by Ann Purser
* * *
IT WOULD BE A PERFECT DAY TO GO FOR A RIDE ON HER lovely mare, thought Floss as she drove to the Hall, with the morning sun dappling the drive under the trees. But she had her job to do, and reminded herself that she was saving up to get married. Ben was on a short list for a job in Tresham, but competition for jobs in computers was fierce. She knew her parents would stump up for all the money she needed, but she did not intend to allow that. After all, she had a job, and should be able to save enough to contribute. She was afraid her mother would want a grand wedding with all the trimmings, and her father would hear of nothing else. The least she could do was insist on contributing. And then she and Ben would want a cushion of money behind them when they set up house together.
Dreaming of fitted kitchens and pale cream drapes, she parked in the Hall stable yard and went across to give her usual greeting to Victoria, Mrs. T-J’s stately mare. The horse whinnied and Floss held out the expected mint. Then she made her way across the cobbled yard to the open kitchen door.
“Yoo hoo! I’m here! Morning, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones.”
This familiar approach would not have been allowed by Mrs. T-J from anyone else but Floss. But she had become fond of the girl, and on the subject of horses they talked the same language. She appeared in the kitchen, and smiled. “Morning, Floss,” she said. “How are we this morning? I hear you had a tumble?”
“Oh dear,” said Floss. “Has the word got around?”
“Not far. Blanche Battersby told me. She hoped you would be able to continue working.”
“Good heavens, it’s only a graze,” said Floss. “Takes more than that to stop me.”
Mrs. T-J nodded approvingly, and said, “Oh, yes, and by the way, Blanche is coming over for coffee this morning. Could you be a dear and make it for us? We have something important to discuss.”
“Of course. Just tell me when. Or would you like me to open the door to her, usher her into the drawing room, and announce her name? Would it be fun?”
“Well,” said Mrs. T-J, with a modest smile, “if you insist, dear. Now, we must get on.”
Old bag, thought Floss. But she was mildly fond of the autocratic old woman, and knew exactly how to please her. Won’t hurt me to play the game, she thought. And I can have a listen to the discussion on the really important thing. Maybe the Battersbys had run even shorter of money, and felt they had to sell Floss’s mare. But that would have nothing to do with Mrs. T-J. Well, she would just have to wait and see.
When the big door knocker sounded, Floss downed tools and went to answer it. I should really have a frilly cap and apron, she thought.
“Good morning, Mrs. Battersby,” she said. “Will you come this way, please?”
“Floss?” answered Blanche. “What on earth’s got into you?”
Floss winked, and led her across the black and white tiled hall, larger than four of the Pickerings’ rooms put together, and knocked on the drawing-room door.
“Come in,” called a firm voice.
Floss opened the door and stood to one side. “Mrs. Blanche Battersby, madam,” she said, with a straight face. But she couldn’t maintain it, and suddenly burst into roars of delighted laughter. The two eminent ladies stared at her, and then slowly smiled. Finally they too were amused, in a restrained way, and the gloomy house was filled with unaccustomed merriment.
“I’ll go and make coffee,” spluttered Floss, and disappeared.
“What would we do without her?” said Mrs. T-J.
“Not very well,” replied Blanche, suddenly serious.
* * *
FLOSS TIPTOED WITH THE COFFEE TRAY UNTIL SHE WAS very close to the drawing-room door, which she had been careful to leave ajar. The conversation continued, and Floss stood motionless, sure they had not heard her.
“But where do you think your money’s gone, Blanche?”
“There is only one person who can get at it. Horace. I trusted him absolutely, but I am sure now that he is still gambling. And although he claims to win more than he loses, I am not convinced. I do hope you don’t mind my talking about this? Nobody knows better than I that it is bad form to talk about money. But I am desperate, Evangeline. I really have no one else to turn to. I cannot mention it to our girls, of course. Horace would never forgive me!”
Mrs. T-J frowned. Her long experience as a magistrate made her suddenly suspicious that Horace might have been having a bash at poor Blanche. But no, surely not. She had never seen any evidence—bruises, fear in her eyes, that sort of thing. He was too much of a gentleman to hit a woman. Then she thought how ridiculous that was. How many wives of so-called gentlemen had she seen in court, beaten and cowed?
“You’re not frightened of him, are you, Blanche?”
“Of course not! He has never harmed me! Why do you ask, Evangeline?”
Methinks she doth protest too much, thought Mrs. T-J, misquoting the bard.
* * *
FLOSS HAD CRAMP. HER CALF MUSCLE HAD SEIZED UP, and she reluctantly took a step forward. She pushed open the door, and said, “Here’s coffee. I’ve put out those chocolate Bath Olivers you like, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Shall I pour?”
She watched Mrs. T-J’s discomfort with a touch of guilt. Those were the old thing’s favourite biscuits, and nobody else was allowed to touch them. But she could hardly withdraw them now!
“No thank you, Floss. I can manage. Off you go.”
On her way out, Floss glanced at Blanche, and saw her sitting slumped in her chair. She seemed miles away, deep in thought. So the Colonel was gambling her money away, was he? Oh well, she supposed her mare would soon be on the way out. The Colonel would soon forget he had conditionally given it to Floss. Maybe her father would buy . . . ? But not at the price Horace’s horses commanded.
“Please let me know when you’re going,” Mrs. T-J said, as Floss reached the door. “Blanche will be staying to lunch, and it will be a signal for me to do some preparation. No, I insist, Blanche. We will have a cold collation,” she added, silencing Blanche’s protest.
Floss left them to it. She finished her work, told them she was going, and drove off down the drive. She wondered if she should warn Mrs. M about the Battersbys’ finances. They would probably regretfully dispense with Floss’s services next. It would do no harm to keep Mrs. M informed.
FORTY-FOUR
LOIS LOOKED AT HER WATCH FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME. Douglas was due some time around the middle of the day, and Gran had prepared a special lunch, just in case he made it in time. Otherwise, there was a perfect chocolate cream sponge in the larder for tea, and one of Gran’s stalwart steak and kidney pies for supper. It was twelve thirty, and they had agreed to give him until half past one before sitting down themselves.
An hour to pass, then. Lois closed her computer down, and went into the sitting room. She would just shut her eyes for ten minutes, and then help Gran to put the finishing touches to lunch. She slept. She was driving along the road to Waltonby, and Douglas was in the van with her. He was much younger, about twelve, and was grinning at her with his lovely open face. The shabby dark-green car came out of nowhere, at speed, heading straight at her. She screamed, and felt someone shaking her gently.
“Mum? Mum, wake up. It’s me, Douglas, the prodigal son.”
She shot to her feet, flinging her arms around him and fighting back tears. “Douglas! You’re all right?”
“Course I’m all right, Mum. You were dreaming. Come on, Gran sent me to get you for lunch. I’ve been here for a while, but didn’t want to wake you up.”
Douglas had grown from a pleasant, amenable lad, with sandy hair and freckles, into a well-built young man, still freckled, and with his sandy hair cut very short into a golden fuzz. He was still pleasant and amenable, and Lois was especially partial to her first-born son.
“How are you, Mum? And don’t give me the usual ‘I’m fine,’ because I can see you’re not.”
Derek nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you can persuade her to rest. She takes n�
��notice of me,” he said.
Lois bristled. “What do you think I was doing in the sitting room? Resting, I was. And, as a result, having a nightmare. It was the crash all over again.”
Derek put out his hand and took hers. “You’re doing well, me duck,” he said. “And don’t worry. The doc said you’d be bound to have bad dreams for a while, but they’ll fade. Now, Gran, let’s try and forget all about it, and get going on this fantastic nosh.”
To lighten the atmosphere, Douglas had a joke or two at the ready, and soon they were all laughing at his account of people in his office. “Mind you,” he added, “sometimes they’re not so funny, and I could happily ditch the lot of them. Maybe it’s time I looked for another job. Nearer home, Mum, d’you reckon?”
“You must do what you think is best. Your Dad and me have always said that. I cut the apron strings long ago.”
Gran did not agree. “It would be lovely, Douglas,” she said, “to have you nearer. And don’t take any notice of your mum—she’s still clinging on to mine, you know. Not that she would admit it!”
Lois had no energy to argue, and just smiled.
Derek patted his son on the back, and said, “We’re always here to help, lad. You know that. Young James never hesitates if he needs help—mostly financial! And we try to treat you all the same.”
“Our Josie’s doing well, isn’t she?” Douglas said, running his finger round the pudding dish and licking up every creamy drop.
“Very well,” Lois said. “She and Rob are coming up tonight, and Gran has killed the fatted calf for supper. You are staying tonight, aren’t you?”
Douglas said he certainly was. He wanted to make sure Lois could be trusted to get better sensibly, and he intended to help his father put on the pressure. “After all,” he said, “if you’re the target of some local tearaways, I mean to find them and give them a good kick up the arse.”
* * *
HUNTER COWGILL, LIFTING UP HIS OFFICE PHONE TO ring Lois, was planning a much more draconian punishment for the culprits, when he found them. He had followed up various leads, but they’d come to nothing so far. If only the boy Darren could give them more details of the incident—and Cowgill was sure he had them locked away in his head—then they’d be on the track in no time.
“Hello, is that you Lois? This must be a bad line. You sound very faint.”
“I’m feeling very faint,” Lois said, winking at Douglas. “You haven’t forgotten I’ve had a bad time?”
Cowgill was instantly contrite. “Of course not,” he apologized. “Are you up to a short conversation?”
“Shorter the better,” Lois replied, her voice back to the one Cowgill was used to . . . and loved.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “I am ringing to ask how you are and checking that you’re doing just as the doctor ordered. Not that I have much hope of the latter.”
“I’m fine. Really fine. And even more fine because Douglas is here, and is staying until tomorrow. But don’t ask me to believe you rang just to enquire after my health. As a matter of fact, I was going to get in touch. I’ve remembered something—at least, I’ve dreamed something.”
“Sure you want to talk about it?” Cowgill asked anxiously.
“Anything to help our brave boys in blue. I dreamed the crash, but this time Douglas was in the van with me, and the car coming straight at us. It was old, dark green, and dirty. Maybe I’ll dream it again and see the number plate.”
“Please don’t do that,” Cowgill said. “Not even in the interests of police investigations. The details you dreamed might just be a big help, but no more nightmares, Lois, and that’s an order. Take care, and I’ll be in touch. Bye.” He looked at the receiver, and blew it a kiss. “Silly old fool,” he said quietly.
Derek’s face was thunderous. “I told that idiot not to telephone any more. Much good it did! Next time, Lois, put him straight on to me.”
“He was only asking how I was. Harmless old policeman, really. But I did need to pass on my dream about the car. It might help.”
Douglas got up from the table and put his arms around her. “Did you really dream it was me in the van, Mum?” Lois nodded. “I wish I had been,” he said darkly, and there was silence among them. Then Douglas shook himself. “Now,” he said briskly, “all hands to the sink. Then a stroll down to the shop. We’ll catch Josie gossiping with the customers. Come on, Dad, you too.”
* * *
THE DIRTY OLD GREEN CAR HAUNTED LOIS. SHE dreamed about it again the next night, and this time, before she blacked out, she saw the back of it as it skidded round and away at top speed. And this time she was sure there were two people in it.
“Still no number plate,” she said to Douglas, as he packed his overnight bag and kissed his mum goodbye.
“Don’t try to remember,” he said. “If it comes back, fine, but if it doesn’t, the police will have other ways of finding those thugs. Or do you still fancy yourself as a part-time gumshoe?”
“What’s a gumshoe, Douglas?” Gran said.
“You’re a telly addict, so you know perfectly well,” Douglas said, giving her a hug. “Thanks for all the lovely food. See you again soon.”
Derek gave his son a manly shake of the hand, and they waved him off in his car.
Lois sighed. “That went quickly, didn’t it?”
“You could’ve been more encouraging for him to settle round here,” Gran said, and Derek added that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be back. Their boy was worried about his mum.
They were all quiet for a minute, then, “Boys!” Lois said suddenly. “They were boys in the car in my dream. Two of them, two boys. It just came back to me. I’ll just run in and give Cowgill a call.”
Derek groaned, and Gran shrugged her shoulders. “I give up,” she said.
“I don’t,” said Derek. “I’ll tell him. Give me his number and I’ll give him a call.”
FORTY-FIVE
MARGARET HORSLEY HESITATED AT THE ENTRANCE TO the hospital. She bought a bunch of strange, thornless roses from the kiosk, and went into reception. After all, as one of Dot Nimmo’s clients, she had every right to visit her, she was sure.
“Are you a relative?” the receptionist asked.
“No, but she worked for me before her accident. I was fond of her,” she lied, “and would really like to see her, even if she doesn’t know I’m there.”
“Just take a seat, Mrs. . . . er . . . What is your name?” The receptionist then had a long conversation with someone Margaret presumed was either the doctor or a senior nurse. When the woman said, “All right, then, love, see you later,” she realized she had been foolishly optimistic. The conversation had had nothing to do with Dot Nimmo.
Eventually, Margaret was called over. “You can go to the ward,” the receptionist said sniffily. “But you must stay only five minutes. And make sure you report to staff before and after you go in. Now, if you take the street along there—it’s a corridor but we call it The Street—follow the yellow line until it turns into a green one, then turn first left, then right, and left again, and look for signs to Beddington Ward, you’ll find it easily.”
Head spinning, Margaret set off. She was quickly lost, and in the end a young porter took pity on her and accompanied her all the way. She thanked him profusely, and looked around for a nurse. Not a soul about. She took a step forward to Beddington Ward, and a voice said, “Just a minute! You can’t go in there without permission.”
“I’m sorry, but I do have permission,” Margaret said meekly. You have to creep to these people, she thought. “I’m Mrs. Horsley.”
The nurse frowned. “Well, I suppose you’d better go in. You’re not another sister, are you?”
“No. Evelyn is her only sister. I just wanted to be by her side for a moment, and to bring these flowers.”
The nurse took away the flowers, and Margaret walked towards Dot’s bed. Margaret’s first thought was that she was a horrible colour. Looks bloodless, poor old thing. And h
er ghastly blonde hair is showing all the grey roots. She wouldn’t like that. Margaret felt an overpowering urge to giggle. She sat down and looked at her hands, at her wedding ring and the flashy diamond Joe had given her for their tenth anniversary. How had he managed to afford it? She was only too well aware of the state of their finances. She waggled her fingers. Five minutes doing nothing seemed endless. Her thoughts began to wander, and she saw again the boy Darren, humming and trembling, held tight in Auntie’s arms. What had Horace done to him? Nothing would surprise her. Had Joe been involved, too? She would pluck up her courage and ask him. She would ask him if he’d been there when Darren had been so frightened that he ran off and hid for a whole night by himself. The thought of it made her blood boil. “Wicked sods!” she said aloud.
“Sods,” repeated a very faint voice.
“What!” Her heart was thumping. Maybe it had been an echo in this sterile room.
“They’re all sods.” It was a whisper, a breath exhaled with difficulty.
“Nurse!” yelled Margaret. “Come quickly, quickly!”
Two nurses came running. “Please, Mrs. Horsley! We must have absolute quiet in here!”
“She spoke, you stupid bitch!” Margaret said, completely out of control. “Dot spoke!”
The nurse who had cautioned her stiffened. “You must leave now,” she said frostily, “and I suggest you pull yourself together. You’ll do no good here.”
The other nurse was bending over Dot, monitoring displays and checking tubes.
“Bye, missus,” whispered the voice.
“Bye, Dot!” said Margaret loudly. “See you soon.” She marched out, her heels clicking on the hard floor, her nose in the air.
After that, hospital staff went into action, and were puzzled that Dot Nimmo said nothing more. Evelyn Nimmo had been sent for, and had said she would come at once. After much gentle encouragement from staff had produced nothing but the blank, apparently unconscious face of Dot, they agreed to wait until Evelyn arrived. Surely she would be able to reach her sister, when a woman who had merely employed her to clean the house had clearly got through. The nurse who heard Dot’s farewell to Margaret was adamant. “She definitely spoke. It was very faint, but it was there,” she said firmly.