
‘Only that a mutual friend has come into rather a lot of money.’
‘Obviously, it’s someone he doesn’t like … John, where is the farm? D’you realize I haven’t even got its address? I’ve sat and stared at a map of England and wondered whether you were sitting on a stool with straws in your hair and milking cows into a dirty old bucket in Devon or Yorkshire or Norfolk …’
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Mistakenly in Mallorca (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 1) Page 21