by Ann Purser
* * *
THE BUCKLANDS WERE NOT TOO CONCERNED. THEY said they were sorry, and asked when the replacement would be coming. Their au pair girl was not accustomed to cleaning, and her time was fully taken up with helping the nanny look after the children.
Blanche Battersby was nearly as upset as Alice. Although she had had only a brief acquaintance with Dot, she had looked forward to her next visit. The confidence of the woman made her feel better, stronger, more able to cope with Horace. It was ridiculous to think like that, Blanche knew, but she had found herself disagreeing with him several times lately, and not giving way to his blustering.
Lois wasn’t sure whether she needed to ring Margaret Horsley straight away, but then remembered the appointment, and dialed her number. A man answered.
“Joe Horsley here. Who’s that?”
“Lois Meade, New Brooms. Is Mrs. Horsley there, please?”
“No, she’s not. But how are you getting on, Mrs. Meade? Spent all your money yet?” His voice was unpleasant, and Lois bristled.
“I’ll call back,” she said.
She was about to ring off when Joe said, “Is the old bag dead?”
It was like a shower of cold water. Lois shivered. How did he know about Dot? She had said nothing, and she’d checked that the story was not in the local paper that morning.
“What old bag?” she asked quietly. “Who do you mean?”
Joe Horsley laughed loudly. “Oh, come on, duckie,” he said. “You’d better stay out of all this. Too deep for amateurs. You’ll cry at her funeral, I expect, but there won’t be many others.”
Lois heard the click as he ended the call. She put down her phone and sat motionless, thinking. Finally she was interrupted by Gran coming in with a message.
“You all right, Lois?” she said. “There’s a policeman at the door, come to take a statement. I’ve settled him in the sitting room. Didn’t you hear him?”
Lois shook her head. “Miles away,” she said. “Thanks, Mum. I’ll come through.”
* * *
“GOOD MORNING, MRS. MEADE.” THE POLICEMAN stood up politely. He was young, but not the fresh-faced novice she had been expecting. She guessed he was about thirty, and he seemed calm and confident.
“Sit down, then,” Lois said. “I see Mum got you a cup of coffee. You’d better drink it down, else you won’t be able to write, will you?”
The policeman grinned. He had been forewarned by Inspector Cowgill. “Thank you, Mrs. Meade,” he said, and gulped it down. “Now, I have to ask you a few questions . . .”
“I know all that,” Lois said. “Let’s get on with it. I’ve got work to do.”
“First I have to tell you my name,” he said. “I’m Matthew Vickers. I’ve been loaned from Manchester for a few weeks.”
“Thanks,” Lois said. “I’ll try to remember that.”
In spite of her anxiety to be rid of him as soon as possible, she found him extremely charming, but steely. She answered his questions, and found that he spotted immediately her attempts at concealment. She was a match for him, of course, but had to be alert and on her guard.
Finally, he thanked her, put on his hat and walked to the front door. “You’ve been most helpful, Mrs. Meade,” he said. “Oh, and Inspector Cowgill sends his good wishes. I understand you work with him from time to time.”
“And you’re not supposed to know that,” Lois said tartly. “You can tell him I said so.”
He had a faint smile on his face, and said, “Yes, of course. I will report accurately. You can be sure of that. Good morning. And please thank Mrs. Weedon for the coffee.”
Lois went back into her office and sat down, ready to telephone the hospital to enquire after Dot. She dreaded doing it, in case the news was bad. At the same time, she needed to know, and didn’t trust Cowgill to tell her.
Gran appeared at the door. “Everything all right, love?” she said. “You still look a bit peaky.”
“I’ll be fine, Mum, thanks,” she said. “Did that policeman ask you any questions?”
Gran shook her head. “No, only said it was a nice day. Seemed very pleasant.”
“He was, but tough with it. Did he remind you of anybody? Looked familiar to me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gran. “I said so to him. He said he’d rather not have it known, but he is Hunter Cowgill’s nephew.”
“Oh lord!” Lois said. “He told the wrong person, then, didn’t he?”
Gran shut the door firmly, and went back to the kitchen, muttering that Lois was obviously feeling better. Quite like her old self. Huh! Wrong person, indeed!
* * *
LOIS DIALLED THE HOSPITAL AND WAS TOLD THAT MRS. Nimmo was still holding on. There was no change in her condition, but they were doing everything they could to help her.
“In other words, you don’t know yet whether she will live or die?” Lois said rashly.
“Are you a relation, Mrs. Meade?” The voice was icy.
“No. Dot Nimmo worked for me, and is my responsibility.”
“Did the accident happen during her working time?”
“No, not exactly. But she had just been to see me, and was on her way home.”
“Why don’t you ring in tomorrow, Mrs. Meade, and we’ll hope to have some better news for you. Goodbye.”
Lois swore and walked over to the window. She looked up and down the village street. The sun was shining, and it looked at its best. Stone houses and garden walls. Overhanging trees and splashes of colour in the gardens. Nobody about. She could just see down to Josie’s shop, and was glad to see a couple of cars parked outside. One of them was Cowgill’s. She pulled on her jacket and went out, calling to Gran that she was going down to the shop for a couple of minutes. She didn’t wait for an answer.
As she approached the shop, he came out and saw her. “Morning, Mrs. Meade,” he said, unable to suppress a glad smile.
“Can you tell me something very quickly, please?” she said. “Did Dot have any close relations? She was cagey when I asked her, and I didn’t press it.”
“Good God, yes,” Cowgill said. “But only one very close. Evelyn Nimmo. She’s Dot’s sister, and married Handy’s brother. What a foursome! She’s in the phone book.”
“Thanks,” Lois said. “And, by the way, your nephew was charming. Very like you, really, but charming.” She took the shop steps two at a time and vanished.
“Hello, Mum,” Josie said.
“What did he want?” Lois asked.
“The local paper and a box of matches.” Josie smiled innocently.
She’s so like me, thought Lois fondly. “No questions?” she asked.
“No, just the usual pleasantries.”
“Right. I’ll just have my loaf, then. I’ll be down again later.”
Gran was standing at the front door. “Are you sure you’re all right, Lois?” she said.
“Yes, of course I am. Just needed to ask Josie something. Here’s the loaf. A bit crustier than usual, but it’ll be good for our teeth.”
“Might be good for yours,” Gran said. “Not so sure about mine. Now where are you going? I should think you’d do better to take today off work. Still, no good telling you,” she added, as Lois went into her office and shut the door.
She found the name in the phone book: E.S. Nimmo, l6 Mafeking Street. Lois dialed the number, and heard a voice that instantly reminded her of Dot. “Is that Mrs. Evelyn Nimmo?” she asked.
“What d’you want?” Oh, yes, Lois thought, that must be Dot’s sister!
When Evelyn heard who the caller was, her voice changed. “Oh, I’ve heard of you,” she said. “Dot said you were all right, and that’s praise from my sister!”
“I was hoping you could tell me how she is. The hospital wasn’t very forthcoming.”
“Always the way,” Evelyn said. “Especially if your name’s Nimmo. I reckon if our house was on fire, the brigade would somehow go to the wrong address. Still, we’re used to it. Now, you asked about Dot. I
don’t know no more than you. I’m going in this afternoon, but they warned me I shouldn’t expect much. She’s still in a coma, and very dodgy. But I’m seeing her, even if I have to go in all guns blazing! She’s my sister. D’you want me to give you a bell later?”
Lois said that would be very kind, and she’d definitely be at home around five thirty.
THIRTY-ONE
BY FIVE THIRTY LOIS HAD CALLED IN TO SEE COWGILL, answered a question or two, decided it was a ruse to get her into his office, and came home to walk her dog. She was tired, but felt restless. She couldn’t settle until Evelyn Nimmo had told her Dot’s chances. Although she was expecting the call, she started up from her chair in the kitchen when it came.
“Ah, hello, Evelyn. How was she?”
“Much the same. They were telling you the truth. She’s out for the count, and not showing any signs of coming round. They didn’t want me to stay, but I said something might get through. Might make a difference. So they let me sit there for half an hour.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Non-stop,” Evelyn said, and Lois couldn’t decide whether the choke was a laugh or the beginning of tears. “Do you know what I told her?” Evelyn continued. “I told her a story Handy used to tell us every Christmas Day. He swore it was true, but of course it weren’t. We all enjoyed it, every year, and kidded him along. It was about when Handy was a young sprog soldier, and how his boots got stolen for a joke. Then, on Christmas morning, he woke up and found four pairs of brand new boots at the foot of his bed. We all used to chorus, ‘A likely story!.’” She paused, and Lois laughed.
“And do you know, Mrs. Meade,” Evelyn said, “when I got to that bit, I thought I saw the shadow of a smile on Dot’s face. The nurse said she didn’t see it, but it was there and gone so quickly. I suppose I could have been mistaken.”
Lois felt unreasonably cheered up. “Oh, I do hope you were right,” she said. “Fingers crossed, then. And thanks a lot for phoning.”
“That’s all right. I shall see her again tomorrow, and I’ll ring you . . . And then there’s another thing. Are you shorthanded because of Dot?”
“Well, yes,” said Lois slowly, guessing what was coming.
“I was wonderin’ if you’d like me to come and fill in until she gets better. Well, I suppose ‘if’ would be a better word. I wouldn’t want to do it permanently, but I know she’d like me to help you out.”
“Um, well, um . . . Can I give it some thought, Evelyn? Perhaps you could come into the office tomorrow, say three o’clock? We could have a chat.”
“Fine,” said Evelyn. “I’m off now to St. Joseph’s to light a candle for Dot.”
* * *
HORACE BATTERSBY HAD COME HOME WITH THE TRESHAM evening newspaper, and looked forward to giving his wife a shock. “Dorothy Nimmo, known as Dot, is in a critical condition,” he had read. He went through to the drawing room, where Blanche was watching the news on television. The local news would be on in a minute, and he wanted to get in first.
“Hello, Blanche, look at this!” he said, thrusting the paper in front of her. She looked at it briefly and waved him away. “I know already,” she said, her eyes still on the screen. “Poor Dot. Mrs. Meade telephoned. I’m watching to see if it’s on the local news. Have you had a good day?”
Horace was furious. He’d been to London for the day, and returned on a crowded, smelly commuter train. He should have been travelling first-class, he considered, if only his depleted finances would stand it. And now Blanche had upstaged him. She’d been doing that a lot lately, and he was in a very bad humour indeed.
“I was right!” he said, and moved towards the television set, intending to turn it off. He hesitated. Perhaps Blanche would round on him again. He’d never had to worry about such things before, and he felt frustrated and helpless.
“Right about what, dear?” said Blanche, and then added immediately, “Oh, look, Horace, there’s Dot. Gosh, that was taken a while ago!”
“Listen to it, woman! I was right about your char being Dot Nimmo.” Horace now focused on the news.
“So far,” the reporter said, “there are no clues as to who drove into Mrs. Nimmo, and the Tresham police are asking for anyone who saw the accident, or can give any information, to get in touch with them as soon as possible.”
Horace sighed with what sounded to Blanche like relief. “Is she still hanging on, then? Tough as old boots, those Nimmos. Mind you, one less might be a good thing, though you mustn’t say I said that, Blanche,” he added, seeing her shocked face. “What’s for dinner?”
* * *
MRS. SMITH, SITTING ON THE SOFA WITH DARREN, WAS also watching television. “Sebastopol Street,” she said. “Isn’t that where Mrs. Meade’s office is? Oh, yes, look, there’s the sign over her office window! Well, that’s interesting. Mrs. Nimmo worked for New Brooms. Mrs. Battersby had a woman from them, cleaning for her. I wonder if it was the same?”
At the mention of the name Battersby, Darren stiffened. “Perhaps we’ll walk round that way, shall we? We might bump into Mrs. Battersby, and you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Not if she’s with the Colonel, of course. We could avoid them then.”
Darren looked doubtful. “Don’t want to see the big man,” he said.
“But Mrs. B is all right, isn’t she? She was always very kind to you. She might be upset that you never go to see her now. Come on, Darren, get your jacket on.”
Mrs. Smith’s curiosity was roused and, once roused, was not easily ignored. It was a sad story. The driver hadn’t stopped to help Mrs. Nimmo. The telly had said there was nobody about, and she knew Sebastopol was a straight street with no bends.
She locked the house door and led Darren down the path and into the Close. There were still eyes behind the curtains every time they ventured out, but Mrs. Smith was used to that. She waved her hand to the neighbours in general, and continued to walk into the High Street and along towards the Battersbys’ house. Darren was lagging behind, and she waited for him to catch up. A car came towards them, a familiar car with a woman driving. It slowed down and stopped.
Darren rushed up to his mother and stood behind her. She could feel him trembling.
“Hello, Mrs. Smith. And Darren? Aren’t you going to say hello?” Blanche smiled with genuine fondness at the lad.
“Say hello to Mrs. Battersby,” Mrs. Smith said, drawing Darren out and holding his hand.
“’Lo, Mrs. Battersby,” he said. “Nice evenin’.”
“Would you like to come for a drive? We could talk about the garden. I miss you, and it’s getting very untidy.” Blanche smiled and opened the passenger door. Darren shook his head.
“He’s still a bit shocked, I think, after that nasty time when he disappeared,” Mrs. Smith said protectively. She wasn’t sure she wanted Darren going off with Mrs. Battersby. She had no reason to distrust her, but could not forget that they had decided so readily that Darren had had a lift home from the point-to-point.
“Has he talked about it at all? Did you find out where he went?” Blanche persisted because Horace was always asking her if she’d heard anything from the gossips of Waltonby.
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “To be honest, Mrs. Battersby,” she said, “I haven’t asked him after that first day. He got so upset when the police tried to get him to talk. Anyway,” she added, “I’m just so glad to have him home safe. He seems to be getting back to normal, so you could ask him again later. He did go for a nice drive with Mrs. Meade from New Brooms. You know her, I expect? You enjoyed that, didn’t you, Darren? Talking of this and that?” He nodded, saying nothing, his eyes fixed warily on Blanche. “Anyway,” Mrs. Smith continued, “let’s try again in a day or two.”
She wondered whether to mention Darren’s fear of the horses and “the big man.” She decided against it. Hopefully he would want to go back to gardening soon. He’d really liked it, and it gave her a few hours’ break with time to herself. Sometimes, twenty-four hours a day with someone like Dar
ren was hard going, however much she loved him.
Blanche shut the door and drove off with a wave. Darren ignored the wave and began to walk away quickly.
“Wait for me!” his mother called. She was never absolutely sure that Darren wouldn’t suddenly step into the road straight into the path of an oncoming tractor.
* * *
THE DRAWING ROOM WAS COOL AND PEACEFUL WHEN Blanche walked in. Then she saw Horace sitting deep in an armchair, reading the newspaper.
“Where did you go? You didn’t tell me you were going out. First I knew of it was when I heard the car. Not very considerate.” He looked at her sternly over the top of his glasses.
“I felt like a drive,” she said. “You were asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Nonsense! I never fall asleep in a chair,” Horace blustered. “Where did you go, anyway?”
Blanche did not answer his question, but said, “I saw Darren with his mother. Stopped and had a little chat. I offered to take him for a spin, but he refused.”
Horace lowered his newspaper, and Blanche noticed that his hands were holding it so tightly that his knuckles were white. He frowned at her and said, “Why? He used to come with you sometimes. Did he say anything?”
Blanche shook her head. “No, but his mother says she thinks he is still shocked from that time he went missing.”
“Has he told her where he went? Did you ask her?”
Again Blanche shook her head. “She hasn’t bothered him, apparently. Glad to have him home safely. He got very upset when the police questioned him. Can’t blame her, can you? Though if I was her, I’d want to know.”
She noticed that Horace’s hands had relaxed. “Boy’s an idiot,” he said, and returned to his newspaper.