‘As far as money goes,’ said Mrs Housman slowly, ‘I think Neil inherited quite a lot from his parents. They died at the end of the war.’
How much was quite a lot? Goldsmith remembered the little shop. Its value in 1945 couldn’t have been more than a few hundred pounds. Some stock; goodwill; say an equivalent amount stashed away in savings over the years; insurances; did that come to quite a lot?
Templewood would know how to find out how much Housman had in fact put into the company. He made a mental note to mention this to him next time they talked.
‘And the know-how?’ he said. ‘Neil never mentioned any kind of formal training he’d had.’
‘I don’t think they run courses in that kind of thing,’ she answered. The mockery was back. It was as if she were inviting him to discover that the marriage had been unhappy, that she had held her husband in low esteem. Perhaps the tight mask of self-control she wore covered not deep grief but total indifference. He wondered how much difference it would make to his nights if he could believe that this woman had not found her widowing as tragic as it seemed. It was a line worth pursuing. This hunt for Hebbel was after all in part merely a hunt for heart’s ease.
‘It’s stopped raining, I think,’ she said casually, as if deciding the journey into the past had gone far enough.
‘So it has,’ said Goldsmith, looking towards the window but seeing no farther than the pustules of rain on the glass. He must make an effort at a bit of small talk, he thought; let the information come incidentally rather than conduct an inquisition.
‘You have a lovely house,’ was the best he could manage.
‘Thank you. Would you like to see it?’ she asked.
‘Why, yes.’
‘I’ll give you the conducted tour then. It will be a good rehearsal.’
She rose and led him to the door.
‘Rehearsal for what? You’re not going to sell, are you?’
‘Perhaps. Upstairs first, I think. That way you don’t have to take prospective buyers through any room more than once. That’s the technique, isn’t it? Let them see but not inspect.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never sold a house.’
‘Lucky you. Are you married, Mr Goldsmith?’
‘No.’
Briefly he gave her an account of his working background and described his cottage. If Vickers had all the facts, there seemed no reason why she should not be as well informed.
‘It sounds lonely,’ was her comment.
‘It is sometimes. But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’ ‘Observe the balustrade on this staircase,’ she said. ‘Hand-carved by local craftsmen, I believe. Two at least. The style is intermittent. The landing is light, airy and extensive, which is one way of saying that curtains and carpets will cost a fortune. This is the master bedroom.’
It was a large room. Goldsmith didn’t like the proportions which to his mind were not quite right. The room did not fit him, somehow. Perhaps it was too feminine. But it was a fine room for all that, decorated with quiet and expensive good taste. Goldsmith found his gaze being drawn to the huge bed which was draped with a coverlet made by stitching together the pelts of some small brown and white animal. It struck a jarring but curiously sensual note. It disturbed him, and for diversion he picked up a small primitively stylized wood-carving of a woman which stood on the dressing-table.
‘Are you interested in art?’ asked Mrs Housman politely.
‘I know what I like,’ he answered, deliberately stressing his Northern vowels. He was rewarded with a smile.
‘Neil brought it back from one of his trips. It’s South American Indian, I believe.’
Goldsmith felt his pulse move into a higher gear.
‘Yes, I believe he mentioned he’d been to Peru,’ he said. ‘I remember telling him there wouldn’t be much work for a Yorkshire builder there.’
‘It was a matter of investment, not building,’ said Mrs Housman. ‘My husband liked to make money work for him, and for the business. He was willing to speculate, but he liked to see what he was putting his cash into. I believe there was some mining venture in Peru which an old army friend was connected with.’
‘I hope it was profitable.’
‘For a while, but I think after his second visit he had doubts and decided to pull out. I won’t know till his affairs have been fully sorted out. Shall we continue the tour?’
He followed her out of the bedroom. It had been easy. Too easy, perhaps, whatever that meant. Would she have found a way to volunteer the information about Peru even if he had not picked up the wood-sculpture? No, that was absurd. It would mean that (a) she knew her husband was Hebbel and (b) she knew that he was on his trail. Could that be possible? He doubted it. Or at least he did not want to believe it.
He peered politely into bathrooms, guest-rooms and boxrooms. It was a straightforward, rather dull house, much more interesting externally than inside. He recalled the line of dormer windows and asked, ‘You have another floor?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Would you like to see?’
‘It could be a selling point,’ he said.
A door tucked away at the end of the landing led to a continuation on a more modest scale of the main stair-case.
‘Dora has her room up here, by choice, and she’s laid claim to most of the other space,’ said Mrs Housman. ‘Something romantic about a room under the eaves, I think. She dislikes right-angles. Here we are.’
She pushed open a door and stood aside, Goldsmith was reluctant to enter.
‘Should we?’ he said.
“Children are entitled to privacy,’ she agreed. ‘They are also entitled to know that privacy can and will be invaded.’
As they entered, a telephone rang distantly.
‘Have a look around,’ said the woman. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
This room was much more to Goldsmith’s liking. The roof sloped sharply enough to avoid the sense of enclosure he often felt in attic rooms, and in any case this room ran almost half the length of the house and incorporated four of the dormers. Each of the alcoves had been decorated with different wall-paper, one with an exotic, intertwining plant motif, another with a pattern of old grey stones, the third with pseudo-panelling and the fourth with plain white. The wall opposite the windows had a modern, bright design on it. Jazzy was the old word which came to Goldsmith’s mind. A huge doll’s house was pushed against it. The wall against which Dora’s bed stood had once been white too, but now it was covered with hand prints in various colours with names (presumably of their owners) beneath them. And the fourth wall was invisible behind an interlocking combination of wardrobe, dressing-table, book-case and cupboards.
If you wanted to spend a lot of money on kids, he thought, a room like this seemed a pretty sensible way of spending it.
He thought he heard a floorboard creak outside the door and turned to face it, determined that the Housman silent entrance was not going to disconcert him this time.
‘Hello,’ said Dora. She was still wearing her damp raincoat and seemed neither surprised nor annoyed at finding him there.
‘I’m sorry if I’m trespassing,’ he said, ‘but your mother …’
That’s all right. I heard her. I’ve been waiting till she went.’
The girl produced a small oblong package in shop gift-wrapping from her pocket and looked assessingly round the room, explaining, ‘It’s Mummy’s birthday on Monday and I want to hide her present.’
That shouldn’t be hard,’ he said. ‘I mean, she’s not likely to come looking for it!’
‘She brought you up here,’ replied Dora. It was a mere statement of fact, not a reproach.
She took hold of the doll’s house and pulled. It was on castors and slid easily away from the wall, revealing a small disused fireplace, presumably the sole source of warmth for the household servant who had inhabited the attic originally.
‘Daddy wanted to fill it in, but it’s my secret hiding-place,’ Dora explained, depo
siting her packet in the grate and pushing the house back against the wall.
Goldsmith felt flattered at being so readily let into the girl’s secret.
‘I like your room,’ he said. ‘Was the decoration your idea?’
‘Partly,’ she said, taking off her raincoat. ‘The windows were Daddy’s, though. See, they’re all different and when I sit in the recesses, I can imagine I’m in different places. Look.’
She went to the one with the vegetable design.
‘Here I’m in a tree house in the jungle. Somewhere where you watch the animals coming to drink. Like Tree Tops in Africa.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘No, but Daddy promised to take me when I was fifteen. This one with the panelling is a very old house and I can be a princess or something like that watching an army going off to war. The stone one is a dungeon. I’m a prisoner, wondering if my friends have forgotten me.’
‘And the white one.’
‘That can be anything I like. A hospital sometimes. Or an igloo. Or an aeroplane. Do you like my hands?’
She was referring to the prints on the wall over her bed, Goldsmith realized.
‘Yes. Are they to keep the spirits away?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Somewhere, in the East I think, they do that as a protection against spirits. That’s what I read, anyway.’
‘No,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It wasn’t for that. Just my friends’ prints. Would you like to put yours up?’
‘Why, thank you,’ said Goldsmith.
But before he could be iniated into the circle of handprinters, Mrs Housman returned.
‘There you are, Dora,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget we’re going out to lunch. I want to leave in about ten minutes. Mr Wilson wants me to call in his office on the way.’
‘But Mr Goldsmith is going to do a hand-print,’ protested the girl.
‘Another time perhaps. Mr Goldsmith’s hands won’t change.’
The girl looked disappointed, Goldsmith shrugged helplessly at her.
‘Why don’t you come to Mummy’s birthday tea?’ she suggested suddenly. ‘I’m baking a cake at school.’
‘Mr Goldsmith has a job to do, Dora,’ said Mrs Housman.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Goldsmith. ‘I don’t know if I can get away, you see. But I would have liked very much to come.’
‘Ten minutes, Dora,’ said Mrs Housman, leading him from the room.
‘I’m sorry to hurry you,’ she said as they descended the stairs. ‘Wilson’s my solicitor and there’s some matter he wants to talk to me about. If it’s urgent enough for him to ring on a Saturday morning, then it must be fairly important. Please come again, Mr Goldsmith.’
‘I’d like to,’ he said.
She offered him her hand, small-boned, delicate. Her closecut black hair picked up the watery sunlight as she opened the front door, and for a moment a thin aureole gleamed round her head. She was a figure of striking beauty.
Goldsmith glanced up as he climbed into the Land-Rover. Dora was standing in one of her alcoves. He waved. She didn’t wave back, but he felt she was watching him.
As he drove away he tried to work out which of the alcoves she had chosen, but found it impossible.
CHAPTER XII
ON SUNDAY Goldsmith once again ducked the Sewells’ telephoned invitation to lunch, pleading that he had a great deal of work to get through.
This was in fact true and Liz, having already expressed concern that recently he had appeared to be marking time in his political progress, had to accept the excuse. But she extracted from him a promise to come round for a substantial supper that evening.
There was a considerable backlog of minutes to be read, letters to be written, proposals to be drafted, telephone calls to be made, and by eight-thirty, Goldsmith was very ready to leave it all behind him. He stopped at the pub to pick up a few bottles of beer.
‘Haven’t seen much of you this week,’ said the landlord, a rather dour Yorkshireman whose barmanship stopped at drawing pints. Even shandy he considered a frivolously complicated drink which must be southern in origin.
‘I’ve been busy, Len,’ said Goldsmith. ‘Have you missed me then?’
‘No, but some has.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye. There was a fellow asking about you last Sunday after you’d left. Had a white car.’
‘Was there now?’ Vickers, guessed Goldsmith.
‘And this lunchtime again.’
‘Same fellow?’
‘No. Another. Same type though. Are you going to pay for them beers or are you collecting for charity?’
‘Sorry,’ said Goldsmith, passing over the money. Another policeman? he wondered. He did not like the feel of this.
As he turned from the bar, Cyril Fell the builder entered. There was no way of avoiding him and Goldsmith steeled himself for another bout of complaint and accusation aimed at his fellow councillors. But it didn’t come. Fell hardly glanced at him, gave him a minimal nod and headed for the far end of the bar.
Relieved, but also puzzled, Goldsmith drove to Liz’s. Perhaps Fell had sought a sympathetic ear elsewhere. In any case, more disturbing at the moment was the thought that the police might still be investigating him. He had hoped to find a chance of asking Mrs Housman about the progress of the official investigation of her husband’s death, but the opportunity had not arisen.
Mrs Sewell opened the front door for him. She had a drink in her hand and a great deal more in her belly.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘Don’t I get a kiss? It’s been a long time.’
He pecked her cheek and ducked beneath the arm she tried to drape round his neck.
‘Where’s Liz?’ he asked.
‘They’re in there, plotting the fucking revolution as usual.’ She was far gone. Swearing occupied a high point on her alcoholic curve.
‘They?’ asked Goldsmith, taking off his coat.
“She and Malleson. You’ve been a naughty boy. Going to get a hundred lines.’
‘I’ve been writing them all day,’ said Goldsmith, annoyed that his supper was going to be turned into a work session.
He went through into the living-room.
‘Hello, Liz. Jeff,’ he said.
‘Bill, you skipped ward surgery again yesterday morning,’ said Malleson.
‘Hardly skipped. I got Johnson to stand in for me.’
‘It’s not the point, Bill. Things get noticed, you’d be surprised. And this is just the time when you should be seen out and about, making friends and influencing people.’
‘I thought I had friends,’ said Goldsmith. Part of his mind recognized that Malleson was right to rebuke him, but another, stronger part was bent on being as unco-operative and obstreperous as possible. Perhaps I’m jealous, he thought, glancing at Liz who was sitting next to Malleson on the sofa, looking anxious and puzzled. And untidy. Why couldn’t she spend a bit of time on herself?
‘You have,’ said Malleson. ‘And they’re working a bit harder for you at the moment than you seem to care to do for yourself.’
‘Come on, Jeff! So I miss a Saturday morning. I have business of my own, a private life too.’
‘Two Saturdays,’ insisted Malleson. ‘Next, you cry off the Conference, then you’re supposed to be ill on Monday, yet no one can find you at home.’
Goldsmith looked angrily at Liz who flushed but did not look away. Malleson had not finished.
‘A couple of weeks ago you took off two days early for your reunion, and you seem to have been in bottom gear ever since.’
‘You said I made a good impression on Edmunds and Barraclough when I spoke at the ward meeting,’ said Goldsmith, trying to maintain things at the argument level.
‘That was speaking, not working.’
‘Was it? Well, today I’ve been working and I feel precious little like speaking. I came to eat and if I stay it’ll be just to eat. Nothing more!’
As soon as he said this he
saw that Liz had misinterpreted it.
‘That’s all you were invited for,’ she snapped, standing up. ‘Though you seem to think you’re doing us a bloody great favour by coming at all.’
‘For Christ’s sake! Who said anything about favours?’ he retorted angrily. ‘You want me to come, I come. You want me to go, I’ll go. It’s that simple!’
‘Bill, this isn’t like you,’ began Liz.
“No, it’s like a spoilt four-year-old,’ interjected Malleson. ‘This is serious business we’re doing. There’s no place for tantrums.’
‘No? Then if it’s so serious, Jeff, you’d better do it yourself, you’re such a serious person. You go before the selection board and see if they’ll pick you!’
It was an unpleasant gibe. Malleson’s own political ambitions had once been large, but several unsuccessful attempts to secure a nomination had made him an object of ridicule in some quarters.
‘At least they’d get someone reliable,’ he retorted.
‘Perhaps. But would they know they’d got anyone at all?’
It was a good exit line and Mrs Sewell standing in the doorway listening with wide-eyed enjoyment tucked her glass under her arm and applauded vigorously as Goldsmith pushed by her.
‘Bill!’ called Liz as he opened the front door. He looked back. She was standing alongside her mother.
‘Don’t go,’ said Liz.
He hesitated on the threshold. Mrs Sewell stretched out her plump arms towards him.
‘Come to Mummy,’ she said throatily.
He slammed the door behind him and within seconds was doing an illegal fifty mph through the empty streets.
It was, he knew, absurd, though in a way it had been positively enjoyable. It had been years since he had engaged in such a splendidly childish argument and at the same time as he deplored what he had said, his mind was working out better, more elegantly phrased gibes he might have used.
He had left the street lights behind him now and he made himself concentrate on his driving. The wet gusty weather of the previous morning had returned. Flurries of rain were hurled at his windscreen and, high above, the athletic wind was tearing holes in the thick cloud cover. But it was a moonless night and the scraps of star-pricked sky that momentarily appeared offered no lumination. The familiar road seemed looped and knotted and he slowed down even further. No argument, especially one so uncertainly based and inelegantly pursued, was worth getting killed for. Survival rated high in his priorities.
A Very Good Hater Page 10