Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  If Richard replied that she was pretty, animated and smart, he would antagonise Verity, who would suspect him of a sexual interest in her; if he said she was plain, dowdy and dull, he would soon be proved a liar. How should he answer?

  He shrugged.

  ‘I hardly noticed,’ he said. ‘She was concerned about Mark and in a hurry to get him home and find out what he knew, if anything.’ He was not going to say that he had met Susan before today; that would be committing kamikaze.

  ‘Well, since you seem to have accepted without consulting me, I suppose I’ll have to fall in with your plans,’ Verity said. ‘But it will be a waste of the afternoon.’

  ‘You’d be doing Miss Darwin a favour,’ Richard said. ‘She’s anxious to help young Mark. His mother’s working hours make things difficult, as we already know, and she thinks it’s good for him to come here.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ Verity briefly felt benevolent about exposing Mark to their large garden, tree house and other amenities.

  ‘It turns out that she was the woman in the park who saw the boys being teased that time when Terry’s football was snatched,’ Richard told her. ‘She saved them from a big problem then.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Verity.

  He waited for her to ask why she had not been told this before. Hadn’t Miss Darwin recognised Terry on Christmas Day?

  But Verity said nothing. She might think about it in the middle of the night and demand an explanation then; that would give him time to think of one. New spectacles required, he thought: that might pass.

  He and Verity had not discussed Terry’s brush with the law after it happened. There had been no obvious problems since then, and the boy had been chastened by his visit to the police station. He had friends they had not met, and so had Justin, but Mark appeared to be eminently suitable. It was clear that Miss Darwin thought well of him, and while she might not be used to children, she was shrewd and would see through cant.

  Verity remained in a reasonable frame of mind for the rest of the day and Richard seized the chance to make an attempt at family unity. Jurassic Park was on at a local cinema; he suggested they should go, as the boys had wanted to see it since it first became a box-office success.

  ‘Let’s all go,’ he dared to suggest, and when Verity agreed, his only worry was that all the seats would be sold.

  But he was able to reserve four on the telephone, and Justin, though he said he’d meant to meet some friends, was persuaded to change his plans. They set off together, and for a few hours Richard imagined he might be able to salvage something of his marriage.

  It was better than thinking about Caroline and her pregnancy.

  Richard had been pretending that her condition had no relation to himself. A few people in the office had noticed it, though she wore loose jackets now and had made no mention of it.

  Of course the father was the other man, the mystery begetter in Wiltshire, but after it was born, would either of them see the child? Would they have a chance to recognise their own son or daughter, maybe see a likeness which would mean there was no need for scientific proof as to who had scored? He wondered if the other man had been cast aside, too, now that both of them had served their purpose – and served was the operative word.

  Wouldn’t the child want to know who its father was?

  What about young Mark? Did he see his father? Was Susan a widow? He didn’t seem to spend time with a divorced father. Perhaps, like Verity’s first husband, he had run away from his responsibilities.

  If this was his child, Richard did not want to run away from it; he’d like to be involved. Indeed, he had fantasised about marrying Caroline.

  Why had she told him? Why not leave him in ignorance? But of course, it was true that when he saw that she was pregnant, he would have wondered if the child was his.

  In the cinema, these thoughts, at intervals, obtruded. Afterwards, they all went to a pizza bar nearby. The boys ate hugely, while Verity nibbled at a tiny slice of the giant pizza they had ordered. When they reached home, it was time for all of them to go to bed.

  Verity had drunk nothing since the gallery viewing earlier. Richard managed to make love to her that night, but it wasn’t really love: more an act of pity.

  On Sunday morning Steve stayed in bed till twelve. He often did this at weekends, coming in late at night after an evening with his friends. He always told Ivy he was with Greg, or Bruce, or Kevin, and maybe he was, but not in any of their houses, as she supposed, except when the parents had gone out and the boys stayed in drinking beer and watching videos.

  He’d taken the stolen video recorder, the toaster and the radio round to Greg’s. Greg’s older brother had given Steve twenty-five pounds for them – peanuts, but Steve couldn’t have passed the stuff on himself: not yet. He wasn’t in that league, but he’d get there.

  He’d try to sell the jewellery on his own, maybe in the market next weekend. Some traders might not be too curious; he could say it was his mum’s and she was sick and needed the money.

  It was worth staying in for Sunday lunch. Ivy always cooked a roast and today it was pork, the crackling crisp, with apple sauce. All of them enjoyed it; even Adam had gravy and the mashed inside of a roast potato. Steve went out later; he left the jewellery in a drawer in his room. He might give a piece of it to Ivy, though he didn’t think that it was quite her style; that locket thing, for instance, and the brooches. Were those red stones rubies? If so, they’d be worth a bomb.

  He didn’t know what his friends had lined up for that afternoon. The rain had stopped. They might go looking for some girls. Steve wasn’t keen on wasting time with girls, but Greg and Kevin liked chatting them up, trying to impress them, and if that didn’t work, then shocking them with insults. Steve wouldn’t mind parading round with one, to earn respect; otherwise, he wasn’t bothered. Respect mattered, though; he’d had it from being with his dad, who turned up at school meetings and at football matches when Steve was in the team. His dad looked good and didn’t cheer too loudly: just enough to show he cared. Steve was never in the team now; he wasn’t interested.

  His mates were quite impressed by what he’d lifted from The Willows. Naturally, he didn’t tell them where he’d got the stuff. He’d get some more, and soon, and make Greg’s brother pay him better next time. Those big houses in Wordsworth Road were tempting; not much traffic went that way, as the road ended at the church, and they had big gardens offering concealment. There was that place where young Mark’s friend lived, Merrifields: it was much bigger than The Willows and would have more loot. He’d really need some wheels to get stuff away from there. Perhaps he could use a wheelbarrow; if he pushed it briskly, it wouldn’t take long to get the stuff to Ivy’s and stash it in the garden. He wasn’t keen on sharing anything, but young Mark might help him get into Merrifields; he might even steal a key. How could he get the kid to do it? He was an awkward little bugger; he hadn’t liked Steve’s scams at Tom’s. Scaring him might do it; he could say he’d torch his bike or put worms in his food.

  As he ran through these possibilities in his mind, Steve had an instant’s vision of his father. Joe had been scrupulously honest. But he shouldn’t have died. He’d left Steve on his own.

  Action was the way to banish these uncomfortable thoughts. Steve thought he might take a look round Merrifields this afternoon. Families went out on Sunday and that guy at Merrifields might do the same. Steve would go over the fields; then he wouldn’t be noticed, lurking. He’d climb the fence and approach the house across the garden. He’d have a look around, size the place up, make a plan. He could trap Mark into telling him about it – describing where the bathroom window was, and so on, sorting out where it would be easiest to enter if he failed to get the kid to find a key.

  A few nights ago, Steve had seen Greg and Kevin set light to a barn stacked half-hill with hay. He’d carried cans of petrol for them, then stood back while Kevin lit the screwed-up piece of paper he’d thrown into the soaked hay. Some other, younger b
oys had watched before running off. It had been a sight to see. Steve hadn’t been too sure about the barn: after all, cows ate hay and they might starve if their food went up. But it was exciting, you couldn’t deny that; all those flames soaring into the dark sky. They’d got away in a car Kevin had lifted to take them into the countryside, and they’d dropped Steve on the outskirts of the town; once they’d driven off, worried, he’d phoned the fire brigade from a call box, then hurried home.

  What would there be at Merrifields? Maybe a computer, and cash. He’d found none at The Willows. There might be a food processor. Ivy would find one very useful with all the cooking she did. He’d like to get her one.

  He ambled along the road. It was raw and damp. Some of the flood water had abated, but it could rain again at any minute. Almost automatically, he turned towards The Willows; it was on his route to the church and the field path which would lead him past the gardens of the houses above the river. He missed the quiet evenings at The Willows, the weekend afternoons spent in the warm, peaceful house, and he missed the easy pickings. Ripping Tom off had been a cinch, like stealing from a child, but he’d liked the old man and finding him dead like that had been a dreadful shock. The kid, Mark, had been so cool; funny, really.

  As he walked towards the church, Steve saw, ahead of him, a blue Vauxhall which he recognised as belonging to Mark’s mother. The brake lights came on as it slowed, then, indicator flashing, it turned in at The Willows. Why had she bothered to signal when there was no car in sight? Typical of a woman driver, decided Steve, who had no experience of being driven by one but who blotted up opinions expressed by others in his hearing. Several of his friends thought women slags, good for only one thing.

  What was Susan Conway doing at The Willows? Was Mark with her? The old girl must have reported the burglary to the police. Steve walked on and peered up the drive. The air was dank and the lowering sky was black. He stepped between the gateposts and, hugging the sheltering shrubs, keeping to the sodden grass beside the drive, he went closer to the house. The porch light was on and he could see slivers of light between the drawn curtains and the downstairs windows. Steve slipped round to the back of the house and was there when he heard another car arrive. Doors were banged, remarks exchanged, and when all was quiet he returned to the front to see if he could identify the new car.

  It was the black Montego from Merrifields. He’d seen the man who owned it getting into it at the station when he’d been there with some other boys, including Justin Gardner, who had done brilliant patterns with spray paint on a wall. The kid was quite an artist. He’d had a few things to say about his stepfather; he didn’t like the guy.

  Steve stared at Richard’s car. Why was he at The Willows? Was he alone? No sense of guilt about his thefts bothered Steve as he edged up to the sitting-room window and tried to peer through the chink in the curtains. He saw part of a head of tufty brown hair: that was Mark. He heard the boom of a male voice, then shriller sounds. A lot of people were in the house. Were all the Gardners there?

  It seemed quite possible. If so, now was his chance to do Merrifields. Steve turned away. He’d best be quick. He’d brought no bag with him, but there would be one in the house if he could find it fast enough. There’d be the same sort of stuff as he’d taken from The Willows: a video, a radio, perhaps a camera, and the mixer. He forgot about the field approach he’d planned and ran back along the road.

  Alan, peering through the window of the shed where the gun was buried, saw the figure of a youth flitting through the garden at The Willows. What was he up to? Nothing legal, that was certain.

  It might be worth finding out.

  Two days earlier, he had been released from prison and was living in his rented flat. He had hired a car, a Honda Civic, and had left it in Haverscot market square while he went on foot to The Willows. He wanted to discover if the house was still empty. Houses did not move much in the winter, he knew that, and there hadn’t been a lot of time for a sale to have gone through. He’d seen no board outside, however, so, to be on the safe side, he hadn’t walked straight up the drive but had come in over the fence from the field above the river, very early, just as it was getting light.

  If his mother had kept her shameful secret, Tom would not have disinherited him. He’d be moving in there, now, himself, not planning a robbery to finance his future.

  The dawn was grey: no sweeps of brilliance swept across the sky and the air was heavy with moisture. He’d seen lights come on in the house, and, keeping close to the shrubs along the boundary, he’d edged his way towards it. Then he’d noticed a figure at a window as the curtains were drawn back. He’d inched up to a point where he could look into the kitchen, and had seen an old woman moving to and fro. She’d made toast, bending to the cooker to extract it from below the grill, and he’d thought it odd that she had no automatic toaster.

  Was this old woman the new owner? Was her husband still upstairs? Were there other people living in the house? Cautiously, he circled round the building, looking in at all the windows, leaping back when an automatic outside light, sensing him, came on. Nothing happened: if anyone had noticed, perhaps they thought a wandering cat or other animal had set it off.

  He saw the new furnishings in the freshly decorated sitting-room, and the table covered with Marigold’s art work in the dining-room. Then he returned to the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, her back towards the window which overlooked the sink. On the wall opposite was a large picture, a rural scene, sunny, a lot of blues and greens with red flowers in a meadow: a print of one of Monet’s poppy paintings which Marigold had bought at Giverny. She liked looking at it during meals. He saw her pour some coffee from a cafetière; then she stretched an arm towards a jar of marmalade; there was butter on a dish. Alan’s mouth watered. Before leaving the flat he had grabbed some bread, spreading it with Flora, and had drunk a mug of instant coffee, without milk as he’d forgotten to buy some when he went to the grocer’s in the small shopping area around the corner. Despite his work experience, he was still uncomfortable in shops and public places, moving awkwardly and unable to utter more than curt words during transactions.

  The kitchen had been altered. New wood fitments added warmth and colour to what had been pale cream and green. Alan considered breaking in and knocking out the old woman, still dawdling over breakfast. Then he could take his time over retrieving the gun and ammunition, and enjoy some food in the civilised surroundings which should, by rights, be his. But he couldn’t be certain that she was alone in the house. It was so large for just one person. Once he’d got the gun, numbers wouldn’t matter.

  She stood up, pushing back her chair, and Alan quickly ducked away. Marigold glimpsed some movement, reflected in the glass covering her Monet print, but it was gone in an instant and she thought it was a trick of the eye. She ignored it.

  She mustn’t catch sight of him as he retraced his steps towards the shed. Alan made a circuit of the garden under cover of the bushes, avoiding open spaces and the lawn. Water still lay round the bases of the willows; he’d sometimes played with toy boats in these annual temporary ponds. His father – Tom – had helped him, fishing out a wreck that had sunk, causing him to burst into the frustrated crying of a child.

  Dare he make a run for the shed? No other lights had come on in the house, and though it was lighter now outside, it was still overcast. He returned, hugging the wall, to the spot from which he’d overlooked the kitchen; the light was still on there, and, snatching a quick glance, he saw that the old bag was now standing at the table. She’d got flour out, and some bowls. She must be making a cake or pastry, just as his mother used to do in that very room. She’d be busy for some time, but if she took her bowls and spoons to the sink, she could look down the garden and might see him.

  He went round the downstairs windows once again, but all the rooms were empty, with no lights burning. She had to be alone.

  He reached the garage, and tried the door. It was unlocked, and when he opened it
, he saw no car. The place was empty except for some old tea chests. Miss M. Darwin, he read on a label, and the address, The Willows, Haverscot.

  That woman was Miss Darwin. He was right. There was no husband and no family.

  It was dry in the garage, and warmer than outside. He pulled the door to and stayed there, wondering what to do. He had no weapon to use against her if he burst into the house. There was nothing in the garage – it had been swept clean and the boxes had been unpacked; they were so light when he moved them that he knew he would not find anything in them with which to hit her. He had no qualms about using violence; anyone who got in Alan’s way would not be tolerated.

  If she saw him crossing the garden, she could call the police. On the other hand, she couldn’t remain in the kitchen for ever. He hadn’t noticed the time; how long had she been there, stirring up her mixture?

  At this point in his thoughts, the church bells began to ring, making him jump. From so near, they were very loud. He remembered that his mother had gone to church every Sunday; it was possible that this woman might do the same. He pushed the door open a crack and peered through the gap. While the bells still rang, he saw her on the doorstep, in her coat and a dark hat, setting out. He breathed deeply. Now he could resume his plans, for she would be away at least an hour.

  He didn’t waste time on the house; the gun was what he wanted. Once he’d got that, he could control the woman, take the house over if he chose. He hurried back to the shed. There, below the concrete, lay his passport to freedom.

  What sort of job had that man who was not his father done? He wouldn’t have scrimped on things, but a workman might have. How deep was the concrete? Was there ballast underneath? He looked along the row of tools, seeking a sledgehammer, but he couldn’t see one. Surely Tom would have had one? There was a pickaxe, and a heavy spade. He swung the pickaxe at the floor and succeeded only in sending up some chips of stone. Then he tried to prise it up at the side, but it was far too firmly grounded. Of course, these would be the woman’s tools, not Tom’s, he told himself; that was why there was no sledgehammer among them. Without one, since he couldn’t risk the noise of a pneumatic drill, he’d never break it up.