by Susan Hill
‘Do you believe in anything, Doctor – sorry, Cat?’
‘Yes. It’s often very hard but I do think my Christian faith has sustained me through an awful lot and it still does.’
‘What if it isn’t true?’
‘I’ve got to this position, Elaine – I got to it a year or so after my husband died – that if you try to follow the essential teaching then that’s got to be a good way to live, and besides, I love the Church of England. I love the services and the language and the music and the prayers. I love the traditions, I love our cathedral … that sustains me as much as anything. And I decided to go on loving them and believing because of the way I’m sustained by it all – and if I’m wrong, well, I shan’t know anyway. None of us will. But meanwhile, it’s given a point and a purpose to life and made it better. It’s religion twisted by men to back up their own desires which has caused so much harm, don’t you think? I haven’t much to say in support of the Crusades.’
‘There’s something else I wanted to tell you … it was years ago but it was so strange and I still think about it. It’s come back to me vividly these last few weeks. When I was a young wife and Jack was a toddler, our next-door neighbours had a daughter of fifteen, and a younger son. He was a monkey but Sally took the biscuit for being naughty – not bad, just full of it. I never knew a child so full of life and high spirits and – she was up for anything, scared of nothing and so full of bubbliness. Jack adored her, absolutely adored her, and one year, he was three I think, Sally came round and started to talk to him about how it was going to be Mothering Sunday and he had to pick some flowers for me and make a card. It was sweet – they sat at my kitchen table and made this card, and I wasn’t supposed to see it … and then on the Sunday, Sally came round and took Jack into the hall and shut the door. When they came back in he’d got the card in his hand and a little bunch of freesias … when I say “bunch” – there were three. I think she’d taken them out of the ones her mother had been given but I didn’t say anything, obviously. I put them in a vase, and they smelled so strong – even just three of them. Such a sweet smell … it was a real joy. I propped Jack’s card next to them on the windowsill.’
Elaine had closed her eyes.
Time and memory, Cat thought. Death throws them up in the air and they fall in a different order. Ageing does it more gradually. It occurred to her that she and Chris had avoided conversations about his dying. He had shut himself off and dealt with it alone, she had thought stoically. But perhaps not. She had been afraid, wanting precious time with him not to be stained by death talk, and for Chris, that had always seemed pointless except in the purely medical sense. How would he have felt if Elaine had wanted to have this sort of debate with him? Did it matter whether they had talked enough about those things not just towards the end but all through their married life? She knew now that it did. It mattered to her.
Forty-seven
On Sunday mornings, the main streets in Montcuq were packed with market stalls and people. Judith loved it, loved buying cheese and olives, bread and honey and lavender soap, wandering among the rolls of fabric and piles of baskets. But if you arrived late, the cafes were packed and it was impossible to get a seat. She and Richard were not early risers in France – they preferred staying up late into the soft warm nights in the garden of the gîte. But this was not market day, they had parked under the chestnut trees in the shade and walked up to sit under the umbrellas of the Café du Centre. Next to them, four elderly Frenchmen drank small glasses of rosé. It was hot. Nothing moved. Dogs lay in the deepest shadows they could find, heads down on the stone pavement.
‘I can’t imagine a group of men drinking rosé at eleven in the morning at home.’
‘Odd habit,’ Richard said, his head in the previous day’s Times which he had just bought.
‘Do they start young and just carry on? I suppose their metabolism is used to it.’
‘Highest rate of liver cirrhosis in the world.’
‘But they’re not alcoholics.’
‘Not as such.’ He turned a page.
He looked well. Relaxed, tanned, fit, happy. He had been a different man out here, his old self.
‘Perhaps we should live here,’ Judith said, watching a woman lift a tiny chihuahua out of her shopping bag and set it down beside a saucer of water. Its collar and lead flashed with diamanté and it snarled viciously when someone nearby moved her foot.
‘Actually,’ Richard said, putting down his paper, ‘I was going to say just the opposite. Time we went home.’
‘Oh, darling, do you really want to? It’s so lovely just being here with you, no pressures, nothing to do but potter and sleep and read and eat.’
‘I’m sick of duck.’
‘I never cook duck.’
‘No, but if we go out to eat that’s all we get. It’s a myth about wonderful French cooking.’
‘So you often say.’
‘Look at the marvellous places we can eat within – what, a five-mile radius of home?’
‘You often say that as well.’
‘Am I a bore?’
Judith put her hand over his. ‘Darling, you have never bored me for a single moment since I married you.’
‘Do you want another coffee?’
‘I’ll try and catch his eye. Do you want the same again?’
He did not reply but bent his head to continue scanning the newspaper. He was only just finishing it when the ever-unsmiling waiter brought their coffees.
‘Interesting?’
He folded the paper. ‘Just medical stuff. But yes.’
‘You miss editing the journal, don’t you?’
‘Not really. Bit of a chore in the end.’
‘You should write a book.’
‘What on earth about?’
‘All eminent doctors have a fund of stories.’
‘So they may. I was not an eminent doctor.’
‘Of course you were – but whatever, you still have plenty of things to say, stories to tell.’
He shook his head, draining his black coffee. ‘Come on, let’s saunter.’
The long street was dusty beneath the trees. Today there were no boules players on the sandy patch.
‘Did you mean it, about wanting to live here?’
Judith turned to look at him in surprise. ‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think I meant permanently. It’s too far from the family and it isn’t any warmer here in winter than at home. And you’d hate the life of an expat … all that sitting about chatting to other expats just because they speak English.’
Richard groaned. ‘But a little place to spend a month or two at a time – the families could come.’
‘Not too little then.’
‘If we turn round, we can go past the estate agent’s window again.’
‘Are you serious about this?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Half an hour ago you were ready to go home.’
‘Was I? I’m not sure there’s anything to rush home for.’
Judith slept for a couple of hours in the afternoon, but Richard only dozed in a chair for twenty minutes. The living room of the house gave onto a small terrace which had a vine growing over to give it deep, cool shade and he took his book out there. He had read the English papers earlier and found nothing to concern him, but the memory of his conversation with Tim continued to trouble him. He had been sanguine after he had put the phone down. Tim was his friend, Tim was a sensible man, Tim had been annoyed, understandably, but Richard was sure he accepted what he had said and wouldn’t make any fuss.
But his concern would not go away. If Shelley refused to listen to her husband, if Shelley talked to a friend who then persuaded her not to let the matter drop, if the newspapers got hold of it …
He nodded off, still going over the scenarios. Judith’s phone woke him.
‘Dad? How are you both? I was a bit worried …’
‘Why? We’re fine, enjoying the sun. Nothing to worry about
at all.’
‘I’m relieved. Judith usually sends the odd message but she’s been quiet on that too.’
‘As I said. France is extremely relaxing. We’re thinking of coming out here to live.’
‘What?’
He gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Not permanently, but we might buy something. Spring and summer and so forth.’
‘Gracious. But why not? It makes sense, I suppose.’
‘I presume this isn’t an emergency call? Felix hasn’t stubbed a toe or something?’
‘We’re all fine, thanks, Dad. Miss you both.’
‘You miss the extra childminders, that’s all.’
‘Not so … I said we miss you.’
‘Judith’s having a nap. I don’t know how she can sleep in the middle of the day.’
‘Heat.’
‘Doesn’t trouble me. I assume your brother’s still underground or whatever they call it?’
‘I presume so. No word.’
‘They do enjoy their games.’
‘I should think it’s something more than a game to keep him under the radar for so long, Dad.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Have you no idea at all when you might be home?’
‘None whatsoever. Why, has anyone been asking about me?’
‘Only in a general way.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t recall … no one in particular.’
‘Good. Well, don’t let me keep you, Catherine.’
In Lafferton, DCI Austin Rolph twisted and untwisted a paper clip, as an aid to thought. He had been reminded by a call from St Catherine’s that Shelley Pendleton was still intent on pressing charges against Richard Serrailler and they wanted an update on the police response.
He threw the paper clip in the bin as he went out towards the CID room.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Out and about, sir.’ The only body present looked up from her computer. ‘Anything I can do? I’m just signing off a missper as “Found”, that’s all.’
‘Yes.’ He swung the seat beside her desk round and sat. ‘Rape case.’
‘Oh good. I mean, not good. But … I mean …’
‘All right, all right, just listen up.’
Ten minutes later, DC Clarke had Cat’s home and mobile numbers. Then decided the face-to-face approach might be better.
When her car drew up at the door of the farmhouse, Sam was looking out of the window.
‘Mum – there’s a woman – silver VW Golf 1.4.’
Cat was changing into jeans, having just got back from a committee meeting at the hospice, and shouted down, ‘I’m not expecting anyone. Probably wants to sell me something. Say no, politely, Sam.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why, do you recognise her?’
‘No, but I can tell.’
Cat came down the stairs, pulling on her sweatshirt.
‘She’s a cop,’ Sam said.
Cat froze, looking at him.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘if it was …’ But she had pushed past him and opened the door.
DC Clarke was already holding up her warrant card.
‘Oh God,’ Cat said. Sam had come to stand close to her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly.
‘Dr Deerbon, I’m –’
‘Just come in. Are you alone?’
Ellen Clarke looked surprised. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes. No.’ Cat’s heart was banging in her chest. ‘I thought – if it’s bad news, aren’t there usually two of you?’
‘If you mean accidents and so on, then yes, but it isn’t like that.’
‘But it’s my brother?’
‘Sorry? Oh, the Super … No.’
‘Where he is?’
‘I don’t know. As I said –’
‘I’m so sorry, come into the kitchen. Sam, homework.’
‘I want to make sure you’re OK.’
‘It’s fine. But thank you. Go.’
He shrugged and wandered out slowly. Cat looked across at the officer and made a gesture to her to wait before saying anything else. She knew Sam’s ability to lurk silently at the foot of the stairs, not wanting to miss anything.
‘Sam …’
His footsteps went loudly and meaningfully up.
‘Can I give you some tea? I’m making it, I haven’t been in long.’
‘Thank you. Yes, white, no sugar – thank you.’
Cat gestured to a kitchen chair, pushing a pile of papers and her laptop out of the way.
‘You’re sure this isn’t about Simon?’
‘Absolutely. I don’t know anything at all about the Super, where he is or what he’s doing. We just haven’t been told.’
Making the tea, Cat went through things fast – speeding, jumping a red light, out-of-date car tax, lost purse, lost child … None of those.
She set down the tea.
‘Dr Richard Serrailler,’ the DC said.
‘My father? Is …?’ No, of course there wasn’t – if there had been an accident one CID constable wouldn’t be here alone and calmly drinking tea. Would she?
‘No, no bad news, everything’s fine. Well, so far as we know.’
‘My father and stepmother are in France on holiday, have been for a few weeks.’
‘We need to make contact with him fairly urgently. We’ve had no response from the landline or his mobile, and as the Super is away as well …’
‘Can you tell me what it’s about? I might be able to help, save them having their holiday interrupted. Presumably it isn’t anything serious?’
‘Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Meaning you don’t know or you won’t say?’
‘Meaning we need to talk to Dr Serrailler.’
She hadn’t quite left the textbooks behind, Cat thought. How old was she, twenty-seven? She checked herself, remembering the stiff little phrases she had used as a very junior doctor.
‘Well, beyond giving you Judith’s number, I can’t give you any more information.’
The DC left without finishing her tea. Sam watched over the banister.
‘You all right, Mum?’
‘Fine, thanks, Sam.’
‘Uncle Si?’
‘No.’
He came a few steps further down.
‘Do CID ever carry weapons?’
‘Lord, Sammy, I don’t know! In the absence of your uncle, google it. Why do you want to know?’
‘No particular reason.’
Cat heard him go back and close the door of his room, then she put the tea things away before ringing her father. The phone went straight to his irascible and curt voicemail.
‘Serrailler. Leave a message if it’s important, don’t if it isn’t.’
Judith woke when the late-afternoon sun lanced through the half-open shutters onto her face. But the ringing of a phone echoed faintly in her ears too.
Silence.
She closed her eyes again and let herself relax back into a semi-doze, in which she seemed to be floating just above the surface of the bed. She had not felt like this, so rested, so peaceful, so unhurried and unconcerned, for a very long time, but France, this golden corner of the South-West, the slopes terraced by heavy vines, the wide fields of ripening maize and melons and sunflowers, the quietness and the slow pace of everything, had returned her to a tranquillity and a contentment she had almost forgotten were possible.
Somewhere in the fields across the valley, a tractor hummed. The birds were silent. Only the pigeons murmured of high summer.
An hour later she came out of the shower to find that Richard had set glasses and a bottle of chilled Sauvignon on the terrace and was refilling the anti-insect lamps with citronella. He smiled.
‘You were right,’ he said.
‘Was I? Thank you for this, darling …’ Judith poured out their wine. ‘You look pleased about something.’
‘I am. I rang the owner about staying on here for another six week
s. That should give us time to find somewhere to buy and sort everything out … French bureaucracy and all that.’ He sat down and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a life in France.’
‘Well … Some life in France anyway.’
‘I can’t think of anything drawing us back, can you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh yes, yes, but they can come out here – plenty of the summer left … Look, aren’t we happy at the moment? Aren’t you? You look so well and rested.’
‘You know I am.’
Richard frowned. ‘You’re willing to stay on for a few weeks now?’
‘I think so. Unless anything happens.’
‘What do you mean, “happens”? Accidents? Illnesses? Don’t be neurotic.’
Judith did not reply. The edge to his tone made her uneasy. She did not want to irritate him, or to make him think badly of her.
‘No, you’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘Of course we should stay. Maybe we should go over to Preyssac tomorrow, try the estate agents there?’
He smiled. ‘I can see through that one, my dear.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Tomorrow is Preyssac market day.’
‘The thought had never occurred to me.’
She drank her wine, happy to be teased, glad of anything to make Richard happy. She would not like to spend half of the year in France, for all she loved it, but she would not say so. Not now. Not yet. And perhaps there would not be a house they liked enough to want to buy after all.
Her phone buzzed from the living room.
‘You stay there, I’ll go.’
‘It’s bound to be Vivien or Cat – or maybe David. Unless there’s news of Simon …’
But he had gone out of earshot. The buzzing stopped.
‘Hi, Judith, I’m leaving this on your phone as well as Dad’s. You’re probably sitting at a cafe table somewhere, and good for you. We’re all absolutely fine, and no news from Simon, but if you get this first will you tell Dad to ring Lafferton Police Station? Not sure how urgent it is but one of them came here because they couldn’t get hold of him, so he ought to call. Try you both later, or ring me, I’m at home. Lots of love …’
