Honeymoon Suite

Home > Other > Honeymoon Suite > Page 27
Honeymoon Suite Page 27

by Wendy Holden

‘Oh yeah, no problem,’ Dan said in reply to the questions about golf-course-mowing now being rained down upon him. But Dylan knew for a fact that Dan had never mowed a golf course in his life.

  The Lady President finally wound up her inquisition. ‘Come on. Let’s get started.’

  They followed her as she strode off across the car park. ‘Play golf, do you?’ she barked over her quilted green shoulder.

  As Dan remained mute, Dylan felt bound to answer. ‘I don’t, actually,’ he said. ‘I never have.’

  The quilted back stopped suddenly. ‘Never?’

  ‘I played crazy golf when I was a kid,’ was all Dylan, under pressure, could dredge up. ‘It had a cannon at the end that fired if you got your ball in the hole.’ He smiled. He hadn’t thought about that particular course for years.

  A whole host of other memories rushed back with it. What the madeleine was to Marcel Proust, Dylan reflected, the crazy golf course was to him. Except that it wasn’t, because he wasn’t writing any more.

  The Lady President strode swiftly ahead, pausing at a small creosoted shed down the side of the clubhouse. ‘The mower,’ she announced, handing Dan a key.

  Dan opened the door to reveal, not the gleaming red tractor of his fond imaginings, but an ordinary manual model, and not the newest at that. He turned to look quizzically at his latest employer. ‘You want me to get round eighteen ’oles with that?’

  The Lady President tipped her chin challengingly upwards. ‘Our former groundsman was perfectly happy with it. He never,’ she added warningly, ‘complained.’

  Dylan eyed her disbelievingly. Had not the former groundsman just resigned? He remembered the fee, briefly discussed in the car park. Its skinflint nature had contrasted with the displays of motorised wealth all around.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said to Dan as the Lady President stalked off, ‘that we’d better get our mower out of the car as well. Then at least we’ll have two.’

  They started mowing at the back of the course, at the furthest hole, so Dylan, who had been landed with it, could master the ancient machine in relative privacy. None of the golfers had got this far round the course yet, although some were getting near. Dylan could hear them shouting encouragement at each other.

  ‘Tosser!’

  ‘Twat! Call that a shot?’

  There was much worse, and Dylan was surprised. While he had always thought golf was boring, he had at least imagined it was civilised.

  They worked, as usual, in silence for some time. Then Dan paused and leaned on the mower. ‘So,’ he said, shooting Dylan a glance from the depths of his recessed brows. ‘What you going to do about it?’

  ‘About what?’ Dylan looked at his mowing. Admittedly, it wasn’t textbook. The ancient machine either gouged up the grass or slid over it without touching.

  ‘That blonde.’

  ‘What blonde?’

  Perhaps he had said it too quickly. Dan’s tanned and massive forehead creased quizzically. ‘I don’t know how many blondes you’ve met lately. But the one I mean’s the one in the garden. Yesterday. With the old bloke.’

  Dylan surrendered. ‘What should I do?’

  Dan shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘Something. She thinks you’re a hero, mate.’

  ‘It was a joint effort,’ Dylan said. Yet he could feel, again, the great energy flashing through his hand. And, beneath it, the old heart starting again. Amazing.

  ‘Whatever. Get in there. Make hay while the sun shines.’

  ‘I don’t want to get in there,’ Dylan said primly.

  Dan stared. ‘Why not? She’s bloody gorgeous.’

  ‘Is she?’

  Dan cackled. ‘Come on. You can’t fool me. I saw her give you that look, and I saw you give ’er a look back an’ all.’

  ‘But she hates me,’ Dylan sighed.

  ‘They say it’s a thin line, mate.’

  CHAPTER 39

  George was in a small room by himself, propped up in a bed with barriers on each side. The plastic mask was no longer attached to his face, but he remained hooked up to a bank of machines. Wires spilled out of them, some going into George under pieces of tape fixed to his skin.

  On the other side, a television was suspended from an overhead swivel stand. It was not on. The old man’s eyes were closed. But he was not asleep; the jutting brows were moving, and he was muttering. Nell couldn’t make out the words. She leaned over.

  ‘Mr Farley?’

  The voice was a woman’s, low and soft. It entered the old man’s troubled consciousness. Was it his wife? He opened his eyes slowly.

  A pair of blue eyes were looking into his and blonde hair hung around her pale face. ‘Edwina?’

  Edwina! A hot, prickly feeling rushed through Nell. She realised now why the woman in the photo on the old man’s wall had seemed familiar. Did she not glimpse her, daily, in the mirror?

  The reason he had gripped her hand so hard was now clear too. Mr Farley thought she was his wife.

  Nell sat down hard and sudden on the plastic chair at the bedside. That day in the garden, he must have really believed Edwina had come back from the dead. That all that talking to her grave had finally raised her from it.

  Did that mean, Nell wondered, pushing the thought to its logical conclusion, that she had actually caused George Farley’s heart attack? Had the shock of seeing her, of thinking her his wife, almost killed him?

  What an awful responsibility! What unhappy, one-in-a-million coincidence could have made this happen? The same bad luck, of course, that seemed to dog her everywhere these days. This poor old man was the latest victim of the disaster and destruction she wrought wherever she went.

  ‘You all right, love?’ The friendly nurse from the night before stood before her.

  Nell shook her head and explained what had just happened.

  The nurse regarded her steadily. Then she walked off, out of the room. The gesture confirmed Nell’s worst fears about her own culpability. She sat on at the old man’s bedside, sadly regarding the old body propped upon the pillows, empty hands roped with veins spread on the covers; green hospital gown tied at his wrinkled neck.

  George’s eyes were closed and sunk in thin folds below jutting brows. They were still dark, as they must have been when he was young. As Edwina would have known them, when they first met.

  ‘Here she is, doctor.’ It was the nurse’s voice. Nell now looked up to see a tall man standing in the doorway and looking at her testily. He had cropped grey hair, very clean glasses and, it seemed, not very much time. ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said shortly. ‘Jasjit here tells me that you think you caused this old gentleman’s heart attack.’

  Nell nodded. Her primary emotion remained guilt, but there was something about the doctor that made her feel silly as well.

  ‘Well, you didn’t,’ the doctor stated. ‘I won’t go into the medical reasons, I haven’t got time. But if you want to see my secretary, make an appointment.’

  And with that he was gone.

  ‘So there you have it,’ twinkled Jasjit. ‘Not guilty, your honour.’ She bent over and squeezed the old man’s papery hand. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, George, love? Doing well. Promote you to the general ward soon, won’t we?’

  ‘Has his family visited?’ Nell asked. The key to the old man’s cottage was in the front pocket of her handbag. Now that the burden of responsibility for his condition had been lifted, she wanted to hand this lesser burden over too.

  The nurse pulled a face and she shook her head. ‘No, no one else has come.’ She added that George Farley seemed to have no relations. There were none on his records and he hadn’t had a mobile phone, which was how they usually informed people.

  ‘Maybe there’s one in his house,’ Nell suggested. ‘Or an address book or something. I could
go and look.’

  Returning to the wreck of Beggar’s Roost would not be fun. But it would be a whole lot less heart-sinking now. Julie’s husband and his team were about to start.

  ‘She could go in the morning, before work,’ Nell decided. Then, if she visited George again tomorrow, she could bring what she had found. She looked up at the nurse, who was adjusting the machinery by the bed. ‘Will he be ready to go home soon?’

  ‘Difficult to say.’ Jasjit finished her fiddling, then bent over the old man. ‘Bye, love. I’ve got to go now but I’ll be back to check on you later. Shepherd’s pie for dinner. Your favourite!’

  The room felt empty without the friendly presence of the nurse. The machinery hummed and beeped. Nell looked around the pale yellow walls, and at the view out of the window. When she looked back at the old man his eyes had opened and he was staring at her. But it was immediately obvious that he no longer thought she was his wife. The adoration had gone. This stare was cautious, even suspicious.

  ‘Who are you?’ His voice was gravelly, phlegmy. He cleared his throat.

  Nell gave him her best reassuring smile. ‘I’m your new neighbour.’

  The eyes blazed with alarm, as if the word had bad associations. ‘New neighbour,’ Nell repeated. ‘The Downers have gone, remember?’

  She was pleased to see the fear fade from his expression. ‘I’m looking after your garden,’ Nell added, as the idea came into her head.

  This word obviously meant something very different. The old face smiled.

  ‘For the time being,’ Nell added. ‘Until your family come.’

  The old brow gathered in puzzled lines. The lips moved, as if trying to find the words. He murmured something, and Nell bent forward. ‘Say that again?’ she asked kindly. ‘Didn’t quite catch it.’

  ‘Don’t have a family,’ said Mr Farley.

  Nell sat back. She thought of the key in her bag. Who would she give it to now?

  The old chest beneath the hospital gown rose and fell. ‘We never had children, Edwina and me. It were the great sorrow of her life.’ The old man sighed again, a rasping breath. ‘Aye, it were. Nowt to be done about it, though.’

  Nell bit her lip. There were greater difficulties and tragedies in the world than her own, than any she could ever know. ‘Tell me about Edwina,’ she said impulsively.

  She was curious about this woman she so strongly resembled; who had inspired, and continued to inspire, such devotion.

  But as the large old head with the rumpled white hair turned away, she feared she had said the wrong thing. Perhaps the subject was too sensitive. Or personal; George was, after all, from a more private and circumspect generation.

  But no, he was speaking. Talking in his soft northern burr, apparently to himself. Lying on his back, his words were directed upwards rather than at anyone in particular. Nell bent forward. What was George saying?

  ‘I knew I wanted to marry her, straight away.’ His voice was low, but audible. ‘Soon as I met her, I knew. She knew, an’ all. We were both only eighteen, but we knew all right.’

  It was surprisingly easy to imagine the sick and ancient figure before her as an ardent young man fired with romantic determination. Nell blinked her suddenly swimming eyes.

  ‘We just had to persuade everyone else,’ George went on. He was now turning his head towards her, smiling. ‘My family were fine about it. It were hers that were the problem.’

  ‘Why?’

  The old man chuckled. ‘It would have been easy enough if she’d been an ordinary girl. Everyone wanted a uniform on their arm. But Edwina’s family were the sort who would only want particular types of uniform.’ He paused, and coughed.

  ‘They were very posh, you know. The Harringtons.’ He gave the name a comic emphasis and his mouth stretched in a roguish grin.

  Nell bent further forward. ‘So how did you persuade them? The Harringtons?’

  Because, self-evidently, he had. Had it been an impassioned speech? A brave act? A stroke of luck?

  Talking seemed to have been too much for the old man, however. His eyes were closed now. His breathing was regular. He seemed to be asleep.

  Nell patted the old hand. ‘I’m going now. I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Not least, she thought as she left, because she wanted to hear the next part of the story.

  Outside, behind the nurses’ station, Jasjit was laughing with a colleague. As Nell passed, she stopped. ‘Hang on a minute, love. Want a word with you.’

  Nell waited obediently. ‘Just to remind you about going to his house,’ the nurse went on. ‘To get his mobile or whatever.’

  ‘Actually, there’s no point. He told me that he doesn’t have any family.’

  Nell had imagined that the nurse would be surprised, but Jasjit looked rather as if she had expected this. ‘Another one,’ she said.

  ‘Another what?’

  ‘Lonely old person. It’s a real epidemic. I worry about them, I really do.’ The nurse shook her head sorrowfully, her big brown eyes troubled. ‘But you could go into his house anyway, get him a few things, couldn’t you?’

  ‘What things?’ Nell asked cagily. She had vaguely assumed that now there was no family, some hospital official would take responsibility. Perhaps even ask for the cottage key.

  ‘Well, pyjamas, so he doesn’t have to wear those horrible gowns. Some clothes, and maybe a photo or two. Make him feel a bit more at home.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Well, that wasn’t too onerous. Nell nodded. ‘OK.’

  She began to walk away. The nurse’s voice stopped her, however.

  ‘Ooh, and one other thing.’

  Nell turned.

  ‘Have you seen that dishy bloke again? The one who rescued George?’

  Nell was annoyed to find herself blushing furiously. She had been trying not to think about it, but the glance that had passed between herself and Adam Greenleaf had been endlessly replaying in the back of her mind. ‘No.’

  CHAPTER 40

  At the exact same moment Caradoc Turner sat in the dressing room of the Festival Theatre, Tunbridge Wells. It wasn’t especially festive, but he hadn’t expected it to be. Six months of touring provincial playhouses had left him with a morbid appreciation of the distance between such names and the grim reality. The Grand, Ipswich, wasn’t all that grand, and what sort of Royal thought the theatres bearing that adjective deserved the name was anyone’s guess.

  But perhaps these old-fashioned statements of civic overconfidence were better than names like the Congress, Eastbourne, which had got Gilly all fired up with its overtones of sexual permissiveness. On the other hand, it was at the Churchill, Malvern, with its resolute, spine-stiffening associations, that he’d managed conclusively to fend her off.

  Caradoc stuck on his Pierrot moustache and winced as the nylon bristles pressed down on the sores. Only one more night to go, thank God.

  People often said how fascinating it must be to see so many different towns. But people, Caradoc thought, should get out more. If they did they would see that it was anything but fascinating; these towns were all absolutely the same. Especially in the rain, which there had been an inordinate amount of. There had been a lot of black clouds doing the same tour as them.

  Leeds. Aberdeen. Bath. Dublin. Cambridge. Newcastle. Blackpool. Ring roads on the outside and multi-storeys on the inside. And boxy glass buildings – flats, offices, whatever – which made everywhere from Swindon to Sheffield look the same. Small wonder they had all blended into one in his memory. The theatres had too, apart from what was really important about each of them. Caradoc knew the locations of the fridges, microwaves and toilets in every provincial playhouse in the country.

  He was quite desperate now to get home and see his wife. Tomorrow she would be in his arms. At last he would be able to introduce her to love’s pleasures.
Awaken her dormant sensuality as the kiss of the handsome prince had woken the Sleeping Beauty. Make her his and introduce her to all she had been missing. All he had been missing too. After all these long months of waiting it made him ache to think about it.

  Caradoc stood up, turned side on and regarded himself in the mirror, sucking his tummy in hard. OK, so no one could accuse him of being tall. But from certain angles and in certain lights, he still looked young. Agile, strong – and more than capable of satisfying a young wife.

  He hoped Juliet was looking forward to it too, but it was difficult to be sure. She was more elusive than ever; last night the phone had rung and rung before, eventually, she’d answered sounding quite out of breath. She’d been in the garden, she said.

  The thought of her out there left Caradoc feeling unhinged. He was almost as obsessed with the fatal potential of the Birch Hall garden as with finally possessing his wife. Reiterating the dangers of all its poisonous plants every night in Murderous Death left him in a frenzy of anxiety by the end. His dreams were a disturbing melange of wild sex and agonising death. He hadn’t slept an entire night for weeks.

  But then, nor had anyone else. The quality of the digs they’d stayed in had been even lower than he’d been led to expect. The nicest places had been snapped up by Gilly and Pete, who were old hands on national tours, while this was Caradoc’s first. Old hands had certainly been the word, especially with some of the friskier elderly landladies. It had been a baptism of fire, although in that sense only. Some of the rooms had been so cold and basic that the pee in his chamber pot had frozen overnight. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. But he had definitely wished on countless occasions that he’d taken his agent’s advice to bring his own pillow.

  Never again, Caradoc thought. Nevermore, like that raven in the poem. He wouldn’t miss anything about this bloody tour. He certainly wouldn’t miss the cast. If he ever saw Gilly and Pete again it would be too soon and as for the others, it was difficult to know which of them he disliked most.

  Actually, it wasn’t. He didn’t like Gary Burley, who played Strangle the gamekeeper and had been in a muscly ITV drama called Squaddie. But Burley was not the main focus of his loathing, for all he kept farting in the cast minibus and then denying it. Nor was the equally disliked Simon Fey, who played floppy-haired Bertie Spiffing and hailed from that arena of uncertain sexual orientation known as children’s TV. Caradoc hadn’t liked the unbearably boring Marmaduke Grey either, who played Curate Segg. He had spent years in Heartbeat and talked about Nick Berry as other people talked about Robert de Niro.

 

‹ Prev