An Affair to Remember

by Virginia Budd

  “And frankly I simply cannot cope. Being a good wife to someone in Sel’s position is no mean task, I can tell you, and to have to put up with a mad secretary and being pregnant at the same time is altogether too much.”

  It’s obvious tears are on the way; Dr Hardcastle, thankfully back in familiar territory, sits cosily down beside her on the bed, pats her hand. “Now, my dear…”

  This, he’s thinks, is turning out to be all rather fun. Will he be late for surgery, he wonders?

  *

  That night Sam comes again to the rookery: the rooks stir sleepily, but make no noise as he digs steadily down into the roots of the great tree. Just before dawn he finds what he’s looking for. The tiny cup still has a few fibres adhering to it from the bag in which it was buried so long ago; although encrusted with earth you can see a glint of silver.

  The rooks maintain their silence while, after carefully wiping away the worst of the mud, in the manner of a priest holding up the chalice, Sam raises the cup above his head and kisses it, then wrapping it in his handkerchief, places the tiny parcel in the pocket of his dressing gown. At peace at last, he picks up his spade, and returns to the car. The fox from the Grove, back from a night’s hunting, is momentarily blinded by the car headlights as it passes him on its way down to the village.

  Beatrice, unaware, sleeps on, her senses drugged by Dr Hardastle’s Mogadon.

  Chapter 10

  “Good morning, dear, and what progress have we made?”

  “Progress?” Beatrice, slumped at her desk, looks up at him vacantly. It’s eight thirty am and she still feels drugged.

  “My list, dear, my list,” Sel tries not to sound impatient, “the list I left for you yesterday, have you managed any of it?”

  “A bit, and I’ve made some notes… Look I’m awfully sorry, Sel, but the doctor gave me some sleeping pills, I took two last night, and I’m really not quite with it yet.”

  Sel feels a pang of guilt, not something he experiences very often. He lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to appear unfeeling, dear, I know things must be hell for you at the moment, but to coin a cliché, life continues and a morning spent at the typewriter might help to bring you back down to earth so to speak, and perhaps, fingers crossed, keep that troublesome alter ego at bay.”

  Beatrice winces at the mention of her alter ego, but, straightening up, gives him a bleary smile. “I’ll do my best…”

  “That’s my girl,” he bends down, kisses the top of her head. “Now, before you settle dear, I have some good news. Yesterday at Coltsfoot, I managed to pull the odd string, and all things being equal, your Uncle Sel has got you off the hook! No charges are to be made against you, just a single payment to The Trojan landlord, Andy Rutherford, for the damage done, and as you have the good fortune to be classed as one of my servants, this will be covered by insurance.”

  “Surely they expect something in return?”

  “Don’t be cynical, dear, it doesn’t suit you. I simply suggested my Clarrie as temporary leader of the Trojan darts team, Andy (we’re great mates now) happened to let slip a charity match is shortly to be played and, well, the attendant publicity – you know the sort of thing – could give the place a badly needed boost. I understand from sources who have their ear to the ground The Trojan Horse has not been doing too well lately and, to use the words of my informant, is in dire need of bucking up.” Beatrice giggles, then feels guilty because she did; she of all people should know the situation was far too serious for flippancy.

  “Can Clarrie play?”

  “Can Clarrie play what, dear?”

  “Darts.”

  “She can learn, dear. My Clarrie’s always been a quick learner. Now, one more thing before I leave you to your toil. I’ve managed to locate Mrs Bogg senior, and arranged for you and me to visit her this afternoon at two thirty. She apparently resides in a home in Belchester, and although in her nineties and somewhat cantankerous, does still retain her marbles. Then after seeing her, we should have plenty of time to meet our ‘experts’ off the train from London. Clever of you, by the way, to locate Ron Head, not an easy man to deal with, as I remember, but one of the best in his field. As to Philippa Rainsford, one thing I can say about dear Pippa, she can always be relied on to come up with something original.”

  A knock at the door – Mrs Bogg, pregnant with news. “Sorry to intrude, Mr Woodhead, but I thought you’d like to be informed of the latest –”

  “Yes, what is it, Mrs Bogg, I am rather busy –”

  “The major’s been digging again, came in the night in his car, you can see the wheel tracks large as life, and there’s another hole…”

  “Oh no!”

  *

  Sam, still out for the count at seven thirty, is woken by Emmie banging on his door – he’s sleeping in the spare room now, it seems easier all round – saying she’s off to Belchester any minute, Karen won’t be in until later as she’s seeing the doctor, so he better get a move on and make sure the shop opens on time.

  Dragging himself out of bed, every muscle in his body screaming a protest, he sees the dirt under his fingernails; then, a further shock, the mud on his pyjamas. Christ almighty! He must have been walking in his sleep – outside too, where? He knows where, though, doesn’t he? There can only be one place.

  His dressing gown lies in a heap on the floor, bits of leaf and thistle adhering to the hem. Trembling, he picks it up. There’s something in the pocket, something surprisingly heavy. He dips his hand in, pulls out the package, wrapped, he notes, in one of his handkerchiefs. Trembling still more, he carries the package over to the window, gently unwraps it, holds the tiny two-handled cup up to the light; looks at it in wonder. It appears to be made of metal, silver perhaps, or bronze. With the help of the early sunshine slanting through the window, he can just make out that interspersed with some sort of monogram there are tiny animals prancing round the rim. Hard to see what sort of animals, horses perhaps? Whatever they are, they’re executed by a master, even he, philistine though he is, can see that. Still holding the cup up to the light, he begins to experience this strange feeling: part of him wants to rejoice, shout Hallelujah, even dance about, the other half wants to weep. He, who hasn’t cried since his puppy, Box, died when he was eight years old, feels his eyes misted with tears. The room’s becoming hazy too – there but not quite there. A voice not his own, although seemingly coming from him, starts to croon softly, over and over again: “My son,” it says. “My son…”

  *

  “I should like, if I may, to speak to Mrs Clarrie Woodhead please, it’s her Uncle Charles speaking.”

  Beatrice presses the buzzer, “Your Uncle Charles on the line, Clarrie, I’m putting him through.”

  “My Uncle who –?”

  “Clarrie, pet, it’s Jack. Just thought I’d give you a tinkle – see how things are.”

  “Bloody awful, if you really want to know. And that damned secretary’s still here. Sel’s managed somehow to do a fiddle with the Trojan landlord and persuaded him to drop the charges.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that. Can’t say I was looking forward to being called as a witness, wouldn’t have done me much good at Head Office either.”

  “Personally I think she should have been charged. Why should she get off, anyway? She damned near killed me with that sodding ashtray.” Jack makes soothing noises down the line. “And now, would you believe,” Clarrie continues, sounding more aggrieved by the minute, “if all this wasn’t enough, my dear husband tells me he’s arranged for me to learn to play darts.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sel wants me to learn darts.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.” Jack closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, is everybody in this place bonkers? What next, he wonders, what bloody next? For the first time in many years he has an urge to return to Barnsley.

  *

  The morning’s still fine, although with a hint of autumn in the air, when a maroon Mini Clubman drive
n by a smallish man in a fishing hat and dark glasses, turns into the all-but-empty car park at The Trojan Horse and pulls up with a flourish in a parking bay by the back door. The driver gets out and after carefully locking the Mini and checking the windows, strolls round to the front of the pub. The main door is locked – they obviously don’t do lunches – but there’s music emanating from the public bar so that must be open. This too, like the car park, apart from a couple of lethargic youths playing a space invader machines, turns out to be empty. Behind the bar an elderly man is reading a newspaper. No one looks up. About to return to the car and see if he can find somewhere slightly more welcoming, he notices the sign to the Pink Panther Bar and decides to have a decco: by the size of the car park, the place must surely cater for a more discerning class of punter than he’s come across so far.

  And the Pink Panther does seem marginally more friendly: a kindly looking lady behind the bar gives him a welcoming smile, and the young couple holding hands in the corner stop munching crisps long enough to look up and say ‘Hi’. The kindly lady puts down the glass she’s polishing:

  “Good morning, sir, and what can I get you?”

  “Gin and tonic, luv, please – with ice and lemon if you have it.” The man’s voice has a slight Australian intonation. He removes his fishing hat and dark glasses, to reveal spiky ginger hair and a pleasant if somewhat ordinary face. The lady looks at him approvingly, it’s nice to serve a stranger for a change, The Trojan doesn’t seem to get many visitors these days.

  “Come far?”

  “From the Smoke, luv,” the man pulls over a bar stool and sits down, “and am I glad to get away from it. All that noise and traffic’s not for me, give me the wide open spaces any time.”

  “You don’t live in London then?” The lady hands him his drink; hopes he doesn’t notice the bare patch on the wall opposite, they’ve cleaned it up, but she has to admit it doesn’t look too good.

  “No, used to though, and how I stood it beats me. No, I’ve been living in good old Oz for the last eight years.”

  “That’s nice. On a visit then?”

  “You could say that.”

  Sounds of disruption are coming from the couple in the corner. The young man, who sports a Mohican haircut, has risen from his chair and is making for the door; his girlfriend, looking sulky, remains seated. Her pink tinged hair is dragged into knot on top of her head, her ample form squeezed into a pair of acid green jeans.

  “Come on then,” the young man sounds aggrieved.

  The girl reluctantly gets to her feet, “I don’t see why we always have to stay in the Public. It’s much nicer in here – at least it’s got a bit of atmosphere.”

  Her boyfriend snorts derisively. “We don’t come in here, because the drinks are too expensive, you know why we don’t. The only reason we are now is you wanted to have a nose around after that bird from Brown’s kicked up a rumpus here the other night. To be honest, that whole business makes me want to puke. If we’d done what she’d done, we’d have been carted off to the nick before you could say fart, it’s only because her boss’s on the telly they let her off.”

  “Oh stop griping, Ken. And don’t be such a scrooge. There’s nothing to see anyway and it’s about time they had a new photo.” Still squabbling, the pair disappear down the passage to the Public Bar. The man from Oz watches with them with amusement, orders himself another drink.

  “And whatever you would like, my dear,” he says to the barmaid, although you could hardly call her that, more a landlady he thinks.

  “You live locally, Mrs –?”

  “Call me Vera, dear, everyone does. Yes, I live locally – have done all my life in fact. My dad used to be postmaster at Kimbleford, and I was born there.”

  “Sidney Parfitt; to my friends, Sid. Funny you mentioning Kimbleford, that’s the place I’m on my way to.”

  “Friends there, have you?”

  “You could say that. If there’s a village store there run by a chap by the name of Mallory, that is.”

  “Major Mallory. As a matter of fact the major was in here a couple of nights ago – there was a bit of a bust-up, and –”

  “The one the girl mentioned?”

  “Yes. Karen works for the Mallorys, so of course she was interested. I wasn’t here myself, I’m glad to say, I only do lunchtimes, but from all accounts it was quite a ding dong. The major seems to have got in with that telly crowd, and you know what they’re like – too much money, and don’t know how to behave.”

  “This Major Mallory, has he a lady living with him?”

  “Only his wife, Emmie, as far as I know – they run the shop together.”

  “Was she, this Emmie, in here the other night when the bust up –?”

  “No. I have seen her in here now and then, though, but not with the major.”

  “Ah…” Sid Parfitt, looking as if he’s heard enough, finishes his drink and gets up. “I better be on my way, time flies when you’re having fun, but it’s been nice meeting you Vera, and I hope we meet again.”

  “Likewise. And you can’t miss the Mallorys’ shop, it’s on the right half way down the main street. Perhaps they’ll give you a spot of lunch?”

  Sid grins, puts some money down on the bar. “Perhaps they will,” he says, “but I wouldn’t bank on it…”

  *

  “I think it better be notes, dear,” Sel says, “a tape can sometimes upset elderly people, and we don’t want that.”

  “But do you really think she’ll be any help? I mean, Mrs Bogg’s over ninety and if she has anything to say, it’ll only be repeating some legend.”

  “I agree, dear, I agree, but currently it’s our only lead. Besides which, most legends have a basis of truth.”

  Beatrice, however, is beginning to get that hunted look again. “Do you think Sam found anything last night?”

  Sel, having stuffed his papers into a briefcase, makes for the car. “I doubt it, dear. Surely we would have heard from him if he had, I must say it’s a damned nuisance his phone being out of order…”

  “They’ve probably cut him off on purpose.”

  “Who has?”

  “The telephone people or – oh I don’t know…”

  “Now, dear, have you taken your pill?”

  “No.”

  St Botolph’s Home for the Elderly turns out to be a pleasant, two-storey building surrounded by a large garden, in the outer suburbs of Belchester. There’s a cedar tree on the lawn (no rooks!) and regiments of scarlet, end of season pelargoniums fill the flowerbeds round the house. Matron, in blue, fizzing with excitement, hands outstretched in welcome, awaits them on the front door steps.

  “Mr Woodhead, this is just so exciting. I never miss one of your programmes. My husband says –”

  “So kind…” Sel puts his hands on her shoulders, smiles into her eyes; it’s a long time since he’s had a programme, but never mind that. “Simple appreciation is all, to us humble servants of the box; without it, dear, how should we go on?” The question is purely rhetorical of course. Matron quivers. Faces, Beatrice notices, peer at them through the downstairs windows.

  “Now, Mrs Stewart –”

  “Moira, please…”

  “Moira. Mrs Bogg. A short interview is all we need – just to get the feel of her. As I said on the phone, we’re researching for a programme on the over nineties, and time, as always in my particular trade, is of the essence.” Their mutual love-in over, Sel’s keen to get back to business.

  “Of course, of course, I do so understand. Mrs Bogg is ready and waiting; in a good mood too, a little bird tells me.” Matron gives a light laugh, and gesturing them to follow her, strides ahead down a long, deeply carpeted passage: doors on either side, sounds of distant hoovering, and a smell of Cross & Blackwell soup, but no one else in sight. They pause at last outside a door at the far end. Matron opens it with a flourish without bothering to knock and waves them in. Sel winks at Beatrice, who smiles bravely back, and with a hint of bra
vado, gives him the thumbs up sign.

  Mrs Bogg’s room, cell-like in size, is bright and cheerful; some might say almost too bright and cheerful. The contrast between the sunlight streaming in through the casement window, the roses on the pale beige carpet, jazzily patterned curtains, and shocking pink cover to the functional armchair on which Mrs Bogg is seated, and the chair’s witchlike occupant herself, is almost too great. However, a framed biblical text hanging above the bed adds a sombre note, as does the faded photograph in a silver frame on the table beside it, of a young man in army uniform. The young man, cap under his arm, stares glassily ahead at the camera. He has, Beatrice notes in wonder, a look of Sam.

  There’s something about Mrs Bogg, hard to say quite what. A presence perhaps, the feeling that though old and witchlike, here is a person who knew and still does know what’s what. A long time ago she was probably rather beautiful: her eyes, green, sharply intelligent, faintly mocking, still are. There’s a pale blue crocheted blanket draped over her knees, which she plucks at from time to time with small, claw-like hands. Two rings: one a heavy gold band, the other, ancient looking, silver, engraved with what look like tiny, prancing animals.

  “Leave us be,” she orders Matron, giving a sharp look at Beatrice. Their eyes meet across the little room, and Beatrice realises with a sense of shock mingled, oddly enough, with a feeling of relief, that there is already a bond between them. Mrs Bogg knows, a voice inside her is saying. She knows.

  Matron bridles a bit at Mrs Bogg’s tone, but used to the rudeness of the elderly, continues to smile brightly. “I’ll leave you in peace then. Maureen will be along shortly with tea…”

  After she’s gone, silence. Beatrice smiles tentatively; Mrs Bogg gestures towards the only other chair in the room; upright, with a shiny red plastic seat. “Come here my pretty and sit down.” Beatrice sits, feels in a curious way, all things considering, at home.