‘Sorry – can’t stay,’ he’d said. ‘Got to be up early for a game of golf. Thanks, Dorothea,’ and he’d bolted.
He was not sure if he was thanking her for the implicit invitation or just the good dinner. Tangling with Dorothea would be madness. Besides, he felt not the least bit tempted. All that sort of thing was rather unimportant. He’d had one or two awkward moments with Angela when it hadn’t worked out too well.
It would be good to be out on the fairway with the other fellows. You could forget about women, and their complicated ways, in the good fresh air.
Dorothea was more amused than annoyed by George’s rejection. She had a few more drinks after he left, laughing to herself.
‘Poor stupid George,’ she said aloud, wandering round the room glass in hand. ‘Perhaps you were right.’
It was a pity about him, for there they both were, opposite halves of what could be a pair. But things never worked out so neatly. Her mind ran over the unattached men she knew; apart from the vicar, a pink-faced man of forty who covered the wide area of his various parishes, now wedded together, in an aged Ford, and whose main interest outside his work seemed to be folk dancing, and the elderly Colonel Villiers, there were several perpetual bachelors, spinster men of varying ages and in various professions, but no lusty widower. She sighed. How sad! At last she went to bed and, after a final nightcap, fell asleep.
In the morning, her head was again a thumping lump of agony. Always, when she woke like this, she vowed to cut out the drink, but, when night came once again, and with it the weight of her unhappiness, she would seek the comfort that was always there.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. It was a loud, impatient rap, and Dorothea realised that it was this sound that had wakened her. For a moment she wondered whether George had changed his mind and come back, but then she saw daylight creeping through the gaps in the curtains and knew that it must be Mrs Simmons, who would have let herself in at the back door with her own key.
‘Come in,’ she croaked.
Mrs Simmons entered, bearing a tray. Her thin lips were folded into an even narrower line than usual and turned down at the corners. The array of empty bottles put out each week for the dustman told their own sorry tale. She deplored her employer’s weakness, yet she had an impatient affection for her. She had been coming to the Manor House for years; Mrs Wyatt was a kind and thoughtful employer and it was all the more sad because Mr Wyatt had been such a nice gentleman.
‘I brought you some coffee, madam,’ said Mrs Simmons. Usually, she addressed Dorothea as Mrs Wyatt; ‘madam’ signified grave disapproval.
‘You’re an angel,’ said Dorothea. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Gone half-past nine,’ said Mrs Simmons frostily. She’d arrived sharp at nine, and spent the first half-hour clearing up downstairs. There was always the chance that Mrs Wyatt might appear under her own steam. But when she didn’t, despite much thumping and banging round by Mrs Simmons, action must be taken.
It was a pity young Susan didn’t do something about her mother, though, to be honest, Mrs Simmons didn’t really know what the girl could have done. The good Lord helped those that helped themselves. It had been a great shock when Mr Wyatt had dropped dead like that, no doubt. Mr Simmons had dropped dead too, in a somewhat similar fashion, but Mrs Simmons had not sat round in tears afterwards, nor taken to the bottle; she’d set about earning, for one thing. But then Mrs Wyatt had been used to having things made easy.
Making excuses for Dorothea, as people had always done, Mrs Simmons had popped bread into the toaster, though it wouldn’t be touched, for sure.
Dorothea asked for Disprin from the bathroom.
Speechlessly, Mrs Simmons put two tablets in a glass of water and stirred them briskly while they fizzed.
‘Bless you, Mrs Simmons, dear,’ said Dorothea, taking the proffered tumbler. It was just as well that George Fortescue wasn’t tucked up beside her, she reflected; that would have been too much for Mrs Simmons to accept.
When she came downstairs, Mrs Simmons had finished cleaning up in the dining room and the sitting room. The dishwasher was whirring. The glasses and the silver had been washed by hand and were waiting to be put away. Dorothea helped Mrs Simmons do this job; when she felt well, she liked caring for her house and would spend hours with beeswax and soft cloths going over the furniture. Mrs Simmons liked beautiful things, too; she enjoyed coming from her square red council house to this luxurious place in its lovely setting, but felt no trace of envy – possessions brought worry and responsibility. She knew that Dorothea would be lost without her and that she could take liberties with her, even scold her.
She did so now.
‘You shouldn’t do it, madam,’ she reproved. ‘It’s not good for you.’
‘I know,’ said Dorothea, sighing. ‘I’m so weak, Mrs Simmons. That’s the trouble.’
‘Couldn’t you open a shop or something?’ Mrs Simmons asked. She’d watched a programme on television about setting up in business. If you had capital, it didn’t seem too difficult. ‘It would take you out a bit.’ Out of yourself, Mrs Simmons really meant.
‘I can’t do book-keeping,’ said Dorothea.
‘But would you need to? Couldn’t the bank do it?’ The television programme, it was true, had stressed the importance of keeping proper records.
‘Oh, probably. But what would I sell, Mrs Simmons?’ asked Dorothea.
‘Clothes,’ said Mrs Simmons promptly. Mrs Wyatt always dressed so well, and handed on her cast-offs to Mrs Simmons, which enabled her to cut a dash at times, though often she sold them; they were always in excellent condition. ‘Or antiques,’ she added.
‘Antiques! Now, there’s a thought! What would Mr Trimm say if I set up in opposition?’ Dorothea chuckled.
Mrs Simmons didn’t see why it was funny; competition often did a bit of good.
‘That Mrs Turner might help you,’ she suggested, on an inspiration. ‘Her that lives in Primrose Cottage. Rents it from Bob, my son-in-law.’ Mrs Simmons’s daughter Pearl had married Bob Mount, thereby doing well for herself; Mrs Simmons had met Valerie Turner several times when visiting Fell Farm; the children were nice little kiddies – well mannered, which was rare today. ‘Mrs Turner mends furniture for Mr Trimm,’ Mrs Simmons explained. ‘It’s difficult for her, on her own with the two children; she likes to be at home.’ By implication, Mrs Simmons was declaring that things were harder for Valerie than for Dorothea. Dorothea got the message.
‘What a good idea, Mrs Simmons,’ she said lightly. ‘You’re quite an agony auntie, aren’t you, sorting people out?’ She drifted from the kitchen.
‘Might as well have saved my breath,’ thought Mrs Simmons, crossly folding up a tea towel.
Time hung heavy for Dorothea that day. Sometimes she went into Tellingford or Middletown, or even as far as Fletcham, to browse round the shops, and would cheer herself up by an impulse buy of some sort – a silk scarf, or a shirt, even a dress. But, on Saturdays, everywhere was crowded and parking difficult. Television on a Saturday afternoon offered little; this weekend the ancient movie, the only alternative to hours of sport, was a western. She would have enjoyed some romantic comedy or wartime drama.
In desperation, she put on her coat, tied a scarf over her head, and wandered down the garden. Bulbs were thrusting pale green spikes through the dark soil but there were weeks, yet, before the birds would be twittering and roses putting out shoots.
She strolled on towards the fence separating the lawn from the fields. Without Susan and Leo, she felt no urge for a healthy walk. Soon she could put the kettle on for tea; at six she would pour her first gin. She’d had two before lunch, and hadn’t much fancied her bread and cheese.
There were walkers in the field. She saw two children running and skipping about, and a woman. A dog ran ahead, a black spaniel. Dorothea watched them draw nearer, following the path leading to the next stile.
The spaniel saw her and bustled towards the fence, snuf
fling and wagging its tail; it was rather old and fat, she noticed, like her Sammy, who had died.
‘Truffles, Truffles, come here! Bad boy!’ called one of the children.
Truffles took no notice. He could not get through the fence into Dorothea’s garden because of the wire netting – buried in the ground and extending upwards for two feet, that kept out rabbits – but he sought diligently for a hole. Dorothea watched in amusement as the small girl ran up to him, seized him by the collar and continued to scold. The woman and the little boy added rebukes as they approached, but the dog persevered.
‘I expect he’s smelled a rabbit,’ Dorothea suggested as Melissa tugged Truffles back from the boundary.
‘He’s bad,’ said the child.
‘Truffles, bad boy. Come here at once,’ called Valerie.
As she approached, Dorothea recognised the young woman Mrs Simmons had mentioned. She was often about the village with the children and the dog.
Dorothea repeated her remark about the rabbit.
‘Yes. There are some about, aren’t there? But we haven’t seen any today,’ said Valerie. ‘We’ve been down to the river looking for trout.’
‘Did you see any?’
‘No. Just a few minnows. I don’t think there are any trout down there,’ said Valerie. The river that ran through the meadows at this point was hardly more than a stream, but it widened at Tellingford where a bridge crossed it.
‘I’ve got a fish pond,’ said Dorothea. ‘No trout, I’m afraid, but some big goldfish. Would you like to come and see?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Timmy at once.
‘Do come,’ said Dorothea to his mother. ‘It might amuse the children. Can you get over the fence?’
The humans made short work of climbing it, but Truffles had to be lifted across. Valerie heaved him up and Dorothea took him from her, lowering him, scrabbling against her, to the ground.
‘Have you got a dog?’ Timmy asked.
‘No.’
‘Oh, why not?’ Timmy wanted to know.
‘I had one, but he died,’ said Dorothea. ‘I didn’t get another.’
‘Oh. Did you bury him?’
‘Yes. He had a proper funeral,’ said Dorothea instantly. ‘His grave’s under a big tree.’
Joe Cunliffe, her part-time gardener, had in fact dealt with this melancholy task, but Dorothea knew where the corpse was interred and pointed out the spot to Timmy as they crossed the garden.
‘You should have a tombstone with his name on,’ Timmy told her.
‘Yes, perhaps I should,’ Dorothea agreed. Timmy had taken her hand and was walking happily along beside her. They came to the lily pond, and among the leaves some fat orange fish could be discerned, lazily flapping their fins. A discussion ensued about whether Mr Jeremy Fisher might be in residence there; Dorothea had seen frogs from time to time, but never in winter. Perhaps they hibernated?
No one knew.
Reluctant to let the little family go, Dorothea asked them in to tea.
Valerie hesitated, looking searchingly at Dorothea, trying to see if she really meant her invitation. The older woman saw that she longed to accept. Why, she’s as lonely as I am, she thought.
‘Do come,’ she urged. ‘I’m all on my own.’
‘But Truffles’ feet make an awful mess,’ said Valerie. ‘He’s filthy.’
‘Never mind that. What’s a house for but to be lived in?’ asked Dorothea.
The children left their boots by the back door and had tea in their socks in the kitchen, the best place for wet hairy paws. Dorothea made dripping toast and found some chocolate biscuits. The young woman looked very tired and at first would eat nothing, but when pressed accepted some toast, and then ate another slice. When they had finished tea, she suddenly shivered and looked towards the window.
‘It’s getting dark,’ she said.
Astonished, Dorothea recognised fear.
‘I’ll run you home,’ she said.
‘Oh no! I can’t let you do that,’ said Valerie. ‘It’s not all that far, it won’t take us long.’ But she had no torch, and there were no street lights in Ship Lane.
‘It’ll be no trouble,’ said Dorothea. ‘I’ve nothing else to do. Your cottage is some way out of the village.’
‘Well – it seems so, sometimes,’ Valerie admitted. She smiled, rather sheepishly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Timmy busily helped with the garage doors. He wanted to know the make of the car, which he didn’t recognise. It was quite dark when Dorothea turned in at the gate of Primrose Cottage and the children scrambled out.
Valerie fumbled in her pocket for her keys.
‘Mum’s been putting bolts on everything,’ said Timmy.
‘There are bad men about,’ said Melissa.
‘Well, yes, but we hope they won’t come to Crowbury,’ said Dorothea.
‘Will you come in for a minute?’ asked Valerie.
In the weak glow of the car’s interior light Dorothea saw once again that expression of fear on her face. The girl really was frightened; she did not want to enter her dark and empty cottage.
‘I’d love to,’ said Dorothea. ‘Thank you. What a pretty place this is.’ She followed Valerie inside and added, ‘I leave the lights on when I’m out, and the radio. It makes coming home better. But of course you’re much later than you expected.’
Valerie had a little sherry left in a bottle she was given for Christmas. She sent the children up to have their baths and poured some for Dorothea and herself.
‘I hear you work for Mr Trimm,’ said Dorothea, accepting her glass and sitting down in the one armchair. Her hostess perched on a sagging leather pouffe by the hearth.
‘Yes. I strip furniture for him,’ said Valerie.
‘How do you do it?’
Valerie told her about painting on stripper, scraping off the peeling varnish or whatever covered the wood, rubbing with wire wool, and the various problems on the way.
‘Are you doing some now?’ Dorothea looked around the small sitting room. But of course there must be a workroom elsewhere.
‘I do it in the garage,’ Valerie said.
‘Will you show me? I’d love to see how you do it,’ said Dorothea.
Valerie hesitated, and that closed look came over her face again. Then, with an obvious effort, she said, ‘Yes, of course.’
She fetched a large, heavy torch, called up to the children, picked up a bunch of keys and, when they crossed to the garage, there was much to-do over unlocking the various padlocks she’d fixed to the door.
‘I expect you think I’m very silly, taking so many precautions,’ Valerie said, with a nervous laugh.
‘I don’t, my dear,’ said Dorothea. ‘Your cottage is isolated, after all. I think you’re sensible.’
It was on the tip of Valerie’s tongue to tell her what had happened. She was kind, and would believe her, Valerie was sure.
But she said nothing. It was too awful, too humiliating, too degrading to mention.
Lynn was waiting at the gate when Ronald backed the van into Sycamore Road on Saturday morning. He got out and opened the door for her, as if she were grown up; Lynn always enjoyed his doing this – not like most people who left you to open the door yourself, not even leaning across inside the car to do it.
He told her he would take her to school each day in future, at her father’s request. She knew the reason.
‘It’s silly,’ said Lynn. ‘I’d just run away from someone like that.’
‘He might run after you,’ said Ronald.
Lynn made a face. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Anyway, those things don’t happen in the morning.’
But they did. Ronald recalled at least one case that had been reported of a schoolgirl disappearing on her way to school. It all depended on opportunity.
‘It must be awful, something like that,’ said Lynn.
‘Some women ask for it,’ said Ronald. ‘Then they make a fuss.’
They drove along in si
lence for a few minutes. Then Ronald spoke again.
‘You’d never take a lift with someone you didn’t know, would you, Lynn?’ For an instant he glanced away from the road and at her smooth young face beside him.
‘Golly, no! Dad would skin me, if he found out,’ said Lynn.
‘You’re growing up, you see,’ said Ronald, and he took his gloved hand off the wheel for a moment to lay it on her thigh. Well covered as it was by skirt and duffle coat, Lynn barely felt the gentle pressure. ‘You’re such a pretty little thing. You always were.’
Lynn had always known herself to be a favourite of her Uncle Ron’s; it came of his having no children of his own. She took his affection for granted.
They had a busy day in the shop. People out for a stroll would come in for a warm before continuing. You had to watch out for shoplifters because, though the shop attracted an apparently respectable clientele, objects had been known to disappear, and children were often menaces, picking up things and fingering them while their parents paid no heed to them. Something precious might easily get broken. Lynn jealously guarded the wares, hovering over the browsing customers. She felt very responsible when Ronald was not there.
He went out early that morning, to visit two dealers with pieces he knew they would buy. When he came back, Lynn made him some coffee; later, they had instant soup to reinforce their sandwich lunch, and tea with a digestive biscuit at four o’clock.
Ronald had his tea first; then, while he minded the shop, she, in her turn, took her tea down to the cellar and switched on the electric fire for a surreptitious warm. The cellar was lit by a strip light on the ceiling above the desk. The room was entirely functional; boxes, sacks and cardboard used for packing were stacked in a corner, and there was no furniture apart from the business desk and two upright chairs. It was kept scrupulously clean; the stone floor was never dusty. Glancing round this afternoon, Lynn noticed a cobweb on the big desk. You never saw cobwebs in the shop; Auntie Nancy was most particular about cleaning everything thoroughly and often. Lynn brushed the cobweb aside with her fingers, but it still clung to the handle of the drawer. She rubbed at it with her handkerchief; then, not consciously thinking of what she was doing, she tugged at the drawer handles. It was locked tight.
Hand of Death Page 8
