‘Mrs Harvey would have told her.’
‘She wasn’t there.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘I told her myself.’
‘You mean you knew?’
‘I’ve still got eyes and ears. And a brain.’
‘What kind of plant was it?’
‘A pelargonium.’
The ray of hope was back. Only a glimmer, but it seemed that Johnny’s days at the Manor gardens weren’t just spent watering and clipping and hoeing, as she had thought. He was learning things. Taking an interest. It didn’t matter what it was so long as it led him out of the dark place.
‘I wouldn’t know anything about pelargoniums.’
‘Mrs Harvey propagates them from cuttings.’
‘How clever of her.’
‘Anyone could do it. She cuts off a stem with leaves but no flowers, sticks it in compost and keeps it watered and it grows into a new plant. They come in different colours.’
‘I’d like to buy one, if that’s all right.’
‘I’ll pick you one out tomorrow, if you want.’
A bit later, he said, ‘There’s another patient of Dr Harvey’s working in the gardens now, so there’s four of us.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘I don’t know her name. She’s old and she’s only coming once a week for a few hours, so she won’t be much use. We’ve all got something wrong with us.’
She wanted to tell him that there was nothing wrong with him except for his damaged spine. That he was getting stronger every day and that he was going to learn to live his life again, if only he would give himself the chance. But she didn’t dare.
The Major watched them go by from his sitting-room window. Poor woman, heaving that heavy wheelchair along and coping with that ungrateful son of hers. Understandable that the boy got fed up with the way things were, of course, but he should treat his mother better. Show her some respect. His own mother would never have put up with it. Nor would Marjorie, if they’d ever had any children.
He’d stopped to have a chat with the Turners several times – tried to cheer things up, put in a bracing word or two, but the boy never answered or even looked up. Damned rude really. And the mother always seemed as though she’d much sooner he didn’t bother. Fair enough. He could take a hint. Still, it was depressing to see them going past.
This time, though, things seemed a bit different. The Major moved closer to the window, peering round the curtain. Mrs Turner was bending forward to speak to her son over his shoulder and he had actually turned his head to answer her. By Jove, for once, he wasn’t scowling! That was a turn up for the books.
His late mother-in law’s clock chimed its six silly pings on the mantelpiece behind him, which meant it was time for a legitimate pick-me-up. She was another woman who had always ruled the roost. His late father-in-law, he recalled, had been no match for his wife, or for his daughter either, poor chap. Henpecked to the end. The Major sighed. One thing he’d enjoyed most about the army was that the whole show had been run by men for men. No messing around with this modern nonsense of women having a say in everything, let alone going anywhere near the front line. Men had been left in peace to get on with a man’s job. He fingered his shoulder that had once proudly borne a major’s crown. When he thought about it, life had never been quite the same since those good old days.
He walked with firm and righteous tread towards the cocktail cabinet in the corner. It had become something of a Mecca during his retirement and, as usual, it started on ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’ the second he lifted the lid. On this occasion, he let it go on playing, his conscience perfectly clear. No need to worry about Marjorie. She was out at one of her interminable committee meetings and, even if she came back unexpectedly early, he had her mother’s clock as an unimpeachable witness. He poured himself a large Teachers with a small splash of soda, closed the lid on the confounded racket, and returned to his armchair, raising his glass in a silent toast to himself.
The golf widow had been a big disappointment but, thank God, he’d managed to escape unscathed from her clutches. He’d give her a wide berth in future; avoid her like the plague. He rather fancied his chances with Mrs Carberry now. Since the coffee morning, he’d run across her again at a village hall talk. A weird chap had shown slides about Bird Watching on the Tibetan Plateau, wherever that was. He wouldn’t have gone to the talk at all if he hadn’t been dragooned by Marjorie into unstacking and restacking the damned chairs. Still, in this case, it had given him the chance of a few more words with Tanya, as he called her now – at least to himself. After that, they had met at the Latimers’ annual drinks party, and at Sunday Matins she had been sitting only two rows behind. He had managed to speak to her outside the church afterwards and he could tell that she’d taken note of him. If he said it himself, he was one of the few men in Frog End who had kept his figure and a lot of his hair too. The Colonel had more hair, it must be admitted, and he was taller and a bit younger, but he still carried a torch for his late wife, which rather put him out of the running. The field was clear. It was just a question of how to play it.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. The fête was coming up before long and he was already collecting bottles for the stall – the usual sort of rubbish that people unloaded on to him which had to be kept somewhere. Whatever Marjorie had said, it was a jolly good idea of his to ask Ruth if she’d let him park bottles at the Manor. Plenty of spare room there, whereas you couldn’t swing a cat in Shangri-La. Not a real cat, of course, but one of those things they used for flogging people on ships in the old days. A cat-’o-nine-tails. Nine knotted cords down a rope, flaying the flesh off backs. Life on those sailing ships had been rough. Oh, yes, indeed. Tanya, as he well knew, was helping out at the Manor. He raised his glass again. He’d call by there tomorrow. It was a good idea. A very good idea indeed.
For once, Claudia was home early. When Lawrence heard her key in the lock, he picked up the newspaper and pretended to be reading it and to be very surprised when she came into the room.
‘Did the shop catch fire?’
‘No, Lawrence, it didn’t.’
‘Well, you’re early. I thought something drastic must have happened.’
‘It was an unusually quiet day, as a matter of fact. There was no need for me to stay.’
‘I don’t see why you ever do anyway. It’s your shop. You can just lock up and leave whenever you want.’
‘I value my customers. The shop couldn’t exist without them, and they keep coming back because I take time and trouble with them. Extra time, if necessary.’
‘Far more than you ever do with me.’
‘You’re not alone all day, Lawrence. You go to the Manor.’
‘Ruth’s taken on another patient. It’s getting too crowded.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Some woman. She’s a golf widow and a hypochondriac. I’m not sure which comes first. All she does is deadhead the roses very slowly. Snooty type. I didn’t take to her at all.’
‘Well, Tanya Carberry seems very nice.’
‘She’s all right. But that crippled boy makes me think of what happened to Richard.’
‘We agreed never to talk about that again.’
‘He reminds me of it whenever I see him. He doesn’t deserve to be alive while Richard’s dead. I’d like to see him suffer.’
‘Don’t you think he’s suffering already?’
‘Not enough. He’s been getting quite cocky lately. Zooming about in his wheelchair, like he was still on a motorbike. He should be taught a lesson.’
She turned away. ‘That’s enough Lawrence. I don’t want to discuss it.’
He said. ‘Wait. Before you go, Claudia, I want to ask you something.’
She paused reluctantly.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said. ‘I’d like us to go away for a few days together – maybe to Paris. Remember when we went there years ago, soon after we were marr
ied? We could afford a decent hotel now. Have a good time. I don’t like the French but I like France. What do you think?’
‘I think it would be too risky for you, Lawrence. It’s too soon.’
He said bitterly, ‘Soon it’ll be too late. I’ll take the risk, if you will. Shut up the bloody shop, for Christ’s sake, and let’s go.’
‘I can’t do that. It’s the holiday season – the busiest time of the year.’
‘You could, if you wanted to. But you don’t, do you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Since you ask me, I don’t.’
Well, he had his answer. There was someone else, as he’d suspected. That was why she couldn’t stand the idea of going away with him. She had a lover. She didn’t want him any more and she didn’t need him any more. And the sooner he was dead and gone, the happier she would be.
SEVEN
The Colonel was pleased with the progress of his pig trough herb garden. The mint, parsley, rosemary and thyme were all flourishing. He had used some of the mint on Jersey new potatoes, stuck sprigs of rosemary into a lamb chop and scattered parsley and thyme over an omelette. He was ready, he felt, to add other varieties recommended by Naomi – such as sage and chives. On his way back from a shopping trip into Dorchester, he stopped the Riley outside the Manor.
Ruth was usually to be found somewhere in the gardens or greenhouses or stables but this time he drew a blank. Lawrence Deacon, a tray of young plants beside him, was working on a flower bed.
The Colonel paused. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
Deacon held out the trowel. ‘Here you are.’
The Colonel took over, digging holes, putting in the new plants, firming the soil back in place.
‘What am I planting?’
‘No idea. Annuals of some sort. I’m not really interested. I just do whatever Ruth tells me.’
Gardening didn’t seem to be working any of its customary magic on Deacon, but at least it was getting him out of doors and keeping him occupied.
‘I gather Mrs Reed has joined you now.’
‘One day a week, that’s all. I don’t know why Ruth took her on. She’s always going on about her bad back or something else she imagines she’s got wrong with her.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Worse, if anything.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘My wife is having an affair, which doesn’t help.’
The Colonel stopped planting. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The signs are there.’
‘Signs?’
‘You’d know them. You’re a man of the world.’
He wasn’t sure that the description applied to him in any way.
He said, ‘You could be mistaken.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. She’s been coming home later and later, always making excuses about being so busy at her shop. And there’s a different look about her. I can tell she’s had enough of me. I’m surplus to requirements now. When I had the stroke, she was very patient at first, but that’s all changed. Mind you, I’m a difficult bastard these days, so I can’t say I blame her. We used to be happy but the truth is things were never the same after we lost our son. We never got over it, either of us.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Deacon said, ‘I suggested we went away together – to Paris, like we did once years ago – but she refused. It would be too risky for me, she said, and she can’t leave the shop because of the holiday season, but the real reason is that she doesn’t want to go with me. She admitted it when I asked her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
‘If Claudia leaves me for someone else, I’m finished. She knows that, but I don’t think it will stop her. Not any more. She’s a lot younger than me with plenty of living ahead. I stand in her way.’
The Colonel resumed his planting. He had never met Mrs Deacon but it seemed to him that her husband was letting his imagination take over. The effects of a stroke were likely to be far-reaching – not just physical but also emotional. A battle on two fronts that Laurence Deacon appeared to be losing.
The Major struck while the iron was hot. It never did, he knew, to shilly-shally once your mind was made up. Straight unto the breach, was his motto, same as Henry V’s. Or close the wall up with our English dead! Sounded a bit dramatic, in this case, but it was the general idea.
He strode over to the Manor and banged the knocker on the front door. The only response was the poodle yapping. Useless thing, in his opinion. Any self-respecting burglar would simply kick it aside on the toe of his boot.
After a moment, he walked round the side of the house towards the big lawn and saw the barmy chap, Jacob, trimming the edges. No help to be had there either. Then, as luck would have it, he caught sight of Mrs Carberry herself in the distance, snipping away at something that was growing up a wall. He walked over casually.
‘Hallo, there.’
‘Hallo, Major. What are you doing here?’
She was definitely pleased to see him, he was sure of it. Not rushing things, exactly, but then she wasn’t that sort of woman.
‘Actually, I’m after Mrs Harvey. Any idea where she might be?’
‘She’s over in the stables.’
‘Jolly good.’ He watched her snip some more. ‘You seem very busy.’
‘Ruth asked me to tidy this up.’
Whatever it was had grown to the top of the wall and was waving its arms around, looking for somewhere to go.
‘Like to do a bit of gardening myself, now and again.’
‘Really?’
He thought of the postage-stamp lawn at Shangri-La and Marjorie’s serried ranks of marigolds.
‘Nothing like here, of course.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Settling down in Frog End, then?’
She did some more snipping. ‘People are very kind.’
‘Been to the Dog and Duck yet?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Not a bad place. Care to join me for a drink there sometime?’
‘That’s kind of you, Major, but I don’t enjoy pubs.’
She was playing it safe, he realized. Quite right too. In a place like Frog End you had to watch your step. A hotbed of gossip, if ever there was one. He’d follow her lead. Another idea came to him out of the blue. Freda Butler was forever trying to get him to collect for one of her confounded good causes: helping the homeless, rescuing mistreated donkeys, saving dancing bears and all that sort of thing. The latest had been in aid of some dodgy animal shelter and she’d flogged him a bunch of raffle tickets for it. He’d bought them just to get rid of her, without even bothering to look at the prizes. Now, if he offered to help her sell some more he would have the perfect excuse to call at all the Hall flats. Tanya, as he had discovered, lived in one of them on the first floor. He could see himself ringing her bell, pretending to be surprised when she opened the door, proffering the animal shelter raffle tickets and accepting her smiling invitation to step inside.
At the moment, though, she was still snipping away, and her back was still turned. Still playing it safe.
‘Well, I’ll be getting along, then.’
He found Ruth in the stables and she was jolly decent about storing the bottles, as he’d known she would be. He could put them in one of the old loose boxes, she said. So, the scene was set for him to drop by the Manor whenever he wanted. On the way home, he called at Lavender Cottage. Freda Butler was delighted with his offer to help sell the raffle tickets – astonished, in fact. She unloaded rather more on him than he’d actually intended, but if they did the trick with Tanya it would be worth it.
Later on, he read about the prizes. The sparkling English wine would be rubbish, and he didn’t care about the hand-woven willow casket of sun-ripened fruits, but the week’s holiday for two in a luxury hotel in Barcelona, Spain was another matter. By Jove, supposing he won first prize with one of his tickets! The old girl wouldn’t care to go to Spain – too many Spanish – but Tanya might leap at the chance. Or, better still,
what if he happened to sell Tanya the winning ticket? She’d be bound to ask him along, wouldn’t she? Of course, they’d have to keep it a secret. Cover their tracks, as it were. He’d spin some story about visiting an old army friend – Jumbo Buckland, say, if he hadn’t already popped his clogs. You never knew these days.
Johnny was waiting for her, holding a potted plant in his lap.
‘This is for you, Mum.’
‘For me?’
‘Well, you said you wanted a pelargonium, didn’t you?’
She stared at the plant with its bright pink flowers. ‘It’s beautiful, Johnny. How much do I owe Mrs Harvey?’
‘Nothing. I paid for it out of my wages. It’s called Lara Starshine, by the way.’
‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘It’s scented and goes on flowering till December. You could put it in a bigger pot and it’ll grow to about a foot tall.’
She couldn’t speak for a moment. Her throat had gone tight and she could feel tears welling up. She swallowed hard. It would never do to get upset. Johnny hated tears more than anything.
At last, she said, ‘Thank you, Johnny. It’s very kind of you.’
He hunched his shoulders dismissively. ‘Can we go home now?’
Claudia Deacon put her key in the flat door and opened it. Silence, as usual. No sound of the radio or the television, just a heavy and reproachful silence. She went into the sitting room and, as usual, Lawrence was sitting in his chair, doing nothing.
‘You’re late again,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘Very late, in fact.’
‘I’ve been very busy today.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s often true.’ She put a heavy supermarket bag down. ‘And I had to go and get some food for supper too. You should be pleased the shop’s doing well, Lawrence. Would you sooner it didn’t? That it failed?’
‘I’d sooner you came home on time. You’re supposed to shut at half past five, aren’t you?’ He checked his watch again. ‘It’s twenty minutes past seven.’
Don’t get angry, she told herself. It won’t help. Just try to explain, once again.
‘I can’t just shut the shop and walk away, Lawrence. There are always things to be seen to. A shop doesn’t just run itself and it all takes time.’
The Lifeline Page 9