Guilt at the Garage

by Simon Brett

  Yet, when she’d first arrived at Woodside Cottage, she had been so crippled by back pain that Jude had had to help her from the BMW into the house.

  Though she would never use words like ‘psychosomatic’ in conversation with a client, experience had taught Jude that the origin of back pain was frequently in the mind rather than the body. Inner tensions expressed themselves externally. Her healing could ease the physical pain, but nothing approaching a cure could be achieved until the underlying causes had been addressed.

  It had taken a long time with Karen, but gradually over the sessions the source of her disquiet emerged. It was her sexuality. As a teenager, she had felt drawn to her own gender but, coming from a very traditional middle-class West Sussex family, she had not allowed herself to give such feelings any expression. They were schoolgirl crushes, just a phase she was going through. Marriage and the demands of children had kept the feelings at bay, but with the departure of the youngest for boarding school, she had been forced to face the reality of her situation. And the conflict between the way she was expected to behave and her real instincts was what had crippled her.

  Having identified the problem, it certainly wasn’t part of Jude’s remit to make recommendations as to what her client should do next. The last thing she wanted to do was to have any part in a marriage break-up. But Karen, having had her own suspicions of what was causing her debility confirmed, felt strong enough to stop having her sessions with Jude and to sort out her own future.

  At that stage, there was no female lover in her life, not even any woman who she wished was her lover. But when she finally confronted her husband with the truth, she found there had been a lover in his life. He’d been having an affair with his receptionist at the office for some years.

  This made their separation and subsequent divorce easier. And their children welcomed the move. They had been getting increasingly stressed by their parents bickering at each other. Their father married his receptionist and imported her into the family home. With her divorce settlement, Karen bought a smaller house in Fethering, and the children cheerfully divided their holiday time between the two parents.

  Karen, away from the stifling conformity of the Shorelands Estate, blossomed. With guidance from Jude, she developed her instinct for healing. It was at a healing conference in Bristol that she met Chrissie, a forty-year-old reiki practitioner from Yorkshire, and from that moment the two were inseparable. In her early fifties, for the first time, Karen knew what it was to love someone.

  For a while it was a long-distance romance. They met a lot during term-times, but Karen wanted to be in Fethering for the children during their holidays. Then, when the youngest was settled at university, she and Chrissie pooled their resources to buy a cottage in Ilkley, where, with their different but complementary skills, they ran a thriving alternative health clinic. Soon after Karen moved up north, they got married. All of Karen’s children, with their various appendages, were present at the ceremony, and it had been one of the most joyous occasions Jude had ever attended.

  She was happy for them. She knew how difficult it was for anyone to find the one person they wanted to share their life with. Given that difficulty, the gender of that person was a detail.

  Jude relished Karen and Chrissie’s company. They were serious about their work, but not about anything else. Often very funny together, both aware of life’s idiocies. And, in common with most gay couples she knew, nothing in their behaviour would have indicated their sexual orientation. If the subject came up, they would talk about it, but they never forced it on people.

  The venue for the healing conference was not very grand. Leeds boasted many high-spec conference facilities, but the organizers were working on a limited budget, so the programme of events took place in a converted school. It was somehow in keeping with the alternative ambience of a healing event.

  On the Friday afternoon and all day Saturday there had been an intensive schedule of talks, panels and workshops. They had attended as many as they could and, as they sat down in a city-centre pub that evening with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, Jude spoke for all three of them when she quoted a Gary Larson ‘Far Side’ cartoon. ‘My brain’s full.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Chrissie.

  ‘It’s going to take me a long time to process all the information,’ said Karen.

  ‘It takes you a long time to process everything,’ Chrissie pointed out. ‘You still jump every time I refer to you as my “wife”.’

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t seem natural,’ Karen confessed. ‘Like all those women on Radio Four panel games constantly chuntering on about their “wives”.’

  ‘You can take the girl out of Fethering,’ suggested Jude, ‘but you can’t take Fethering out of the girl.’

  Karen giggled. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling that’s true.’

  ‘What did you think about that feller talking on Rebirthing Therapy?’ asked Chrissie.

  ‘Didn’t convince me,’ said Jude.

  ‘Me neither. I thought he was a bit creepy.’

  ‘Alternative therapies have always attracted their fair share of creeps,’ said Jude.

  Karen amended that to, ‘More than their fair share.’

  ‘Look at us two,’ said Chrissie, and they both roared with laughter.

  ‘I thought the guy who talked about Chinese Medicine for Mental Health was brilliant.’

  Karen agreed. ‘They were so far ahead of us centuries ago. Treating the whole person, not separating the mental and the physical aspects. We’ve only recently caught up with the concept of holistic health.’

  ‘It’s something I’ve long wanted to explore in more detail,’ said Jude. ‘I think there are ideas there that I could incorporate into my own work.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Karen.

  ‘But …’ Chrissie interposed, ‘we don’t want to spend the whole evening talking shop.’

  ‘All right.’ Jude grinned. ‘So, how’s life in Ilkley? For you as a Southerner?’

  Karen grinned too. ‘Surprisingly similar to Fethering, actually. If I thought there’d be less volume of gossip up here, I was wrong. Everyone chattering away about everyone else all the time.’

  ‘And we, of course,’ said Chrissie, ‘supply endless gossip-fodder. And behind it all is that great looming eternal question: “What do lesbians do in bed?”’

  ‘To which the answer,’ said Karen, ‘is mostly read books and listen to Radio Four.’

  ‘Unglamorous but true.’

  ‘But basically, Karen, you like it up here?’

  ‘Love it. Maybe part of it’s the company.’ The two wives exchanged looks.

  ‘My neighbour Carole believes that people “in the North” are always popping in and out of each other’s kitchens, making each other cups of tea. Like something out of Coronation Street … not of course that she’s ever compromised her middle-class eyeballs by watching Coronation Street.’

  ‘I suppose it is a bit more relaxed socially,’ said Karen.

  ‘Less class-conscious?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Jude. Ilkley is always about who gets invited to whose parties, who’s a social climber and that kind of thing.’

  ‘But, of course, for us,’ said Chrissie with mock-loftiness, ‘Ilkley is only a staging post.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. A staging post on the way to the nirvana of Hebden Bridge.’

  ‘Hebden Bridge where they have all the flooding?’

  ‘Floods are not Hebden Bridge’s only claim to fame. Didn’t you know, Jude, it is also the Lesbian Capital of the UK.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Chrissie nodded. ‘I think we should move there as quickly as possible. Whereas Karen feels …’

  Karen screwed up her face. ‘I think it’s a bit obvious. I don’t think one should be too stereotypical.’

  ‘Heaven forfend,’ said Chrissie. ‘You and me – stereotypical!’ And they both collapsed in giggles.

  Chris
sie recovered first. ‘But enough of this idle banter. Jude, I know what Karen’s really desperate to hear is the latest bulletin from the front line in Fethering.’

  ‘Nothing much changes there,’ Jude responded, ‘as she well knows.’

  ‘You still got the Fethering healing franchise sewn up?’ asked Karen.

  ‘I seem to have plenty of work. More than I can cope with, really. And there is a new kid on the block called Jeremiah, who’s keen to set up some kind of centre for a lot of therapists to operate out of the same premises.’

  ‘That kind of thing can work very well,’ said Chrissie. ‘Particularly for people who’re just starting out. When I first qualified, I was attached to a centre like that in Wetherby. It was very good for me. I got lots of tips from the more experienced therapists. And when I screwed up completely … well, there was always a shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘But, please,’ said Karen, ‘I need more Fethering goss. I’ve been starved of the stuff. So … no juicy murders to preoccupy you and Carole?’

  ‘Well …’ And Jude found herself retelling the strange circumstances of Bill Shefford’s death. It was quite a relief to talk about to it to people who knew little of the individuals involved (though Karen did vaguely remember Bill from filling up with fuel at Shefford’s). It was also, in a way she did not quite like to define, a relief to be in discussion with someone other than Carole about it. Jude also found talking the narrative through helped clarify her own thinking on the case.

  ‘Ooh, I like it,’ said Chrissie.

  ‘Yes,’ Karen agreed. ‘Plenty of suspects.’

  Jude twisted her lips wryly. ‘But still no proof it was murder.’

  ‘No, but it’s much more fun if we assume it is.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘This healer guy you mention,’ said Chrissie, ‘called Jeremiah …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tall guy … good-looking … deep voice?’

  ‘That’s a pretty good description. Why, do you know him?’

  ‘I did meet a feller like that at another healing conference. I’m talking years back.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And …’ Chrissie looked conflicted and exchanged a look with Karen. ‘I’m afraid I can’t really talk about it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It concerns a client I was treating at the time.’

  ‘Ah. Fully understand.’ It was frustrating, but when it came to matters of client confidentiality, Jude knew the rules.

  ‘Incidentally,’ said Karen. ‘Some people we knew in Ilkley recently moved down to Fethering.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Name of Greenford. Adrian and Gwyneth. Wondered if you might have come across them …?’

  ‘I know who they are. My neighbour Carole has had more to do with them than I have.’

  ‘Well, if you want some choice Ilkley gossip,’ said Chrissie, ‘there’s plenty about them.’

  ‘I’ll just get another bottle. This one seems unaccountably to have emptied itself,’ said Jude, rising to put her words into action. ‘Then you can give me all the dirt.’

  When she was back from the bar and the three glasses were full of Sauvignon Blanc, she looked expectantly at Chrissie, who took a deep breath and started, ‘Well, I’m not sure whether this could be claimed by the Me Too movement or whether it’s a case of old-fashioned marital jealousy …’

  ‘Good opening,’ said Jude.

  ‘… but the Greenfords certainly got Ilkley talking.’

  ‘Which,’ said Karen, ‘as we’ve indicated is not a terribly difficult thing to do.’

  ‘Look, who’s telling this story?’ asked Chrissie, mock-aggrieved. ‘Don’t forget your place. You’re a relative newcomer to Ilkley.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Karen, miming the action as she said the words, ‘I will zip my lip.’

  ‘What makes it interesting,’ Chrissie went on, ‘is that it starts very quietly, with the subterranean rustle of a worm turning. The Greenfords had lived quietly enough in Ilkley with no one knowing much about them for more than twenty years, possibly from when they were first married. They didn’t have children. Gwyneth was a quiet soul, but perfectly amiable. Worked in the Vauxhall car dealership. Often seen around the shops, always with a pleasant word for everyone. Not many close friends, so far as people could tell, but a number of acquaintances, with whom she would meet from time to time at coffee mornings.

  ‘Adrian was more of an extrovert. Also worked in the motor trade, selling second-hand cars. Was away a lot for work, it seems, but quite a well-known figure round the pubs of Ilkley. What used to be called a “man’s man” … don’t know if the expression’s still used. Seemed most at ease with a pint jug in his hand and a slightly off-colour joke on his lips. Such a stereotype – so many more men like him – that he made as little impression as his wife did. Ordinary people, heads rarely seen above the parapet. That is, until eighteen months ago …’

  ‘Nearer two years,’ Karen interposed, then shrank from the look of mock-fury that was turned on her. ‘I know, because it was soon after I moved up here.’

  ‘Very well,’ Chrissie snapped. ‘Nearer two years. Anyway, it seems that Adrian Greenford had an affair. Had been having an affair for some while. Not a big deal, you may think, in the scheme of things. At any given moment, I’m sure any number of people in a town like Ilkley are having affairs. And you might have thought, allowing for a bit of prurient gossip, it was nobody’s business except for the couple involved. And maybe the third party involved. I’m sure that’s how Adrian Greenford hoped it would be.

  ‘Unfortunately for him, Gwyneth didn’t see it the same way. As I said, it started with a worm turning, but the worm pretty soon took on dragon-like proportions. “Hell hath no fury”, and all that. You hear of spurned wives smashing the contents of their husbands’ wine cellars and cutting up their suits. Gwyneth Greenford’s revenge was more public than that. From being invisible, she suddenly became very visible. She had leaflets printed, stating that “ADRIAN GREENFORD IS AN ADULTERER”, and she took them into all his favourite pubs. The landlords didn’t let them stay for long, but enough people saw them for the damage to be done. She stuck similar posters over the front of their house and – the final indignity for a petrol-head like Adrian Greenford – she spray-painted the same slogan over his precious E-Type Jag. Was ever a man so humiliated?’

  ‘And what happened to the other woman? Adrian’s mistress, girlfriend, whatever?’

  ‘I don’t know where she went. She certainly left Ilkley.’

  Chrissie sighed, sat back and took a long swig of Sauvignon Blanc. Her part of the narration was over, and this time she made no objection when Karen picked up the baton. ‘It’s no great surprise that they moved after that. Adrian couldn’t go anywhere in the town without people whispering behind their hands. How they sorted it out between them, who set up the house sale, who decided where they were going to move to, I’ve no idea. But move they did. To Fethering, of all places.’

  Jude looked bewildered. ‘But how on earth did Gwyneth do all that? Getting the posters printed, taking them to the pubs, spraying the car. Who did she have to help her?’

  ‘She didn’t have anyone to help her,’ answered Chrissie. ‘She did it all on her own – the revenge of a woman scorned.’

  ‘But how could she have done it?’ asked Jude. ‘In her condition?’

  ‘In her condition?’ echoed Chrissie.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Karen.

  ‘In the house they’ve bought in Fethering, High Street, near the parade, just a few along the road from Woodside Cottage, which I’m sure you remember well, Karen …’

  ‘Certainly do.’

  ‘… Adrian Greenford has had to put in all kinds of ramps and handrails.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘So that his wife Gwyneth can get around the place in her wheelchair.’

  ‘Wheelchair?’ The two other women looked at each other in astoni
shment, before Chrissie said, ‘Gwyneth Greenford had no problems with her mobility. She didn’t use a wheelchair when she lived in Ilkley.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Over the weekend, Carole kept thinking about Jude. She wasn’t jealous of her neighbour being at a healing conference in Leeds. She couldn’t imagine anything she would enjoy less. She needed ‘Healing in the Head’ like a hole in the head. And she didn’t think being in the company of a lesbian couple would improve the experience for her. But she did want to share the news of her Friday afternoon encounter with Dr Rawley. Calling Jude’s mobile was always an option, but Carole – typically – was worried that might make her sound needy. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t survive a weekend with an empty Woodside Cottage next door. The conference, she knew, finished at lunchtime on the Sunday. Jude would be back late that evening. Catching up with her on the Monday morning would be soon enough.

  By the Sunday morning, however, the need to make contact was even more urgent. Carole tried to allay it, by ringing her son Stephen and family in Fulham, but listening to the garbled exploits of her granddaughters, Lily and Chloe, did not work its usual magic sufficiently to distract her. When she’d put the phone down, she knew she was going to give in and call Jude.

  But, before she had time to dial the number, the phone in her hand rang.

  She answered it and a slightly accented voice said, ‘Good morning. This is Malee Shefford.’

  The house in which Bill Shefford had lived with two wives was not on one of Fethering’s most highly prized roads, nor did it have period charm on its side, but it was far enough from the Downside Estate to be deemed respectable. In the front room, Carole was struck again by Malee’s beauty. It was not like the glossy allure of a model photographed in a magazine, but something deeper: an iconic face that seemed to symbolize generations of femininity. Seeing her close to, it was more difficult to judge the woman’s age. She could have been anything between twenty and fifty.