Terry was, though he could not bring himself to say so.
‘I couldn’t punch them. They were much bigger than me and Mark, and there were three of them,’ was the sulky response.
As the Christmas break began, Richard thought about this conversation. Had Terry learned his lesson? Would he again react in an extreme way at the next attempt to tease him? The other boy, Mark, was a nice little lad. His company might be good for Terry. Richard wondered what Mark was doing over Christmas, with his mother working in a hotel. She was unlikely to have much time off; presumably the child-minder took charge of him.
Anna, Richard’s daughter, was at sea, aboard her cruise ship, where there would be gala festivities for the passengers. He hoped that she was happy; she seemed content enough, on their rare meetings. Absent from her, though unwillingly, he felt that he had let her down, however in the lottery of life, she had not done badly. Her mother’s second marriage had turned out well, but another man had brought his daughter up, successfully, while Richard was failing with a different man’s two sons.
There’d been no Christmas card from Anna. Probably she’d posted one in Adelaide or Sydney and it would arrive eventually. He had sent hers, in plenty of time, to the shipping line’s address for the week before Christmas. In it, he told her that he had paid a cheque into her bank account so that she could buy her own present; this was what he did each year, and for her birthday. It was impersonal but practical; she always wrote to tell him how she would spend the money.
Where was young Mark’s father? The boy hadn’t mentioned him. Would he see his son during the holiday? Or was he dead?
Verity, who had abandoned her meditation classes after Terry’s escapade, had made mince pies. She was having one of her domestic effort spells, which was a good thing as long as it endured, keeping her busy in the kitchen. Richard had bought the turkey and a Christmas pudding, assisted by Terry who had offered to accompany him. This unusual helpfulness was, perhaps, a sign of contrition. They’d stocked up well, remembering fruit juice and Coca-Cola, and bumper packs of crisps as well as all the normal weekly things, enough to withstand a siege. It was a pity Verity’s parents had refused to come for Christmas; last year, they’d promised to be there but two days beforehand they had telephoned, pleading incipient influenza. The previous year, during their visit, Verity had wept all through the Christmas lunch, eaten at three o’clock instead of the planned half-past one. By that time, her father had filled himself with whisky and her mother was attempting, in the kitchen, to retrieve disaster, for the sprouts had burned and the potatoes were not done. The turkey was cooked to shreds and dry. Verity had pronounced herself useless and burst into tears while Richard and his mother-in-law feigned jollity for the sake of the two boys. That was when Richard had finally understood the extent of his predicament. He could not walk away from Verity; his task and duty were to try to help her overcome her temperament and control it, instead of letting it rule her and wreck the lives of those surrounding her.
On Christmas afternoon she’d gone to bed, and her father had fallen asleep on the sofa.
‘I used to wonder if it was in their genes, this drink thing,’ Verity’s mother had said, as she and Richard washed up. The boys were in their playroom, busy with their presents. ‘Mind you, I do it, too, at times,’ she confessed. ‘If you can’t beat them, join them. But it doesn’t make Hugh wild, like Vera.’ Her mother would not play the game of changing names. ‘He just gets silly,’ she declared. ‘Her other husband couldn’t cope, and I won’t blame you if you can’t, either . . .’
Richard liked his mother-in-law, a thin, scrawny-looking woman with hair dyed to match her daughter’s – or was the mimicry the other way? She had a sense of humour and was good with the two boys, asking them silly riddles and teaching them card tricks.
‘She can’t help it,’ Richard had remarked.
‘Yes, she can – we all have choices,’ said Verity’s mother.
Richard was too loyal to answer, but he knew that Verity believed all hurt was aimed at her: the boys were naughty simply to upset her, and Richard came home late simply in order that the meal should spoil. How had this all begun?
He’d hoped Verity’s brisk, no-nonsense mother would be at Merrifields this year; her presence would be helpful. But it was not to be. Parcels had arrived from the couple; others had been sent. The conventions were observed.
Richard could escape to church. There were several services, carols one evening, midnight Mass, and matins on Christmas Day. He could take his pick or go to all of them: no one could legitimately complain.
He wondered what Caroline would be doing. She was spending Christmas with her parents, who lived in Cambridge, where her father had been a history don and her mother a geologist. He imagined that she would have an agreeable and intellectually stimulating time, perhaps visiting her brother, another don, and his family who lived just outside the city in a large house much swept, she said, by icy winds blowing straight from Siberia. Richard wished that he was with her. He imagined going there as her acknowledged lover. But amid those academic types, he would seem so dull, so slow-witted, he reflected.
A shriek from the kitchen brought him back to the present, and he hauled himself out of the deep, comfortable chair in his study where he had been successfully hiding while indulging in his melancholy thoughts. He hurried out. This time, the crisis was not major. Verity had burnt one lot of pies because she had gone upstairs to her studio, to do more work on a painting of a Christmas scene she had suddenly felt inspired to create: dark holly, berries dripping blood; a father, mother, infant and donkey all apparently half-buried under snow; Richard saw it later. Taking the blackened pies from the oven, she had also burnt her hand – not badly, but it was red and painful, and the pies were smoking.
Richard held her wounded fingers under running cold water. When she was able to stand unsupported, he threw away the pies and told her not to worry. Anticipating this disaster, he had bought two dozen at the baker’s in the town the day before. They were in the freezer, with some other emergency stores.
Setting off for midnight Mass, he once again reflected on how lucky it was that his employment brought in a generous salary; Verity and her family needed every penny.
Verity was asleep when he came silently to bed. She was breathing heavily, and he caught the smell of alcohol. It seemed she had found ways to pay for all the bottles she consumed.
She was still asleep next morning when he went quietly downstairs to make some tea. The house was quiet, the day not yet begun, the boys not yet awake. He supposed Verity had carried out her role of filling the boys’ stockings; she had bought presents for them. Probably she had filched money from the amount he gave her for them to buy drink; he couldn’t deprive her of a certain amount of cash, though he had sought every means to limit or define what she spent.
He made the tea and drank a cup in peace, then poured one for her and took it to her.
She was just waking up.
‘Oh, my head,’ she groaned. How she suffered with her daily headache! She was a martyr to pain, she claimed, and Richard did not understand her frustrations; all she wanted was to paint, and, instead, she had to cook and clean. Conveniently, she forgot the cleaning women Richard had gladly paid for, who had come and gone because Verity was always finding fault with what they did, and even with their mere presence in the house.
Now she peered at him as he crossed the room with a cup and saucer in one hand, and a large, ungainly parcel in the other. He put the tea down on the table beside her and drew a small parcel from his pocket.
‘Happy Christmas, dear,’ he said brightly, bending down to kiss her, aiming at her forehead.
She turned her head away and he met a faceful of scratchy, tangled hair. However, she unwrapped the parcels, discovering in one a large azalea, and in the other a bottle of Chanel No. 5.
‘Oh, Richard, you know I prefer Diorissima,’ she said, though this was quite untrue. Last year Chanel h
ad been what she desired. He could not win this contest, so he abandoned it.
‘Don’t hurry to get up,’ was all he said, and left the room, taking the scent with him.
She would not be adopting her housewife role today, so he must do it. He didn’t mind – he even liked it – and it was easier to know from the outset that this was his task rather than have to take it over in mid-operation. He’d plan the bird for half-past one and maybe they would eat it on time this year.
Then he remembered. He’d invited someone to share their turkey.
He must have been out of his mind! How could he have lost his wits to that extent! Too much Christmas spirit in the church porch: that was the trouble.
Some of his acquaintances from the choral society were among the congregation. He had sat next to a couple whom he knew slightly from this contact, and on his other side had been an elderly woman who seemed vaguely familiar. As they sang the hymns she revealed a lovely clear contralto voice, and he remembered that she had sat near him at Evensong the night Terry disappeared. She was a forbidding-looking woman, with a felt hat pulled down over heavy greying brows, and wisps of iron-grey hair just showing round its edge. Last night she had not taken Communion, and nor had he; they’d exchanged a calm, unsmiling glance as the others in their row of chairs filed out, and each had looked about the building as the long procession of communicants wove back and forth to the altar.
After the service, he stood back to let her precede him down the path. There were little groups of people chatting as they made their way towards their houses or to their cars.
Richard exchanged greetings with those people whom he knew, and who were near him as he left the church, but they were few, and he soon caught up with the woman in the hat, as he now thought of her. She had a very efficient torch, which she shone to light her way down the flagged path.
‘Yours is better than mine,’ he said, indicating the weak beam coming from his own pocket torch.
‘I expect you need a new battery,’ she said. Her speaking voice was mellow, too.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘I like to carry this at night,’ said Marigold Darwin. Her own torch was a considerable instrument; useful as a weapon, Richard thought. Was that what she meant? He remembered a shocking case a year or two ago, when an elderly woman had been attacked and raped walking home from church in some country town. Where was it? Was no one safe?
‘Have you far to go?’ he asked.
‘To Shelley Drive,’ she said.
‘That’s some distance. Have you a car?’
‘I’m on foot,’ she answered.
‘Would you allow me to escort you?’ Richard offered. ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Richard Gardner and I live at Merrifields. It’s just along the road.’
‘I know Merrifields,’ said Miss Darwin. Her voice altered, deepening and growing stronger. ‘I lived there as a child.’
‘No! Did you?’ Richard asked. By now they had fallen into step together.
‘Yes,’ said Marigold. ‘I was so sad when we moved away.’
She had never told that to another soul.
‘It’s a lovely house,’ he said. ‘And it has a lovely garden.’
They talked about it as they walked, the strong, icy wind cutting into them as they left the shelter of the yews around the churchyard. Marigold explained how she had rented her present bungalow while she was house-hunting, and about her acquisition of The Willows.
‘You’ll be a neighbour, then,’ said Richard.
‘Yes.’ By now Marigold had learned that he was married with two stepsons, and an older daughter by an earlier marriage, and Richard had heard more about Marigold Darwin than people she had known for years. ‘I suppose your family is quite excited about Christmas,’ she said.
‘I suppose so,’ he replied. Then he remembered that she was new to Haverscot, and alone. ‘What about you? Have you friends visiting you?’
‘No,’ she said, adding, ‘Not this year.’
He had noticed that she referred to the family as singular; she was a pedant and he liked her for it.
‘Why don’t you join us for lunch?’ he invited. ‘You must come and see your old home, in any case. Why not tomorrow? No formality,’ he added. ‘Just us. Please do. I won’t let you refuse.’
Marigold thought of the chicken she had bought. Sinbad was to share it with her. It would keep till Boxing Day; he could have his usual Chappie.
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
By this time they had reached her gate.
‘One o’clock,’ he said. ‘See you then. Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ she replied, as they parted, Richard making a gesture to remove his hat. A polite man, she thought, and sad.
Now why had she thought that?
She went into the house regretting her swift acceptance of his invitation. In daylight, she would have refused the meal but asked to see the house and garden another time. In daylight, she would not have told him of her grief at leaving Merrifields. In darkness, not looking at the other’s face, one’s defence was down.
Richard, walking back with long, swift strides, was also regretting his impulsiveness. What had made him do it?
It was the night, he thought; it was the night.
12
In the morning, Marigold resolved to excuse herself from keeping the engagement. She could plead a diplomatic cold. She woke early and made coffee and toast, listening to carols on the radio. Then she put on a recording of The Messiah and was so uplifted by it, by the blue sky outside and the sudden sunshine, that she felt more confident. Why not go round to Merrifields? She longed to see the house again, to walk round the garden and discover how much of it remained familiar. She would soon be the Gardners’ neighbour and she must not be aloof, though she did not expect to be liked. She knew that people found her hideous, but as she grew older she had developed from being a gauche girl into a competent, impersonal administrator; efficiency and intellect could carry one through a professional life – procedures and protocol dictated action. By the end of her time at the Ministry, she had earned respect, if not affection, and early timidity had long been overcome.
She did not intend to be a complete recluse in Haverscot. Richard Gardner’s invitation was kind, and at Christmas, when turkey and plum pudding were the fare, one extra meant nothing – another potato peeled, a few more sprouts prepared. In a family, it was simple. Marigold had been asked to families before; she was godmother to some colleagues’ children, not because the parents prized her but because they knew she was reliable, and they pitied her without a family of her own; they were doing her a kindness. She had never yet forgotten a godchild’s birthday or neglected one at Christmas; that was all the parents wanted from her, and the comforting knowledge that if anything were to happen to them – some fatal accident – she’d be there, a background figure of stability. Marigold had attended the weddings of her two eldest godchildren and learned, sadly, of one’s later divorce; the second seemed to be happy, living in Notting Hill, a journalist married to a video editor. They never asked Marigold to visit them and she had stopped sending her goddaughter presents after providing a dinner service when she married. But she still sent cards, though none came back.
She had received some Christmas cards; they came from a few former colleagues, and one was from a widow met on holiday last year, when Marigold had been to the opera at Verona. Next year, the widow would exclude her from her list; this was what happened after such chance meetings. Marigold knew she had been included only because everyone in their group was exchanging addresses. A row of robins, sacred scenes and wintry landscapes was spaced out across the bright wood of the mantelpiece in her bungalow. Marigold looked round the room: it was so tasteless, with the tiled hearth, the lozenge-patterned carpet, the beige dralon- covered chairs. Merrifields must be a better place to spend the day than Fairways.
She went to matins: it would pass the tim
e. After that, she took Sinbad for a walk.
When Richard rang to put her off, intending to use the excuse of his wife’s indisposition, there was no answer. He tried again half an hour later: still no reply.
He gave up. Perhaps the presence of a guest would prompt Verity to produce some better manners; she used to try in front of other people, but he hadn’t tested her for more than a year.
Marigold drew a deep breath as she walked through the gates of Merrifields. Well-trimmed bushes bordered the drive, which curled round in front of the house. Today, the air was crisp with frost; if this continued, the flooded fields would freeze and there might be skating. To the left, trees bordered the property, many more than she remembered, or perhaps they had simply grown larger: no, some were young. They formed a barrier between Merrifields and the house next door. A boy and girl had lived there; they had taunted her across the wall and would not let her climb into their tree house when their mother invited her to tea. They’d hauled the rope-ladder up and left her below. She hadn’t made a fuss, nor cried. She’d sniffed and found a tree at the end of their garden, which she’d climbed, and had remained in its branches until dusk, when the grown-ups had come searching for her. By then she was cold and stiff, but she was the victor, for the brother and sister had been punished for neglecting her. She’d forgotten all about it till this moment.
What had become of those two? She would never know.
The house, built of brick, bow windows in front, a garage round the back, was covered now with climbing plants: roses, she observed, approaching, and was that a wistaria? Berries on a cotoneaster glowed against one wall. She didn’t remember such a covering; hadn’t her father said that plants harboured insects, beetles and flies, which would invade the building if encouraged?
The front door was startlingly unaltered: solid oak, buttressed with iron studs and a heavy knocker, the letter slit narrow, no doubt causing problems for the postman now but in those days he used to ring. He came on Christmas Day, she recalled. Hadn’t the milkman come, too? She couldn’t be so sure of that.
Serious Intent Page 12
