‘But of course … of course, you have your job to do, and so you must talk to the constable for yourself, dear. But I’ve been all over the house with him—the constable thought the burglar didn’t have very long in the house, because Mr Rodgers was cutting up the elm in the home pasture, and he came back to the workshop to get the bushman-saw at 9.15—the constable thinks the burglar saw him coming, and that scared him off…’
Nannie piled non-event on non-event in an attempt to reassure the young Widow Fitzgibbon that there really was nothing to worry about in Brookside House, banking up the coals-of-fire on the widow’s head.
‘Thank you, Nannie.’
‘The Colonel could come back tonight. He does try to be here as often as possible, you know … though as tomorrow is the llth he’ll be off early if he does come—‘
The telephone on the desk pealed out, cutting her off in mid-flow to Frances’s overwhelming relief.
‘I’ll take it—‘ Frances was halfway to the desk before Nannie could react.
She lifted the receiver.
‘Is that you, Bessie?’ said a voice quickly.
Frances glanced down at the number. ‘Wilton Green 326.’
‘Sally?’ The voice sounded surprised. ‘Is that Sally?’
Sally?
Sally equals Sarah—equals Sarah Butler, bom 1961.
‘Hold on a moment.’ Frances looked at Nannie. ‘I think it’s for you, Nannie … Who is that speaking, please?’
‘Hullo?’ The voice, which had been excited before it had become surprised, now became dauntingly well-bred. ‘This is the Matron of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home.
If that is Wilton Green 326—3-2-6—may I speak with Mrs Elizabeth Hooker, please?’
All that was a far cry from Is that you, Bessie? But it was the right cry, nevertheless.
‘It’s the Matron of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home, Nannie.’
‘Oh … yes.’ Nannie took the receiver from her. ‘Don’t go, dear—it’s a friend of mine.’
Frances estimated the distance between the desk and the door and the phone in the hall, and the time needed to get from one to the other.
‘I’ll wait outside, Nannie.’
As Nannie put the phone to her ear she stepped out smartly towards the door.
‘Don’t go—there’s no need to go—‘
She reached the door, and then turned back to Nannie. ‘It’s all right—I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’
That was five seconds gained—and add another five seconds for Nannie’s embarrassment. Then, close the door and subtract five seconds for the time it took to reach the table at the foot of the staircase.
Click.
Frances found herself looking at herself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs as she lifted the phone.
Would Nannie know what that click signified?
‘Are you there, Muriel—hullo?’
The mirror at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Bessie—hullo, is that you, Bessie?’
* * *
I heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, as though he was thinking—or as though he was looking at himself in the mirror there—
* * *
‘—quite awful. And the police traipsing round makes it worse, because I’m sure they’ll never catch anyone -‘
Sod it! She was missing the dialogue!
‘How absolutely beastly for you, dear. And are they still there? The police, I mean?
Because that wasn’t Sally who answered the phone, was it?’
‘No, dear. Sally’s still at school, she doesn’t know anything about it yet, neither does Jane. It all happened after I took them to school this morning, while I was in the village.’
‘I didn’t think it was Sally … Did they take anything?’
‘The children’s christening mugs, and the clock in the lounge. And my radio from the kitchen … nothing important… the police think Rodgers may have disturbed them.’
‘Rodgers saw them?’
‘No. Disturbed them. No one saw anything.’
‘That wasn’t Mrs Rodgers on the phone, was it?’
‘No.’
‘It wasn’t Mrs Rodgers?’
‘No. She’s never here on a Thursday.’
‘I didn’t think it was Mrs Rodgers. Who was it?’
There was a pause while Nannie considered how to deal with her friend’s curiosity.
‘It was a policewoman. Why do you want to know, Muriel?’
‘Oh…’ Muriel sounded disappointed. Then she perked up. ‘Is she staying with you, Bessie?’
‘Staying with me?’ Nannie was clearly mystified. ‘Why should she stay with me?’
‘Well… with the Colonel away…’ Another thought occurred to Muriel. ‘Or is he coming back now, after the robbery?’
‘Is he -?’ Nannie graduated from mystification to suspicion. ‘Muriel, why are you phoning me? What’s the matter?’
Now it was coming, thought Frances. The trouble was that Muriel—Matron Prebble—was a lot less formidable than she’d bargained for.
‘Look, Bessie—‘ The voice hardened: it was less like Muriel and more like Matron Prebble, thank God! ‘—something important has come up … I hardly know how to put it to you, with what’s happened, my dear, but it truly is important. In fact, it’s a life-line, the one we’ve been praying for, Bessie.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just had a call from Sir Archibald Havergal -‘
‘Who?’
‘Sir-Archibald-Havergal. He’s chairman of the grants committee of the Ryle Foundation, my dear—enormously rich—‘
All the perfumes of Arabia—the Ryle millions and the smell of oil—were enough to sweeten almost any hand. But were they enough to sweeten Nannie’s?
‘We’re in line for a grant, Bessie dear—a big one! We’d have to take some post-operative recuperation patients from the Middle East, of course … but that would be no problem, we could have a new wing for them. And the work we could do for the elderly—it’s what we’ve prayed for.’
‘That’s wonderful news, Muriel!’ exclaimed Nannie.
‘I’ve got to go to London as soon as possible—this very afternoon. If I phone back directly they’ll send a car for me. I’m to meet Sir Archibald and a representative of the United Gulf Emirates at a hotel—an hotel. And they want me to stay the night to sign the papers in the morning. They even want Mr Roynton of the solicitors to come up with me, he’s to stay the night, too. All paid for by the Foundation.’
Nannie said nothing to that, even though Muriel waited desperately for her to react.
‘I’ve tried everyone, Bessie. Mrs McGuffin can’t. And Matron at St. Elfrida’s can’t.
And the Cottage Hospital can’t supply anyone until tomorrow morning. You’ve just got to come, my dear—I can’t leave everything to Gloria, she’s not nearly up to it. She’d panic at the first emergency. You’ve got to come—at least until 9 o’clock tomorrow, when Sister Bellamy says she can be here.’
Nannie was thinking now—Frances could hear her thinking. And she was thinking ‘no’, and that had to be prevented from reaching her tongue, at all.
She ran back to the library door, tiptoe on tiptoe, skidding dangerously on the polish, grabbing the door-handle for safety.
‘Finished, Nannie?’ She just managed to catch her breath.
Nannie frowned at her distractedly.
‘Er … no, dear.’
‘Trouble?’ She didn’t have to be the Department’s hot little female property. Sir Frederick’s Four-out-of-Ten girl, to chance that insight: it was written all over Nannie Hooker’s face.
‘What’s the problem?’ There was no time for delicacy. ‘Can I help?’
Nannie held the receiver against her corseted chest. ‘No, dear. A friend of mine wants me to … to help her. But of course it’s out of the question.’
‘Help her how?’ Frances advanced towards her, all interested innocence.
/> There was nowhere for Nannie to go: she was trapped at both ends of the telephone.
‘She wants me to … to look after her nursing home tonight. It’s what I normally do for her one day every week, and one night. But I can’t do it tonight—‘ she started to lift the receiver to her mouth.
‘Is it important?’ Frances persisted.
Nannie nodded, suddenly irresolute. She knew what was coming, Frances sensed.
‘Then of course you can help her. I can stay for the children—‘ Frances sprang under her guard ‘—I’d love to—and I can stay the night, too—no problem. I haven’t got to be anywhere until midday tomorrow, no one’s waiting for me … And if the Colonel comes back I can report to him, it’ll actually save me a lot of trouble—‘
That was a mistake: Nannie wouldn’t approve of doing the right thing for the wrong reason. She had to make it an appeal, not just a convenient duty offered, but also an act of kindness to her.
‘Please. I’d much rather look after the children than go back home … to a cold home.’
Good one, Frances! Lonely little Widow Fitzgibbon.
‘And I do like children, Nannie—‘
Another good one.
‘I can even cook, you know. All you have to do is to tell me what their favourite supper is—I’d so enjoy cooking for someone again.’
She was even beginning to convince herself, even though she hated cooking. The phone in Nannie’s hand chuntered impotently. Nannie raised it to her mouth without taking her eyes off Frances. ‘Hold on a moment, Muriel.’
‘It would be an adventure for them, too. Getting used to me, it would take their minds off the robbery, Nannie.’ Frances nodded. ‘What time do they get back from school?’
‘A quarter past six,’ replied Nannie automatically.
If they didn’t like anything too elaborate that would still leave her enough time, thought Frances. And, for a guess, they probably preferred a quick fry-up anyway—bangers and beans, or bacon and eggs—and she could manage that. ‘What do they like?’
The corner of Nannie’s mouth lifted. And pancakes to follow. The entire human race liked pancakes; and they were not only a treat, they were easy to produce—even Robbie had never faulted her pancakes.
Nannie was still observing her closely, and suddenly Frances knew that Nannie was almost listening in to the menus which were running through her brain.
‘What do they like, Nannie?’ The phone came up again. ‘Muriel—‘
* * *
Detective-Inspector Turnbull left at five to three.
(Detective-Inspector Turnbull had decided that it was a routine job, a quick in-andout semi-professionally executed by a borstal graduate with more technical skill than intelligence, whom they would pick up sooner or later asking for thirty-seven other offences to be taken into consideration, and who would be patted on the head by the judge, given five pounds out of the poor box and told not to be a naughty boy again, and who would promptly do it again since it was more fun than working and a useful addition to the unemployment benefit; but Detective-Inspector Turnbull was also relieved that Mrs Fitzgibbon agreed with him instantly, with no awkward questions and an equally quick signature on the release, and he was happy to leave Detective-Sergeant Geddes to deal with that and to do anything else Mrs Fitzgibbon required, no matter what.)
* * *
And Nannie left at ten past three in her uniform, half excited for the gold future of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home, but still half worried about leaving her charges to Widow Fitzgibbon, and consequently also leaving very precise instructions to the Widow—
(‘Jane can watch the Nine O’Clock News on BBC-1, if she wishes to, in her dressing gown—the Colonel likes them both to keep up with world affairs. And Sally can watch the first half—the first half only—of the ITV news at ten o’clock … And don’t take any argument from either of them, dear. Tell them that you know the rules, they are good girls really, so you won’t have any trouble with them, but they will argue—‘)—and a letter conferring her power-of-attorney on the Widow, pending her return or the return of their father, whichever might be the earlier.
(‘I’ll mention the Colonel, dear, that will give them something to think about, so they won’t play you up—they are good girls, but they are half-way between being girls and being young women, and that can be awkward, believe me.’)
* * *
And Detective-Sergeant Geddes left at quarter past three, with his release signed and sealed in its envelope (For the attention of the Chief Constable ready-typed on the latter).
(‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs Fitzgibbon?’) (‘Yes, Mr Geddes. There’s a Chinese take-away restaurant on the edge of town, a new one opened about two months ago.’ The Widow Fitzgibbon consulted the price-card Nannie had given her. ‘The Wango-Ho, in Botley Street…) (‘Here’s seven pounds, Mr Geddes. I’d like two sweet-and-sour pork, one chicken-and-almonds, and one beef-and-green-peppers. Plus three portions of rice—two fried and one boiled—and three spring rolls. And I would like it delivered here at 6.30 sharp this evening—if there’s any change, put it in the police charities’ box.’)
* * *
Twenty past three.
The sound of Detective-Sergeant Geddes’ car had faded away. Rodgers, the house-horse-and-garden handyman, who so fortunately hadn’t seen anything this morning, had faded away too.
(‘Three o’clock is his time on a Thursday, dear. But if you’d rather not be alone I can ask him to stay on, and I’m sure he will—I can stop by Mrs Rodgers’ cottage and leave a message to say that he’ll be late home … Thursday is her day at the Vicarage, but I can give the message to the woman next door.’)
(‘No, Nannie, it’s quite all right. I don’t mind being alone, it doesn’t worry me.’)
* * *
It was still not absolutely quiet in Brookside House: she could hear the distant rumble of the central heating boiler.
That at least had been the truth: she didn’t mind being alone—even if it hadn’t been necessary she wouldn’t have minded it, it wouldn’t have worried her. Aloneness was now her natural habitat, whether she was by herself or in a crowd. Originally she had set herself to get used to it. Then she had become accustomed to it. And now she preferred it.
The boiler stopped, and its echoes quickly died away.
Frances stood in the middle of the empty hall and listened to the silence begin, waiting for it to reassure her.
She imagined it forming in the top of the house, where at the noisiest of times there would always be a secret yeast of it, ready to grow the moment the front door slammed shut. From there it would seep down, from floor to floor and room to room, until it had filled every last corner.
Roof space, carefully lagged (Colonel Butler’s house would be carefully lagged); attics and box-rooms; bedrooms one by one, master bedroom (there would be one single bed), children’s bedrooms, guest bedrooms, Nannie’s self-contained flat; bathrooms and dressing rooms and lavatories; then down the staircase, tread by tread, into the hall, into the breakfast-room and the dining room, and the kitchen and the pantry and the laundry room; into the library, curling round the desk; into the playroom and the study room; into the television room, into the sitting room, into the conservatory (how a conservatory fitted into Hollywood mock-Tudor remained to be seen, but a conservatory there was, nevertheless).
Now she could hear it all around her. The house was ready for her at last.
CHAPTER 10
‘IF I WAS your mother, Jane,’ said Frances deliberately, coldly seizing her opportunity, ‘I would say that you’ve just put a great deal too much in your mouth.’
Jane attempted for a moment to manipulate her spring roll, which was collapsing greasily down her chin.
‘If … if you were my mother—oops!—‘ A tangle of bean sprouts dropped out of the roll on to the spectacular mound of sweet-and-sour-pork, chicken-and-almonds and beef-and-green-peppers which Jane had arranged in an enormous
crater of rice ‘—if you were my mother, then you would have been ten when Father married you—no, ten when you had me … and eight when you had Sally, and six when you had Di. Which, according to the sex talks Baggers gives us at school, is just not on.’
‘No.’ Sally raised an elegant morsel on her chopsticks. ‘She’s about twenty-eight. She could just have had you—if she was exceptionally unlucky.’
Frances wondered whether that unlucky was a purely biological judgement, or whether Sally-was referring specifically to her sister. At the great age of seventeen Sally Butler handled her chopsticks like a Chinaman and was too clever by half, or maybe by three-quarters. Fortunately for the human race—the male half of it, anyway—she was also homely and horsey, apart from the superb hair; but to have been beautiful and that smart would have been unfair on both her and mankind, the contest would have been totally one-sided.
‘Twenty-eight?’ Jane examined Frances with the appraising eye of a second-hand car dealer. ‘Yes, I suppose you could be right at that.’
Frances felt the need to keep her end up, to join them if she couldn’t beat them. ‘And that would make Sally your step-sister,’ she observed. Mother would have to wait for another opportunity.
‘And that wouldn’t be bad, either,’ said Jane, who was obviously accustomed both to her elder sister’s accuracy in guessing ages and also to the need to keep her own end up also. ‘Are you really as old as that? You don’t look it, you know, Frances.’
‘I don’t think I could be your mother, quite,’ Frances parried the question. Not that I wouldn’t like to be, she thought quickly. At fifteen Jane was beginning to lose her puppy-fat and to exhibit the red-gold beauty of her eldest sister, if the portrait in the master-bedroom hadn’t lied.
In fact, where Sally had diverged from the mould somewhere along the line to become a true Butler daughter, Jane might well end up more like Madeleine Francoise than the fabled Diana.
Sally stared at her for an instant, catching her in the act of projecting her sister’s face into the future.
‘You know about our mother, don’t you?’ Sally selected a sweet-and-sour pork ball from its fellows. ‘It’ll all be in Father’s print-out, of course.’
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