He grunted, broke wind, then sagged against the wall. ‘I was not killing anyone,’ he achieved eventually. ‘I was merely making sure that he was comfortable.’
Polly waded in again. ‘Comfortable? I’ll give you comfortable, you lying toad. Comfortable six feet under is where you wanted that poor old man. Pick on somebody your own size. Try Winston flaming Churchill – his belly’s somewhere about the same size as yours and he finished bloody Hitler.’
A strange sound added to the untidy equation. Jean, who had sunk onto one of the stairs, began to laugh; but this was not ordinary laughter. The noise she made bore all the hallmarks of hysteria and it prompted Polly to indulge in further abuse of the lord and master. ‘See her? That’s your wife, the one you tried to strangle. She’s on tablets. We could all do with blinking tablets at this rate. Now, sod off before I clout you. And you stink. A whisky drinker’s farts always stink.’
This was hilarious, thought Jean. Her husband, who had killed Sally, who had just tried to kill his own father, was at the mercy of his own former mistress, who was now a firm friend to his wife. Everyone else remained motionless, because the scene being played out on the black-and-white tiling was compulsive viewing. She wiped her eyes. ‘Good theatre,’ she mumbled to herself. Yes, she had better start taking the pills again, because this wasn’t right – she should not be laughing.
Richard staggered to his feet. ‘I am going to bed,’ he announced, the words slightly slurred.
Jean stopped giggling. ‘Not in my house,’ she stated.
‘Your house?’ His voice thickened and he coughed to clear a thirsty throat.
‘Your father’s house, then,’ answered Jean. ‘You will be given time to pack a small case and, as there is no traffic on the roads at this time of night, you may take the car.’ She addressed Anna. ‘Please sit with Pa. He will be wondering where everyone is. Jeremy, Peter, help your father to pack – and find the car keys. Meredith, go back to bed – you, too, Aggie. Tomorrow morning, we shall have all the locks changed.’
He was routed and he knew it. What the hell had come over him? He could not remember why he had tried to stop the old man breathing, could not remember much … Except for her, the fragrant one in her pink dressing gown, standing now, halfway up the stairs, ordering him out of a house that was rightfully his own. Oh, he remembered her, by hell he did. They all wanted killing—
‘Move!’ Polly prodded him with the walking stick. ‘You heard her – now, get gone. And don’t come back, either, because I need my sleep. I can’t be doing with watching you all bloody night, I’ve an old man to see to and a job of work to do, a proper job.’ She was gloating now. Polly was important at last. The man who had rendered her useless, stupid and dependent was the one laid low – and not before time.
Aggie, all five feet two inches of her, joined Polly in the hall. She looked hard at Jeremy’s dad, decided he wasn’t worth worrying about and went to make cocoa.
On the stairs, Jeremy grinned – if looks could kill, his father would have been impaled seconds earlier on the steel from Aggie’s eyes. ‘Come on,’ he urged his brother. ‘Let’s sort him out.’
Thus it was that Richard Chandler found himself seated in his car outside his house on a December night that was less than clement. He was in possession of some clothes, the vehicle, a bank book and a hangover. Was he going mad? If he was, the damage had been done by the fragrant one and her coven – and by his own sons – and by his daughter, whose tacit acquiescence had shown in her unwillingness to intervene on his behalf.
Where to go? It would soon be morning, said the part of his mind that remained reasonable. This was not the time to go searching for somewhere to stay, so he would remain here, on his own plot, his own part of England.
‘Bugger,’ he spat before drifting towards sleep. He pulled the crombie round his shoulders and waited for sleep and sobriety to arrive. Kill his own father? Had he really tried to do that? ‘Putting an animal out of its misery is no offence,’ he said as he yawned his way into stupor.
Aggie was rinsing out cocoa mugs when he entered the kitchen; she knew without looking up that this was Jeremy, because she recognized his footfalls. He walked more heavily than his brother and at a slightly faster pace. Her heart, too, was travelling quickly, rather like an express through Crewe station – make way for rolling stock, no brakes, no intention of stopping. But she carried on with her job.
‘It’s three o’clock,’ he announced, pulling out a chair and placing himself at the large table. ‘You should be in bed.’
‘I can tell the time,’ she replied, wishing that her voice had emerged at the proper level. She sounded squeaky, like a teenager with a crush. Very appropriate, she reminded herself as she stacked the beakers. In a moment, she would have to turn and look at him. This was the first time they had been alone together, but he wouldn’t look twice at her, not when he had Josie Maguire to take out for fun evenings. She braced herself and swivelled. He was smiling. ‘What are you grinning at?’ she asked. Everyone found her funny, whereas Josie Maguire, tall, elegant, slender, was adored and stared at like a piece of fine art, an exquisite sculpture.
‘Smudge of cocoa powder on your nose.’
‘Ah.’ She made no effort to remove the offending blemish. ‘Oh, well, that’s me all over, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? Do you have cocoa smudges where the sun never shines?’
‘What?’
‘All over?’
She produced a feeble imitation of a smile. ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t spend that much time looking at myself in mirrors. Did you want something?’
‘No. Just to talk to you.’
She parked herself in the chair opposite his. He was smiling as he might have smiled upon a playing puppy, and she resented the fact. Was she less than human because she was a little shorter, a little rounder than might be judged perfect? Did red hair and freckles make her less human than a tall, thin, perfect person with beautiful skin and a job selling stockings?
‘Am I in with a chance, then?’ he asked.
‘What?’ she repeated.
He reached across and wiped her face with the ball of his thumb. ‘That’s the cocoa gone. A chance, Agnes. I don’t want to call you Aggie. I like you. Is that allowed?’
Aggie closed her mouth with an audible snap. ‘But … er …’
‘But er what? Butter wouldn’t melt?’
She shook her head. ‘No. But er Josie is what I meant.’
He frowned. ‘Josie who? Oh – her. Yes, lovely girl, an absolute stunner. But er you wouldn’t want her to tag along, would you?’ Her mind was racing. This was her job, her home. She worked in his mother’s house and she didn’t want to leave, not yet, anyway. There was an idea lurking at the edge of her mind, a thought that she might want to go to night school and get some A levels, then, perhaps, on to teacher training, but she didn’t want to be forced to leave the grange too early if things got awkward.
‘Agnes?’
‘I’m thinking.’ He was gorgeous.
‘Right, thanks for the warning – shall we need the fire extinguisher?’
‘We will if your Aunt Anna doesn’t stop leaving her ciggies in mad places. What makes you interested in me, anyway? Has Josie given you the push?’
‘We were never close enough for the push,’ he replied.
‘Oh.’ For once in her short life, Agnes Turner could think of no clever answer. ‘Right, then.’
‘Is the meeting closed?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think we were a quorum,’ she replied.
‘Yes, we were.’
Aggie rose to her feet. ‘Any other business, Mr Chairman?’ It was a dream. She would wake at any minute and this would be just another of her imaginings. Chances like this didn’t fall into the path of short, plump females with chemically straightened hair and a history in chip-making.
‘Just the vote,’ said Jeremy, his tone serious. ‘All those who fancy a game of darts in the Chandlers tomorrow ni
ght, show hands.’
They both raised a hand.
‘Carried,’ he said. ‘The ayes have it. Good night, Miss Turner.’ He stood up and left the room.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. At three in the morning, she could not run down to Claughton Cottage, could not tell Marie the news. And what about Josie? Oh, she was bursting and there was no-one to tell. So she walked to the mirror over the kitchen fireplace, stood on tiptoe and told herself.
The girl in the glass was not ugly; she owned symmetrical features and a very winning smile. ‘I’m glad you looked after your teeth, Agnes Turner,’ she whispered. ‘Just take the chance, girl. For once in your life, take the chance.’
TWELVE
He was freezing to death and his throat felt like the Khyber Pass: narrow and almost impossible to negotiate. For one of the few times within memory, Richard Chandler longed for a cup of tea. All he had with him was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, so he took a swig from that and shuddered as it made its way into a cavernous stomach; he was starving. Food. He had to find something to eat.
His head turned, stiffened neck creaking like an old hinge as he stared at the firmly closed door of his own home. Snatches of last night’s happenings flashed across his brain in the form of an old film on sticky reels: a cushion, fury, the desire to see the old man on his way to damnation. Pol Fishwick floating about like a barrage balloon, stick in hand, prodding him, pushing him. Jean laughing. He gulped noisily. Witches and warlocks, the lot of them, and they should all die. But he was powerless.
Although, in reality, what had he to lose? Not much, not if the medics had told the truth. The tightness in his chest, that pain in his arm – these were the symptoms foretold by the doctors. His heart was in bad shape – he was in bad shape – and he would not have survived the very surgery designed to improve him. The orders from above had been no drinking, no smoking, small, regular meals and gentle exercise. It was laughable.
The door opened and that short, red-haired girl emerged, she who had passed by last night while Pol had threatened him. He rolled down his window. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
Aggie stood on the bottom step and glared at him. This was Jeremy’s dad; this was what happened to Chandlers – but no. Jeremy had backbone and character, so he would not be reduced to this, surely?
‘I asked you a question,’ he said.
‘And I didn’t answer,’ came the swift response. It was not yet seven o’clock, but she needed to tell someone about last night – well, about the early hours of this morning – had to make it real. Marie would be out of bed soon and Aggie wanted to catch her friend before she left for work. Jeremy – yes – Jeremy was interested in her, in who and what she was – she could have walked on water today, but she managed to maintain her hostile expression.
‘I want an answer,’ he demanded.
‘You can want all you like. I have nothing to say to you.’
Even against a servant, he was ineffectual. This was, he supposed, the replacement for the grim-faced Sally Foster, his wife’s confidante. But she was not long out of nappies, so Pol, who could not organize to save her life, was possibly assisting this new housekeeper in embryo. He watched as she skipped off down the driveway, not a care in the world, her progress swift, light and confident.
Bank book. The pages fell open and he studied the sum, decided it was enough to get him lodgings, food and drink for a few years. Gloomily, Richard stared into a future that seemed rather less than promising. A room in a boarding house, no servants, a lifetime of eating in cafés and restaurants – was this a fitting way for a Chandler to live? This house – this land – these farms and their tenants – he owned them, lock, stock and body weight. Aunt Anna was writing the history, the glory of a family whose roots could be traced back to the Bolton Charter of 1253, for goodness’ sake.
He turned the key, revved the engine and began the drive away from the only life he had ever known, his sole home, his empire, his birthright. As he made progress to the south side of the village, he caught sight of the red-haired girl; she was opening the brand-new gate that led to Claughton Cottage. Ah. So news of his disgrace was already spreading. Alf Martindale and his good lady wife would have plenty to smile about today; and he had only a life of relative squalor to anticipate …
Marie rubbed her eyes. ‘What are you doing here at this time? Come in. Dad’s got the kettle on – he always takes Mam a cup of tea in bed to start her day.’ She led Aggie through to the large kitchen.
‘Hello, flower,’ said Alf. ‘What are you doing out and about this early on a cold and frosty morning? Have you got bed bugs?’
‘No,’ giggled Aggie as she dropped into a chair, ‘but the master of the house has a flea in his ear. Polly says he tried to kill his dad, so she went for him with a walking stick. It finished up like a Laurel and Hardy film – we couldn’t take our eyes off it. Two o’clock in the morning and all hell broke loose – reminded me of the kids’ Saturday matinee at the Odeon.’
Alf frowned. ‘Where is he now?’
‘No idea,’ replied Aggie. ‘He stayed outside in his car all night, too drunk to drive, then he passed me on the road outside here about a minute ago. The only reason we feel safe is because there are enough of us. They’ve thrown him out and hidden the guns in case he breaks in again. The locks get changed today, according to Mrs Chandler.’
Alf poured four cups of tea and passed two to the girls. So, the bad bugger was out and about, was he? From what Alf had heard in the local pub, Richard Chandler’s drinking was well past the post and he needed containing. The thought of him being out there was not comfortable. He left the room with Leena’s morning cuppa.
‘So, plenty of excitement, then?’ asked Marie.
‘Enough. More than enough.’ Aggie took a gulp of hot tea. ‘I needed that. I was up till God knows what time making cocoa for everybody. They should tell the police, Marie, but Mrs Chandler doesn’t want the disgrace for Meredith and the twins.’
‘Understandable.’ Marie stirred some sugar into her cup. ‘So, are you going to give up the job? I hope you don’t leave the village. Once Josie’s gone to London, I might stay here with Mam and Dad, because I don’t fancy sharing Emblem Street with a lodger I don’t know from Eve.’
This information stopped Aggie in her tracks. ‘Eh?’ she asked before she could stop herself. ‘London?’
Marie nodded. ‘She’s off to train as a model. This bloke walked right up to the stocking counter and gave her his card. They do Playtex, Max Factor and all sorts. Then, once she’s learned the deportment stuff, she might even do fashion shows. And, like she said to me yesterday, she has to take the chance or she’ll always regret it. Can’t blame her, really. She’s had enough of Marks and Spencer. Aggie? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m just tired. I …I had to get out of that house as soon as I woke up, Marie. It’s frightening.’ The most frightening thing was not Mr Chandler and the carryings-on, oh no. It was Jeremy, He had come to Aggie because he was desperate, because the woman of his dreams was leaving him. Aggie was there, was on the spot, was a darts player, an amusement, something to fill in the space until a better option came along. All he had needed was the void filling for a while.
‘Yes, it must have been scary,’ agreed Marie. She could not imagine Aggie being terrified enough to run away. Aggie Turner had shifted aggressive or maudlin drunks from chip shops, had shunted them away as easily as most people swatted troublesome bluebottles. Marie had witnessed grown men near to tears when Aggie had refused to serve them – what was wrong?
‘Has she told Jeremy she’s going?’ Aggie asked.
‘I don’t know. She might have phoned him. Why?’
‘I just wondered, that’s all.’ Like a balloon with a loose string, she felt energy draining out of her body. She had been living on excitement, on expectation and adrenalin, but now, after insufficient sleep, she realized how exhausted she truly was. And the real reason for her tiredne
ss was that Jeremy did not care for her after all.
‘You look shattered,’ Marie said now. ‘If you’ve nowhere to go, I’m sure Mam and Dad will take you in. I mean, you don’t want to go back home to the chippy, do you?’
‘What?’
Marie sighed. ‘If you’re running away, I just thought—’
‘I’m not running away,’ Aggie answered. The real reason for visiting Marie had flown off like a migrating bird, so agility of mind was required. ‘I wasn’t coming here,’ she said, determined to hang on to her pride, ‘I was just following him. He’s still that full of booze, I managed to keep up with him while he drove away. I wanted to make sure he’d gone, that’s all. And he passed your house – probably on his way to town – so I thought I’d call in.’
‘Right.’ There was more to this than met the eye, Marie thought. In fact, quite a lot did meet the eye, because Aggie was definitely out of sorts. Still, a murder attempt would be enough to rock anybody, she supposed. ‘Drink your tea. I’m going to get dressed for work.’
Alone, Aggie closed her eyes and forbade the tears to flow. If she wanted to indulge in a bout of weeping, she would do it in the privacy of her own room up at the grange. She had been a damned fool, allowing herself to believe that a man like Jeremy Chandler could be interested in a girl like her, rusty-haired, freckle-faced and too round to be pretty.
Alf re-entered the kitchen. ‘You all right, love?’
She opened her eyes and nodded. ‘Yes. Just lost a lot of sleep, keeping an eye on him,’ she lied. ‘I didn’t want him trying to get back into the house, you see.’
He saw, all right. ‘Look, Aggie, if it gets too much for you up yon, get yourself down here to me and Leena. I’ve shortened his reins before now and I can do it again if necessary. He was never decent, but the drink’s made him a damned sight worse. I won’t have you frightened – do you hear me?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Say ta-ra to Marie for me, please. I’d best get back and start burning toast.’
Chandlers Green Page 27
