He spoke no more than the truth; he’d spent the last half-hour moodily watching the guests arrive, resentful of Alison’s absence. Admittedly there were plenty of things he could do but he couldn’t settle to any of them. The main cause of his restlessness was the strained atmosphere of the last few days. But he’d been meaning to bring up the subject of their moving, and at the time it had seemed a good opportunity. Patently, it hadn’t been; on the other hand, if Alison was as opposed to the idea as she’d seemed, perhaps there would never be a good time.
To fill in a few minutes, he had taken some letters to the pillar-box and then, strolling on up the road, had heard the spluttering engine. He was glad that he had; after the constraint of the last few days, a drive with a pretty woman would do him a power of good.
She was still protesting, and he cut her short. “Look, I’ll go and get the car and meet you on the corner of the Lane in three minutes. OK?”
“Well, if you really are sure. It’s very kind of you.” She watched him walk back down the drive, tall and thin, with a light step. He was really rather attractive, with that crooked smile. Furthermore, apart from the vicar he was the first person in the village to approach her. Perhaps it would lead to a meeting with his nice-looking wife, and she’d have some friends here at last. At the very least, he’d come to her rescue now.
Stewart had been annoyed that she hadn’t checked the children’s things earlier, which was why he hadn’t offered to take her to town. And he was right, she reflected, locking the useless car. She was usually meticulous about such things, but this week everything had been out of kilter and she hadn’t been thinking straight.
Shopping-bag in hand, she walked down the road. The big gates stood open and she glanced up the drive expecting to see Mr. Carey’s car. However, he emerged from the lane on her left and drew to a halt beside her, leaning across to open the passenger door.
“I was watching for you up the drive,” she commented, as he made a U-turn and started back down the lane.
“No, we have a couple of the garages behind the pub. Saves having to open those heavy gates every time we go out.” He negotiated a skein of cyclists. “How long have you been living here?”
“Six months now.”
“And what do you think of our little corner of paradise?”
Perhaps it was the light sarcasm in his voice that emboldened her to say flatly, “I hate it.” It was the first time she’d admitted the fact, even to herself, and she felt his surprise. Then he laughed.
“Well, well, welcome to the club! It’s a very exclusive one; in fact I’d thought I was the only member.”
She turned to look at him. “You don’t like it either?”
“Like you, I hate it. Unfortunately, my wife doesn’t.”
“Nor does my husband. But it’s all right for him; he’s at work all day with plenty of company.”
“So am I, now, but it hasn’t changed my feelings. When we came here I’d just been made redundant, and it took over two years to find a job, during which I hung around here day after day. Even now, every evening when I come home I feel a creeping sense of depression. Association of ideas, I suppose.”
“But your wife doesn’t want to move?”
“No. She’s very involved with her job, which she thoroughly enjoys.”
“So what’ll you do?”
“Grin and bear it, I suppose. At least for a while longer.” He glanced at her. “What do you dislike so much?”
“The loneliness. There’s no one to speak to, no one even to see all day.”
“We lead container lives nowadays, bound up in our own concerns. It doesn’t make for neighbourliness.”
“I suppose there’s no chance of your wife needing any help?”
“I could ask her. There’s a group of village women who bake cakes for the tea-shop at the House, but I imagine that’s hardly your scene. Leave it with me anyway, and I’ll have a word with her. Now, which car-park do you think we should make for?”
***
Up at Beckworth House, the wedding reception was proceeding smoothly. The meal was just finishing, after which a short break was scheduled before the speeches. Hoping to forestall the rush to the cloakroom, Alison made her way there. She was combing her hair when the door behind her swished open and a well-remembered voice exclaimed, “Alison! I didn’t know you were here!”
It was Daphne Warrender, wife of one of the directors of Neil’s previous company.
“Hello, Daphne,” she said steadily.
“I didn’t see you at the church. Where were you sitting?”
“I’m not a guest, I work here—as booking manager. How nice to see you.”
“You work here? Well, good for you! Do you enjoy it?”
“Very much. We live at the Lodge and I organize all the events—fashion shows, dinner theatres, even the odd TV commercial. It’s very interesting.”
“You have Pippa with you?”
“Yes, she’s secretary to a firm of solicitors in Shillingham.”
“And Jonathan?”
“In his last year at agricultural college.”
“Well, I think that’s marvellous. I take my hat off to you.” She opened her powder compact and bent forward to apply the puff. Her voice changed subtly. “Do you ever hear anything of Neil?”
Alison gazed blankly at her reflected face. “I beg your pardon?”
“I just wondered if you’re ever in touch—through the children?”
Above the sudden clattering of her heart, Alison heard herself say, “Neil is personnel director of Banks Moor-house, in Reading.”
Daphne gave a low, malicious laugh. “Personnel again? Then no doubt he’s up to his old tricks.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Alison said, more loudly than she could have wished.
Daphne’s hand, applying lipstick now, suddenly stilled. In the mirror her eyes went to the other woman’s stunned face. Then she slowly straightened and turned to face her. “Have I been speaking out of turn? Are you still together?”
“Yes.” The single word was all she could manage, and she let it answer both questions.
“Alison, I am sorry. How clumsy of me. I just assumed that after all the scandal and his dismissal—” Her voice tailed off. She said quietly, “I’m probably making it worse. Please forgive my thoughtlessness. I think it’s wonderful that you stood by him.” She bent forward, patted Alison’s resistant arm and, with a quick, bright smile, hurried from the room.
Round the bend of the L-shaped cloakroom, Gwen Rutherford and Hannah James, seated at adjacent dressing-tables, looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The un-seen door opened and closed again. No one seemed to have entered so, assured that their unintentional eavesdropping would not be discovered, they rose and made their way back to the reception.
“That was somewhat embarrassing,” Gwen commented sotto voce. “I was praying they wouldn’t come round the corner and see us.”
“Yes; I imagine ‘Neil’, whoever he is, will have some explaining to do this evening.”
Gwen Rutherford, as well as being the bridegroom’s aunt, was headmistress of Ashbourne School for Girls, where he was a music master. Hannah, as her deputy and with no family obligation, had at first been undecided about accepting the wedding invitation. For the school, as well as being indirectly responsible for bringing bride and groom together, had also been involved in the tragedy which followed. But Mark and Gwen between them had swayed her, and she was glad she had come. It was a happy occasion, and no shadow from the past had been allowed to cloud it.
Idly, while Gwen spoke to her brother-in-law, Hannah thought of all the weddings she’d attended over the years, acknowledging that at some point during each ceremony she’d felt a fleeting stab of envy. Yet she could have married if she chose; she’d received several proposals in her time, though the only one she’d considered seriously had been the last, from Charles Frobisher less than two years ago. And in the end she’d decided against it.
The reason she gave was her career, though as a governor of the school, Charles had had no objection to her continuing work. The real reason, as always, was David Webb. Ostensibly their relationship made no demands, since neither wished to marry or even to live together. But there was a commitment between them which neither wished to break, so they were only partially free. The ambivalent arrangement suited them perfectly, and Hannah acknowledged humbly how lucky she was.
The sound of a gavel broke into her musings, and she abandoned them and settled back to listen to the speeches.
With the meal over, Alison’s self-imposed supervision was at an end. Mechanically she thanked both caterers and servers, congratulated them on the smoothness of the operation, and slipped out of the door into the sunny courtyard.
She had intended to go back to the Lodge and have a well-earned cup of tea with Neil. Then they could have attended to the box of bedding plants which she’d bought the other day. Now, however, she needed time before seeing him, time to assimilate what Daphne had hinted, and to examine her own reactions.
Accordingly, instead of walking back down the drive, she set off into the deserted gardens in the general direction of the lily-pond. Her immediate feeling, now she was free to assess it, was a mixture of hurt and anger. For Neil hadn’t after all been made redundant; he’d been sacked, and Daphne’s barbed comment left little doubt as to the reason.
Bitterly, Alison recalled her constant support at that time, her concern and encouragement as he searched more and more desperately for work. And all the time he’d been deceiving her, abusing her trust, and for all she knew continuing the association that had been his downfall.
She turned into the avenue of herbaceous borders which led to the pond. It was warm in this sheltered corner, the sun quite hot on her back. Reaching the pond, she sat down on the bench and stared out across the calm water carpeted with lily-pads. She had only two choices; to tell Neil of her meeting with Daphne, or not to mention it. Detachedly she considered each in turn. If she told him, it would almost certainly mean the end of their marriage. They had come close to divorce ten years ago over his involvement with another woman, but for the children’s sakes—and, she reminded herself wryly, because she still loved him—she had agreed to stay with him. Now the children needn’t be considered and, she thought suddenly, she herself was independent. The Lodge was hers for as long as she worked here, and she could support herself quite adequately.
And if she kept quiet? Life would continue as it had for the last three years—unless Neil again brought up the question of moving. And that was the crux. Better, perhaps, not to precipitate trouble, but if he insisted on leaving Beckworth, he could go without her. Because should another crisis arise later, she would never again be in such a strong position.
Even as she reached her decision, she knew it would be difficult to keep her knowledge from him. Instinctively she wanted to lash out, to hurt him as, retrospectively, he had hurt her. But to do so would be counter-productive, forcing an issue which might possibly never have to be faced. And after all, the affair was now three years in the past. Perhaps, learning from his lesson, he had matured sufficiently not to stray again.
***
Across the gingham tablecloth Neil watched Carol Dexter’s face as she talked. She was an attractive little thing, and she’d certainly brightened up his Saturday. Interesting, too, that she shared his disenchantment with Beckworth. Bored and lonely, she might well, he thought, respond to a little light-hearted dalliance, but he wasn’t sure he’d bother to find out. He’d had the devil’s own luck in keeping the last fiasco from Alison; it would be asking for trouble to become even casually involved with someone so near home.
“Did you hear the commotion the other night?” she was saying, helping herself to the last scone. “I thought we were going to have a full-scale fight on our doorstep.”
“Not literally on your doorstep, I hope,” Neil smiled, holding out his cup for a refill.
“On the pavement opposite, actually. But they have been on our doorstep, or someone has. A revolting face was drawn on the door, and though I’ve scrubbed at it several times, I can’t get rid of it.” She gave an involuntary shudder.
“I shouldn’t let it worry you,” he said, surprised at the violence of her reaction. “We were treated to one, too.” She stared at him. “Someone drew on your door?”
“That’s right; a face with its tongue out. Charming, isn’t it? And it’s not as if the House had been open; you get all sorts of weirdos then.”
“When did you discover it?”
“A few days ago. I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest.”
Carol leant back in her chair and drew a deep breath. “You can’t imagine how much better I feel,” she said shakily. “I know it’s silly, but I really got in a state about it. It seemed—threatening, somehow. But if you had one too, Stewart was probably right and it was just some yob going round the village with a felt pen.”
“Well, if you’re worried about anything in future, have a word with me before you start losing any sleep over it.”
“Thanks, I might well do that.”
Which, he felt, was as far as things should go for the moment. He glanced at his watch. “We’d better make a move or your family will be home before you, and since your car’s in the drive, they’ll wonder where you are.”
“Yes.” She bent to retrieve her purchases from the floor. “Thanks again for all your help—and for the tea. After a bad start, it’s been a very pleasant afternoon.”
***
Darren Barlow had arrived home, unannounced, for Easter, and his mother was trying to come to terms with the fact that she was less than pleased to see him.
“I should have thought you’d be busy at the pub over the holiday weekend,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I decided I’d done my stint for this week and earned myself a rest.” He was lounging on the sofa with his feet draped over the arm.
“You mean you’ve taken time off without permission?” Hazel’s voice was concerned.
He grinned. “Got an upset stomach, haven’t I?”
“Darren, if you start playing up they’ll sack you, and then where—”
“Oh, shut it, Mum, for Pete’s sake. I know what I’m doing. Anyway,” he added accusingly, “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“I am, of course,” Hazel said weakly, “but you might have let me know you were coming. We’ve been using your room for storage and it’ll take a bit of sorting out. There’s not much room, I’m afraid, what with Grandad and Mavis and Lenny.”
He wasn’t interested in her problems. “What’s on up at the House? The car-park’s thick with Rollers and Porsches.”
“A wedding. I helped with the flowers. And there’s a family party tomorrow, for Lord William’s birthday. That’s why the Opening’s being held back till Monday.”
Darren wasn’t interested in Lord William either. He swung his feet to the ground and stood up. “I think I’ll go to the pub and see who’s around.”
“There won’t be anyone. It’s not open.”
He stopped, frowning. “Doesn’t Stan know the law’s changed? We’re open all day at the Whistle Stop.”
“It’s different in Shillingham; there isn’t the demand here. And before you go out, Darren, I’d be glad of a hand clearing your room. Some of those boxes are quite heavy.”
“I came home for a rest, didn’t I, not to start shifting furniture around.”
“Up you go. It won’t take long with two of us.”
“I wish we still lived on the top road,” he grumbled, allowing himself to be propelled up the narrow staircase. “There’s not room to swing a cat here.”
“You’ve never known any different,” Hazel said shortly.
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it, or that toffee-nosed lot who’ve moved in. And as for Dad going along and doing their bloody gardens for them—”
“Now that’s enough. Help me lift these cases off the b
ed. We’ll just have to stack them against the wall for now.”
“I saw that poncy twit from the Schoolhouse as I arrived,” he went on, manoeuvring his end of the case.
“Made him skip out of the way as I came round the corner.” He grinned sourly. “Probably the only exercise he’s had in weeks!”
***
While Giles Parrish wouldn’t have recognized himself from Darren’s description, he was equally scathing about the young lout in the crash helmet who’d taken the corner too fast.
“Damn nearly hit me,” he complained to his wife. “Young fool! No doubt he was one of those making all that row the other night. I’m only sorry I didn’t get his number.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” Lalage retorted. “If you reported him, we might well have more than graffiti to worry about.”
“Meaning he’d try to get his own back? I’m not going to be intimidated by young hooligans. If someone doesn’t make a move to control them, they could get really out of hand.”
“Look, Giles, I don’t want us to get involved—right? We’re working flat out to get the business off the ground, and the last thing we need is hassle at home. We bought this place as a retreat, remember, somewhere to unwind away from the big city. If you’re going to start antagonizing the locals, we’d have been better staying in Bristol.”
“Antagonizing! Ye gods, all I did was cross the road! I could have been killed, dammit!” He stared at her, aggrieved. “A little sympathy wouldn’t have gone amiss.”
She turned to look at him, trying to see him as the motorcyclist had: small, pointed beard, narrow eyes behind rimless tinted glasses, a thick brush of hair. Not, admittedly, a typical villager, in his designer jeans, silk shirt and cravat. No doubt it was amusing to make him leap clear.
“OK, love, I’m sorry. Go and sit on the patio and I’ll bring out a G & T.”
“That’s more like it!”
Giles went through the double-glazed doors and seated himself on the bench with a small sigh. He knew that the burglary up the road had disturbed Lalage, as had the drunken brawl the other night. Life in the country wasn’t quite the panacea they’d been led to expect. All the same, it was very peaceful at the back here and he felt himself relax as he gazed out over the garden.
David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Page 4
