by John Halkin
His arms were around her in a strong, actors’ bear-hug and the others crowded forward to kiss her, to question her eagerly, making her feel she’d suddenly been brought back to life again. The intensity of those last few days with their caterpillar attacks and that tangled relationship with Bernie: it all fell away from her. This was her own warm, familiar world again, and she’d not been forgotten.
Dan organised the drinks. He was a dark-eyed, innocent-looking young actor with a special gift for playing really vicious thugs. A potential superstar, she’d always thought.
‘What’s it to be, Ginny?’ He glanced at her drink pityingly. ‘Not that draught lager? That’s cat’s piss gone flat.’
‘He knows!’ Margie mocked, meaningfully.
‘I keep on telling them, but they do nothing about it.’
‘I’ll have a whisky.’
‘Oh, it’s whisky these days? All right for some! How’s the country house then? Any trouble with the peasants, just call me!’
God, it felt so good being back with them! She had not realised how tense she’d become living down in that village cut off from everyone. But now it all seemed miles away. She listened enthralled to the latest gossip, drinking it in like water in a desert. Even the jokes sounded new.
Suddenly it was closing time. She and Jack were left alone together, the others discreetly going their own ways. On the pavement outside Jack paused, as so often.
‘Curry?’
The Indian restaurant was next door to the pub, a shabby place with bare, plastic-topped tables and a takeaway counter. It was open all day, imposing no rules about eating hours. She must have hesitated, because he added:
‘Or there’s a new Chinese opened just up the road. Deep-fried caterpillars and chopsticks.’
‘Jack!’ Shocked, she swung on him furiously; but then she remembered he didn’t know yet. She’d tried to ring him but he’d never been at home. ‘Sorry. Let’s go in here.’
They were the only customers, which made it easier for her to talk openly. She chose a table next to the window protected from the public gaze by a grubby lace curtain and ordered Tandoori chicken with rice and chutney. Jack took the same. While they waited she told him what had been happening since they had last been in touch – Lesley in hospital, then Mrs Kinley and her friend both killed, and that teenage girl with the van driver.
‘I’d no idea! Oh, darling!’ Across the table he took her hands in his. ‘But why didn’t you call me? If there was anything I could’ve done to help… Well, you know that, don’t you?’
She smiled at him. ‘Of course I know it.’ Old reliable Jack!
The food came. Jack pressed questions on her as he ate, wanting to hear every detail, bewildered that ‘attractive little caterpillars’ – as he called them – could actually kill people.
‘Wasps do,’ she reminded him drily. ‘And snakes. And you’re obviously enjoying that chicken.’
‘That’s hardly the same thing,’ he protested.
‘I think it is. The caterpillars are feeding, not waging war.’
‘Can you be sure?’
Ginny pushed her plate to one side, hardly touched. The chicken was stringy and the rice not hot enough. Over in the corner, an electric fan chuntered steadily but hardly disturbed the stale, warm air.
‘The coffee’s always lousy here,’ she said, making up her mind. It was the throw of a dice; she still felt uncertain about it. ‘Let’s have coffee at the flat.’
Never go back, some sage had once pontificated. Yet here she was, sitting beside Jack in his red Ferrari, driving through the old welcoming streets. The heavy London traffic opened up to allow them quickly through, as though part of a conspiracy to draw her into the web. Lights turned green as they approached.
Then Jack was putting his key in the lock, standing aside to let her go in first.
‘The flat’s in a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.’
She put down her briefcase and turned to him, placing her forefinger over his lips. ‘Say nothing.’
That first kiss lifted her over the edge. She felt her whole body yielding to him, like a plant unfolding to drink in the day’s warmth. Her mind was still alert, conscious of what was happening to her physically, observing her own weakness with a resigned cynicism. But it wasn’t weakness, of course.
Need was never weakness.
His arms were around her; his body hard and firm. She rested her head against his chest, knowing she could only find herself again through surrendering to that need. He tried to say something but again she stopped him, her hand on his mouth.
The bedroom was stifling hot and she raised the sash window to its full extent, then partly closed the curtains before stripping off her clothes. He was slower, still in his underwear while she was already naked.
‘Forgotten me already?’ she teased softly, going over to him. ‘I’ll have to give you a hand.’
Which she did, slipping her fingers beneath the elastic waistband to find him.
Then it was like recalling all the lovemaking they had ever shared together, rediscovering everything they had known, running their fingers lightly over each others’ bodies, renewing old familiarities. At last he towered above her, a great thrusting, sweating chunk of maleness serving her, doing her will, until she could bear it no longer. Her nails dug into his back, her eyes closed and she saw Bernie’s face. She moaned and her mind shaped Bernie’s name. The spasm that shuddered through her was Bernie’s doing.
It did not end there. For a time they lay fulfilled, naked next to each other, but then she got up and padded through the flat to get ice from the fridge while he rooted in the cupboard for his last remaining duty-free bottle of whisky. She sprawled in an armchair to drink, still not bothering to dress.
‘You staying tonight?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet.’ He was standing beside her and she reached out to lay her hand flat over the firm muscles of his belly. ‘Though I imagine you’ve been kept busy since I left.’
‘Missed you.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
She pulled him down to his knees and he fell across her, his mouth nuzzling her breast. He shifted in an attempt to keep his balance but she held on to him, causing him to fall, crushing her with his full weight.
‘God, you’re heavy!’ she panted, the breath squeezed out of her.
Immediately he moved and she twisted, laughing, from under him. They rolled over the carpet, mock-wrestling until suddenly he yielded, flat on his back, his arms outstretched. She stood astride the fallen male who had not yet fallen, looking down at his grinning face, mischievous with unspoken suggestion, and gradually, teasingly, with swaying, wriggling hips, lowered herself over him.
Less urgent this time, but all the more sensuous, playfully exploring every possibility. For all that, the image of Bernie was still there to fondle her with that steady gaze, to stay with her until at last she and Jack fell apart again, bathed in sweat, and triumphant.
Yet she would exorcise him, she swore to herself. Whatever it took.
The usual crowd assembled at the local pub that evening – their old local, not far from the flat – although there were some faces Ginny hadn’t seen before. One or two people asked if she’d been away on holiday, but most seemed not even to have noticed her absence. Typically London, she thought ruefully.
The odd thing was, even in that crush which spilled out on to the pavement she still felt tempted to come back. Since that afternoon, she mused, watching Jack battling his way through with the lager she’d ordered but didn’t really want. Since, in fact, she’d met up with all the old crowd again.
‘They were out of Tuborg,’ he said, reaching her. ‘Is Carlsberg all right?’
Her answer was drowned by a shout of disbelief from the people just behind her. She glanced back to see what was going on.
‘No, look, look, look!’ a man was protesting – a large, red-faced man in a flowered Hawaiian shirt which look
ed incongruous on him. ‘I’ve got here a small piece of beef – never you mind where I got it! – and I’m ready to bet you five pounds that if I put it down on this ledge, and take the lid off this jar, the caterpillar will come out and start eating the meat.’
‘No!’
Ginny couldn’t help herself. She screamed the word out. Everyone turned to stare at her. She recognised the man of course. He ran a junk stall in the street market and was often in this pub with some under-the-counter deal or other.
‘Oh yes, lady!’ He held the jar up – an ordinary pickles jar with a couple of holes punched in the lid. Inside was a large curled-up caterpillar, its yellow under-stripe easily visible through the plain glass. ‘See that? No common-or-daily caterpillar, that one! Bite you soon as look at you, he would. Any lady feel like giving him a little tickle just to test him?’
‘Don’t be stupid, man!’ she told him sharply. ‘You don’t realise how dangerous these things are!’
‘How dangerous?’ somebody called out.
‘They’re killers.’
‘Oh, that’s not fair!’ a slim, grey-faced man joined in, full of concern. ‘I mean, aren’t we all? Homo sapiens now – we’re life’s greatest murderers. I mean, look at the Bomb!’
‘Come on, now – place your bets! Five pounds that this caterpillar will make straight for the raw meat the moment I take the lid off the jar!’
Ginny pushed forward, facing him. ‘If anyone gets hurt, you’ll be held responsible. I’ll see to that.’
‘Lady, what do you know about ’em?’ His voice was patient.
‘I know several people are dead already.’
‘That’s true,’ Jack supported her. ‘There’s a bit of a panic going on down where she lives.’
‘Yeah, but –’
The landlord came over, threading his way through the crush. ‘Not in here, George,’ he said in that world-weary, old-boy manner he adopted whenever there was trouble. ‘A quiet wager between friends, okay. But no one’s going to run a book in my pub. An’ you’d better get that thing out of here just in case there is an accident. Never could stand ’em myself.’
The man glanced at Ginny with as much venom as if he’d like to slip the caterpillar down her V-neck. She pressed back as he passed her with the jar clutched in his hand. The caterpillar was moving inside the glass, uncoiling itself.
In the doorway he collided with a couple of teenagers in motorcycling gear. As they entered they were looking back towards the road, yelling out some joking remark to one of their friends, and didn’t see ‘George’ until it was too late. The impact knocked the jar out of his hand and it smashed on the step.
‘Bloody hell! That thing cost me money!’
‘Should look where you’re going, Dad,’ one of them taunted.
The crush around the door scattered. Then curiosity got the better of people and they began to drift back to join in the search for the caterpillar. Sharply-pointed fragments of glass lay around the worn step but there was no trace of the green monster itself.
‘Jack, let’s go somewhere else,’ Ginny muttered uneasily.
That afternoon she’d slipped out to buy a simple long frock in Indian cotton, having nothing to change into because she’d never intended to stay the night, but now with that caterpillar around it made her nervous every time the hem brushed across her feet.
In London at least she’d felt she’d be safe from them; now even that illusion had gone.
She allowed Jack to take her arm and steer her out through a side door. Crossing the street, she could still hear the excited chatter of those who were hunting for it. For everyone’s sake she hoped they’d find it, yet she hated the thought of what might happen when they did.
8
The morning of the All Saints Spring Fête started with a thunder storm. Lesley woke up at about five o’clock, disturbed by the window rattling in the spare room. The rubber wedge must have become dislodged again. As she swung her legs out of bed and felt around for her slippers, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the bedroom, followed by a close, growling rumble. The storm could not be far away, she thought, though Bernie still lay there dead-out, too deeply asleep to hear anything.
As usual in the morning her foot was numb. She almost fell when she put her weight on it, but with the help of the stick she steadied herself and managed to hobble out into the corridor. The wind was gusty, raising the lino and moaning in the old chimneys, yet not at all cold. An odd spring it had been. More like a hot, humid summer. Everything a lush green, flowers a feast of colour, and fat, lazy insects crawling everywhere.
In the spare room she found the rubber wedge and pressed it in again between the window and the frame, banging it home with the edge of her hand. Another flash of lightning and this time the thunder was closer, more urgent. She dragged a chair across and sat down to watch.
This room would be the best for what she had in mind, she decided. It already had a washbasin, which meant the extra plumbing would not cost too much, and power was no problem. It would make a good little laboratory, if only she could keep the children out.
That stay in hospital had given her time to think. She’d thrown away a career, they had told her when she’d dropped out of university to marry Bernie. Well, that didn’t worry her, not when she saw what careers were doing to some of her friends. But she would like to get down to some real study, for her own sake. If she could get hold of some of these caterpillars…
Do some work on them, perhaps.
Publish a paper: it would be a start.
The next crash of thunder was immediately overhead, as if the house roof were being ripped off. It left her trembling, much as she was fascinated by thunder storms. Heavy rain started simultaneously, pebble-dashing the window panes. And her injured foot had to choose that moment to resume its aching.
‘Mu… mmy…!’
Frankie was awake. Of course.
Lesley grasped her walking stick and with difficulty pulled herself up to go along the corridor to the children’s room. There’d be no getting back to sleep for anybody now.
By six o’clock the rain had stopped; by eight the flooding on the drive had drained away and the gravel surface was dry. It was going to be a gorgeous day after all. If anything, too hot. The girls were dashing about the house, excited by the prospect of the fête. Frankie’s infant school class had been rehearsing their Sherwood Forest play for the past month; now the day had come she was constantly dragging the others into Phuong’s room to admire her Maid Marion dress on its hanger.
Immediately after breakfast, the big kitchen table was cleared ready for sandwich cutting. Lesley had undertaken to run the tea stall long before her ‘accident’ with the caterpillar, and she saw no reason to go back on her word now she was out of hospital. Phuong was there to give her a hand, and Ginny dropped in shortly after nine.
‘Oh, you’ve finished most of them already!’ Her tousled blonde head appeared around the door and she gazed, astonished, at the piles of quartered brown bread sandwiches on their trays. ‘Cheese and chutney… cress… egg… What else d’you need?’
‘That’s only half,’ Lesley informed her cheerfully. ‘Get yourself a knife out of the drawer and start buttering that pile. Oh, it’s a lot of work, but I do enjoy these days!’
‘How’s the foot?’ Ginny asked.
‘A bloody nuisance!’ she declared. ‘You’ve no idea how much slower it is having to do these sandwiches sitting down.’
Ginny was looking better than she’d seen her for weeks, Lesley thought as they worked. A bit more colour in her cheeks since that trip to London. There were times she could be really beautiful – a delicate, petite beauty which she ruined by slopping around in jeans and dark T-shirts. Bernie noticed it too, as she’d observed only yesterday, catching the way he glanced at her. It was high time Ginny made an honest man of Jack, she thought but refrained from commenting.
‘Any coffee going?’ Bernie called out, coming into the kitchen from
surgery. ‘Oh hello, Ginny! Had a phone call for you. Jeff Pringle.’
‘There’ll be coffee as soon as you make it,’ Lesley said, pausing to count the sandwiches she’d just completed. ‘And keep your fingers away from those. They’re for the fête.’
‘You’ve got jam on your nose, Les,’ he retorted. ‘Ginny, I told him about the fête. He says he’ll try to come over this afternoon and meet you there.’
Lesley rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Do we know Jeff Pringle?’
‘That pilot who crashed the holiday jet, or so they all said at the time. All the evidence pointed to pilot error, though the final report exonerated him. The newspapers had a field day.’ As he talked he spooned the coffee powder into the cups. ‘Then you remember that scandal about a cargo of zoo animals from Africa. When the crates were opened, half of them were dead.’
‘That was hardly his fault,’ she recalled, doing one more jam sandwich to make the numbers even. ‘Wasn’t he held up by some military coup, or something? I didn’t know his name was Pringle. Where did you meet him?’
‘His cousin was the other caterpillar victim in hospital.’ He began to pour on the hot water, stirring as the cups filled. ‘You keep an eye on him, Ginny. He’s had a few brushes with Customs and Excise from what I hear. Gets his money from somewhere.’
Ginny looked up from her buttering and pulled a face at Bernie, letting the tip of her tongue appear. ‘Jealous?’
Lesley laughed, watching them both affectionately. It felt so wonderful to be home again. Only now since she was back had she really begun to grasp that she might have been killed. She tried to imagine what it would be like. Would they be cutting sandwiches without her? What would they be saying to each other? Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
‘Mummy!’
In the doorway, giggling shyly, stood Caroline and little Wendy dressed already in the white frocks the parents had made for the play school group exhibition of dancing.