Inside the house, to be precise in the kitchen doorway, the quarry stood, motionless, head resting on the painted white wooden frame. On the point of entering the hall when his visitor first knocked, Alan Hollingsworth had frozen on the spot, staring at the panel of thick, wavily patterned glass through which the vicar’s distorted figure could be seen but not recognised.
Alan closed his eyes and moaned silently. The seconds passed, marked by the soft whirring of a grandmother clock in the dining room and the strained beating of his heart. He cursed himself for not putting the car away. Weeks—no, years passed. Whoever it was still stood there.
The ridiculousness of his position and the impossibility of maintaining it indefinitely filled him with humiliation and distress. He knew that, even if whoever it was out there gave up, someone else would sooner or later take their place. Villages were like that. People were always calling round collecting or stuffing leaflets through the letter box or asking you to sign petitions. Even though he had remained pointedly uninvolved in the day-to-day life of Fawcett Green, no one escaped entirely. Eventually neighbours, receiving neither sight nor sound of the inhabitants of Nightingales, would start to wonder if they were still in situ. If they were “all right.” Someone might even call the police. A cold sweat broke over Alan’s face and vile-tasting liquid surged into his throat.
The tapping started again.
Telling himself that the first time would be the worst and the quicker he got it over the better, he turned his head and called, “Coming.”
The vicar fixed an expression of concern to his face. An expression he had no trouble whatsoever maintaining when the door was finally opened, for Hollingsworth looked quite dreadful. His face was pale, the skin sheened with moisture as if he had just completed a vigorous workout. His eyes stared wildly and he was frowning; struggling to remember where he had seen the man facing him before. His tangled hair stood on end as if he had been tugging at it. When he spoke his voice was loud and he seemed to have trouble breathing normally. This resulted in his sentences being oddly punctuated.
“Ah Vicar it’s. You.”
Agreeing politely that it was indeed him, the Reverend Bream took Hollingsworth’s involuntary step backwards as an invitation to enter and was on the hall carpet in a twinkling. He asked if all was well.
“We were a little worried when Simone didn’t come to practice,” he elaborated. “And I’m really calling to tell her not to bother about the funeral tomorrow.”
“Funeral?”
“Two o’clock.” The vicar became increasingly concerned. The man looked almost demented. “Are you quite well, Mr. Hollingsworth? You look as if you’ve had rather a shock.”
“No, no. Everything’s.” The rest of the sentence seemed either to escape or defeat him. He glanced aside, rather longingly, it seemed to the vicar, at the now wide open front door. But the Reverend Bream, faced with an obviously deeply distressed parishioner, was nothing if not aware of his duty.
“May I?” he inquired and, without waiting for a reply, sailed into the Viennese pastry of a living room. He lowered his ample rear on to a heap of heart-shaped satin cushions, slid off and replaced himself more securely. He then turned a determinedly benign smile on Hollingsworth who had reluctantly followed him in.
“Now, Alan,” said the vicar, “if I may call you that?” His kindly glance was momentarily distracted by the sight of a splendid silver tray holding two cut-glass decanters and several bottles including a Jack Daniels, nearly full, and a Bushmills, half empty. There was no way, on his stipend, the vicar could afford either of these splendid beverages. He heaved himself upright again saying, “You look as if you could do with a drink. Perhaps I could—”
“Simone’s. Don’t worry I’ll pass. The message.”
“She isn’t here then?”
“No. Her mother.” Hollingsworth shook his head and made a despairing gesture with his palms upturned.
“I’m so sorry.” The vicar gave up all hope of the Jack Daniels. Even lusting after it now struck him as slightly improper. “I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
“A stroke.” Alan said this without thinking but immediately recognised it as an invention of genius. Unlike other illnesses, where one either got better or worse, strokes could incapacitate indefinitely, engendering a more or less permanent need for attention. So if the worse came to the worst. The very, very worst . . .
“Oh dear.” The vicar reprised his condolences and made a move to leave. For the first time since he had answered the door, Hollingsworth’s face relaxed slightly. Relief would be too strong a word. Just a small decrease in wariness and tension.
“Does she live far away?” asked the Reverend Bream.
“Wales,” said Alan. “The Midlands.”
“That’s not so bad,” said the vicar. “Perhaps you’ll be able—”
“I don’t. Think so business.”
“Of course.” The Reverend Bream nodded understandingly while trying to recall what Hollingsworth’s business actually was. Something to do with computers. The vicar’s brain turned to custard at the very thought. One of his flock had recently presented St. Chad’s with a second-hand machine on to which had been transferred every scrap of data relating to parish matters. Now the vicar could not even find his verger’s phone number. He had thought the dark night of the soul a mere metaphysical concept until pitched into its shadows by the demon Amstrad.
Now, with one foot on the front step, the thought struck him that Evadne, once advised of this present set-up, would chide him for not extending a supper invitation. He mumbled something along the lines of “cold collation” and “stretching to three.”
Much to his relief, for he had spotted the game pie in the larder at tea time and thought it a very small one, Hollingsworth immediately declined.
“Freezer. Full,” he said and closed the door before his visitor was properly outside.
Walking away, the Reverend Bream turned and looked behind him. Alan Hollingsworth was resting against the wavy glass panel. As the vicar watched, the dark shape, its outline shimmering as if beneath deep water, gradually started to slip and slide downwards until, within a matter of seconds, the man was slumped on the floor.
“The vicar’s just called at Nightingales.”
Iris Brockley, her nostrils satisfactorily filled with the rich smell of Windowlene, bent a frilled net curtain rigid with starch to the side and took a discreet step backwards. When it came to surveillance, Iris could have given tips to the FBI.
“Does he have a collecting tin?”
“No.”
“That’s all right then.”
Iris lifted her husband’s cup and wiped the saucer where the spoon had made a mark, wiped the spoon, wiped the plastic tray hooked over the arm of his chair and replaced the flowered, gold-rimmed crockery. Then she perched on the edge of the pale green Dralon stool attached to the knee-high telephone table. The darker green piping pressed into the back of her plump thighs.
“I wonder what he wanted.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t begin to comprehend.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong, Reg.”
“Won’t be our business if there is.” Mr. Brockley closed the Daily Express, smoothed it front and back with the palm of his hand, folded it into a precise half and placed it in a bamboo rack by his feet.
“Have you finished with that?” Springing up when her husband nodded, Iris snatched the newspaper out again and disappeared to the kitchen.
Reg closed his eyes, waiting for the thwack of the pedal bin’s lid as it hit the wall and the clang as it fell back. When this had been followed by a cry of, “Get back into your basket please, madam!” he drained his tea, unclipped a pen from his breast pocket and opened the Radio Times. All of his movements were cramped. Completed almost before they began.
When Iris returned he was drawing three neat rings round their evening’s viewing: Question Time, May To December and The Travel Show. Not that the Brockley
s ever went anywhere. Leafy Bucks was good enough for them, thank you very much. But they enjoyed programmes about foreign climes, especially when the unfortunate tourists were stranded, struck down by some exotic virus, mugged or, best of all, asphyxiated in poorly ventilated hotel rooms.
Having replaced the magazine, Reg now stepped out through the French windows as he did every evening about this time in clement weather. He would perambulate around the garden, returning on the dot for the six o’clock news and the arrival, also on the dot (bar her late night) of their daughter Brenda.
It was a lovely evening. The soft, sweet air pressed against Reg’s plump cheeks and stiff little moustache. All he needed was a cherrywood pipe and copper-coloured spaniel and he could have stepped straight into a Metroland poster.
Next door’s clematis was climbing exuberantly over the trellis and trailing down the Brockleys’ side. Reg and Iris had had many weighty discussions about this beautiful plant but refrained from any direct comment. This would mean “getting involved,” which was out of the question. A comment about the weather, a tut or two regarding the increase in village vandalism, a brief, insincere compliment with respect to each other’s floral landscapes, this was the limit of the Hollingsworth/Brockley discourse.
A handle turned a few feet away and someone stepped on to the patio. From the weight of the footsteps, Reg guessed it must be Alan. Although present first, Reg immediately cast himself in the role of invisible eavesdropper. He stood very still, breathing silently through his mouth and hoping he wouldn’t need to swallow.
Hollingsworth started to call Nelson, the cat, in a voice that struck Reg as rather strange and croaky. As if he had a cold.
Reg tiptoed back into the house to pass this snippet of information on to Iris. She was as intrigued as he, for it was well known that Alan had paid the creature no mind since the day it arrived. It was Simone who had taken pity on the tabby kitten, found abandoned nearly a year ago. She who fed and brushed it, who cooed and whistled softly to persuade it home at the end of the day. The Brockleys were still discussing this unusual state of affairs when Brenda arrived.
As the dark brown Mini Metro slid past the kitchen window to park beneath the car port roof of corrugated plastic, Iris donned her frilly apron, got an M & S Welsh rarebit out of the freezer and switched on the microwave.
Iris and pre-prepared meals had been made for each other. Acutely aware of her duty as a wife and mother to put hot, appetising food on the table at regular intervals, she had struggled throughout her married life to do so. She washed superior cuts of meat (never offal) and gutted fish until the water ran clear. She forced herself to make pastry even though the fat got under her nails and no amount of scrubbing ever convinced her they did not always remain ever so slightly greasy.
Now, as she slid the little aluminium tray from its temptingly illustrated sleeve, she thought how very reassuring frozen comestibles were. Constrained beneath a glittery crust of sterile crystals, they did not leak or smell or ask to be in any way humanly dealt with but were quickly transformed, as if by magic, into comforting, tasty nourishment. Iris sliced a tomato for freshness and put the kettle on.
Brenda entered the house and ran swiftly upstairs. Her routine never varied. She would hang her coat in the wardrobe, tidy her hair then wash her hands. Shona, a white poodle tucked away in a wicker basket between the washing machine and the fridge, started to whine with happiness the moment this recognisable procedure began. As the toilet flushed, Iris warmed the pot and by the time her daughter came into the kitchen everything was ready.
Brenda ate very daintily. Small portions chewed with her lips closed as she had been taught from early childhood. Mr. Brockley regarded his offspring’s neat maroon skirt and jacket and white blouse with pride and thought how smart she looked. Her short brown hair was brushed neatly away from her face and a red and gold pin in her left lapel displayed her full name. Reg, who had never flown, thought she looked like an air hostess.
He and his wife often discussed their daughter’s future with respectful seriousness. A business career was all well and good but they were full of hopes that she would, fairly soon, marry a nice, respectable man. Living nearby she could then, at judiciously spaced intervals, present them with two nice, well-behaved grandchildren. They called it settling down though a disinterested observer might have got the impression that Brenda was already so firmly settled it would take a ton of dynamite to move her.
She was sitting now, little finger eloquently crooked, sipping tea and answering the customary questions about her day in copious detail. Brenda knew how much her mother—and father, too, now that he had retired—anticipated this daily exposure to the hurly burly of high finance.
“Then to top it all Hazel Grantley, from Accounts, chimed in. As she always does, given half a chance. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘that interest was miscalculated. Machines don’t make mistakes.’ ” Brenda licked the tip of her finger and dotted up a final crumb of toast. “No one gets on with her.”
“You said.”
“Including her husband.” Brenda spoke with some satisfaction. Like many unhappy single people she relished tales of marital discord. “Then Janine, who was really upset by this time, came back with ‘Why not? They’re only human.’ Of course everyone laughed, upon which what should she do but burst into tears? And all this with a customer at the counter. I don’t know what Mr. Marchbanks would have said.”
“Wasn’t he there then?” inquired Iris.
“Dentist. Then no sooner had all this blown over when Jacqui Willing’s pen walked.”
“As per usual,” said Iris knowledgeably.
“Trish Travers from Personnel said she’d seen it in the toilet. Jacqui said she wasn’t so old she had to keep running in there every five minutes. Unlike some.” Brenda, having wrung every possible drop of drama from her day at the Coalport and National Building Society, now dabbed at the corners of her small mouth with an embroidered napkin.
Reg and Iris exchanged glances of arch complicity. Without conferring on the matter, neither had mentioned the unusual state of affairs next door, both believing the most toothsome morsel should be left till last. Now, as Brenda checked the time on her diamanté cocktail watch against the gingham plate on the kitchen wall, Reg cleared his throat and Iris underlined the importance of the moment by taking her pinny off. Brenda looked surprised when they both sat down at the table.
“Something’s happened next door, dear.”
“Next door?” Brenda was stacking her cup and saucer and plate together ready to take to the sink. There was a sudden clatter as they all rattled on the Formica.
Iris said, “Careful.”
“What sort of thing?” Brenda’s voice was dry. She gave a scrapy little cough before continuing, “Everything looked as usual when I drove by.”
“Mrs. Hollingsworth’s not there.”
“Simone?” Brenda started looking round the room. Darting glances accompanied by quick jerky movements of the head, like a bird looking for food. “Who told you that?”
To the Brockleys’ surprise their daughter got up, crossed over to the sink and turned on the hot tap. Brenda never washed up or even helped to clear away. It was not expected. There was the unspoken assumption that her contribution to the household’s expenses, or “keep” as Iris put it, not only covered her food but relieved her of all domestic duties. Apart from cleaning her room which no one could get into as it was permanently locked.
“I’ll do those, dear.”
“It’s all right.”
“At least put some gloves on.”
“So . . .” Brenda plunged her hands into a pyramid of iridescent bubbles and started clashing cutlery about before rephrasing her question. “Where did you hear that?”
“No one actually told us,” said Iris. Catching her husband’s eye, she was unable to conceal her anxiety. Brenda had gone very pale except for a bright flush across her cheekbones and was now sloshing about in the sink so vi
gorously that the sudsy water was splashing over the edge. “It was just something Daddy . . . um . . .”
“Deduced.”
“Yes, deduced.”
“You see, Brenda . . .” Reg frowned at the rigidly upright back and furiously working elbows. “Couldn’t you stop that for a second?”
“I’m listening.”
“There was a bell-ringing practice late this afternoon—and very unusual chimes they were too—but Simone couldn’t have turned up because I happened to be in the front garden when they finished and she didn’t come home.”
“Then the vicar—”
“All right, Iris.”
“Sorry, dear.”
“The Reverend Bream called at the house shortly after this and I think it reasonable to infer that he was inquiring about her absence. Not only was it a very long time indeed before the door was opened but he was no sooner in the place than out again. And then—”
“This is the best bit.”
“Alan came out into the back garden calling the cat.”
“Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If she wasn’t there to do it.” Brenda pulled the plug and dried her hands very vigorously on the tea towel. “I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Reg and Iris stared at each other in disappointment and dismay. There had been many an occasion when a mountain if not indeed a whole cloud-capped range had been made of detail not nearly so rich in dramatic potential. And Brenda had been the first to relish such discussions. But now she simply flung the cloth down, clicked her tongue in the direction of the dog and left the room. Shona, full of joy but with more sense than to express it by barking, leapt from her basket and trotted after. There was a breathing space when the Brockleys could hear the bell on the dog collar tinkling as her lead was attached. Then the front door slammed and they were gone.
Reg and Iris rushed to the picture window in the lounge and watched as the pair made their way down the drive. The poodle dancing and prancing, ecstatically exercising her vocal cords; Brenda walking carefully with neat, even steps. They hesitated briefly outside Nightingales before walking on into St. Chad’s Lane.
Faithful unto Death Page 2
