So Long at the Fair

by Pat Herbert

  Your loving mother,

  Hannah Downing

  

  When Albert had realised just what the letter was, he panicked. Hal Latimer had his phone number, but he didn’t have his. Then he had had a brainwave and gone straight to Bernard who, luckily, had a work phone number for him.

  Hal now held the letter in his hands. He was crying.

  “Yes, it’s very sad, isn’t it?” said Albert, a little embarrassed.

  They were seated in the Feathers surrounded by crowds of happy drinkers who were staring at the young man who looked anything but happy.

  “I – I don’t know how to thank you,” said Hal, realising he was getting strange looks from the people around him. He quickly dabbed his eyes and smiled. “Sorry about that. What must you think of me?”

  “Don’t worry,” smiled Albert, “I understand. I’m only sorry it took so long. Now you can go to the police with the proof you’ve always wanted and get your grandfather exonerated.”

  “Yes. I suppose he’ll get a free pardon,” said Hal thoughtfully, pocketing the letter with care.

  “Yes, I’m sure he will. And be reburied in consecrated ground. I’m sure the vicar’ll do the honours.”

  “Yes, I hope so,” smiled Hal happily.

  “Although I think the word ‘pardon’ isn’t right,” Albert pointed out. “If someone’s proved innocent after being found guilty, then they have no need of being pardoned.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well, they haven’t done anything wrong in the first place.”

  “Oh, I see what you’re saying. It’s just a legal expression, I suppose.”

  The two young men sat together in the crowded pub for the rest of the evening, getting quite tipsy by the end. They were firm friends when the barman called time.

  “You must come to my wedding,” said Albert firmly.

  “I intend to,” declared Hal, slapping him on the back. “You’re a very lucky man. Faith’s a lovely girl.”

  “I know,” said Albert smugly. “In fact, Hal, I’d like you to be my best man.”

  Hal looked stunned. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I was going to ask someone else, but I’d much rather it was you. Please say you will.”

  “You try and stop me, mate. Just you try.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  July 1959

  Effie Barker hadn’t felt so happy in ages. Ever since she overheard a little ragamuffin in the playground that day, she had found a purpose in life once more.

  The death of her twin sister, Elspeth, had been a blow from which she had found it hard to recover. They had been living together for three years after both their spouses had died. Effie’s marriage had been a happy one, but she had found that she hadn’t missed her husband half as much as Elspeth. Since feeling herself completely alone in the world, she had sometimes wondered why she bothered to get out of bed in the mornings.

  All that had been changed by a mere child. Little Alfie Fisher had given her a reason to live. It was a fact. Without him, she would have probably gone on from day to day without a purpose or a goal, caring little about anything at all.

  If she had been frail, she would probably have succumbed to some old person’s illness like pneumonia or rheumatoid arthritis. But even though she was getting on for seventy, she didn’t feel anywhere near that age. She had never had a day’s illness in her life and felt as fit as she had done in her twenties. Elspeth had also been a healthy woman, except at the end when Effie had woken up to find her dead in bed of a massive heart attack. The doctor had told her it could have happened at any time, and that was when she realised her sister had been keeping the true state of her health from her. If you couldn’t trust your twin, who could you trust, she had wondered.

  Effie wasn’t, by nature, a bitter woman but for many months after her sister’s death, she had felt just that. Bitter towards Elspeth for dying and bitter towards everybody else for just being everybody else except Elspeth.

  However, gradually she had come to accept what had happened, and she had forced herself to fill her life with (as she saw them) meaningless activities. She read avidly and was always to be found at the library on Thursday mornings. Friday afternoons was flower arranging, Mondays swimming, and so on. The Women’s Institute was always delighted to receive her pots of marmalade, and every cat in the neighbourhood felt the benefit of her fondness for felines in the form of saucers of milk and plates of Kitekat. The news of her benevolence had even reached the chewed-off ears of Beelzebub, causing Mrs Harper to wonder why he wasn’t hungry sometimes.

  But it wasn’t enough. Even the gardening she and her sister had delighted in wasn’t the same on her own. She half-heartedly dead-headed the roses and trimmed the privet hedge, but she only went through the motions. There was no joy in it anymore.

  With Alfie’s first visit with his mother, she had stepped into the role of honorary ‘auntie’. They were instant soul mates, despite the vast difference in their ages, and she shared with him the pleasures of gardening once more. The little boy’s enthusiasm for the antirrhinums, which he knew simply as ‘bunny rabbits’, and the furry lupin pods he called catkins, filled her soft old heart with joy.

  “They’re called antirrhinums or snapdragons,” she would tell him as he squeezed the little flower so it opened like a mouth.

  “Bunny rabbits,” he would always assure her, and she would laugh.

  “Of course. Bunny rabbits. What was I thinking?”

  He wolfed down her jam tarts with gusto and even helped her make them. He also got involved in the marmalade-making process. In return, she took a great interest in his fire engine and toy soldiers which he brought to her for close inspection. She saw how proud he was of his collection as he took them out of their box one by one, explaining to which regiment they belonged and what part they had played in which battle. Having lived through two world wars and seen enough of the misery they caused, she wasn’t keen on military history, but his enthusiasm always got the better of her as she listened enthralled to all he had to tell her.

  For Alfie’s part, he simply loved her with a child’s unquestioning devotion, so different was she from his formidable Great Aunt Nancy of whom he had always been a little afraid. His mother always told him her bark was worse than her bite, but when you’re only nine, barks could be just as terrifying as bites. Sometimes more so. But Effie Barker wasn’t one bit terrifying, and he constantly demanded that his mother take him to see her practically every afternoon after school.

  It was a love match, there was no doubt of that.

  

  “Alfie’s never home these days, Auntie,” complained Mandy one morning to Nancy. “He can’t get enough of that old girl.”

  “What old girl’s that, ducks?” asked Nancy, putting on the kettle and digging out a tin of freshly baked scones.

  “I told you,” said Mandy, sighing. “I met her when I went to collect Alfie from school about a month ago. You know, the one who saw the lady fall from the Big Wheel.”

  “Oh, that business again,” said Nancy dismissively. “Still, I suppose Alfie was pleased.”

  “Yes, he was, because he couldn’t be called a liar anymore.” Mandy nibbled absently at a scone.

  “’Ere, don’t you want no butter on that?” asked Nancy, wielding the knife dangerously.

  “No, I like them plain, and your scones don’t need anything else.”

  Nancy swelled with pride. “Well, I do make good scones, if I do say so myself.”

  “I just wish Alfie wouldn’t always be round there, pestering the poor old girl,” said Mandy. “I suppose she’s too polite to say anything, but she must get a bit tired of him. He wears me out, and I’m miles younger than Effie.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that,” said Nancy wisely, pouring the tea. “You can bet she loves it. You said she was a widow? Lives on ’er own?”

  “Yes, since her twin sister died.”

  “There you a
re then,” said Nancy. “Probably laps it up. I’m sure she’ll soon tell you if Alfie gets on ’er nerves.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, how are you, Auntie? The vicar not overworking you, is ’e?”

  “Rushed off my bleedin’ feet, ducks, but I ain’t complaining. Just when my arthritis starts playing me up, that’s all.”

  “You should tell him if it gets too much,” said Mandy, concerned.

  “Oh, I ain’t backward in coming forward when it suits,” said Nancy.

  Mandy grinned. “Don’t I know it!”

  “Anyway, tell me about this Effie woman,” said Nancy, sitting down at the table opposite her niece. “What’s she like?”

  “Oh, nice enough. A very pleasant woman, actually.”

  “But nutty as a fruitcake, eh?”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  “Seeing women falling from Big Wheels and then them not being there in the first place. Got to be barking. There’s some excuse for Alfie – ‘e’s got a vivid imagination. But old women should ’ave more bloomin’ sense than to go around saying such things. They’d ’ave ’er in the nut house soon as look at ’er.”

  “I don’t think she’s mad, Auntie. I really believe her, and I believe Alfie.”

  “Cor blimey, love, you ain’t serious?”

  “The vicar’s doctor friend said he saw her too. You can’t think he’s mad? I mean, they can’t all be mad.”

  “Oh, can’t they? Take the doc. All right, ’e’s a good quack as quacks go, but ’e’s a bit too fond of ’is drink, if you ask me. Probably sees pink elephants when not seeing falling women.”

  “Oh, come off it,” laughed Mandy. “You’re not saying Dr MacTavish is a drunkard? We’re all on his panel.”

  “Oh, I ain’t saying ’e’s drunk all the time,” said Nancy, offering her another scone. “Not when ’e sees patients. But ’e’s always round ’ere in the evening drinking the vicar’s whisky. They think I don’t know ’e keeps a bottle ’idden at the back of ’is cupboard in the study.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Most men like to relax of an evening with a glass or two,” said Mandy reasonably. “My Charlie likes his beer, as you know.”

  Nancy merely sniffed.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but my Charlie knows when to stop. A glass of beer in the evening helps him relax and unwind.”

  “Relax and unwind from what? ’E don’t do nothing.”

  Mandy looked daggers at her. “He works all day. Brain work is just as hard as physical work.”

  Nancy sniffed again. “’E shouldn’t expect you to work at that factory and then cook ’is meals. And look after Alfie. And do all the ’ousework. It ain’t right.”

  “I’m only going to be part-time when I go back,” said Mandy. “I’ll be finishing at one o’clock instead of three. Besides, I enjoy it. Gets me out of the house. I can’t wait to go back, actually.”

  “More fool you, then,” declared Nancy, riled.

  “Anyway, isn’t it better they drink at home; otherwise they’d all be up the pub every night, wouldn’t they?” Mandy smiled at her aunt. “Come on, you know I’m right. And you can’t change them. What would be the point?”

  “I don’t ’old with it, that’s all,” said Nancy primly. “It’s the devil’s brew is whisky and beer.”

  Mandy sighed, biting into her third scone. “Have it your own way. So, I take it you don’t believe there’s a woman haunting the Big Wheel, then?”

  “No, I don’t. I mean, ’ave you seen ’er?”

  “N-no, but I haven’t been to the fair lately.”

  “But you went last year, didn’t you? Did you see ’er then?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t.”

  “And nor did loads of other people. Just a drunk doctor, a mad old woman and a little boy, begging your pardon. That ain’t much to go on.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts, then?”

  “’Course I bleedin’ don’t. I’ve got more bleedin’ sense.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong, Auntie. Anyway, I must be going now. I’ve got a lot to do before I pick Alfie up from school.”

  “You get along then, love. And don’t worry about Alfie. ’E’ll grow out of it.”

  “Grow out of what?” Mandy snapped, irritated by her aunt’s intractable attitude.

  “Lyin’, of course.”

  “Alfie’s not a liar, and the sooner you get that into your head, the better I’ll like it.”

  With that, she stalked off down the garden path to the gate without turning around.

  “Hoity toity,” said Nancy with a shrug as she shut the front door.

  Chapter Forty

  July 1959

  “It looks like those two will be friends,” said Robbie.

  He and Bernard had met up as usual after their day’s work. Sitting in the vicarage study, they had lit their pipes and poured their respective tipples and were now relaxing as men, according to Mandy Fisher, were wont to do. It had been a trying day for both of them, but the news that Albert had sought Hal’s contact details from Bernard had cheered them.

  “It seems that people don’t make new friends in the way they did,” observed Bernard. “It seems a pity. There are so many lonely people in the world.”

  “Hmm. I suppose you’re right,” agreed Robbie, enjoying his Glenfiddich as usual. “But you and I made friends easily enough, old boy.”

  Bernard smiled. He thought back to the day well over a decade ago when he and Robbie had first met in the pub. If he hadn’t had that funny turn at the bus stop, he might never have met the good doctor, and that didn’t bear thinking about. God moved in a mysterious way, there was no doubt about that.

  The tragic circumstances that had brought the two young men together was another case in point. They were even related, if only remotely. Albert had seemed very keen to see Hal.

  “Have you got an address or phone number?” he had asked Bernard the day before. “I must see him as soon as possible.”

  Bernard had been surprised that Hal hadn’t given him the details himself and said so.

  “I gave him mine,” Albert had explained. “But I didn’t know I’d need to see him so soon.”

  “So, it seems there’s something specific he wants to talk to Hal about,” suggested Robbie, helping himself to another tot of whisky. “Not just socially.”

  “Yes, that would appear to be the case,” said Bernard thoughtfully.

  “And you don’t know what that would be?” Robbie’s eyebrows, animated at the best of times, were busily going up and down in enquiry. “Come on, old boy, you must have an idea what he wanted to see him about.”

  “No, not a clue.” Bernard sipped his sherry, trying to remember what Albert had said. “Oh, yes, there was something.”

  “Good, good. What?”

  “Something about a letter, I think.”

  “A letter?”

  Bernard shrugged. “He didn’t say anything else about it, except that I got the impression it was very important.”

  “Why didn’t you grill him?”

  “It wasn’t any of my business, Robbie. Besides he was in a hurry. Late for one of his customers. Overflowing drain or some such. I couldn’t keep him from that. Some old dear might have been drowning.”

  Robbie laughed, then became serious in the space of a split second. “I bet the letter sheds some light on Olivia’s murder and why she’s haunting the fair. It must do.”

  “Could be,” said Bernard, staring at the empty grate. It was almost cold enough for a fire, despite being the middle of summer.

  He had remonstrated with Mrs Harper only an hour before Robbie turned up, begging her to let him have a fire that evening.

  “What? In the middle of July?” she had expostulated. “Over my dead body. What a waste of money. You two men have got enough lard on you to keep out the cold. Anyway, I don’t think there’s any coal in the cellar. Apart from a few bits of nutty slack. They won’t go far
.”

  It had been useless to argue with her. Once a bee had settled in her bonnet, there was little anyone could do to shift it.

  He shivered. “Don’t you think it’s cold tonight?”

  Robbie, who was warm with the whisky he had consumed, eyed him in surprise. “It’s July, old boy.”

  “What difference does that make? If I’m cold, I’m cold, no matter what the calendar says.”

  “Have another sherry, that’ll warm you up.”

  Bernard, who had already consumed the two he allowed himself, decided he would break the habit of a lifetime and pour himself a third.

  “Anyway, Robbie,” said Bernard after a few moments, “I’m sure we’ll know all about it at some point. All in good time.”

  “But I want to know now.” He sounded almost petulant.

  “Why does it mean that much to you?”

  Robbie sighed. “This business is getting me down. Having seen that poor woman fall off the Wheel, I can’t get her image out of my head. She needs laying to rest.”

  “I know, Robbie,” said Bernard, the third sherry doing the trick at last. “But we’ll just have to be patient. I’ll be seeing Albert at his father’s funeral tomorrow, by the way, so I might be able to talk to him about it then.”

  “You mind you do,” insisted Robbie, eyeing the Glenfiddich again.

  “You could come to the service yourself,” suggested Bernard.

  “I could, but that Mallinger will be there, and I can’t stand the man. I bet Williams would still be alive if I’d been his doctor.”

  Bernard, who knew Mallinger quite well and rated his medical skills on a par with Robbie’s, just smiled. He knew better than to disagree.

  “Besides, I didn’t really know Williams, so I think it would be inappropriate for me to be there.”

  “Up to you.”