Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  Sinbad would miss her, and he needed feeding. She gave herself a shake, pushing away bleak thoughts as she had sought to do throughout her life. The main thing, now, was to look outwards, while getting the house organised. She must join in one or two local activities to give structure to her days: the choral society, as Richard Gardner had suggested, would be a start. There was probably a charity shop where she could be usefully occupied, she thought, depressed at the very notion. And she’d get back to her découpage: now she could unpack everything – the plain wooden boxes waiting to be embellished, the varnish, the glue, the small neat scissors. She’d use the dining-room as a working area; her large table, covered with a protective cloth, would make a perfect surface. She’d keep her desk there, too, for all her business papers and her files. She would eat in the kitchen which was large enough to hold a good-sized table and six chairs, but she did not expect to entertain. She could not see Verity Gardner coming willingly to lunch or dinner, and whom else would she ask?

  On Sunday she would go to church, and if the Gardners were there, she’d invite them back to sherry. How many other people went to church, as she did, to punctuate their lives, with no particular belief to support? A good few, she guessed, including Richard, who would find peace there.

  Why did she know he needed that? Marigold was not perceptive about other people and interacted with so few; at work, contact with her colleagues had been superficial, for which she blamed herself, knowing her brusque awkwardness did not endear her to them. Already, though, in Haverscot, she had sensed Richard’s sadness. Why did his wife drink? Why had the silly small boy gone into hiding?

  Why had he and she forged a secret bond between them? What was wrong with that family? Was it Richard’s fault? Could he be a villain in disguise?

  Surely not. He must be what he seemed – a decent, ordinary man, such as many she had met, on superficial terms, at work.

  If there were any chance that they might come so soon, she must get the sitting-room in order. Spurred on, she plugged in the vacuum cleaner to sweep up behind the removers.

  When everything was arranged as far as she could manage, and there was no more that she could do, silence fell at The Willows. Even Sinbad had gone to sleep in front of the gas fire. At the bungalow, there had been the distant buzz of traffic; even, when the wind was in the right direction, the sound of a train. Here, as she listened, she heard the rain begin again, a swishing sound, and the spattering it made on the flagged terrace beyond the windows. She knew a moment’s desperation; then her gaze fell on the flowers. She would not give way to dread: instead, she would go out to dinner, have a meal at The Red Lion. During her weeks at the bungalow, she had been there several times. A good steak and some burgundy would set her up. She was used to dining out alone in unassuming places; it was one luxury she could afford and which had become easier to handle as she grew older. She did not need the restaurant staff to like her, merely to respect her.

  Respect was lacking nowadays. She meant to command it, where possible, for herself.

  She did not hurry over her meal, enjoying the steak, followed by an excellent crème brulée. She sipped her wine and drank her coffee. The hotel was small; it had two stars, and she had stayed there while she found the bungalow, sleeping in a comfortable room with an uneven floor, a beamed ceiling and a small mullioned window overlooking the market square. She’d occupied a double bed – the hotel had only one small single room, without a bathroom of its own – and she’d wondered what it was like to have someone lying there beside you, touching. Years ago, when she was young, she’d expected the experience; she knew no one would fall in love with her, but she thought she might experience a flirtation or a holiday romance. Neither had ever come her way. Yet she could have loved someone. Children could have followed. She’d known none well, not even her godchildren in their youth.

  Perhaps she would get to know Richard Gardner’s stepsons, now that they were neighbours. But they didn’t like him, calling him Cat in a tone that held no affection. She had been astounded by Terry’s escapade; what had made him behave in such a way? The boys were not in any trouble; he should have gone straight home. What about the other boy? Children could be very naughty and act unpredictably; some were even wicked. Perhaps, by having none, she had been spared a lot of worry. Those two weren’t Richard’s own children: did that make a difference? Could you love the child simply because you loved its mother?

  She paid her bill and rose to leave, passing the bar on her way out. Something made her glance inside. The room was busy, but not so crowded that she did not see Richard, who was standing by the counter, a brandy goblet in his hand. She paused. He was not talking to the people near him; indeed, he looked morose, almost desolate.

  Marigold very nearly went to speak to him, to thank him for the flowers, but she held back. She wasn’t good in crowded bars and there was something so dejected about his appearance that she felt he might not want anyone he knew to recognise his misery.

  Though of course, as a long-time resident of Haverscot and member of the choral society, he must know others who were in the bar.

  Perhaps he came here often in the evening, but she had never noticed him when she was staying at the inn.

  15

  Marigold had not looked inside her garden shed since moving in to The Willows. Water lapped around it, a large pool in a hollow of the lawn around a bare weeping willow, the rest of the lawn soft and saturated. She liked the pool; birds fluttered on it. She had seen a wild duck and there were several moorhens, but keen gardeners might suggest that drains should be sunk under the turf. She would consider it, she thought, at last stepping down the garden to inspect the collection of tools which she had bought. She wore her Wellingtons, ones with strong ridged soles in case the ground was slippery, and an old raincoat, with a rainproof hat. As she walked along the brick path which wound its way towards the bottom of the garden, she saw bulbs thrusting through the ground on either side: daffodil spikes, and the greener stems of grape hyacinths. Discovering what lay beneath the ground would be exhilarating, Marigold decided, still reluctant to admit excitement, though she had felt it several times in recent weeks.

  Inside, the shed smelled damp and musty; the window glass was grimed and masked with cobwebs. It must all be cleaned up, but not now. At least the floor was solid concrete, dry under her feet, and the tools were tidily arranged, a spade and several forks in different sizes suspended by their handles, a besom brush upended in a corner, various rakes. The mower was an old Atco. Did it work? If not, she’d have to get a new one. She might have to pay a man to come and cut the grass; there was a lot of it and it would take more than an hour to do, she estimated. She’d often done the mowing for her parents and had enjoyed walking up and down behind the machine. Her parents’ mower had been tricky to get started and temperamental when in action; doubtless modern ones were easier to operate. She need make no decision about what was best until the grass began to grow, perhaps in March.

  Flower pots were stacked neatly on a bench, some old earthenware ones and newer ones made of plastic. Trowels and other implements were well cleaned; there were few signs of rust. She’d made a good purchase.

  She closed the door and left. There was no bolt, but, not visible from the road, the shed would surely not attract a thief, and its contents were of small value. If she bought a new, expensive mower, though, perhaps she ought to lock it up. She’d heard no talk of local burglaries, but nobody was immune to predators.

  Richard had not been in church on Sunday, so she had been unable to invite him and Verity back to sherry. She had written him a note of thanks for the flowers and posted it: cowardly, in a sense, since if she had delivered it, he would have received it promptly, but she did not want to risk meeting his prickly wife without warning. She’d ask them round another time.

  Mr Phipps, the estate agent, had suggested a painter who could come and tackle the redecorating. Her own bedroom would be first, and she must decide what to do
about that sad room where the children’s books had been. For some reason she felt uncomfortable in there, as though an unhappy ghost lingered in the shadows. It was a fanciful idea: instead of speculating about the estranged son of Mr Morton, she should think of the happy spinster sisters who had lived here in her childhood. Even so, her thoughts kept returning to question-marks about the Mortons. How would the niece use her windfall? Had she been kind to her beneficent uncle? Had he been to visit her in Canada?

  Marigold’s own income was assured; her pension was a good one and, with some investments she had made, she had no financial worries. Thanks to her own inheritance, she had seen her capital increase; the London house had financed the purchase of The Willows. She had never known material insecurity and that gave her a form of confidence, but she had also had a successful career; if she had done less well, her pension would have been less generous. She was lucky; things that worried other people did not apply to her.

  When she had seen the painter she felt optimistic. He could start almost at once; in winter, work fell off, and these days many people did their own decorating, especially indoors. They discussed colours and the order in which the rooms should be tackled. Marigold thought she would probably have the kitchen completely refitted but that could wait; she wanted to test its layout before deciding on a plan. As it was, the inoffensive cream worktops and pale green cupboards were, though showing signs of wear, pleasant enough. Her fridge from London fitted in to the slot where Mr Morton’s smaller one had stood. It was relatively new, solid, with a freezer on the top which held enough emergency supplies for one person. If she grew soft fruit, perhaps she would need a larger one, but that was for the future.

  ‘We’ll be busy, Sinbad,’ she said, when Mr Samson, the painter, had agreed a date to start. He would have a mate to help him, he had said, which reassured Marigold, for he was very small and thin, unlike his namesake.

  She would have company, too: it might stimulate her. Since stopping work and having no particular timetable for her day, she had slowed up. Until a few months ago, she had risen early and tidied up her London house before leaving for the office. There, she had made decisions and written directives, all to a prescribed policy with which she did not necessarily agree but which was customary in her department; her mind was working actively. Now, visiting the supermarket was a major feature in her life, and choosing furnishing fabric rather special.

  She still took Sinbad to the park, which was drier than the garden; besides, he needed more exercise than it provided. She knew several other dog-owners by sight, but was too inhibited to greet them unless they first spoke to her. Unaware that she appeared forbidding, with her hat drawn down over her brows and her face set in an expression which reflected not ill-humour, but determination, she seemed to discourage friendly greetings, and any tentative approach some walker might have made was stillborn because she never looked at those approaching. Marigold walked firmly onwards, eyes to the front, like a guardsman on parade.

  She wrote inviting Richard and Verity to sherry on a Sunday in the middle of January, but received no reply. Richard had not even seen her letter, which Verity had left lying on the table in the drawing-room. Later, she had picked it up with a pile of magazines and it was sandwiched between them. Verity forgot about it.

  Though she found it odd that they had not answered, Marigold prepared for them. She’d bought flowers to replace those Richard had sent her; she had provided tiny toasts spread with cheese or fishy mixes; she had cut thin squares of brown bread and butter and laid smoked salmon on them. No one came.

  She thought of telephoning to see if there was a misunderstanding, but if it was their error, they might be embarrassed. If they’d simply forgotten, they’d remember later and would telephone. But they didn’t.

  She felt obscurely sad. Richard would not have been deliberately rude; she knew that. Verity, however, was unpredictable, at least to Marigold.

  Three sherries cheered her up, and she began to sing while putting Sinbad’s meal in his bowl. She ate most of the smoked salmon herself; the rest, she saved for supper.

  Mark wanted to return Coot Club to The Willows and exchange it for another sailing adventure. He was sure Tom would want him to go on borrowing books. One evening, when Steve had gone into the town to meet his friends and so could not be curious about Mark’s activities, he told Ivy he was going to see Terry, and set off.

  Soon he was marching down The Willows drive, in pitch darkness. He’d forgotten his torch. Never mind. He’d find the door.

  He fumbled about seeking the lock, and managed to insert the key. Once inside, he located the light switch and turned it on. He was surprised to find that things were different. There was a new carpet in the hall, and an unfamiliar table, a chair with a tapestry seat, other pictures on the walls. He examined one which showed a square-rigged ship in full sail; he liked the look of that.

  Not apprehensive, simply intrigued, he went into the sitting-room. Sofa and matching chairs, covered in blue fabric, stood on Tom’s carpet. The television was a small modern one. There was a CD player and he inspected that with interest. Steve had acquired enough money to buy one and Mark, though happy with his own ghetto-blaster, thought it great.

  He touched nothing, walking carefully round the house in his socks. He had left his shoes by the front door, as he and Steve had always done. Finally, after a thorough inspection of the ground floor, he went up to the room where the books were kept.

  It was completely empty. Even the curtains had gone and the window showed dark against the sky. Smeared, faded wallpaper was marked with squares where posters had hung. The bookshelves, which had been put up by Tom many years before, were in position, scratched and chipped, but bare.

  Mark’s heart began to thump. He couldn’t exchange the book, which had been his plan, but he could replace Coot Club.

  He laid it sideways on a shelf and then turned towards the door.

  A figure stood framed in the doorway. It was a woman in an overcoat. She held a heavy torch in her hand. Miss Darwin had picked it up in the hall on her return from taking Sinbad to the vet. He had suddenly developed stomach trouble, writhing round in pain, and they had travelled to the surgery in a taxi. She had had to leave him there, for he might need an operation. They had left the house well before dark, and she had not expected to be long. Returning, she saw lights on in the house. She had let herself in with care, making no noise, and had almost fallen over a pair of sturdy black lace-up shoes, not very large, by the front door. She had expected to find several vandals in the house, small ones, breaking the place apart. Instead, she saw one boy, not five foot tall, staring at her, terrified.

  Miss Darwin was the first to recover, and she recognised him.

  ‘You’re one of the boys from the park,’ she said. ‘You’re a friend of Terry Gardner’s. You’re Mark.’ At that moment she could not remember if she had ever heard his surname. He looked anything but menacing, standing by the bookcase, gazing up at her. ‘What are you doing in my house?’ she asked.

  Mark had retreated towards the window as he realised who she was. She had on the same grim hat, pulled down, and the same coat. He saw the big, heavy torch she held. Her attitude was threatening, but when Miss Darwin saw his fear, she took a backward step.

  Mark swallowed.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here,’ he said. ‘I brought back a book old Tom – Mr Morton – lent me.’ He gestured towards Coot Club, lonely on the shelf.

  ‘Hm.’ Miss Darwin crossed over, scrutinised the book and saw written inside, Alan Morton, from his mother, and the date, in 1958. ‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I was going to borrow another,’ Mark said, courage seeping back. This old woman wasn’t a witch, though she looked so fierce; she had saved him and Terry in the park.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t,’ she was saying. ‘As you see, all the books have gone and I’ve moved in. I live here now. How did you get in?’

  ‘I had
a key,’ said Mark. ‘I used to come and see Tom. Me and Steve did. Every night, mostly. We played chess and watched telly with him.’

  ‘Who’s Steve?’

  ‘Steve Burton. Ivy’s son. Well, not her real son. His dad died but he stayed on with Ivy. I go there after school till my Mum gets back from work.’

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be at Ivy’s now?’ queried Miss Darwin.

  ‘I’m on my way to see Terry,’ Mark said promptly, but it wasn’t true, though he’d told Ivy that was where he was going. He had planned to stay at The Willows till it was time to go home.

  ‘So late?’

  ‘It’s not that late,’ said Mark. ‘Six o’clock?’ he hazarded.

  Miss Darwin checked her watch.

  ‘Nearly half-past,’ she said. ‘You’d better come downstairs,’ she added. ‘Leave the book.’

  She led the way, Mark following, watching the sturdy shoulders under the coat. In the hall, she took it off and crossed to hang it in the cloakroom. She removed her hat, not glancing at her hair in the mirror; she knew it would be orderly, compressed for hours beneath the hat. Then she returned to look at the small miscreant who was standing on the Indian carpet in the centre of the hall. He wore his school trousers, rather baggy, bought big to cater for his rapid growth. His socks were grey. Except for the slightly different clothes – instead of a blazer and shorts, Mark’s trousers were long and he had on a navy anorak – he might have been William Brown incarnate.

  ‘Have you read about William and his friends?’ Miss Darwin asked. ‘Henry was one, and Ginger,’ she remembered.

  ‘Oh yes. I borrowed them from Tom,’ said Mark. ‘They made me laugh.’

  ‘They made me laugh, too,’ Miss Darwin said, gravely.

  She looked less alarming without her hat. She couldn’t help being so ugly, he thought kindly; she was old.