by Hazel Holt
“I can’t wait!”
When Brian arrived the following week (the day he said he would and right on time) he was older than I had expected, in his forties probably. He was tall and thin, slightly stooping, his dark hair was going grey and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles so that he looked more like an academic than a carpenter. His voice was quiet and he didn’t have the local accent. There was something about him that puzzled me, though I couldn’t identify it. His manner was pleasing and he certainly knew what he was talking about.
“I could make you new windows and fit them easily enough,” he said, when he had examined them. “Though I imagine this is a listed building, so they would have to be identical with these.”
“That’s right,” I said. “How clever of you to have thought of that.”
He smiled. “I do a lot of work on old houses, restoration and so on. That’s the sort of job I prefer.”
“And you could manage the leaded panes all right?”
“Oh yes, that’s no problem.”
“That would be wonderful.”
He examined the window frame again.
“I think I could find you some local slate for the sill, if you like. It would be quite in keeping and it wouldn’t rot away as the wood has, especially if I angle it slightly. You see how the rain from the thatch drips straight onto the sill.”
“That’s a marvellous idea!”
“Right then, I’ll just take some measurements then, if that’s all right.”
“Of course. Would you like some tea or coffee?”
“Tea would be nice.”
“He’s absolutely brilliant,” I told Rosemary when we were having coffee in The Buttery a few days later. “He really knows what he’s doing and he’s made some very useful suggestions – for instance, as well as the slate sill I told you about, he’s going to move the guttering so that the rainwater doesn’t splash down the side of the house like it’s done for years. And he’s going to redo the back porch so that I have proper shelves for my plants there.”
“He certainly sounds an absolute paragon,” Rosemary said. “Where does he come from? Is he local?”
“He doesn’t sound local, but he lives out at Withycombe. With his mother, apparently.”
“No wife and family?”
“Not that he’s mentioned.”
“Divorced, probably, people these days mostly are. Did I tell you that Maureen’s daughter has split up with Keith and is back home with the baby?”
“No! But they’ve only been married for four years.”
“I know. Poor Maureen, she’s very upset – she never liked Keith and begged Sandy not to marry him – and Denis is being difficult about the broken nights they’re all having because of the baby. Maureen says he should be more supportive of his daughter, but you know what he’s like.”
“Oh dear.”
“At least when Colin and Charlotte split up,” Rosemary said, referring to her son and his unhappy marriage, “there weren’t any children.”
“And,” I said soothingly, “they’ve both found new partners and seem very happy.”
“It does seem strange,” Rosemary said, “to have a Canadian daughter-in-law I’ve never seen.”
“Oh, I expect they’ll come over soon.”
“They were coming over straight after the wedding, but then Colin got this new appointment in Montreal and things were a bit hectic.”
“I can’t think why you and Jack don’t go over and visit them. I believe Montreal is gorgeous.”
“I’d love to – Colin keeps asking us to, but you know what Jack is like about Abroad!”
“Oh dear. Men!”
The windows were duly finished and fitted and the polished slate sill so was beautiful I had to keep going out and admiring it. I found Brian an agreeable person as well as a good workman. He was quite prepared to chat over his cups of tea, though always on general topics, never anything personal, but whatever he said was sensible and well considered. He was also very good with the animals, never minding letting Foss in and out of whichever door or window took his fancy.
“Cats know their own minds,” he said, stroking Foss in just the right way along his spine, “people could learn a lot from cats.”
“How to be selfish!” I said laughing.
“Well, sometimes you have to look out for yourself. No one else will.”
I looked at him in surprise since there was a sharper note in his voice than usual when he made a general statement. But I didn’t comment on it, respecting his reserve.
Because he was so reliable I was surprised and then worried when he didn’t arrive at his appointed time one morning. Ten o’clock came and then eleven and I was just on the point of ringing him when the telephone rang. Brian’s voice was hoarse and strained, almost as if he was whispering.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs Malory,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to get in to you today.”
“Oh dear, is something the matter?”
“It’s Mother – she’s not well. I have to stay with her.”
“Yes, of course. Has she seen a doctor?”
“It’s all under control…”
He broke off as I heard what sounded like a shout in the background.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Whenever you can manage…”
My voice trailed away as I heard him put down the phone.
“Do you know anything about Brian’s mother?” I asked Thea when I went round there later.
“Not really.”
I explained about Brian’s phone call. “It was a bit odd,” I said. “His voice was sort of strange and someone seemed to be shouting and he rang off very abruptly, which isn’t like him at all.”
“It happened a couple of times when he was working for us,” Thea said, “the having to stay at home and look after his mother, but I didn’t gather what was the matter with her. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. You know how you can’t really ask him anything personal.”
“I know. Most people are perfectly happy to talk about themselves and their family, but Brian never does.”
“Just as well, perhaps, you know how awful it is when people go on and on and the work never seems to get done!”
“Oh I agree,” I said. “I suppose it’s just perversity that when someone doesn’t say anything I want to know all about them!”
Alice, who had been pouring water from one doll’s teacup to another, suddenly decided to pour the whole lot onto the floor and in the ensuing mopping up the subject was forgotten.
Three days later Brian turned up at his usual time.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here before,” he said.
“That’s fine. No problem – there’s no hurry for those shelves, I’m just glad to have them done at all! So how is your mother? Better, I hope.”
“Oh yes, she’s fine now. I’ll just get that new wood from the van…”
Foss, who had come in from the garden to see who had arrived, weaved round his legs, miaowing loudly, looking for attention. Brian bent down and stroked him.
“Do you have any animals?” I asked.
“We used to have a cat, but that was a while since.”
He turned and went outside. Foss, deciding that since he was indoors he ought to be fed, went into the kitchen and walked about determinedly on the worktop until I opened a tin for him. Tris, hearing the sounds of food dishes being put down, emerged from the hall barking hopefully and was fed in his turn. By the time all this was done, Brian was busy working and the opportunity to ask more questions had gone.
But I was puzzled. As I’d said to Thea, I was curious. The shout I’d heard on the phone hadn’t sounded, somehow, like the call of a sick elderly woman calling her son, and the way he’d put the phone down so suddenly – it was all a bit of a mystery.
Brian finished the shelves, and a few other odd jobs that I thought I’d get done while he was there,
and departed, having presented me with a very modest bill.
“He really is fantastic,” I said to Michael. “I do hope he stays around.”
“Oh, I think he’s more or less committed to looking after his mother.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
“Not really – it seems to be something that flares up suddenly. Oh, before I forget, Thea says would you like to come for lunch on Sunday? Apparently she’s got a new recipe she wants your opinion on.”
The days slipped by, more quickly than they used to I’m sure, and suddenly Anthea appeared at the door with her tray of poppies and her collecting tin and I realised with a shock that we were well into November. Remembrance Day was mercifully dry but misty, the air felt damp and low cloud hung over the hills. Since the heating in St James’ is always very notional, I put on my winter coat and wore my gloves. The church was filling up as I arrived and sat in my usual pew. The congregation was elderly, many of the older men wearing neat blazers with regimental badges on the pocket and well polished shoes – something I always find very touching. Sidney Middleton was there and other faces I recognised: Bill Goddard, Fred Pudsey, Ernie Shepherd and other ex-servicemen – fewer every year now. Rosemary and Jack slipped into the pew beside me just before George Lennox, carrying the British Legion standard, led the procession into the church.
“Jack lost the car keys!” Rosemary whispered to me as the organ struck up the first hymn.
“Through all the changing scenes of life…” we sang as we rose to our feet, for most of us our thoughts in the past. Later, in the cold, damp churchyard, as we all stood round the war memorial the vicar spoke the familiar words:
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old…”
I thought of my father, a chaplain on the beaches of Normandy, returned home safely after the war, but dying far too young, the horror of what he had seen still in his mind, and of my brother Jeremy, whose brilliant life was cut short by a sniper’s bullet in Cyprus.
“At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.”
The Last Post echoed in the still air, followed by a silence that, as always, felt almost palpable, broken by the thin notes of Reveille. The poppy wreaths were laid and, one by one, the small crosses, each with its individual poppy placed by loving hands. Then George Lennox took up his standard and the Scouts, the Guides and other uniformed figures marched away, leaving the rest of us to put aside our memories and return, as best we could, to the present.
Jack came up behind me.
“OK. Everybody fit, then?”
I was going back to lunch with Rosemary and Jack, something I did every Remembrance Sunday.
“Oh, Jack, do you mind if I follow you on? I want to have a word with Bill Goddard. I won’t be long.”
I made my way back up towards the church where a few people were still lingering.
Bill Goddard was a friend of my parents, a small cheerful man, still brisk and upright in spite of his eighty years. As he saw me he broke away from the group and greeted me.
“Sheila! How nice to see you. Keeping well, I hope. Quite a good turn-out – though not many of us left now. You know Bob Wilson’s gone? He died in July.”
“Oh no, I hadn’t heard. And Bill, I was so sorry to hear about Vera.”
Vera was Bill’s sister-in-law, married to his twin brother Frank, who had died in the war. Bill and his wife Betty had been very good to her and her little boy who was only two when his father was killed.
“It was quite sudden,” Bill said. “Her heart, apparently. It was a bit of a shock!”
“How awful.”
“Terry, that’s her lad, he couldn’t get back for the funeral.”
“That’s sad. He’s in New Zealand, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. He’s hoping to get over sometime, but I don’t know when. He’s asked me to clear the house and put it on the market.”
“Oh dear, that is a big job, isn’t it?”
“Not something I’m looking forward to, I can tell you. Vera was never a one for throwing things away!”
He broke off as Sidney Middleton approached.
“Hello, Sheila, good to see you,” he said. “Splendid service, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, very moving. How are you? Still at Lamb’s Cottage, I hope.”
“Yes, still there.”
“You stay in your own home,” Bill said. “Hang on to your independence while you can.”
“Bill’s right,” I agreed. “You’re perfectly fit and well. You’d hate to be in a retirement home, you know you would!”
“I’d like to stay where I am, certainly,” Sidney said, “but I don’t want David to have to worry about me. He’s got enough on his plate as it is.”
“You’ve got to think of yourself,” Bill said. “You can’t always be thinking of other people. Ah,” he said, “here’s Betty. I must be off, we’re having lunch with the children today and she won’t thank me if we keep them waiting.”
He moved away and I said to Sidney, “Do think very carefully about it, won’t you? It’s a big step. Once you’ve sold up your home you can’t change your mind!”
He smiled. “I’ll think about it. And thank you, Sheila, for your concern. You’re a good friend.”
I put my arm round his shoulder and gave him a little hug.
“You take care of yourself,” I said.
As I went down the slope and turned at the lych gate I looked back and saw him standing quite still where I had left him, a small, somehow gallant figure. I waved, but he didn’t see me. I sat in the car for a little while, then I started the engine and drove off to the comfort of the company of my friends.
Chapter Four
* * *
The cold damp weather seemed to go on forever, day after day. As I drove into Taviscombe to do some boring food shopping the countryside looked deeply depressing – the last rags of leaves on the trees said all too clearly that Autumn had gone and there was the whole of Winter to get through before we could hope for Spring again. Only a flock of starlings, dotted about on the telegraph wires looking like notes of music, broke the monotony of the grey sky. On an impulse I drove down to the sea-front, but there too the note was one of melancholy, the sea and sky both merging into a uniform greyness that did nothing to lift the spirits. Even the seagulls were not flying but were huddled on the foreshore, their feathers fluffed out, looking as miserable as I felt.
I got out of the car and stood for a while, hoping that a breeze from off the sea would galvanise me into some sort of cheerfulness, but the air was still and heavy. There were very few people about, just a couple walking their dogs on the beach, and I was just about to return to the car and get on with my shopping when a voice behind me said,
“It’s Mrs Malory, isn’t it?”
I turned and saw a small figure muffled up in an anorak and scarf.
“Not a very nice day, is it, but then, as I always say, if we waited for a nice day every time we wanted to do something, we’d wait for ever!”
I recognised the flow of words before I identified the face.
“Oh, Mrs Norton,” I said, fishing in my memory for the name. “How are you? Have you quite settled in?”
“Oh yes, everything’s very cosy now. Well, Jim’s just got the spare room to decorate, but then, I said to him, there’s no need to break your neck getting that done, we’re not expecting visitors!”
“You haven’t anyone coming for Christmas then?”
“No.” She was silent for a moment. “It’ll be just us. Mind you,” she went on, “there’s always something to do – for instance, I’m not really happy about some of the cupboards in the kitchen. They’re a bit high for me, seeing as how I’m just a little one! So that’s got to be done and then I was thinking that it would be nice to have a sun lounge built on at the back, leading out of the living room – you know, for plants and things. To be honest with you I’m not much of a garde
ner (that’s Jim’s speciality) but I do love my house plants! Jim’s put up some shelves for me, but it would be nice to have a sun-lounge as well.”
“You’re very lucky to have someone who’s so handy about the house,” I said, feeling that some comment was called for.
“Oh, Jim’s very good, there’s nothing he can’t turn his hand to. I was saying to my neighbour the other day – we’ve got very nice neighbours, a Mr and Mrs Goddard, do you know them? An elderly couple but very nice. Anyway, I was saying to Mrs Goddard, any little job you want doing, just ask, Jim will be only too pleased. Well, I do think we should help each other if we can and they’re really quite elderly, as I said.”
“Yes, I do know them,” I said, “they’ve lived in Taviscombe all their lives, and so have I.”
“Really! Fancy that! You must all have seen some changes – even in a sleepy little place like this.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Things have certainly changed, even in Taviscombe.”
“Well,” she said, “I must be getting along. It’s been so nice having a chat. Now do drop by if you’re passing, we’d love to see you any time.”
Strangely enough this encounter had the effect of cheering me up and I made my way to the supermarket in a much brighter frame of mind.
“How do you feel,” Rosemary asked, “about a trip to Taunton before it gets all clogged up with Christmas shoppers?”
“Good idea. I want to get a few things for Alice’s stocking and there’s not much in Taviscombe.”
“Mother wants a Pyrennean wool dressing gown – heaven alone knows if I can find one. I may have to go to Exeter or even Bath, but I thought I’d try Taunton first.”
Amazingly Taunton did yield up the dressing gown, but there was only one and Rosemary wasn’t very happy about the colour.
“She did say blue and she’s never been very keen on green, especially dark green.”
“Still, it’s blissfully soft and warm,” I said. “And at least you found one.”