Marcia broke the silence, added to by the now contemplative geese awaiting Alan’s evening foray with his buckets of feed.
“Do you suppose Alan has made a Will?”
“Strange question. No. I’ve no idea. No idea at all. Not something I’ve ever spoken to him about.”
“In the same way that your father never spoke to you about his.” Her tone was sharp.”
“That was different.”
“If you say so. But is Alan the type? You should know your brother that well. Is he likely to have made a Will?”
“Put it that way, probably not. He’s more your dreamer, despite his fine degree, than your business man. One reason why I don’t think he’s a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this wetlands garden of his off the ground, as it were. Or off the water.” He tried a little laugh. Marcia was not in the mood to be amused.
“I ask because, what happens if he dies intestate? Who then gets all that land your father left him?”
Jeremy sat back and gave thought. He saw Marcia’s drift at once, but it was not a matter that had occurred to him. What would happen? Have to check with Mackintosh of course, but at a first guess, as he sat giving it a once-over in his mind, he reckoned that it would revert to him. After all, Galina had got nothing in the first place so there was no way it could suddenly go to her. She was never in the equation. That left him as the only other player. If Alan left no Will then the whole lot, house, money and all the land, must surely be his.
“Come to me, I would think at first going off. The house is mine as is the money. Nothing in father’s Will for Galina, nor is she in need of anything, so I guess it would come to me.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“But Alan’s far from dead. Or anywhere near dying so far as I can see.”
“That had crossed my mind as well.”
Goldeneye (Goldeneye, WWT Llanelli)
Chapter Four
either of the Holes had been pestered by nicknames as children. They both gained one in adulthood. Nothing to do with their marriage. That had had its ups and downs they would say, in the manner all couples feel the need to pronounce from time to time, the more so as the list of divorced friends grows, but they had been a happy couple. The two children were now off their hands, and Gerald Hole could soon take his police pension. As he was minded to do, so long as he could find a constructive outlet for his consequent free hours. His wife had a few more years to go before hers came, so he would need a line of some sort. But no more policing! He had been with the Force since ending a Short Service Commission with the County regiment after leaving school with A levels. No more thank you! Any such avenue would be, for him, more dangerous than becoming a publican. Healthwise. Times changed too quickly, and you became yesterday’s man over night. He was happy enough with his colleagues, but happier still to leave them, soon, at a socially safe distance. Having no call on him at all.
Further promotion, beyond the rank of Detective Inspector would have meant changing Force. And at a time when the kids were still at school and his wife was getting herself re-established in the teaching profession. Indeed some said that it was partly because of his job that she had been offered the headship of the Talbot Junior School. People are so kind! In truth, when the vacancy was advertised, she went for it and did not miss. Since her appointment, numbers had gone up, the school had prospered. She was a success. He never regretted staying, and liked to think that he, too, had been successful. The Bradshaw case, for instance, that he was now rounding up. That had gone well. Might even be his last real fling before hanging up his baton for good. But for the good of what else? That was the question.
Gerald Raymond Hole had been known mainly as ‘Gerry’ from his own school days. Sometimes, in the Station, ‘Ray’ as in ‘quite a little ray of sunshine today, aren’t we?’ But all fair enough until he got his DI. Then that twit of a Les had seen the opportunity, though why Hole never had understood. Except, he supposed, that was the fellow’s nature. Whatever the reason, from that day on he had become ‘Digger’. ‘Dig ‘an’ ole, see?’ had announced the jubilant Les at the promotion party. ‘DI G. R. Hole. Digger Hole. A name made by God!’ And even a dowsing with beer had failed to dampen the brat, or stop the immediate establishment of the new moniker. So, Digger Hole he had become, and had stayed. He hoped that in the new career he looked for, that name would die with his constabulary years.
His wife’s nickname arose a little earlier. From her time at Teacher Training College. She had gone through school as Angie. Fair enough for an Angela, and she had scarcely noticed it. It was her joining the .22 small-bore shooting club at College that changed things. She had the encouragement of her father, who was a ‘big shot’, as he liked to put it, in the local club but, of greater significance, she had the encouragement of Clive Locke. Quite the most handsome man of his year. She joined. He left. She found she much enjoyed the shooting evenings and the occasional match with other teams with or without him; he discovered the alternative social joys of Clare Banting. Such are the paths of true love.
When she had applied to her first local education authority, she had, as all do, made what she could of her c.v., stressing, quite properly, her sometime success at small bore. Her first Head had picked this up and, maybe unwisely, although she tried to give him credit for striving to bring her into his ‘happy school family’ from the off, had announced it when introducing her in the staff room. ‘Ye Gods!’ had declared a voice from the coffee machine. ‘Just what we want for 3C. An Annie Oakley.’ So, Miss Angela Oakley became Annie from then on, pre-dating the ‘Digger’ of her then unknown husband-to-be.
Digger and Annie Hole survived, in their turns, the adaptation of their earlier names. Happy chance led them to find a path of joint contentment, secure enough to weather a drugs scare from their son in the same way as it had ironed out the jarring episodes that go with the work of a policeman. She knew that he would need a worthwhile role in retirement to keep that partnership stable. Something like Alan Tewkes, maybe. With wild life.
Both were shaken out of their private planning by the shooting.
Gresham Reed left Jeremy, his mind unsettled. He saw that there was a possible way in to the land he wanted via the owner of Wickton’s good offices, but he had reservations. He had got where he had got by a hard school. Jeremy, he assessed, was weak. His wife might be a Lady Macbeth to her uncertain king, but he didn’t know her. In the early desultory conversation, when they both sought a suitable opening, there had been mention of a sister. He knew nothing much of her, either, apart from his host’s comments. These he encouraged through the habit of time-sparring rather than natural interest, hardly listening yet, from the same experience of negotiating, noting. Jeremy, Reed reckoned, was a weak link. Uncertain in his application to any task, even when profitable to him. He had waffled on about his family, as if that’s what interested Reed, instead of getting down to things that mattered. Such was often the case, Reed argued to himself, with those who inherit without effort. He had little time for them. Every penny he had gained he had striven for. Striven with a firm, fierce purpose. He had not sat idling his time in a backwater estate branch office waiting for the golden egg to fall into his lap. That brother of his, Alan, might have his geese; Jeremy, he sensed, couldn’t say Boo! to one if that bird so much as looked at him let alone hissed. Actors had once upon a time, maybe still for all he knew but it was a long time since his own younger-day dalliances with the more sentimental of mankind, used the phrase ‘to get the goose’ to mean being hissed for their performances. Mentally Reed hissed at Jeremy. Sure, he would play him for all he could, but he already felt the need for an alternative approach route. He had settled that this place was what he wanted, and what he wanted he got. Period. In any event, there was now the element of a challenge. That he couldn’t ignore. Of course, if nothing came of the scheme he would be away on his bike to find another suitable site. For now, he felt driven to seal the purchase of the acres destine
d to provide Alan’s dreamland. He reviewed all that Jeremy had said. Yes, he might get on with it, but the drive was lacking. Of that Reed felt sure. He knew that sort of man. So long as he could wangle a strip around his own boundary - and if Alan got whiff of things he might just offer his brother that to get him off his back, and as a means of getting his financial backing - Jeremy wasn’t going to extend himself. On the other hand, if no extra land was forthcoming in this way, on a plate, he might not have the guts to fight for it. He would do no more than go his way, with an eternal grumble. Money did not dominate Jeremy’s thinking in the way it did his wife’s. Reed wished he had got to know Mrs Jeremy. That might be one angle to play. He began to enjoy the prospect of playing one off against the other, as a route to achieving his object. One possible ally, then, was a mercenary Mrs Jeremy. What of the sister? He had listened. Might she hold an even stronger grudge against her brother. Both brothers. Being left out of that Will entirely? So, the sister. What of her?
Whooper Swan (Icelandic visitor, WWT Caerlaverock)
Gresham Reed parked his car outside The Bell. It was half past eleven. If the place had just opened, it gave no signs of activity. Maybe it was always open. He walked into the public bar. It was empty. It smelled dusty. The windows were shut firm, allowing the sun to highlight the particles that made up the atmosphere. A cigarette dispenser. Already banned? A jukebox thing. Maybe Health & Safety would close that down, too. The two machines could then stand, museum-like, as mute reminders of the days when Merrie England ruled in this green and pleasant land.
He stood looking around. Behind the bar was the standard array of bottles. He couldn’t, at first glance, see his choice of whisky. He thought it unlikely that he would. He hadn’t made lots of money for nothing. He could choose his pleasures outside mainstream provision. He doubted if the unwelcoming second door, labelled Lounge, would reveal anything other than the same things at a higher price.
“Good morning, sir. Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. Can I get you anything?”
“Half of bitter. Your best.”
“Coming up. Real?”
“Should you ask?”
“The customer’s always right.”
“Right to take his host’s advice. Real.”
“Good. On holiday?”
Reed wanted to get the landlord talking. Equally he didn’t want to give too much away. He parried.
“Sort of. Looking around. Maybe come to live here. Maybe.”
“Bit quiet, but nice area. You’d like it. Here we are.”
Reed tendered a five pound note, began to pocket the change then, deciding on a risk – whenever didn’t he? – asked:
“Join me? If its not too early or, of course, because you can’t drink on duty.” The feeble sally gained a laugh and the pouring of another half pint, for which Gresham paid.
“Cheers. Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all.”
That left a silence. Reed pausing to settle on his approach; Ted Goschen to await it. He hadn’t been a landlord all these years without getting to know when a few ‘discreet’ enquiries might be forthcoming. From that experience he led the way.
“Looking for a house, then? Seen anything you like?” Reed went for it.
“Yes. In a way. Place called Wickton. Not for sale though. Just happen to have got to know the owner through a business contact.”
“Mr Jeremy Tewkes? We don’t see much of him in here. Not his scene. Though maybe it’s his wife who keeps him away. Definitely not hers.”
“I would suppose not”. Reed played that one with a dead bat.
“His brother Alan, now. Quite a different chap. Cheerful as they come, and he got almost the worst of it I reckon.”
“Worst of it?” Reed gambled. “From the Will you mean.”
“I do indeed. Well, you know about that I can see so, you being a friend of Mr Jeremy Tewkes I must be careful, but there’s not man around here thinks that it was not altogether fair. Leaving Alan with no money that is. Even so?” and here Ted took a deep draught that about emptied the glass, “better off than his sister. Old Mortlemann, that was the father’s real name, was all for the old standards. The eldest boy gets it all, or nearly all, with nothing for girls. Shame I reckon. Not, of course, that she needs it.”
Reed indicated that he would like to see both glasses filled if Mine Host would so honour him. Ted, who had no barrels to load that afternoon and no expectations of much custom before the evening, so did. While he handled the pump Reed thought out his next move. The sister, by the sound of it, was well off. Another, maybe even better, reason to get to know her. If she had a grudge, and she might, and if she had money, as seemed to be the case, there was indeed a second avenue worth pursuing. The more so as she was a widow-in-waiting. That he had also gleaned from the chattering Jeremy.
“Cheers again. As it happens, I am to call on her this afternoon. The sister that is.” He hoped that didn’t sound as ill-informed as it most certainly was.
“Wonder if you could give me directions? Forgot to ask Jeremy this morning.”
“To Fox Lea? Sure. Simple enough. About five miles, but only just off the main road. You can see it from there. Seven bay windows. All facing south. Take some cleaning my Babs says. Never been there myself. Foxley bought it about ten years ago. For the name, they say. Makes sense. Foxley of Fox Lea. Married Galina Tewkes then upped and died. Massive heart attack. In Thailand. At a business conference. So it was given out. Quite a funeral when they flew the body back.”
“Indeed. And this house is where exactly?”
Goschen gave the visitor the directions he needed. Reed finished his second half.
“Many thanks. I’ll be on my way. See you again, probably.”
“Hope so, sir. You can’t miss it. Seven bay windows. In a row.”
Gresham Reed did not go straight back to his car. It was not quite one o’clock and the village shop had yet to close for its hour-long siesta. He entered. A bell tinkled. The shop was as busy as the public bar had been but, he acknowledged, less dusty. A post office section on one side and, facing it, a counter with some containers of bread and rolls and a few cakes of sorts, tins of this and that, local papers though no nationals that he could see – maybe they had to be ordered; not much passing trade he guessed, though that could change if Alan’s scheme really took off. More so if his did! Plenty of fly spray. Well, there were a few farms around and cows had that effect. Other odds and ends of useful household items. But no service. He went back to the shop door, opened it and closed it again, setting the tinkling bell vigorously to work.
“Now, now, my dear! What’s the hurry. Oh! It’s not you. Oh dearie me. Now there’s a thing. For sure I took it to be George Farmer. Always calls in about now. There, there! Good morning. Or is it afternoon by now? Can I do you something?” Mrs Carmichael was a little flustered to find a stranger in her shop so near to the sacred dinner hour.
“A book of second-class stamps please. Twelve.”
“Very good.” Mrs M shuffled rather than strode to behind that side of her emporium and delved into a drawer. Then she began a laborious entering of the details of the sale on a computer keyboard.
“So much easier when I just took the money and added up at the end of the day. I said to them I said, look, I said, what with the amount of sales I get it’s really easier that way. Just note it down, the sale that is, and add them all up at the end of the day. As we always used to. But, oh no! Not them. ‘Got to do as they all do’, they said, ‘or you won’t keep the post office’, they said. ‘Not really enough business to justify the expense anyway’, they said. But, I said, what about the pensioners? They soon had me there. ‘They got to get their pin number right, so it’s machines or nothing’. So, there it is. And there’s your stamps.”
Reed took time sorting out his change. He could use a gossip-box.
“On my way to Fox Lea. Up the road and turn left. Is that right?”
“That’s right enough”, and
she added more details, as provided by Ted Goschen, ending with a dramatic description of the seven bay windows. “You can’t miss them. Mrs Foxley should be home. She usually is this day of the week. Has a bridge eight about four o’clock and she likes to have everything proper for that. I sell her some of her special little cakes. Gets them in just for her I do. Just as well, if you ask me. They don’t play that much bridge if all I hear is right. Sorting out other people’s business I understand. Or the County’s. More money than sense, and too much time to spend both.”
Reed pursued a muted ‘how interesting’ approach, hoping for some guide to affairs at the house with the windows and the widow, neither of which he had yet seen. But the flow was drying, and stopped altogether when, presumably Mr Farmer, a figure entered and seemed to expect immediate attention. Sensing that, for the time being, that was that, Reed made his farewell and departed with his unwanted stamps. A later visit, when he could give more of a lead based on the results of his visit, might be profitable.
It was too soon to head for Fox Lea. Two o’clock at the earliest would seem to fit best there. If, that was, he decided to go there and then. Might do some more research first. Get an introduction from Jeremy Tewkes perhaps. Not essential, but socially useful. He was confident that he could smooth his way into any lady’s parlour by taking no more than an everyday risk, meat and drink to an entrepreneur such as he. Worth taking a bit of care over. This venture might lead to long-term gain. Any long-term gain plans deserved preparation. Maybe he wouldn’t call on the chance. Not like that. Maybe softly softly was the best.
While he debated this choice, he turned his bonnet back in the direction of Goose Lane. He would have a little sniff around the wetlands that might one day soon be his.
Goosey Goosey Gander Page 4
