by Ann Purser
“DOT IS A VERY FOOLISH WOMAN,” GRAN SAID, FROWNING at Lois as she came into the kitchen. “And if I dared, I’d say the same about you. Two of a kind, if you ask me, as my friend Ivy Beasley says.”
“Your friend!” Lois laughed. “She’s an old dragon, and you know you’ve met your match with old Ivy. Anyway, what do you mean about me being a foolish woman? A very foolish woman?”
Gran shrugged. She said that if she remembered rightly, a certain daughter of hers had come straight out of hospital after a serious accident and gone straight off to a point-to-point, been wheeled about on bumpy fields by her husband, and come home exhausted. “Who does that remind you of?” she ended up, her face rosy with indignation.
Lois was silent for a moment, considering the injustice of this attack. Then she realized that it wasn’t unjust at all, that her mother was perfectly right. All she could think of to say was, “But I’m younger and stronger than she is, poor old Dot.”
“Mmm,” said Gran. “’Nuff said.”
Lois sat down at the kitchen table and waited for her mother to put a frothy coffee in front of her. Josie had given them an Italian cream-maker, and Lois had become addicted to the delicious froth on top of her coffee. Gran did not hold with it. “Instant is good enough for me, and should be good enough for you,” she said. “Made with hot milk in a saucepan, couldn’t be bettered. All this foreign latte and express stuff—it not only makes me choke, but makes twice the washing up. Here you are, here it is.”
“If that’s meant to put me off, then hard luck. Mmm, delicious! Did we finish your flapjack? Could do with a piece to give me strength. As you say, I’m still an invalid and need building up.”
“Always the last word!” Gran exploded. “I don’t know what your dad would’ve said.”
“I do,” said Lois, who had been unable to do wrong in her father’s eyes, even when she’d spent the night in a prison cell for shoplifting from Woolworth’s in her teens, refusing to speak to the police. “Anyway,” she continued, “tell me what Evelyn and you talked about out there in the car.”
Gran sat down with her Nescafe and pursed her lips. “It was a private conversation,” she said huffily. Lois said that if Gran would tell her, she would fill her in with the latest from Dot. She had no intention of doing so, but thought a severely edited version would do no harm.
Gran considered the offer, and began to speak. “Well, we naturally talked about Dot and how she was a foolish, stubborn woman, and a trial to her sister. And then I said you’d been much the same, and we agreed that somehow both of you seemed to come up smelling of roses.” She expected a retort from Lois, but none came, and so she carried on. “Evelyn was worried, o’ course, as are we all, about what all these accidents are about. Apparently the police have said they want to talk to Dot as soon as she gets home. You’d think they’d have sorted it out by now . . . What’s your Cowgill doing about it? Wasting his time talking to people clipping hedges, I expect.”
Lois merely raised her eyebrows, and said nothing.
“Anyway, Evelyn said she reckoned it was all to do with that Colonel at Waltonby. Old Battersby. She says she’s discovered that Margaret Horsley—you know you sent Evelyn there instead of Dot—well, Margaret once had a passionate affair with Horace Battersby. Can you imagine anybody wanting to go to bed with him? Like going to bed with a dead stick . . .”
“Mum!” Lois said at last, in mock shock. “Fancy you two discussing such things. But I agree that it’s a funny business. They’re still friends, aren’t they? Perhaps there were no hard feelings?”
“Oh, yes there were! The Colonel’s lady was furious, and said the Horsleys were never to be seen anywhere near her house again. Blanche Battersby is a gentle soul, but when she’s roused, she’s like a tigress.”
Lois said suspiciously, “How did Evelyn know all this?”
“Margaret told her. Seems that Evelyn found her crying into a cup of tea the other day, and it all came tumbling out. Evelyn said she was really sorry for her, and reckoned that Joe was no better than Horace. Wife-beaters, the pair of them.”
“Did Margaret say that?” Lois said sharply. “Actually say wife-beaters?”
“I’m just telling you what Evelyn said. Interesting, don’t you think? I expect you’ll want to be off now to your office to phone your friendly cop. The sooner those two get put behind bars the better.”
FIFTY
THE TWINS WERE AWAKE EARLY. THEY FREQUENTLY WOKE at the same time, and now Jim, always the leader, looked at his watch on the bedside table. The grubby curtains were drawn across smeary windows, but rays of watery sunlight found their way through to the small room, where there was just enough space for twin beds, an old commode serving as a bedside table, and a narrow, gimcrack self-assembly cupboard. There were piles of clothing everywhere, mostly on the floor.
“Time to get up, Steve. We got a job to do today, if you ain’t forgotten.”
Steve peered out from under the bedclothes at his brother. “It’s too early,” he said. He’d been awake for some time, but loved to lie in and think his thoughts away from his brother’s domination.
“Nearly seven,” Jim replied. “Get up, lazy sod!” A sudden burst of temper sent him across the room, where he tugged an ancient duvet off the curled-up Steven and dragged him roughly out of bed.
Downstairs their mother was frying sausages. “Get up, you two!” she yelled. “You got to make an early start!”
They appeared together, and sat down at the kitchen table. A strong smell of burning meat filled the room, and Jim groaned. “Not burnt bangers again! God, what a mother! ’Ere, Steve, give us yours. Do a swap. I know you like ’em well done.” He sniggered, and Steve obligingly sank his teeth into a charred sausage.
Before they disappeared, their mother said, “Give my love to your Uncle Joe and Auntie Margaret. Well, maybe just to Uncle Joe.”
“Shan’t see ’im,” Jim said shortly. “We go there, do the job, and beat it as fast as we can. Come straight back.”
“We’ll see you when we get back. Shouldn’t be too long,” said Steve mildly, smiling at his mother.
“We have other things to do, Steve,” Jim reminded him. “Meetin’ the lads in the city.”
“I’ll expect you when I see you, then,” said their mother. “Do a good job for Uncle Joe. We need to keep on the right side of him.”
Jim grinned and flexed his arm muscles. “We’ll do a good job all right. Come on, Steve. Look lively.”
* * *
SO TODAY’S THE DAY, THOUGHT HORACE BATTERSBY, liberally buttering his toast. Let’s hope they do a better job than last time. “Blanche,” he said loudly, and she came obediently in from the kitchen. “I’ve been thinking about Floss and the mare. When she was so clumsy—Floss, that is, not the mare—I almost revoked the deal. Wretched girl is getting much too familiar. But I’ve had a better idea.”
“But we’re very fond of Floss!” protested Blanche. “She’s not just a cleaner, Horace, I regard her as a friend. I thought you felt the same way . . .” Her voice tailed off. She was feeling depressed, and wished that Dot Nimmo would soon be back again. That odd woman always cheered her up, and she knew Alice P-K felt the same way. Floss was fine, of course, and Alice was happy with Evelyn, but they both agreed there was nobody like Dot. It would be awkward, of course, explaining to Mrs. Meade that she would like to have Dot as often as possible, without hurting Floss’s feelings. Oh well, perhaps she would ring the hospital today, and find out how Dot was.
Horace was still speaking, and Blanche’s attention was wrested back when she heard him explaining his better idea. “I shall tell Floss that she must share the mare with you. I know you miss your riding, and it will give the horse more exercise. Floss doesn’t ride her enough, spending most of her time scrubbing floors. In fact, you can take her out this morning. I’ll saddle her up for you and see you off. I’d like to check Maisie, see how she goes. Lovely day. Just right for a jog around the countryside. Or,
” he added, as if it had just occurred to him, “you could ask the barmy lad if he’d like a ride. Time he got back on a horse.” He knew this would appeal to Blanche, and waited.
“But . . .” Blanche had planned to go shopping in Tresham, but knew it was a waste of time trying to change Horace’s mind. She supposed she could go this afternoon. She knew that Darren was due to be gardening this morning, and she might persuade him to have a walk round the village on the mare. Horace was right. It was time he got his confidence back. He had enjoyed riding so much. Yes, that would make it worthwhile, if she could persuade him.
“Very well, dear,” she said. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“There’s a good girl,” smiled Horace. “More coffee, please.” And he lifted the newspaper in front of his face to put a stop to the conversation.
As Blanche made fresh coffee, she thought about Horace’s proposal. Floss would be upset, she was sure. She would see it as criticism of her care of Maisie. There must be a more tactful way of doing it. Perhaps if she asked Floss’s permission to ride the mare when Floss was busy? That would be fine. Floss might even be flattered to be asked. She took the coffee to Horace, and told him how she would put it to Floss. She endeavoured to make it sound like a firm decision, and Horace looked up from the newspaper.
“Good idea, Blanche,” he said curtly. “I was going to suggest it myself.” And then up went the newspaper again. As soon as she had left the room, he picked up the telephone.
Floss arrived soon after breakfast, and Blanche tentatively said to her that she might—with Floss’s permission—take out the mare when Floss was working. Would Floss mind? Blanche would take great care of her, and of course would never want to ride her when Floss was free.
A small doubt entered Floss’s mind, but she shrugged it off and said that she wouldn’t mind in the least. On the contrary; it was a very good idea.
“Then would it be all right with you if I took her out this morning? Perhaps a little later on? Horace thinks I’m not getting enough exercise!”
So it was Horace behind the new arrangement. Floss’s small doubt had been justified. The old sod was still angry with her about the dog pee, and this was his petty revenge. For two pins she would walk out and leave them to it. She was sure Mrs. M would understand . . . But would she? This was just the kind of thing she had worried about, when the gift to Floss was suggested. Ah, well, better forget it. She was not one to bear grudges, even if horrible Horace was.
She assured Blanche that it would be fine, and even gave her permission for Darren to be walked around the village, if he would agree.
* * *
HALFWAY DOWN THE MOTORWAY, JIM PULLED IN TO A service station. “What are we stopping here for?” Steven said.
“Just need to check the tyres,” Jim said. “Steering is a bit one-sided. We don’t want anything to hold us up on our way back. No, don’t get out. Can’t trust you to do it properly. Just keep your eyes open.”
“What for?” said Steven.
“Anything, you idiot,” said Jim. “Anything and everything.”
Quickly and efficiently Jim checked the tyre pressures, got back in the car and sped out of the service station.
“I didn’t see nothin’ said Steven.
“I did,” Jim said sharply. “I saw my idiot brother grinning at a bimbo in the car at the next pump.”
“What of it?”
“Just the kind of thing that’s remembered,” Jim said. “We don’t want nobody remembering they saw a lecherous idiot grinning at them from a dirty green motor at a service station on the motorway.”
“You’re paranoid,” said Steven, not quite sure what the word meant, but it sounded good. “We’re just two young lads out for a bit o’ fun. Dozens like us.”
“Don’t say that! We’re special,” snapped Jim, and put his foot down hard on the accelerator, forgetting that a speeding ticket would bring them to the notice of the very people they were trying to avoid.
* * *
FLOSS HAD FINISHED UPSTAIRS AT THE BATTERSBYS, AND Blanche suggested she had a coffee break before tackling the drawing room. “Horace has scattered papers everywhere,” she said apologetically. “He takes a newspaper apart as thoroughly as he does everything else,” she added. “I’ll have a coffee with you, and then I’ll be off. Horace wants to see how she goes.”
Floss felt a pang. Maisie was hers, and they were used to each other. Still, she supposed Blanche must have ridden her before, and Darren was known to be really good with horses. “I hope you have a nice ride,” she forced herself to say, and changed the subject. “Did you know Dot Nimmo is out of hospital?”
“No! Is she really? How marvellous!”
Floss thought Blanche’s reaction was a bit over the top, but continued. “Mrs. M told me on the phone. She says it’ll be some while before she’s well enough to start work, but the old thing is apparently keen to be back in harness.”
The news had lifted Blanche’s spirits already. As she walked towards the stable, she heard the mare snickering. Probably thought she was Floss. What a nasty man Horace could be! He always knew the way to make people suffer. Had he always been like that? Probably. Love is blind, and she was certainly deeply in love with him at first. She stopped. She had forgotten Darren, and walked on to the kitchen garden. It was beginning to rain, more mist than real rain, and she wondered if Darren would be there. Yes, there he was, wheeling the new barrow between the vegetable beds.
“Darren! Come here a minute, please!”
Darren walked slowly towards her. Had he done something wrong? No, Mrs. Battersby was smiling her lovely smile. It was all right. Quite safe. He greeted her with his usual, “Lovely morning, Mrs. Battersby,” though misty rain was still falling.
“I’m taking the mare out for some exercise, Darren. Would you like to come? Just sit on her and hold the reins? I’ll be with you all the time, so you’ll be quite safe.”
Safe, thought Darren. Mrs. Battersby says I’ll be safe. Nice horse. Gentle. Nice for Darren before Mum comes to take him home.
He nodded, and followed her to the stable. Blanche was glad that there was no sign of Horace. When Darren was up on the mare’s back, he had the old feeling of being in close touch with a friend. He knew she was excited, looking forward to going out. He patted her neck, and made a gentle purring noise. The horse immediately quietened. Blanche took a leading rein and they began to leave the yard and walk down towards the road.
* * *
JIM AND STEVE WERE PARKED A FEW YARDS AWAY FROM the Battersbys’ entrance, the car windows open. The village was quiet. Rush-hour traffic was long gone, and the children were in school, not yet ready to emerge into the playground in a noisy throng.
“I can hear somebody,” said Steve quietly. “I can hear hooves on the gravel, and a woman’s voice.”
“If it’s them,” Jim whispered, “hold on to your seat.”
The rain had stopped, and the skies were clearing. Blanche talked soothingly to Darren, and he was relaxed and smiling. The mare hesitated, pricking her ears, but Blanche urged her on, and they came to the gates, which Horace must have opened.
Jim revved up the engine suddenly, as loudly as possible, and drove straight at the emerging trio. He turned sharply at the last minute and was gone. The mare reared up, and tore the leading rein out of Blanche’s hands. She screamed and clawed at the flying mane.
As the mare twisted round in terror, Darren was thrown off. He too was screaming, and as he hit the ground with an unbearable thud, the high-pitched cry ended, suddenly and with a terrible finality. Then there was no sound except for galloping hooves fleeing along the road in fear, and Blanche stumbling back to the house, shouting fruitlessly for her husband.
FIFTY-ONE
HORACE HAD HEARD THE SCREAMS AND BLANCHE SHOUTING for help. He’d heard the squeal of tyres as the twins made their getaway, and he’d heard the galloping hooves. He got up from his desk and looked out of the window. He saw Blanche limping up t
he drive, but the rest of it was round the corner of the curving gravel. So Blanche was all right. Thank God for that. They seemed to have done well this time. He went over to his desk and dialled for an ambulance, told them there had been an accident, and gave details. “The lad might need urgent attention,” he said. Then he walked slowly to the front door, immediately breaking into a run as he stepped outside.
“Horace! Quick! Send for an ambulance!” Blanche collapsed to the ground, and Horace knelt beside her. “Leave me!” she said. “Darren, by the gate. Terrible accident. Go now!”
“I have already sent for an ambulance,” he said. “I heard the screams and the terrified mare, and knew something dreadful had happened. They should be here soon. Let me get you into the house . . .”
“No! Go and see to Darren. He’s not moving.”
“Probably concussed,” Horace said calmly. “Now, come on, Blanche, let’s get you up.”
“Go!” she screamed, and Horace recoiled. Her face was twisted with pain and hatred. She struggled to her feet and limped on towards the house. “I’ll phone his mother,” she yelled back at him, and made it to the front door.
By the time Horace reached the gate, the village network had gone into action and there was a small crowd surrounding the prostrate Darren. Horace recognized the vicar, standing over him and keeping the others at bay. A silence had descended on the little group as they stared at Darren. “So still,” muttered an elderly woman to her neighbour.
“Ah, Colonel, is the ambulance . . . ?” The vicar turned to greet him.
“Yes, the ambulance and police are on the way.” Horace looked at Darren, and was overwhelmed with a feeling of nausea. Surely he wasn’t dead? Oh my God, he thought, desperately trying not be sick, have those two . . . ? At this point he made a dash for the other side of the hedge and threw up. Everything was spinning, and he sat down on the grass with his head between his knees. He heard sirens approaching and made a huge effort to stand up. Reaching the gate, he leaned against a pillar and took deep breaths.