The sitting-room door was closed. Old Tom was in there, with the doctor. Mark wanted to say goodbye to him. He saw the door-key on the hall chest, where Steve had left it when they entered the house. Swallows and Amazons was beside it. Mark picked the key up and slid it under the book, which he tucked inside his jacket. Ivy wasn’t looking.
He’d come back later, maybe tomorrow, and say goodbye properly. He’d keep the book until he’d read it.
He ate a biscuit as he walked along the road with Steve. It tasted good.
Mark returned to The Willows the next evening.
As his mother knew nothing about his visits to Tom, he did not mention the old man’s death at breakfast. She had waved him off to school; her shift began later in the morning.
After tea at Ivy’s, he told her that his mother would be home early, and left.
He didn’t like telling lies. Steve did it all the time, and Ivy always believed him; he said it saved aggravation, but Mark didn’t feel right about it. It was not the same as having secrets, like his visits to Tom. Perhaps tonight’s excuse to Ivy wasn’t quite a lie, because he was only going to Tom’s house to say goodbye. Then he would go home.
Steve, glad not to be lumbered with Mark, who could be a drag, went to see a friend, an older boy; with Tom gone, he’d need to find another source of income. He’d be lucky if he hit on anything as easy. The two boys left together, and parted at the end of the road. Steve headed off towards the town and Mark slipped away, down Wordsworth Road, to The Willows. It wasn’t far; he liked walking alone through the dim streets and he took no notice of the rain. He knew his hair was getting wet, but his anorak was new and water ran off the poplin.
The house was in darkness. Mark hadn’t thought of that but of course Tom, being dead, wouldn’t notice. It was difficult to find the lock and insert the key; he twiddled about but eventually succeeded and, once inside, turned on the hall light. That was better.
Mark kicked his shoes off. The boys always did that when entering any house, trained to do so by Ivy who did not want them walking mud round her place or anyone else’s. Then he went into the sitting-room. Tom would be there, surely? He’d be sitting in his chair, his rug over his knees, just as they had left him.
But he wasn’t. The room was unnaturally still, and very tidy, the cushions plumped up, the carpet vacuumed. Ivy had cleared up after the undertaker’s men. She had not missed the key which Mark had taken because it was a spare, kept for Steve’s use.
She’d had another key cut for him because once Tom’s key, passing between the two of them, had been mislaid and that had been very inconvenient.
Mark felt anxious. Where could Tom be? Perhaps they had taken him up to bed. Yes, that would be it; he’d seen films with dead people lying in their beds, just as if they were asleep, sometimes with flowers all round them. Mark should have brought him some. Never mind, he would tomorrow, though there were none out in the garden at home; he’d have to buy them.
He went upstairs and entered the big bedroom, but it was empty, the bed neat, the coverlet stretched taut. He looked beneath it; there were no sheets or pillow slips and the blankets were all folded up. Ivy had taken the linen home to wash.
Tears sprang to Mark’s eyes. Now he really understood that Tom had gone and wouldn’t be returning.
Standing there, he had a little cry, scrubbing his eyes with his none-too-clean hands. Then, reluctant to leave, he wandered slowly through the house, settling at last in the sitting-room, where he drew the curtains. It was nice and warm; no one had turned the heating off. He switched on the television to watch the quiz show he’d often seen with Tom, who wouldn’t mind, Mark knew. For a while he was able to pretend that the old man was there, that nothing had changed, but when the programme ended he felt a deep, heavy ache inside his chest because there was no Tom to talk to about what had happened on the screen and suggest the next occupation for the evening.
He would have to go home.
Leaving the house, he remembered the curtains. He’d better draw them back, leave them as they’d been when he arrived.
He’d come again. He knew he would.
The next afternoon, after school, Mark went to the shop in Haverscot where they cut keys for you while you waited. He’d been there with his mother when she got him one for their house, and a spare to hide in a secret place outside in case anyone got locked out. Only he knew about the spot – and Mum, of course. He wondered what it would cost. He’d taken along two pounds and hoped it would be enough. He didn’t get the flowers. As Tom had gone, there’d be no point, and he couldn’t have afforded both them and the key. Flowers were expensive.
He was late reaching Ivy’s house, but she didn’t fuss.
‘I had to see Mrs Williams about my maths,’ he said, the lie tripping as easily off his tongue as if it had been Steve speaking.
‘No trouble, I hope,’ said Ivy, helping him to baked potato and mince, which was spiced with chilli. He liked Ivy’s mince; she often gave it to them with various accompaniments such as pasta, beans, or even bread.
‘Oh no,’ said Mark smoothly. ‘Just something I didn’t understand.’
He’d put the borrowed key back on its hook and that was lucky, because Steve decided that they’d go to The Willows that night. He’d assumed Ivy had replaced it after clearing up the house, and she, if she thought about it, supposed that Steve had done so.
‘I’d like to have a look around,’ said Steve. ‘Might pick up a few useful bits. Tom won’t want nothing now. Besides, we can watch telly.’
Mark knew that Tom wouldn’t object to them visiting the house and watching television, but the old man wouldn’t want them poking round and prying. He knew what Steve had in mind: stealing. Well, he needn’t join in that bit.
They went in together and Steve drew the curtains before putting on the lights.
‘Don’t want folk getting curious, do we?’ he said, but the house, separated from the road by a short drive with trees and shrubs at either side, was not overlooked, and it was in such a quiet road that their presence was unlikely to attract attention.
It was clever of Steve to think of that, thought Mark, who had drawn them for his own security the day before, not from fear of being seen.
Steve lit the fire and Mark settled down beside it, watching television, while Steve went prowling round the house. After some time he came running down the stairs, excited.
‘Look what I found, Mark,’ he cried.
He was carrying a bundle of old newspaper cuttings, yellow and fading, in a plastic folder.
‘These were in that room with Tom’s son’s stuff in it,’ he said. ‘In the desk. They tell all about him – that guy Alan. He’s in prison. He must have escaped. That’s why Tom wasn’t very pleased to see him.’
Mark stared. He didn’t understand.
‘Go on. Read it for yourself,’ said Steve, regretting that he had so poor an audience for this revelation. He pulled out a sheet of newsprint and shoved it at Mark, who took it and began to read.
It was a tabloid, more than eight years old, and it reported how Alan Morton, aged thirty-five, had been sentenced for the murder of his wife, June, after he suspected her of having an affair with a local farmer. Alan had shot her with a four-ten shotgun.
‘He was on the run,’ said Steve, excited. ‘I wonder where he’s hiding out?’
9
Marigold Darwin was not aware that a Haverscot boy had been briefly missing. She did not listen to local radio but she watched nature programmes and discussions on television, and, on wet afternoons, of which there had been many lately, occasional schools broadcasts, which were often interesting.
Because her furniture and most of her possessions were in store she could not occupy herself with the art work she had developed as a hobby; on a weekend course she had learned découpage, led into it by a fascination with marquetry in furniture. Decorating plain boxes and tins with detailed cut-out designs from paper, then varnishing them until th
e ornamentation looked solid, was a possible way of emulating this intricate work. It had become an absorbing occupation, one to which she could flee when no other activity attracted her. Meanwhile, since renting the bungalow, she had learned of a road development scheme which would affect the area. A planned bypass implied later inclusion in a motorway extension and there were meetings to discuss the consequences. Marigold had attended one and concluded that working for the protest lobby might exercise her administrative skills productively; she need not be impartial now. But organising her future life must wait until she found a house, and her failure to do so was depressing. Not that she acknowledged such a state – Marigold’s temperament was equable; she knew no highs or lows.
Walking in the park with Sinbad, after the incident of the boys, she would see youngsters kicking balls about and thought she recognised the two smaller lads on one occasion. She couldn’t be sure; children of a similar size looked so alike unless they had red hair or some other distinguishing feature.
She did not need a social life, but it was not wise to pass too much time in isolation. Marigold had no close friends; there had been acquaintances, occasional shared activities with colleagues, but intimacy with anyone was outside her experience. Even her parents, though never unkind and often generous, had been remote and undemonstrative. She had no childhood memories of revealed affection.
As the days shortened and Christmas approached, so did the end of her lease. She was due to surrender the bungalow early in the New Year and if she had not yet found a house, she would have to rent something else, or move into a hotel, which would be difficult with Sinbad. She was on the books of every agent in Radbury, six miles away, and bigger than Haverscot, and daily she received details of available houses within a radius of twenty-five miles, but she wanted to be in Haverscot.
Mr Phipps was in despair because she was so difficult to please, and then, through a solicitor friend, he heard that The Willows was coming on the market very soon, an executors’ sale. Mr Morton, who had lived there for many years, had died, and his heir was a niece who lived in Canada. She wanted the house and its contents sold; speedy possession could be arranged. The solicitor, who was one of the executors, told Brian Phipps that he could take his potential buyer to see the house at once.
Mr Phipps telephoned Miss Darwin. Time and money would be saved if she could be persuaded to buy without the house going on the market, which was too uncertain at the moment, and at this time of year, to warrant the risk of an auction.
Miss Darwin showed some interest when he said that the house was in Wordsworth Road, not far from Merrifields. It had a similar outlook over the now water-logged meadows leading to the river.
‘Those houses are all built on a ridge, as you know,’ he reminded her. ‘The water never gets beyond their gardens.’
She did know. As a child, she had had a canoe, not to be used when the river was up, but once she had taken it out on the still floodwater, and several times, when it froze, she had skated on the flooded fields. It was so safe. If the ice broke, you went through only on to grass. She hadn’t skated very well, but she had enjoyed it, and so had many other inhabitants of Haverscot, young and old.
She remembered The Willows. When she was a child, two sisters had lived there, retired teachers. They were keen gardeners; each year they held a party – tea and sandwiches amid beds of lupins and delphiniums, and there were climbing roses. She had gone there with her mother and had hidden from the crowd of guests beneath the concealing tresses of a large willow on the lawn. So close to the river, such trees thrived; there were three of them, she thought. Had they survived? If not, one could grow more, very quickly; they were not like oaks, taking generations to reach any size.
Mr Phipps drew up outside the bungalow. His car, provided by the firm, was a Volvo Estate, large enough to cope with the For Sale signs which he sometimes had to carry and erect. It also had room for the three small Phipps children and their mother, who in her spare time made curtains and chair-covers at home. She meant to have her own interior decorating business as soon as all three of them were at school.
He told Miss Darwin about the sudden death of Mr Morton and the niece in Canada.
‘He died in the house,’ he added. It was best to tell her now, so that if she had any objections on that score, they were declared at once. She was sure to discover, later, what had happened. Most people seemed to die in hospital; it was tidier. Mr Phipps, who had moved to Radbury from Essex six years ago, knew that there was a son who had inherited nothing. He was some sort of bad hat, Mr Phipps had gathered, but he did not know any more than that. There was no need to mention him.
‘Lucky man,’ was Miss Darwin’s observation. ‘Had he been ill long?’
‘No. I think it was quite sudden,’ Mr Phipps replied.
‘Lucky again,’ said Miss Darwin.
She had almost made up her mind to buy the house before she even entered it. It had been built in the 1920s, of brick, plastered over and painted cream. The proportions were pleasing to the eye, and it looked solid.
‘It’s got a damp course. Houses built after 1924 had to have them,’ Mr Phipps told her. ‘So it’s not like your really old places, which can have problems.’ He was trying to sell such a millstone at the moment, and had shown it to her, glossing over the snag of crumbling beams.
Mr Phipps turned in at The Willows’ gate. The drive was short, but the house was set far enough back from the road to be secluded. He wondered if she would think it too well protected from the passing gaze. Crime prevention theories suggested that a screen of trees and shrubs invited burglars, but all the houses in Wordsworth Road were similarly shrouded. If she bought it, once everything was signed, he might suggest installing an alarm: one lady on her own would thus feel safer. But she didn’t look the nervous sort; indeed, he found her formidable.
The house was warm, its heating still turned on, to protect the pipes. As they entered, Marigold had the odd feeling that invisible arms reached out to welcome her. At any moment a smiling woman in a pinafore would greet them and offer coffee. She gave herself a shake; fanciful notions of that kind were not permitted.
Mr Phipps showed her round. There were four bedrooms. One was small and had been used as a study; there were a desk and filing cabinets, shelves of reference books.
‘Mr Morton was recording local history. He left all his books and papers relating to that to Radbury Museum,’ Mr Phipps told her. ‘They’re collecting them next week.’
He led Marigold into the largest bedroom, which overlooked the meadows at the back of the house; it had the same view as Merrifields but was closer to the church. Marigold looked out and saw several swans swimming on the grey flood water. Her heart, seldom disturbed, beat a little faster.
She knew she was going to make an offer for the house, but she let Mr Phipps describe its merits and display his skills. However, she did not want to risk losing it to another customer by dissembling. He had indicated a price; she proposed another as soon as he returned her to the bungalow and Sinbad’s welcome.
‘I’ll have to contact the executors,’ he said. ‘They’ll need to consult the beneficiary.’
‘Of course.’ Marigold would pay the asking price, if necessary. ‘You know how I’m placed, Mr Phipps. I should like to move in as soon as it can be arranged.’ Surely the beneficiary would view with favour the swift settling of the estate?
She knew she should have the place surveyed. The house might have many flaws – dry rot, a faulty roof – all sorts of problems which an inspection would detect, but she would risk it. Let the worst be discovered when she had painters in to decorate. Mr Morton – or perhaps it was his late wife’s taste – had done the house throughout in neutral tones, and Marigold thought that it would be improved by using more definite colours.
Mr Phipps was wondering whether to press one of his wife’s business cards into her hand but decided that could wait until contracts were exchanged; however, perhaps he should refer, n
ow, to the black sheep son.
‘There was a son,’ he said. ‘Estranged, I don’t know why. Hence, he didn’t inherit.’
‘I see,’ said Marigold. ‘That room upstairs was his. The posters. All those books.’
‘Exactly. Everything is to be sold,’ said Mr Phipps. ‘I shall be arranging it with the executors.’ There were good local auctioneers, some of whom dealt with whole libraries; unfortunately there wasn’t enough to merit a marquee on the lawn – besides, that was too water-logged at present. Luckily Miss Darwin had been content to stand on the terrace outside the sitting-room and look down at the shaggy lawn and the three willow trees while he pointed out the large garden shed.
By that evening, her offer had been accepted. The niece was perfectly content when told the buyer’s money was waiting and was not dependent on a survey. She had last seen her uncle some years before Alan’s arrest, when she had been the London correspondent of a Canadian newspaper. Her mother, Tom’s sister, had married a Canadian soldier during the war and they had always kept in touch. Despite Alan’s disastrous history, the bequest had amazed her. She had flown over for the funeral, made the necessary legal arrangements, and flown back again within a week.
In matter-of-fact tones, Marigold told Sinbad that soon he would have a splendid garden in which to prance about and bury his bones. She thought of the roses she would like to grow; she had been to La Roseraie de L’Hay, outside Paris, two summers ago and had been dazzled by the collection. What was in The Willows’ garden now, she wondered: all she had been able to discern from the terrace were bedraggled brambly shoots twined round wooden arches, and some withered flowers in a border. She would have to discover what lay buried under the cold earth, whether there were daffodils and snowdrops.
Suddenly there was a future. With that decided, Marigold poured herself a celebratory glass of sherry and as she sipped it, she experienced an unfamiliar sensation, a sort of internal glow.
Serious Intent Page 9
