‘I haven’t got that far yet. Down where my roots are, perhaps. East Anglia.’
‘Oh, of course. I was forgetting. You’re a country boy, aren’t you? A real live swede-basher.’
‘If you like to call it that.’
‘Sounds dead boring. I’m not sure I want to take a taste of the rural life.’
‘That’s all right,’ Benton said. ‘I wasn’t thinking of taking you with me.’
She gave a gasp and she sounded angry. ‘You mean you’re planning to walk out on me?’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way. It doesn’t have to be for good, does it? I can go down there and I can come back.’
‘Oh, yes. And I can just stick around here twiddling my thumbs and waiting for you to show up whenever you happen to feel like it. Bloody fine.’
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘Ha!’ she said. ‘Not long! And how can I be sure of that? How long is not long? Suppose I don’t want to wait?’
‘It’s up to you. You’re free to do what you like. It’s not as if we were married, is it?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, with a sneer. ‘And aren’t you glad about that! I can see now why you didn’t want to tie yourself down.’
‘Now you’re talking nonsense. Neither of us ever considered marriage.’
‘How do you know that? How do you know what I thought about? Are you a mind-reader?’
‘You never mentioned the idea.’
‘Maybe I didn’t. That’s no proof it never crossed my mind.’
Benton wondered whether she was serious about this. Perhaps she had looked at the possibility of marriage with him, and perhaps the prospect had seemed pleasing to her; but he doubted it. Her hopes of a nice big pot of gold had been dashed and Houlder had smacked her on the face and she was feeling sore, physically as well as mentally; so she was only too ready to pounce on any bone of contention and worry it like a dog.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘do we have to argue about this now? It won’t get us anywhere.’
‘So you mean to go?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Ask me tomorrow morning.’
She asked him in the morning; it was the first thing she said to him when she woke up.
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes,’ Benton said.
‘Without me?’
‘Yes.’
She punched him in the ribs. ‘Damn you, Tom! What in hell am I to do while you’re away?’
‘You’ll amuse yourself.’
He could see that one side of her face was bruised and swollen and that she was in a filthy mood. A night’s sleep had done nothing to make her any happier with the situation. She had probably slept badly and wakened to the bleak recollection of the loss she had suffered. And now he was pulling out and she could not be sure he would ever return. He had to admit that she had something to be unhappy about.
But he had no intention of changing his mind. The walls of the flat seemed to be closing in on him, confining him in that narrow space; even London itself had become like a prison from which he had to escape, if only for a time; had to go where the air was fresher and he could breathe more freely.
He left soon after breakfast. He would not have been surprised if she had stayed in bed as a kind of mute protest; but she was up and about in a pink velour dressing-gown and fur-trimmed mules. She drank a cup of coffee but ate nothing.
Benton gave her three hundred pounds, which left him with less than that amount himself. She looked at the money in disgust.
‘How long do you expect me to manage on that?’
‘You managed before I came into your life.’
‘Oh great!’ she said. ‘So I’m a working girl again. Ta very much, for nothing.’
‘I’m sorry, Jackie, but that’s the way it is. If the job had gone right we’d have been okay. As it is we’ll have to get along as best we can for a while.’
‘Well, shit!’ she said. She found a cigarette and smoked it savagely. ‘Where can I get in touch with you while you’re away?’
‘You can’t. I don’t know where I’ll be.’
‘So you’re not going back to that place you came from?’
‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’d be welcome there.’
She stayed near him as he packed his suitcase, hovering around and watching every move.
‘You’ll be taking your gun?’
‘Yes.’
He was not expecting to need the pistol but it would have been a risk to leave it in the flat.
‘You’re afraid I might play around with it?’
‘No; but it’ll be better in my keeping. You don’t want it left here, do you?’
‘Damn right, I don’t.’
Before he left she became in a quick change of mood as sweet as honey. She clung to him and kissed him hungrily, telling him she loved him and always would.
‘And you will come back, Tom, won’t you? I couldn’t go on living without you.’
He thought it was an exaggeration. She would go on living whether he came back or not; she was not the suicidal type. But he assured her that he loved her too and that he would certainly return.
‘I’ll have to. I’ve left some of my gear in the wardrobe.’
‘Bastard!’ she said. But the word was more like an endearment than an insult, and at least she had managed to raise a smile.
So, taken all in all, as partings went it was not such a bad one at that.
5
Farmhouse Tea
It was a very minor road, not even ‘B’ registration on the map and deep in the real heartland of East Anglia. It meandered like a lowland river and there were hedges on each side that were gappy and untrimmed, with brambles in them that would be laden with blackberries later in the year, and thorny dog-roses and clumps of elder.
There were wildflowers growing on the verges, and in a field was a genuine scarecrow with straw bursting out of the jacket and trousers; no noisy bird-scarers going off like guns and destroying the peace of the afternoon, just this sagging imitation of a man disturbing no one, not even the crows.
Benton approved of all this; it was the way the countryside had been before technology had taken over and the grain mountains had grown out of all control. He drove slowly and came to a gateway. On one of the gateposts was the name of the property: PEAR TREE FARM. And the pear tree was there too, a very old gnarled one that might have been bearing its crop of fruit for nearly a century.
He noticed a signboard, leaning drunkenly and partly obscured by rampant cow-parsley. The words, crudely painted in black capitals, were just visible through the creamy lacelike flowers of the weed: FARMHOUSE TEAS.
Benton stopped the car and looked past the gateway and the weedy drive towards the weathered red-brick house, with its faded paint and mossy roof, which stood some distance back from the road. He could see a black barn and some other buildings in the background, a trifle dilapidated perhaps but picturesque, fitting into the scene like the detail in a Constable painting.
Acting on a sudden impulse, he parked the Vauxhall on the verge at the left of the gateway, got out and walked up to the house. There was a brick porch with honeysuckle climbing over it, but the front door was shut, and though he tugged at a rusty iron bell-pull and rapped on the woodwork no one came to open it.
He felt half inclined to return to the car but was reluctant to give up so easily and decided to go round to the back of the house where he might find someone to speak to. Yet when he got there he could still see no indication of human life, though there were some hens scratching busily around a small stack of baled straw with a polythene sheet thrown over it to keep out the rain. On the right was a scummy pond where a few ducks were enjoying themselves in their own peculiar fashion, and there was an open-fronted cart-shed with a much-used pick-up truck standing in it.
Benton walked up to the back door of the house and knocked on it with his knuckles. Again there was no response; it seemed there was no one at home. He turned away with the int
ention of leaving it at that, but caught sight of a woman coming out of the barn. She was about forty yards away from him and she was wearing faded blue jeans and a grubby white T-shirt. She had tousled brown hair and her face was rounded, with eyes rather widely set and a snub nose and a mouth that seemed to turn down at the corners.
She had started to walk towards the house before she noticed Benton. When she did see him she appeared to be startled and came to a halt for a moment, but then came on again. She was not very tall and there was nothing willowy about her; she looked sturdy rather than slender, and at a guess Benton would have said her age was about twenty-five or maybe a bit more.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
She came to a halt again, this time a few paces from him. He got the impression that she was wary of him, perhaps a trifle suspicious. The idea came into his head that if he had made a move towards her she might have turned and run away.
‘Yes?’
She gave a questioning lift of the eyebrows, and the eyes caught his attention; they were brown, to match the hair, and they had a lustre that transformed the face. He felt himself attracted to them as if by some kind of human magnetism. It surprised him and he found it oddly disturbing, this immediate attraction. It was not what he would have expected when he had first seen her emerging from the barn; for a moment then he had imagined she was a boy.
‘I rang the bell,’ he said. ‘The front door, you know. There was no answer. So then I came round to the back.’
‘Why?’
It was a blunt straightforward question. The wide brown eyes which had such a disturbing effect on him were regarding him steadily, a shade defiantly it seemed.
‘To see if there was anyone about. The place looked deserted. I began to think there was nobody at home.’
She lifted her right hand to push a lock of hair away from her forehead, and the fingers left a smudge of dirt on the smooth skin that was lightly tanned from exposure to the sun. Benton glanced at her hands and she seemed to become aware of the grime on them. She rubbed them on the seat of the jeans, embarrassed.
‘What do you want? You’re not selling anything?’
Benton smiled. ‘No, nothing like that. You thought I might have been a salesman?’
‘Yes. But you’re not?’ She spoke still with a hint of suspicion in her voice and in her eyes.
‘No, I’m not. The fact is I saw the notice.’
‘The notice?’ She frowned slightly, puzzled.
‘The signboard outside, by the gate. Farmhouse teas, it says.’
‘Oh, that!’ Suddenly she was enlightened and, he would have said, relieved. He wondered what possibly sinister reasons for his presence might have been conjured up in her mind; but it was evident that if there had been any this simple explanation had dispelled them. She even smiled, and the smile was enchanting. ‘I’d forgotten it was still there.’
‘You mean it shouldn’t be?’
‘Well, no. It was supposed to be a way of making a little extra money, but it was never really a success. And now, of course – ’ She looked at her hands; they were still dirty; rubbing them on the jeans had served only to spread the grime more evenly.
‘And now?’ Benton prompted.
‘Now I just haven’t got the time.’
Benton wondered what had happened to make her time less plentiful, but he did not ask. Her hands came to rest on her hips and she was looking at him again, but no longer with any trace of that suspicion he had noticed before. He tried to picture himself in her eyes, a man appearing suddenly from nowhere, a complete stranger, a lean craggy individual in grey trousers and a gaberdine zipper jacket, tow-haired and blue-eyed, with a face that had been around for going on thirty-two years and had never been anything to write home about even when younger. Maybe she had had reason to be nervous of him.
‘So it looks as if I’ll have to go without.’
She said nothing. He half turned away but made no decisive move to go. He did not wish to leave. It was as though he were waiting for something else to happen; yet he could not have said what. He looked at her again and there was a gap of silence, each gazing at the other but neither of them saying anything.
It seemed to last for a long time, though it was probably less than a minute. The silence was broken only by the quacking of the ducks and the faint drone of an aircraft far off in the blue vastness of the sky.
It was the woman who eventually spoke.
‘I suppose I could get you something if you’d like me to.’
‘I wouldn’t wish to put you to any bother.’
‘It wouldn’t be a bother. There won’t be much. Just what’s in the house.’
‘I’m not asking for a banquet,’ Benton said. ‘A cup of tea and a biscuit perhaps. Anything you’ve got.’
‘You’d better come into the house, then.’
She led the way to the back door and through a kitchen to a room at the front which looked as if it was not much used, though it was clean enough except for a thin film of dust on the furniture.
‘If you’ll just wait here, Mr – er – ’
‘Lain. Tom Lain.’ He felt that it might be better not to reveal his real name, though he could not have said why.
‘I’m Jean Mace. Mrs. I’ll go and make the tea.’
She went out of the room almost at a run, as though escaping from something. Benton examined the furniture, which was mostly dark oak, solid and old: a big dining-table, a sideboard, a set of upright chairs with hard seats. He wondered just how many people had come there for farmhouse teas. Mrs Mace herself had admitted that the venture had never been a success and he was not really surprised; the place was too out of the way. From the window he could see the weedy drive and the rickety gate which looked as though it were never closed but had become permanently entangled in the vigorous growth at the side of the opening.
After a time Mrs Mace came back with a tray on which were the tea things. He saw that she had made some sandwiches, and there were digestive biscuits on a plate. Her hands were clean and she had wiped the smudge of dirt from her forehead and put a comb through her hair; but she still had more the appearance of a stable-girl than a housewife.
She set down the tray on the table and said: ‘I hope the tea is to your liking. There’s milk and sugar if you take them. The sandwiches are only meat paste, I’m afraid.’
She was already turning to go when Benton stopped her. ‘Why don’t you have a cup of tea as well? I’m sure you could do with a break.’
The invitation seemed to take her completely by surprise. ‘Oh, I don’t think – ’
‘Why not? That pot holds enough for two and I’d be pleased to have some company.’
She looked at him uncertainly, hesitating. Then she said: ‘Well, if you really wish it – ’
‘I do.’
‘I’ll have to fetch another cup.’
She walked to the door and went out of the room, but was back in a few moments with the second cup and saucer.
‘Now,’ Benton said, ‘I’ll let you pour the tea.’
They sat on opposite sides of the table, facing each other across the dusty oak. Benton made a start on the sandwiches but his companion ate nothing and merely took small sips at her cup of tea.
‘I suppose Mr Mace is not at home?’ Benton said.
She answered quickly: ‘Oh, he’s dead. I thought you understood.’
‘No,’ Benton said, ‘I didn’t realise.’ But he could see now why she had said she no longer had time to do the teas. ‘Are you managing the farm on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you have help, of course?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘there’s Joe. But it isn’t easy.’
Benton wondered who Joe was. She had mentioned him in a way that seemed to imply that he was not entirely adequate as a helper. Perhaps he was a boy or a part-time worker. But he did not ask her to elaborate.
He studied her as she sipped her tea. He felt strongly attracted to her;
he had had the feeling from the moment when she had first spoken to him; it was impossible to explain, since she could not have been described as beautiful, though the eyes were certainly rather out of the ordinary. He wondered whether the attraction had been mutual. He had no reason to suppose so, yet when their glances met for a moment like foils touching in a fencing bout, was there not something that passed between them, unspoken, intangible, but nevertheless not to be dismissed out of hand? He believed so. He believed that she was certainly aware of it also, that it made her nervous, so that she looked away and a slight flush of embarrassment tinged her cheeks briefly.
‘How big a farm is it?’ he asked.
‘Not very big. About sixty acres.’
‘And there’s livestock?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must work very hard.’
She glanced down at her hands, as though the evidence were there. He looked at them too as they rested on the table, and he saw the dirt under the nails, the roughened skin, a scar or two; they were not the soft hands of a woman who spent a lot of time on her toilet.
‘I was brought up in the country,’ Benton said. ‘I know what farm work is like.’
The revelation appeared to surprise her. ‘But you don’t work in the country now?’
‘I haven’t lately; not for years. But maybe I’d like to come back to it. Maybe it would not be such a bad idea at that. City life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘You might not like it,’ she said. ‘Not after all that time away. You wouldn’t be used to it.’
‘I’d soon pick it up again. It would be worth a try. Don’t you think so?’
He had asked a direct question and he was looking at her, waiting for an answer. She appeared to sense that what was being discussed was more than simply an airy notion, a suggestion to be tossed around like a balloon, but with no real substance to it. Under his steady gaze she shifted uneasily on the chair, playing with her cup but not meeting his eyes.
‘Why do you ask me? My opinion isn’t of any importance, is it? You’ll have to do whatever you want to. I have no say in the matter.’
He answered softly, insinuatingly: ‘Perhaps you could have.’ He reached across the table and touched her hand.
Dishonour Among Thieves Page 5