She scrambled to her feet and ran out into the hall.
‘Hiya!’ she called.
‘Lindy!’ Mark Plowman turned from shutting the front door with an exclamation of pleasure. ‘I’d no idea you were coming home.’
He enveloped her in a bear’s hug, and then held her at arm’s length, looking at her anxiously.
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘I’m not preggers, and I haven’t been sent down for any other reason, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she told him with a broad grin.
‘Really, you girls of today,’ Monica expostulated from the drawing room door. ‘Mark, you’re very late. You must be tired out. I’ll get the drinks tray and we can have a nice cosy time round the fire before supper.’
‘Come on Pop, relax,’ Belinda adjured him. ‘Forget about the Pottery for once.’
Later, as they sat over their drinks, it struck her with a sharp pang that her father was beginning to look old. His hair, which had always been so fair and thick, was becoming grizzled, and creeping back from his temples. Even when she made him laugh at some light-hearted anecdote, the lines about his eyes and those running down from the comers of his mouth were still there. One day he’ll die, she thought, struggling with an embarrassing lump in her throat, and I’ll miss him so dreadfully
‘Pop,’ she said on impulse, when her mother had gone to the kitchen, ‘why not sell the Pottery? Move into a smaller house and live on much less in peace and quiet? Mummy wouldn’t mind — in fact, she’d like it. What’s the point of being bothered to death by the blasted place? We only have one life, so what?’
Mark Plowman gave her a quick look, and his expression became guarded.
‘It isn’t as simple as all that, I’m afraid, Lindy,’ he said abruptly.
As he spoke, the telephone rang and he got up swiftly to answer it. She stared after him, vaguely disquieted. The next moment he called from the hall.
‘One of your boyfriends, from the sound of it.’
Forgetting family problems, she ran eagerly to take the call.
Bernard Lister had the Corbury Courier posted to him regularly, and it normally arrived by the first post on Saturday mornings. If asked why he took in the local newspaper of a town which he had no intention of ever revisiting, he would have said wryly that its petty parochialism, epitomised in the Courier, heightened his satisfaction at having escaped from the place. He had no idea that in reading about Corbury he was indulging a masochistic desire to recapture his desperately unhappy childhood and adolescence there.
Jack Lister, his father, had been a chauffeur employed by the parents of Mrs James Plowman, mother of Mark and Shirley. Her younger sister, Muriel, had eloped with him in the 1920s, and subsequently married him. Her outraged family had broken off all contact with her, and so were unaware of her death in giving birth to Bernard. Jack Lister had been brought up in an orphanage with a brother who had emigrated, and lost touch. Devoid of relations, he did the best he could for his little son with the help of good-hearted neighbours, but when he himself was carried off by pneumonia, there was nothing for it but Local Authority care for Bernard, then aged six. Enquiries were set on foot by the Authority, and ultimately his mother’s family was traced. With considerable reluctance, Bernard was taken into the James Plowmans’ nursery, to be brought up with Mark and Shirley, respectively a year older and a year younger than himself.
By no stretch of imagination could he have been described as an attractive child. He was pale, undersized and awkward, with a thick working-class accent and a number of unrefined habits. Sensitive, he was paralysed by the vast size and incomprehensible demands of his new home in Edge Crescent, and instantly aware of his unacceptability to the household. His aunt and uncle were kind, but he tried their patience to the utmost. Mark and Shirley, big tall children, confident and good at games, despised and resented him, resorting to physical bullying when they felt safe from observation. Later on, this gave place to mimicry of his speech, which never quite lost the traces of his early life, and the use of the hated nickname of Blister, derived from the unfortunate juxtaposition of his initial and surname.
All three children were sent in due course to Corbury Grammar School. Here it rapidly transpired that Bernard was exceptionally intelligent, a fact which his aunt and uncle could not help finding unpalatable, especially in relation to Mark’s very average ability. As a result he got little praise and encouragement at home, and was condemned as a swot and a dud at games in school. He withdrew increasingly into the world of books and ideas, a lonely boy, with no close friends and a deep sense of injustice. Then, at seventeen, he startled Corbury by winning major scholarships to both Oxford and Cambridge. The school was an Edward VI foundation with endowments for promising pupils, and under pressure from the Headmaster and Governors, the Plowmans agreed to Bernard’s going up to Oxford and deferring a career which would make him financially independent of them.
The miracle happened in his second year. His father’s brother died in Australia, leaving an estate of £50,000 to his brother Jack or his heirs. In the event, Bernard inherited. His reactions were few and decisive. On emerging from the office of the London solicitors with his identity established, he found his way to St James’s Park, and sat there for some hours, oblivious of his surroundings. Then, abruptly surfacing, he asked a policeman the way to the nearest post office. Here he bought a letter-card, and wrote a concise statement of his changed circumstances to his aunt and uncle, adding that they would not see him or hear from him again. Having posted the letter-card, he returned to Oxford with the intention of taking a First — which he achieved — and of devoting himself to an academic career.
Now, twenty years later, on this fine Saturday morning in November, he sat over a leisurely breakfast in his comfortable bachelor flat at Warhampton, his second ambition also fulfilled. His surroundings reflected the way of life that he had chosen, partly in accordance with his personal tastes, and partly as a defence against a society which, he felt, had largely rejected him. Except in the sphere of his work, he was by choice a recluse, greatly preferring his own company to that of others, and apprehensive of women and their suspected predatory designs. He remained basically insecure, and capable of violent emotional reaction to threats, real or imagined, to his security.
On reaching the toast and marmalade stage he ripped off the wrapper of the previous day’s issue of the Courier, and began to scan its pages with a critical eye. His eye was caught by Sir Miles LeWarne’s name in a list of guests at a public dinner, and one of his rare happy memories of Corbury came back to him. On being awarded his scholarship he had been summoned alone to Edgehill Court, greeted with kindly interest, and presented with a cheque for ten pounds with which to buy books. Afterwards he came to realise that the study where he had been received had impressed him even more than the dignified donor, and the room in which he now sat had been modelled on it: the big knee-hole desk, the deep comfortable masculine armchairs, the bookshelves which lined the walls
As he perused further items, Bernard Lister’s habitual contempt for Corbury and its citizens returned in force. He was almost completely lacking in humour, and Horace Rudd’s letter merely evoked a disgusted exclamation. Bogus tripe, he thought, and began to compose an acid reply dealing with the lack of reliable evidence of King Edgar’s alleged dealings with the town in the tenth century. He could refer to the preposterous legend of St Gundryth, an unverifiable personage said to have miraculously restored the King’s favourite boarhound to life after it had been fatally gored by a tusker on a royal hunting expedition. Admittedly the parish church was dedicated to her, but obviously she should be relegated to the Vatican’s recent list of fictitious saints.
Bernard absently buttered another slice of toast while debating various telling openings for his letter. Suddenly an even more promising idea occurred to him. Recently a series of charters claimed by another borough of vaunted antiquity had been found beyond any reasonable doubt to
be forgeries. Suppose he could establish that Corbury’s charters were in the same category? There was a whole series of them, he remembered. Of course Corbury people would be incapable of appreciating historical evidence, but with the so-called Millenary coming up, the facts could be leaked to the Press, and the whole affair made to look ridiculous.
Chapter 2
Oblivious of Bernard Lister’s valuation and malicious intent, Corbury went about its business in the cheerful bustling atmosphere of a fine Saturday morning.
Soon after ten o’clock a fanfare on a car horn brought Belinda Plowman running out of the house. She was immediately driven off at speed in a sports car, by a young man whose apparel contrived to suggest both the Space Age and the Italian Renaissance.
Monica Plowman watched the departure from a window with a little sigh: her own upbringing had been wholly conventional. As a young mother she had often indulged in pleasant fantasies of a really big white wedding in St Gundryth’s for Belinda, with a reception to follow in a marquee in the garden. Rather less distinct, but equally enjoyable, had been pictures of herself surrounded in due course by charming well-behaved grandchildren. But up to now it had been patently impossible to cast any of Belinda’s numerous boyfriends in the role of bridegroom in morning dress, or as a responsible young father. She sighed again, and turned away from the window to address her programme for the morning. As she was fortunate enough to have a daily woman who worked on Saturdays, she was virtually free, and soon went out, officially to finish her shopping for the weekend, but mainly to meet a group of equally leisured friends for coffee.
The householders of Edge Crescent kept their cars in the former mews at the back, which were separated by a lane from the gardens behind the houses. This branched off from the road and ran down at the side of Number One, the Stantons’ home, before turning right and giving access to all the garages. Lost in uncoordinated thoughts about Belinda, the Pottery, and her prospective purchases, Monica walked straight in front of Gerald Stanton’s car as it emerged from the lane. He braked sharply, concealing irritation with difficulty. Monica, who found both Gerald and Shirley intimidating, gave him a nervous smile, and stood dithering until he combined a sign to her to go on with a sketchy salute. He then backed the car to his front door. Shirley came out, shutting and locking the door after her, smart in country casuals for a lunch engagement with friends some two hours’ drive from Corbury. They overtook Monica Plowman at the top of the High Street, who gave a hesitant wave. Gerald mentioned his earlier encounter.
‘She’s hopeless,’ Shirley commented. ‘Look, she’s actually wearing a hat! If only Mark had married the right sort of woman.’
Plowman’s Pottery worked a five-day week. Solitary in his office, Mark found its big echoing spaces depressing. As he stared at the papers on his desk, it seemed as though the silence was stealthily moving in on him, making it impossible to concentrate and arrive at the right decisions. He realised as clearly as his sister the need for expansion of the business. What she did not know was the extent of his borrowings from the Bank over the past few years, and the polite but inflexible refusal of the Manager to allow him any further latitude, either over the Pottery account or his personal one. If he accepted her offer of a loan how could the firm’s financial position be kept from her? The prospect of her reaction was intolerable. On the other hand suppose the Treasury, or whoever it was, started making Banks call in their money? Mark Plowman frowned heavily as his thoughts moved in an all too familiar circle.
At Edgehill Court Sir Miles LeWarne wandered around, unobtrusively checking up on the preparations for the young people’s visit. Normally he used the study as his sitting room, but for the next two days the Court’s beautiful drawing room opening on to the terrace would be in use. He went in to make sure that there was a good log fire to supplement the central heating, and sniffed the pleasant blend of wood smoke and chrysanthemums. Great pots of these had been brought in from the greenhouses, splendid blooms, white, gold and glowing bronze. He must remember to congratulate old Bryce, his gardener, on Monday and see that Celia took a couple of pots back to the London flat.
Too intent on the hours immediately ahead to let the room evoke memories, he went back to the study and tried to settle down to The Times. Only twelve o’clock: another half-hour at least before he would hear the pandemonium of the arrival with that yappy little dachshund. Still, it was a sporting little fellow, and you couldn’t keep a proper dog in a flat. The room was warm, and anticipation had wakened him at an early hour. His head began to nod.
He came to with a start, agitated to see the hands of the travelling clock on the mantelpiece registering twenty minutes to one. He listened, and was relieved to find the silence unbroken. They should be turning up at any moment now, though. With lunch billed for a quarter past one there would hardly be time for a drink first, unless they arrived soon. Feeling the sudden irritation of the old at a threatened disruption of a plan, he got to his feet and went out into the hall, where he caught an appetising whiff of roasting meat. Faint sounds of activity came from the kitchen region but otherwise all was quiet. Suppressing an impulse to go and confer with Maggie Marsh, Sir Miles returned to the study and sat bolt upright watching the clock. At a quarter to one he could restrain himself no longer and went to the kitchen.
‘What on earth can be holding them up?’ he demanded testily. ‘The meal won’t be fit to eat. We’ll have to cut out drinks, that’s all.’
‘Why, they’ve been later than this before now, sir,’ Maggie soothed. ‘It’s the Saturday traffic, even at this time of year. This fine weather’ll be bringing out the cars. Don’t you worry about the lunch, sir. Nothing hurts in the simmering oven.’
Partly reassured, he once more returned to the study, and watched the slow progress of the clock hands towards the hour. A puncture, he thought, and quicker to change the wheel than to hunt about for a telephone. If they’d had a real breakdown, though, that was going to hold them up for some time: well, they’d manage to ring somehow, surely? Involuntarily he glanced round at the telephone on his desk.
The minute hand began to drop from the vertical. Abruptly the fear lurking on the threshold of consciousness insisted on recognition. The old man’s mouth went dry as he faced the possibility of an accident. The minute-by-minute passage of time ceased to matter. He sat frozen, reminding himself that there were degrees of accident.
Suddenly the front door bell rang, a monstrous irrelevance which angered him. Who the bloody hell was coming pestering at a time like this? He listened to Maggie Marsh’s quick steps in the hall. Then he heard voices, one of them a man’s. Exasperation at the length of the conversation brought him to his feet. Why in God’s name didn’t she send the fellow packing?
Incredibly she was bringing somebody to see him
As he turned towards the door it opened, and Superintendent Thomas of the Corbury Constabulary walked into the room unannounced. Startled, Sir Miles stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then he saw the compassion in his face
During the afternoon the news of the Roger LeWarnes’ fatal road crash spread rapidly over the Corbury grapevine. Shortly before four o’clock Monica Plowman was rung up by a friend whose brother had heard of the disaster at first hand from Superintendent Thomas himself. Dismay and pity for Sir Miles filled her mind to the exclusion of everything else. She hurried out into the garden to find her husband.
In an attempt to escape temporarily from his worries, Mark Plowman had changed into an ancient sweater and a pair of dilapidated trousers, and was engaged in the autumn clearance of his herbaceous borders. A bonfire crackled conversationally in a corner, and as Monica crossed the lawn, he was heading towards it with a heaped wheelbarrow. Catching sight of her he halted, with a look of irritated enquiry.
‘Oh, Mark,’ she said, with a catch in her voice, ‘the most dreadful thing has happened.’ She swallowed as he stared at her. ‘Roger and Celia LeWarne. They’ve both been killed. In their car, coming down for the week
end.’
Her husband abruptly released the handles of his wheelbarrow.
‘My God, how absolutely appalling,’ he said slowly. ‘Was it near here?’
‘I don’t know. Jean Cooper’s just rung me. She said another car had skidded into them: she didn’t know where.’ He frowned anxiously as a host of queries began to flood into his mind.
‘I wonder if Shirley and Gerald have heard?’ he said. ‘Somebody ought to go along to the Court. Uncle Miles may want phone calls put through, and so on. I don’t know if Maggie’s equal to that sort of thing.’
Sir Miles, a lifelong friend of James Plowman, had been an uncle by courtesy to his children.
‘I think Shirley and Gerald are out,’ Monica told him. ‘I saw them going off this morning in the car.’
‘Hell! I think I’ll ring them on chance, though.’ Abandoning the wheelbarrow in the middle of the lawn, Mark went quickly into the house, flung himself down by the telephone, and dialled the Stantons’ number. He got the ringing tone which continued uninterruptedly.
‘Obviously not back yet,’ he said at last, putting down the receiver with a clatter. He sat on, registering indecision, his hand absently drumming on the table.
‘Don’t you think you’d better go over to the Court yourself?’ Monica ventured.
She got an irascible glance from his aggressively blue eyes, brighter and hotter than was usual in a Plowman.
‘No, I don’t,’ he replied categorically. ‘I’m damned if I’ll have Shirley and her precious husband accusing me of sucking up to Uncle Miles. Be your age, darling,’ he went on impatiently. ‘The baronetcy becomes extinct — there’s no male heir now, as we all know. But what about the property and the money? Uncle Miles is pretty well-heeled, isn’t he? Don’t forget that Shirley’s his god-daughter, and Gerald his solicitor, now that old Harrison’s dead.’
Buried in the Past Page 2
