‘Andrew went to you as a friend, then?’ said Hilary. ‘Is that how you’d describe your relationship?’
Janet hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose so. We go back a long way, after all.’
‘Were you ever lovers?’
She reddened. ‘I don’t see what business that is of yours.’
‘It isn’t,’ Hilary admitted. ‘I’d just like to tie up the loose ends you left in your book. You weren’t in love with Andrew,’ were you?’
‘Certainly not. But if you must know – yes, we did eventually have a very brief affair.
‘I came back home for a visit, when I was in my first job in London, and I happened to meet Andy in Breckham Market. He insisted on buying me a meal, to make up for being so rotten to me when we were kids. We found that we liked each other’s company, particularly as we were both involved in unsatisfactory relationships at the time. There was no question of love. It just seemed the most natural thing in the world to get together. It was very satisfactory, too. We’d probably have remained lovers for some time, on and off, if Mum hadn’t interfered.’
‘What happened?’
‘She caught us in Andy’s car, parked in Longmire Lane. She’d been suspicious all weekend, and she was determined to find us. She was absolutely furious …’
‘Because she didn’t approve of him?’ asked Hilary. ‘Or because she felt guilty about the fling she’d had with American airmen in her own youth?’
Janet frowned, uncertain how to proceed. ‘Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I haven’t smoked for years, but it might help –’
Hilary found a packet, and a box of matches, in the table drawer. Janet lit a cigarette, drew on it, then grimaced and spluttered a protest. ‘God, it’s disgusting! No thanks, I’ll stick to being a non-smoker.’
She screwed out the cigarette on the ashtray, finding the words she wanted as she did so.
‘My real father wasn’t an American airman,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Dad told me so, before he died, simply because he knew I couldn’t have borne the truth. What Mum was raving about when she caught me and Andy was that we’re too closely related to be lovers. We’re brother and sister, you see. My real father was Ziggy Crackjaw.’
For a moment, Hilary was deprived of words.
‘Oh, no –’ she protested eventually.
‘It came as a nasty shock, I can tell you,’ said Janet ruefully. ‘D’you wonder I wanted to keep it from Gran Thacker? She’d have thrown Mum and me out on the street if ever she’d got to hear of it.’
‘Yes … Now I understand. But it really wasn’t a good idea to commit a criminal offence in order to be sure of your grandmother’s money. If you’re convicted, you’re going to find it very difficult to live down, in a small village like Byland.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried about what Byland thinks!’ said Janet, cheerful again. ‘I’m used to being disapproved of. Mum will be able to retire, that’s the main thing. She wants to stay in the village; in fact she’s already got her eye on one of Gran’s smaller properties. But I’m going to move out and start living.’
‘And if you’re given a prison sentence?’ warned Hilary.
‘I’ve taken that into account. I knew I was doing wrong, and I’m prepared for the consequences. As long as there’s time for me to sort things out for Mum first, I really don’t mind. After all, just think what rich material for a new book a prison sentence would give me …’
Janet Thacker paused, and met Hilary’s eyes. ‘Fiction, of course,’ she added with a twitch of amusement, ‘not autobiography.’
Chapter Nine
At home, later that day, Douglas Quantrill was anticipating trouble from his son.
Molly was out at work, doing the early evening shift on the reception desk at the town’s Health Centre. Peter had arrived home from Yarchester City College rather earlier than usual, having been given a lift instead of coming by train, and the two of them were alone together for the first time since Quantrill had had his accident with the walnut tree. Temporarily immobilized, he knew that he was a sitting target.
‘Hi, Dad. How’s the pore ol’leg?’
It was Peter’s ususal practice to ignore his father, unless of course there was something he wanted. Quantrill declined to be disarmed by the boy’s air of innocent solicitude. He muttered, ‘Fine, thanks,’ turned up the volume of the remote television control and pretended to be absorbed in a programme about the habits of ants.
‘Not watching this rubbish, are you?’ said Peter jovially. He switched the set off and then, mimicking his father to perfection, took a stand with his back to the fireplace and his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Don’t often get the chance of a father-and-son chat, do we? Might as well make the most of it.’
Quantrill tried a diversionary tactic, and asked who had provided the lift from Yarchester. When he heard that it was the father of Peter’s friend Matthew Pike he knew exactly what was coming; Pike senior was a smallholder, and the possessor of more than one chainsaw.
‘I happened to mention to him that somebody I know had had a bit of an argument with a fallen tree,’ said Peter, enjoying himself hugely. ‘Mr Pike said he wasn’t surprised. He says it’s always the way after trees are felled in a gale. He says idiots who know nothing about the job rush out and hire chainsaws, thinking they’re lumberjacks, and all they do is damage themselves.’
Quantrill hunched his shoulders and pretended he was somewhere else.
‘Mr Pike says it’s not just the chainsaws that are dangerous, either. You’ve gotter understand the trees themselves. Mr Pike says the stupidest thing anybody can do is to –’
But Quantrill had had enough.
‘Get out of here!’ he roared.
‘All right, I’m going,’ smirked Peter. ‘No need to lose your temper, Dad, just because you did something stupid and nearly killed yourself.’ He moved towards the door, with a grossly exaggerated limp in imitation of his father’s.
‘Out!’ Quantrill hollered, flinging a cushion at the boy’s head.
Such unfamiliar paternal levity took Peter completely by surprise. Rubbing his head in mock discomfort, he turned to stare at his father.
For a moment, the two of them exchanged self-conscious grins of acknowledgement, suggesting that honours might be even. Then Peter, reinforcing the hint of family affection, picked up the cushion and hurled it back.
Copyright
First published in 1992 by Constable
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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Copyright © Sheila Radley, 1992
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Cross My Heart and Hope to Die Page 25
