The Fields of Heaven

by Anne Weale

  Sam Mutford grinned, “You’ll be lucky!”

  His hair was shaggy but clean, and he had a brigand’s moustache drooping down at the sides of his mouth. Round his neck he wore a pink scarf pulled through a ring. Because he was fair and blue-eyed, he looked a cross between a Viking and a gypsy.

  “That news travelled fast,” said Imelda. “Where did you hear it?”

  “I live around here.”

  “You’re a dealer?”

  “I’m making a start. My dad’s in the scrap business, but I’m in the general line. So if there’s anything you want to get rid of ...”

  “Have you got a shop?”

  He shook his head. Echoing the solicitor, he said, “You need money to set up a shop. I’ll have one later, maybe. For the time being I’ve just got the van.”

  On some hanging shelves in the passage there was a late Victorian ornament which Imelda would have expected to fetch about a pound if she took it to a back-street dealer. It would not interest a smart shop, like Beatrix Otley’s establishment.

  She showed it to him. “How much would you give me for that?”

  He examined it for damage. At present his hands were as grimy as hers, but she had the impression that he scrubbed his nails after work. They were short but not bitten. His fingers were not stained with nicotine, and he wore no cheap flashy rings.

  “You’re from London, I hear,” he remarked. “Prices are different up there. You might get more for this, or less, there. Those that sell high don’t always buy high. I’ll give you fifty pence for it. I might raise that a bit if you had some other stuff to sell.”

  “Not at the moment. Maybe later. I’ll keep this for now” - retrieving the ornament.

  Mrs. Wingfield entered the yard. Sam said, “Okay, I’ll give you a look when you’ve had more time for a sort out. Bye-bye for now.” He gave her an amorous wink, nodded to Mrs. Wingfield, and departed.

  “Imelda, it was very sweet of you to send me those two things for my collection,” said Mrs. Wingfield warmly. “Have you found some additions to yours? Some nice buttonhooks?”

  “Yes, several. Come in, and I’ll show you.”

  Although keenly interested in the contents of the house, Mrs. Wingfield did not stay long. “I don’t want to delay you, my dear. I hope you were comfortable in your digs last night.”

  “Yes, very, thank you.” Imelda told her briefly about Mrs. Walsham and her loneliness.

  “Poor woman, I must see what I can do for her. These private housing estates which are mushrooming everywhere are terrible places for loneliness. All the people on them have been uprooted from somewhere else. May I come to the funeral on Saturday? I used to know Miss Partridge quite well, years ago, before she became a recluse. So it wouldn’t be an act of hypocrisy on my part, and it might be less melancholy for you.”

  “Thank you. I wish you would come.”

  A number of people saw Miss Partridge’s remains interred among the daffodils and leaning lichened gravestones in St. Benet’s churchyard. Mrs. Medlar came with another woman and, to Imelda’s surprise and discomfiture, Charles accompanied Mrs. Wingfield. But when he greeted Imelda, there was nothing in his expression to remind her of their last encounter. To give him his due, she thought he was present in case the service reminded his grandmother of other more painful funerals. The same thought had occurred to Imelda, and had made her regret accepting Mrs. Wingfield’s suggestion. She knew the funeral would have distressed Mrs. Walsham, and for that reason had not mentioned it to her.

  “Would you care to have lunch with us? - Or are you too busy?” asked Mrs. Wingfield afterwards. She seemed as composed and cheerful as ever.

  “It’s kind of you, but I have so little time left ...”

  Mrs. Wingfield did not press her. “Yes, I understand. Which train are you catching tomorrow?”

  Imelda told her.

  Sensing Charles’s eyes upon her, she glanced up at him, and met a look which said clearly that, now, he was remembering the sugared-pill of her parting shot. To her vexation, she felt herself blushing.

  “Shall we see you again in these parts?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” She turned to Mrs. Wingfield. “So I’d better say goodbye, and thank you for everything.”

  The bones of Mrs. Wingfield’s hand felt brittle, the flesh soft. But Charles’s hand, which he offered and she could not ignore, was warm and supple. He did not crush her hand with painful force as large men were apt to do, but his clasp was firm, and she sensed the latent strength in his long brown fingers. Like Sam Mutford, she noticed, he did not smoke or wear rings, and she felt a flash of amusement at his probable reaction if he knew he was being compared with someone like Sam.

  She spent the evening watching television with Mrs. Walsham who had agreed to take care of certain objects which Imelda did not want to leave in the house. Sergeant Saxtead had promised to keep his eye on the premises, but with any empty property there was always a risk of things being stolen.

  If only I could make up my mind, she thought, staring with unseeing eyes at the television screen, while beside her on the settee Mrs. Walsham enjoyed the Saturday film.

  Imelda had been spared the necessity of passing sentence on the cats. Mrs. Medlar was willing to adopt them, along with the budgerigars, if Imelda could afford a small remittance towards the cost of their food. She had agreed with relief. Sentimental as Charles might think her, she had scruples about the destruction of healthy animals as well as about abandoning them.

  The following, afternoon she was waiting for the bus to Norwich when a car slowed and nulled into the lane marked BUS STOP ONLY. From his place at the wheel, Charles Wingfield leaned across to thrust open the nearside door. “I’m going your way. Hop in.”

  As she seated herself beside him, she said with constrained politeness, “What takes you to the city on a Sunday?”

  “You do, Miss Calthorpe. I knew you would have to use the two o’clock bus to catch your train, and I wanted to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER II

  “WHAT about?” Imelda asked warily.

  “First, about that ‘mutual antipathy’ you mentioned the other afternoon. My grandmother has taken me to task for being an unconvivial host during your short stay with us. The fact is that the night you arrived I had had a difficult day and was feeling thoroughly anti-social. It doesn’t excuse my bad temper, but I hope it will convince you that although your antipathy may be justified, it is certainly not reciprocated.”

  She had wondered what he would be like when he set himself to be disarming, and now she was finding out. As he sat there, half turned towards her, his forearm resting on the back of his seat, she was sharply aware of his magnetism.

  “I admit it must have seemed foolish to come rushing down here without finding out first where I could stay,” she answered.

  “Had I known that you had come straight from your mother’s wedding, I should have admired your readiness to cope with the contingency instead of criticising you for lack of foresight.”

  The arrival of the bus made him straighten, and set the car in motion. As he checked that it was safe to pull out, he said, “What is your impression of Norfolk? Does it strike you as too flat and featureless?”

  “Oh, no! I think it’s a lovely county - at least, what little I’ve seen of it. I like being able to see for miles, and it isn’t completely flat, is it? The country round here is quite undulating,” she said, looking out of the window at the passing scene. “I shall find London rather claustrophobic after all this openness.”

  Had she made the journey by bus, she would have had to change from the county to the city service to reach Thorpe Station. Consequently, in Charles’s large car, she arrived there with forty minutes to spare. Instead of leaving her to fill this extra time as best she could, he put the car in the station’s parking enclosure, and suggested they had coffee in the buffet.

  Presently, passing the bookstall on the way to her platform, he bought
her a Sunday Times and Punch to read on the train.

  When she realised that he meant to buy a platform ticket, she said, “You’ve been very kind, Mr. Wingfield, but please don’t feel you must wait till the train comes in.”

  “I’d almost forgotten that I have a proposition to put to you,” he said, as he put a coin in the ticket machine.

  “A proposition?”

  Charles glanced at his watch. “Yes, and there are only ten minutes left in which to explain it. Beatrix Otley rang up this morning from some unpronounceable place in Wales. She drove over there on Friday in pursuit of a special piece of furniture for an important customer. I understand that on Thursday she came to see you at Miss Partridge’s house - your house, as it is now.”

  Imelda nodded.

  “The lease of her present shop in Norwich has only a few months to run,” he continued. “The overheads are high, and for some time she has been hoping to find a suitable shop in the country. She has asked me to make you an offer of five thousand for your house.”

  Before she could say anything he went on, “I presume you won’t take steps to sell the property before your mother returns from her honeymoon and you can discuss the matter with her? You know, I expect, that estate agents charge a percentage of the purchase price, so that if one can find a buyer without recourse to an agent it’s all to the good?”

  “Yes, I do, but —”

  “Also, Beatrix is willing to take the place as it stands,” Charles continued. “There would have to be the customary legal searches, of course, but she says she’s prepared to complete the clearing out which you’ve started. The contents were never of high quality and have been badly neglected, I gather.”

  “They don’t compare with your furniture, and they have been neglected,” said Imelda. “But I wouldn’t describe them as worthless.”

  “But worth very little, according to Beatrix.”

  “Mrs. Otley doesn’t handle Victoriana, and judging by her talk with me on Thursday she knows next to nothing about it,” Imelda said dryly.

  “You don’t think her offer is a fair one? Perhaps you don’t realise that property values in East Anglia are very much lower than in London. Another point to consider is that it isn’t easy for people to get mortgages on old houses, and the type of people who can afford to pay for a house outright are unlikely to be looking for a place as small as yours. Its position, bang on the main road, is not in its favour,” said Charles.

  “Not for buyers in search of private houses,” agreed Imelda. “But for a shop - which is why Mrs. Otley wants it - being on a main road is an advantage. Whether her offer is a fair one or not, I don’t know. The question doesn’t arise. I’ve decided to keep the house.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “In order to let it, do you mean?”

  “No, to live in it myself. Now that I’m no longer needed at home, I’ve decided to try my luck as a dealer in curios and bygones.”

  Charles looked momentarily dumbfounded, and Imelda herself was taken aback by the resolute tone in which she had announced a decision which, an hour before, had not been made.

  “My good child, you must be mad!” said Charles impatiently. “To contemplate opening a ... a wool shop would be most unwise. What you suggest is pure folly.”

  It was then that it dawned on her that for the past hour he had been making a fool of her. Everything he had said, beginning with his apology for not being nicer to her at the Hall, had been skilful soft soap to make her receptive to Mrs. Otley’s offer.

  It was easy to imagine him telling Beatrix, during their telephone talk, I’m not an ideal intermediary. The girl doesn’t like me. And Beatrix replying, with a laugh, You can soon alter that, Charles. Turn on the charm for a bit before you mention my offer. I’m sure you can make her succumb to you.

  And I did, thought Imelda, much mortified. I was beginning to think I’d misjudged him.

  Aloud, she said, “It’s not a suggestion, Mr. Wingfield. It’s a carefully considered decision.”

  “Do you know anything about antiques?”

  “I’m not going to deal in antiques in the purist’s sense of the word. Mrs. Otley will call my shop a junk shop.”

  “There’s a world of difference between browsing in junk shops for amusement, and making a living as a dealer.”

  “Obviously; but dealers are self-trained, not born. Anyway I don’t see why you should be so concerned, apart from not wishing to fail Mrs. Otley,” said Imelda.

  His expression changed from one of impatient disapproval to a different kind of displeasure. He said coldly, “What do you mean by that remark?”

  Her reply was lost in the noise of the London train’s arrival. When it came to a standstill, Charles stepped forward to open the nearest door for her.

  “That’s First. I’m travelling Second,” she said.

  He accompanied her along the platform to where a number of people were queueing to enter the corridor of a Second Class coach. On the fringe of the group, Imelda turned to him. “Goodbye. Thank you for the lift.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to persist in his arguments until the last moment. But to her relief, he said only, “I hope your family will be able to convince you of the unwisdom of your scheme.” He took out his wallet, withdrew a card, and scribbled something on it. As he handed it to her, he said, “Those are Mrs. Otley’s telephone numbers at the Lodge, and at her shop, should you wish to discuss her offer with her. Goodbye, Miss Calthorpe.”

  Imelda watched him stride down the platform until her view of his tall, straight figure was blocked by a motorised trolley piled high with cartons. Then she entered the train and found a seat.

  Before she put Charles’s card away in her bag, she looked at his name and address which were engraved on the face of the card. What had he thought she might have meant by her last reference to Mrs. Otley? she wondered. And why had it made him angry?

  The next day, at the office, she gave a month’s notice. But she said nothing of her plans to John and Lucy. That night she wrote to her mother and Ben, describing her visit to Norfolk, and also to Mrs. Walsham, to ask if the widow would be willing to have her as a lodger for the time it would take to make Miss Partridge’s house habitable. Her third letter was to Sebastian Ellough, now resident in a private nursing home in Sussex.

  For two years, following the death of his sister who had kept house for him, old Mr. Ellough had lodged with the Calthorpes. He had been a dealer in curios all his life, and it was he who had kindled Imelda’s interest in old things. His personal passion was for the colour-printed lids which, in Victoria’s reign, had helped to sell pots of pomade, fish-paste, cold cream and other commodities. He had owned a fine collection of Pratt ware pot-lids, and he had taught Imelda to distinguish between these and modern reproductions. Although pot-lids had never exerted their magic on her, she knew enough about them to recognise the two she had found in her great-aunt’s house as rare specimens which, sold to a specialist dealer, would more than cover the cost of installing a bathroom and modern kitchen in her future home.

  Following a slight stroke, Mr. Ellough had sold his business and left London for a country house community of comfortably-off old people where, should his health decline further, he would have professional nursing. Imelda had missed him very much, and had surprised her mother by writing to him regularly, and receiving lengthy replies in Mr. Ellough’s spidery handwriting.

  “I can’t think what you find to tell him, dear,” her mother had often remarked, unaware that, by virtue of a box full of buttonhooks, Imelda had joined the widespread freemasonry of collectors who could always find plenty to say to each other, however disparate their ages, incomes and other circumstances.

  By return of post, she had a letter from Sebastian Ellough in which he wrote — “To my mind, the greatest tragedy in life is never to have the opportunity, or the courage, to follow one’s bent. You have been an excellent

  daughter while your mother needed you, and now you have the
chance to fulfil a dream which, a short time ago, seemed impossible. Take it, my dear, and good luck to you. Pay no attention to the doubting Thomases.”

  The night the Derehams came home from Devon, Imelda had a celebration supper waiting for them. John had spent the holiday redecorating the master bedroom as a surprise for them and with part of the proceeds from the pot-lids, Imelda had bought material which she knew her mother admired, and had made new bedroom curtains and a bedspread to match.

  Although by now she was bursting to drop her bombshell, she managed to contain her impatience for twenty-four hours after their homecoming.

  When, at last, she told them, they listened in astounded silence until Imelda concluded her announcement with - “I’m afraid you will think it very selfish of me to decide all this without consulting you, when the sale of the house would be an advantage to all of us. But if, at the end of a year, the shop is a flop, the house will still be saleable, and probably for a higher price that it would fetch at present.”

  Her mother and stepfather exchanged glances.

  “I think it’s a splendid scheme, Melly,” said Mrs. Dereham. “I’ve felt for some time that you weren’t getting as much fun out of life as a girl of your age should, and Ben and I were hoping that now you would feel free to try for a job abroad, or something more exciting than your present one. We don’t want you to leave home. We shall miss you very much. But it can’t be many more years before you meet the man you want to marry, so now is the time to spread your wings.”

  “Even if, like Icarus, you wind up in the sea or, in this case, the bankruptcy court,” said John, with a grin.

  Imelda had been living in Norfolk for three days when, coming out of the Post Office, she met Charles Wingfield. She was sticking stamps on letters to London and Sussex, and they almost collided on the threshold. As he stood aside with a murmured apology, his mobile left eyebrow shot up, and he registered her workman’s overalls worn over a threadbare pink shirt.

  “Miss Calthorpe! So you meant what you said.” Considering that she did not like him, and had hoped to avoid an encounter with him for some time, Imelda knew it was irrational to be piqued by the fact that his recognition had not been instantaneous, as hers had.