She’d been unwise, but he doesn’t think she has a case to answer. By signing Oxley’s death certificate, Waverley’s put himself in a position where he can’t accuse Jo of wrongdoing without calling his own professional judgement into question. It would lay him open to a counter-charge of slander.
No. That would definitely be a step too far. But though the lawyer in him is satisfied she’s in the clear, it doesn’t stop him feeling uneasy. While not everyone in Romsey worships at Waverley’s door, the man has it in him to make life very unpleasant for her.
He’ll keep her on, of course. It wouldn’t be a good idea to dismiss her. That would be a signal that he thinks she’s guilty. On the other hand, what’s he going to do with her now? How’s he going to keep her out of trouble?
*
When Nash told me to go home after the scene with Waverley I was feeling shaky, and glad to leave. But now, I want something to do. Dot’s out, and there’s only so much nodding and smiling one can do with deaf old Pa Gray before he drifts off to sleep in the sun. And I don’t want to disturb him. I’m feeling pretty sensitive about the comfort of old men right now.
Did I kill Oxley? Not literally, because he was alive when I left, but . . . did I shock him so much his heart gave out? The picture upset him. Now it’s too late, I can’t help wondering if he knew something about it. Something more than he said.
He could have done. He said he might have something for me in a day or two.
Why didn’t I pursue it? Now I’ll never know.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up. If one person knew, or could guess, then so can others. Dot, for instance. I’m sure she knows more than she’s admitted.
She’d been at Ramillies like Nell. She’d worked for Oxley.
Thinking about him makes me cringe inside. I can’t escape some part in the blame. I was there. I upset him and he died.
I can’t stay here, guilt and justification winding round and round in my head. I have to get out. I set off without any real aim in mind. I’m not sure where I’m going, although it won’t be anywhere near Ramillies.
My thoughts calm as I walk. Though my personal quest is a mess, Nash hasn’t fired me yet. I’ve still got a job to do. So many questions about Ruth remain. Where had she been between the time she was evacuated to Romsey and when she turned up at the convent? And her baby, why had she abandoned him? Had she meant to meet her brother Frank, or had she dressed up for someone else? The baby’s father, perhaps. Who was he? Was he the one who’d killed her, brought her body to the wreck of the pub?
That’s somewhere to start. Something I can do. I never got round to asking at the cottages along Green Lane about the night of the air raid. It’s got to be worth trying. I turn uphill, towards the Cricketers’ Arms. Now I’ve got a goal, I step out with a lighter heart. If I can accomplish something today on Ruth’s behalf, I’ll feel better.
By the time I’ve asked everywhere along the lane from Highwood to Crampmoor, the only thing I’ve found out is that Pete lives in one of the cottages between the level crossing and the village school. He’s embarrassed when he sees me, but sixpence soon settles that. When I ask him about that night, he’s obviously disappointed he can’t help me. He’s not hiding anything this time. I have to accept that apart from the excitement of the bombs, no one heard or saw anything.
I’m about to turn back when I hear the distant sound of dogs barking and remember the woman I met the first time I came this way. What did Nash call the woman? The dog was Tizzy, but . . . Ollie, that was her name. I haven’t come across her yet, but if she saw Nash that night, she might have seen someone else as well.
Pete’s still loitering on the corner. I beckon him over.
‘The lady with the dogs. Do you know where she lives, Pete? Is it somewhere round here?’
‘It’s just down the track, but you don’t want to go there. She’s got a load of dogs. She’ll set them on you if she sees you hanging round.’
‘I’ll risk it if I can find it. I thought I’d asked everywhere along the lane already.’
‘You can easy miss it. ’S tucked right back off the road.’
‘So tell me.’
‘Don’t say I never warned you. You gotta go back along to the corner. There’s a turning, just past the farm. There’s a box on the gate for post an’ that. Says Private, Keep out, but you gotta go through there, and then it’s about half a mile along the track.’
‘OK.’
But my heart sinks at the thought of it. Is it worth the trek if she lives so far from the road?
‘There’s a short cut.’ He grins at me, calculating. ‘I could show you.’
‘You’ve had all the cash I can spare, Pete. If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to go the long way round.’
I start to retrace my steps.
‘Nah.’ He trots after me. ‘Reckon I’ll show you anyway. I prob’ly owe you.’
‘You probably do.’ I pat him on the shoulder, relieved. ‘Thanks, Pete.’
I couldn’t have found the short cut myself, though once he points it out, there is a faint path leading through the trees that tunnel the lane. Out on the far side, there’s open grazing, a field full of cows.
‘Go down the field,’ he tells me. ‘Along the hedge. It’s not far. The dogs don’t come into the field, but when you get near the cottage, make sure you holler out so she can tie ’em up.’
‘I’ll remember.’
I skirt along the hedgerow, the way Pete showed me. It’s downhill, easy walking, pleasant in the sun. So quiet I can hear the cows munching grass half a field away. Every now and then a dog barks, a bit closer each time but not threatening. I can’t see any sign of habitation and I’m beginning to wonder how long this short cut might be, when I come to a place where the slope of the land turns steeper. At the foot of the incline, there’s a cottage.
It’s not very big, and it sits in the landscape as if it has grown here. Well-weathered red brick and tile, a double, barley-twist chimney. Windows glazed with tiny diamond panes of glass glitter in the sunshine like insect eyes and a narrow, green painted door stands open to the day.
I pause on the field side of the hedge where there’s a rickety stile. Call out.
‘Hello.’
A fusillade of barks. A pack of dogs come charging round the side of the house towards me. Five or six. No, seven. I recognise the white lurcher, can identify an Alsatian and a terrier type, but the rest are mongrels of various sizes and shapes. Their barking doesn’t strike me as particularly threatening, but I stay on my side of the hedge in case.
I call again. ‘Hello. Ollie?’
It’s a bit of a cheek, because I don’t know her well enough to make free with her name, but I’m hoping it will signal that I’m friendly.
The dogs mill about, tails wagging. I take a chance, hold out my hand to the lurcher.
‘Good dog, Tizzy. Where’s your mistress, then?’
‘Hey, you.’ A shout. I recognise the voice, the same suspicious tone as when we met before. ‘Whatchamacallit. Nash’s assistant. What do you want?’
There’s the shape of a person in the doorway, but the woman doesn’t come any closer. I shade my eyes, see she’s holding herself up with one hand on the door frame, while on the other side she’s leaning heavily on a stick.
‘It’s Jo Lester,’ I remind her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Damn fool question.’
‘Can I come through?’
‘If you must. Dogs. Leave it.’
They don’t rush to obey her, but when I climb over the stile they don’t attack me either.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
She’s got her ankle bound up in strips of cloth, and she’s not putting any weight on that foot.
‘Sprained my blooming ankle. Tripped over Bluebell, silly bitch.’
I’m not sure if she means the dog or herself. But if Bluebell’s the terrier winding itself around my feet, I can see how easy it would be.
&n
bsp; ‘Is there anything I can do? Do you need a doctor?’
I think of Waverley. If she says yes, I’ll have to get someone else to call him.
‘You didn’t come to ask me about my health,’ she says. ‘What do you want?’
‘Can’t we go indoors? You’d be better sitting down.’
‘Long job, is it? All right.’
She hobbles inside, surrounded by a swirl of dogs, and I follow. I find myself in a low-ceilinged, stone-flagged kitchen. The windows don’t let in much light and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. A big range dominates the room, but it doesn’t appear to be lit, because the room’s cool to the point of chill. The smell of paraffin from an Aladdin stove competes with the smell of damp and dogs. There are rugs and pieces of sacking on the floor, more hazards to trip over. An airing rack festooned with washing takes up the ceiling space, while a cluttered table, three bentwood chairs and a broken-down armchair next to the range complete the inventory. Ollie lowers herself into the armchair with a groan. The dogs settle on the rugs, leave me stranded uneasily in the middle of the room.
‘Sit down,’ Ollie says brusquely. ‘Chuck something on the floor.’
I take a large basket of cabbages and rhubarb off one of the bentwood chairs, and do as I’m told.
‘So what do you want?’ Ollie says for the third time.
‘I came to ask if there was anything more you could tell us about the night of the air raid.’
She eases herself in her chair, flinching as she shifts her foot.
‘Like what?’
‘Like, did you see anyone hanging around that evening?’
She grins at me. ‘Apart from Mr Nash?’
It’s a fair point.
‘Apart from him. We wondered if you might have seen or heard something later in the night.’
‘Can’t say I did. Dogs were a bit jumpy, barking on and off. Had a bit of a go about half past four, five o’clock. Thought it must be a fox or something. The bomb had got them worked up. They’re strays from Southampton, most of them. They’ve been through the raids, can’t blame them if they don’t like bangs.’ She shifts again, and I can see she’s in pain.
‘Why don’t you let me look at that?’ I say. ‘I might be able to make you a bit more comfortable.’
‘Have at it. Don’t suppose you can make it any worse.’
I unwind the strips of cloth she’s used to bind up the ankle. Underneath, the joint is puffy and swollen, black from her toes to well above the joint.
‘I could put a cold compress on it, that might help. But don’t you think you ought to see a doctor?’
‘No doctors,’ she says. ‘Don’t trust ’em. Do what you can. Appreciate it.’
‘Cold water?’
‘Pump it up outside. There’s a bucket.’
‘You’ve none inside?’
‘Only what I bring in. Hadn’t got round to it when I crocked the ankle. You could fill the big jug if you like. Dogs probably need water too.’
I take the jug, go outside. There’s a paved yard where a bucket stands under a pump. The water that comes up as I work the handle is clear and icy cold. I gulp down a handful and it’s pure and sweet. I was a child the last time I tasted water so good, clean out of the gravel. I use the first bucketful to fill a trough which stands near the house wall. The dogs come out as soon as they hear the water being poured, and drink eagerly. I fill the jug, take it indoors.
‘When did you last have something to drink?’ I ask her.
‘Not thirsty. Don’t bother about me.’
‘Rubbish. Would you like some tea?’
‘Have to light the Aladdin. I only have the range going on high days and holidays.’
While the kettle’s boiling, I soak the strips of cloth in a bowl of cold water, wring them out and bind her ankle up again. When I’m done, and she’s warming her hands on the mug of tea I’ve made her, I turn the empty wood basket over and make a footstool of it.
‘Keep it up all you can,’ I tell her. ‘You don’t need to take the bandages off, just soak them again if they dry out.’
‘You’ve put them on tight, but it does feel better. You a nurse or something?’
‘No, but I was married to a doctor once. Well, I suppose I still am. But we’re separated.’
‘Snap. Me too.’
I’m astonished, and I suppose it shows. I don’t know why, but I’d imagined her a spinster with her dogs and her brusque attitudes.
‘I haven’t always been the mad dog woman.’ She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. ‘I made a bad choice, picked the wrong man.’
‘Me too.’ It’s my turn to play echo. ‘It’s easily done.’
‘Hard to put right, though. You don’t want to hear about that.’
‘I’m not in a hurry if you want to tell me.’
‘No. But one good turn deserves another. Steer clear of Edward Waverley.’
‘You’re married to Dr Waverley?’
‘Sadly. Won’t give me a divorce. Dreadful man.’
‘Oh.’
‘I can see by your face you know him.’
‘Not really.’ I can’t work it out. ‘But I did have a run-in with him this morning.’
‘Yes?’ She blows on her tea, takes a noisy swallow.
‘I went to see his uncle yesterday. Mr Oxley, you know? But . . . he died last night, and Dr Waverley says it was my fault because I upset him.’
‘No.’ She’s white as paper.
‘What’s wrong? Is your foot worse?’
‘No.’
She’s not looking at me, not focused on anything in the room. There’s pain in her expression that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the injury to her foot.
‘Ollie?’
I’m frightened now. I don’t know what’s going on.
‘Mr Oxley?’ she says slowly. ‘He’s my father.’
‘Your father?’
My flesh prickles with goose pimples. I’m the last person in the world who should have brought her the news.
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t know?’
She shakes her head. A tear slides down her cheek, and the lurcher comes rushing up to her, whining. She pats it absent-mindedly.
‘I’m sorry.’
I’m not sure what I’m apologising for. For being the one to tell her, for the way I told it. For his death, and my part in it. I stand up, feeling the weight of gravity on my bones.
‘You won’t want me here,’ I say. ‘Can I fetch someone to come and stay with you?’
‘What?’ There’s still only one solitary tear tracking down her face. The dog leaps up to lick it off. ‘No. It’s all right. Don’t go.’
‘Dr Waverley said Mr Oxley had been ill for a long time.’
‘All my life. Had TB as a young man. Never really got over it.’
I don’t know what to do. What to say.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’
She reaches out a hand, pats my arm the way she patted the lurcher.
‘It’s all right,’ she says again. ‘It’s Eddie I’m upset with. He should have let me know.’
*
In the end, I tell her almost everything about my visit to her father. The only thing I leave out is the photograph. Like Pete, I can’t bring myself to show it to a lady. She takes what I say calmly. After that first moment of grief, she seems remarkably resigned.
‘I haven’t seen much of my father,’ she says, ‘not for years. He didn’t approve of me, of my leaving Eddie. He thought I should stay with my husband no matter what. But after what happened, I couldn’t. And I couldn’t bear to be at Ramillies, too many memories. He didn’t understand. It was all about family for my father, keeping up appearances. He was very traditional, you know? Very straight-laced.’
‘He was?’ I feel even worse. ‘Ollie, I said some things . . . Accused him of seducing my mother. What if the shock was too much?’
‘It wasn’t words that killed my fa
ther. I told you, his lungs were shot. It could have happened any time.’
But it happened just after I’d seen him, I think. I can’t forget that.
‘Dr Waverley said . . .’
‘Don’t believe a word that man says. He’s a liar and a cheat. He hasn’t even had the decency to come and tell me my father’s dead.’
It’s getting late, but I don’t like leaving her. It’s only when she says I’ll be more help if I go that I agree. There’s the basket of cabbage and rhubarb to take to Uncle Tom’s shop. She tells me he sells whatever fruit and vegetables she can produce, and I get the impression that the proceeds are almost her only income. This early in the season, there’s so little to be harvested, she can’t afford to let the stuff go to waste. She gives me a list, some bits and pieces she wants in town, and there’s a message for Nash.
‘Ask him to come and see me if he will. I wouldn’t expect him to call in the ordinary way, but with this blessed ankle it might be a few days before I can get about. And I think I need his professional advice as soon as possible.’
‘I’m sure he’ll come straight away.’ He will, if I have to drag him.
‘No, not tonight. Now you’ve sorted me and the dogs out,’ – a sandwich for her, a supper of sheep’s head for the dogs – ‘I’ll get some shut-eye if I can.’
She won’t let me help her to bed.
‘I’m comfortable here.’
‘Will you be warm enough? Shall I light the range? Or I could get the Aladdin going again.’
‘No need for that. I don’t want to waste the fuel. I’m getting a bit low on paraffin, in any case. Just chuck me a blanket. The afghan over there will do. Now, off you go.’
*
The basket of vegetables is heavy. As I slog down the road in the last of the afternoon sun, I have to shift it from arm to arm every hundred yards or so. I tell myself, if Ollie can carry this into town, so can I. But though my arms ache, I feel better than I did when I arrived at her door. This woman, who’s got every right to be angry with me, isn’t. She doesn’t blame me for her father’s death. Instead, she’s . . . absolved me. And we’re friends. It’s instinctive. I’m like one of her strays, I know I can trust her.
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The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 18