Honey-Dew

by Louise Doughty

  The Stag Hotel was rather different from a Posthouse. David Poe’s room was tiny and oddly shaped – a small square with a little corridor leading to a bathroom. The windows were leaded and the curtains heavily frilled. The bedspread had a huge floral pattern which reminded me of my old quilted dressing gown. Two plump pillows sat atop it, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. On the opposite side of the room there was a dresser with a lace-covered tray; china cup upturned neatly on its saucer, a small white teapot, a glass dish with sachets of coffee and sugar and hot chocolate and little cartons of cream.

  He opened the dresser doors to reveal – miraculously – a mini-bar. He opened it with a tiny key and knelt before it, his face made sickly by the glow from its interior.

  ‘No brandy,’ he said sadly. ‘They’ve not been too hot on re-stocking. There’s plenty of Smirnoff. Don’t know what you’ll mix it with. Orange juice? Tonic?’

  ‘Tonic,’ I said, seating myself on the end of the bed. The armchair next to the dresser was heaped with a briefcase, newspapers, clothes.

  ‘No ice either I’m afraid,’ he said as he poured my drink, gesturing towards a small plastic bucket with a fake wood-graining surround. ‘There’s never been any ice.’

  As he handed me my drink and took a sip of his own, he grinned to himself. ‘Here, take a look at this.’ He bent down to the lower shelf of the wicker bedside table. ‘Just to prove I’m not making it up.’

  He handed me a copy of Country Interiors magazine. On the front cover was a picture of swathes of coloured fabric and the title of the lead article: The A–Z of Gingham.

  ‘Classifieds, at the back,’ he said.

  I flicked through. He took the magazine from me and sat down beside me on the bed. ‘Look,’ he said, handing it back and pointing at an advertisement. He leant slightly closer than was necessary.

  It was an advertisement for your own Gnome-making kit. Moulds for plaster of paris, enamel paints – and a small fishing rod. £16.99.

  I smiled and said, ‘Yeah, yeah, you might want one one day.’

  ‘Do you blame people for taking the mickey?’ he replied, smiling back.

  I held on to the magazine, pretending to flick through it. It gave me something to do.

  After a long pause, he took the magazine from my hands and put it down on the floor.

  ‘So,’ he said, lifting a hand and stroking my upper arm with the back of one finger, ‘tell me your story.’

  For a moment, I thought he meant my life story. I felt a brief flush of panic. He was that keen already? What on earth would he think when he met my mother?

  Then I realised he was talking business. I wanted to move away from him, to discuss it more dispassionately, but to have moved at that point would have signalled rejection. I was not yet certain what I wanted to do.

  ‘I think I know where Gemma is, might be.’ I said. ‘I’m not sure, of course, but I think so. It’s going to make the police look pretty stupid. The investigation is all over the place.’

  As he moved closer towards me, the ancient springs beneath us creaked and the bed undulated. The shifting of his weight made me tip and wobble. His breath washed against my right ear.

  I was still holding my vodka and tonic. I took a large gulp and felt instantly sober. The natural thing would have been to turn towards him as I spoke, but our faces were too close together.

  He took his finger away from my arm. The flesh stung lightly where he had been stroking it. He transferred his weight and rested the other hand, carefully, on my thigh. Each gesture was a progression, a slow advancement which gave me ample time between each step to signal acceptance or dislike. There was no middle ground. Indifference would be taken as affirmation.

  His hand was warm, the way that soil feels warm when you pause from digging a border to kneel and break it up it in your hand. It feels warm even though you know it is cold.

  I hadn’t slept with anyone since I broke up with Martin, my last boyfriend, nearly three years ago. He was floor manager at the Farmwear Clothing warehouse on the Pillington Industrial Estate at Cold Overton.

  ‘So, how did you work it out?’ David Poe said, languidly. The fingers of the hand which was resting on my thigh began to tighten and flex, as if he was preparing to knead it. He shifted his weight towards me so that the only comfortable thing I could do was lean back against the wall.

  I rested back on my elbows, looked him full in the face and said. ‘I haven’t worked it out, as you put it.’ I paused for effect. ‘I’ve had a tip-off, from somebody who has seen her since the murders.’

  The hand was suddenly still. His expression did not change. ‘You can confirm this?’ he asked. His voice was higher, quicker.

  I sat up and he moved away. ‘Yes, of course I can. What did you think I was talking about?’

  He sat back and blew air through his lips. ‘I thought . . . I don’t know . . . a hunch or something. I didn’t know you meant – you mean you really know where she is? Where?’

  ‘Yes,’ I insisted. ‘And I’m not telling you, so just forget it. I’m not telling you anything. I just want to know whether you’ll put me in touch with somebody who wants this story.’

  He stood up and walked to the other side of the room. He leant against the wall and was silent for a moment, then he walked back and picked up his drink from where he had left it on the bedside table. He sat down on the bed again, then turned to face me.

  ‘Alison, look, I’m as ambitious as the next bloke so I’m not saying I blame you, but this is an ongoing investigation. If you’re serious, I mean really know, as opposed to taking a guess or hearing a rumour or something, no editor is going to touch this with a bargepole. It’s an ongoing murder investigation. Perverting the course of justice. It’s a criminal offence.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I spat. ‘If you knew, you’d use it fast enough.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I wouldn’t.’

  We faced each other, sitting at either end of the plump, creaky bed. I didn’t know what to say next, so I said, ‘I’m going to use your loo.’

  The bathroom had no window. As I turned the light on, an extractor fan began a low, resonant humming which sounded both near and far away. I went to the loo and flushed the toilet, then ran a bowl of water to wash my hands.

  On the sink, there was a tiny round soap, still in its paper wrapper. I pulled the wrapper off and turned the soap over and over between my damp hands. It smelt of apples and detergent.

  The light above the mirror was a small fluorescent strip shaded by a curve of brass. My face looked yellow. My fringe was overgrown and I was constantly having to brush it back with my hand. The gesture made me look nervous.

  The mirror was big enough for me to glance down my body – the white t-shirt over the pleated skirt. It was the first time I had worn a skirt without tights that spring. It wasn’t really hot enough, but the warmth of the past couple of weeks had made me dig out my summer wardrobe. I was sick of winter clothes, the jumpers and leggings. When I had pulled on the skirt that morning, my legs had seemed so pale, the flesh chickeny. Now that it was cold and dark outside, I felt silly and wanted to be wearing something more comfortable.

  I surveyed myself; the 100 per cent cotton, the flat shoes. I thought of the women David Poe must know in London, women who didn’t let their fringes grow too long.

  When I rejoined him, I saw that the atmosphere had changed. He had moved his clothes and papers off the armchair and put them down on the floor. He was sitting looking thoughtful, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and the tips of his fingers pressed together so that his hands formed a pyramid in front of him. The posture annoyed me. All his posturing did.

  ‘So,’ I said, sinking down onto the bed, casually flirtatious, ‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question now?’ I was angry that I had lost the opportunity to turn him down.

  He looked at me. ‘Alison, who are you?’ It was a simple question, said without malice, which made it all the more insulting.

/>   I laughed nastily. ‘Oh, sorry, you think all girls who live in small country towns should be sweet girlies with no opinions who are happy to unbutton their gingham smocks for hugely important journalists like you.’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I think it is.’

  We had reached an impasse. Somehow, I had to leave his room with dignity, preferably with a passing witticism. I rose and looked around for my jumper, which I had dropped somewhere as we came in.

  He did not move from his chair. As I found the jumper and pulled it over my head he said, ‘So what are you going to do?’

  It occurred to me that if he was so high-minded he might report me to the police. If it was all an act and he was as much of a skunk as most national journalists, maybe he would tip off another paper, have me followed.

  ‘I’ll think about it over the weekend,’ I said neutrally. ‘Maybe I’ll ring you on Monday.’ I had no intention of calling him.

  ‘It isn’t me you should be ringing.’

  I wanted to tell him he was a sanctimonious git; a hypocrite like my mother; a superior jerk like Doug and Cheryl, who always act like I’m the new kid on the block even though I’ve worked for them for years; a smug oaf like all the people in Oakham who spend their lives collecting opinions in the same way others collect beer mats. I hated him and all of them. I was sick to death of people who thought they knew me.

  He rose and opened the door for me as I left. Absurdly, we wished each other pleasant dreams.

  Andrew was still up when I got home. He was watching television with the lights off, slumped sideways on my settee, bathed in ghostly flickers. He had found a bottle of red wine in my pantry and was drinking it out of a plastic tumbler.

  ‘You can have a proper glass, you know,’ I said softly as I settled down onto the floor beside him. He handed me the tumbler without speaking. The sound on the television was low.

  ‘You’ve just missed the best line in the whole film,’ he said. ‘You could have used it somewhere. It was great.’

  I took a slug of wine. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Francis Ford Coppola, I think. The Conversation.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gene Hackman is a bugging expert. He thinks he’s responsible for some people being killed. He has nightmares. I’ve seen it before. It all turns on a misinterpretation. It’s really clever.’

  I leant forward and peered at Gene Hackman’s brown leather jacket, the lapels, his flares. ‘How old is this?’

  ‘Seventies. But the line, it’s great. I thought of you. He says, Gene Hackman, he’s thinking about these people who have been killed and he says, “I’m not afraid of death, but I am afraid of murder.” ’

  I nodded. ‘Good line.’

  ‘Where have you been, anyway?’ He reached down and retrieved the tumbler.

  ‘Nowhere. The pub. They had a lock-in.’ I didn’t want to tell Andrew about David Poe, or what I knew about Gemma. I knew he wouldn’t approve. He’s so moral.

  ‘I should’ve rung you, I suppose. You could have come over on my bike.’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’m broke . . . Ugh.’ He winced at a scene on the telly.

  When the phone rang the following morning, I thought it was David Poe.

  I was in the kitchen. I left my mug of tea and moved swiftly into the sitting room. Perhaps he was going to apologise.

  It took me a moment or so to locate the phone. Andrew had been using it and left it lodged just underneath the settee. I extracted it carefully, as if I was coaxing a dog. It is an old Bakelite one. There is a slight hum on it. Through the hum, a voice I didn’t recognise said, ‘Alison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alison, it’s George Bloomfield here.’

  I sat up, even though he couldn’t see me. George Bloomfield was the Managing Editor of Shires Periodicals – my boss’s boss. The conference in Coventry was the only time I had had a conversation with him that had lasted longer than two minutes. Apart from that, I had only met him a handful of times. He was fond of dropping in on our office unannounced to tell us what a wonderful job we were doing. He was so important he was on first name terms with everyone. He always talked in a way that suggested he was thinking, isn’t it amazing I’m so gracious and polite?

  He was very sorry to be ringing me at home on a Saturday. He hoped he wasn’t spoiling my morning. After all, we had all done such a wonderful job with that week’s newspaper we deserved a weekend off. He had been so sorry to hear about Doug. It must have been a terrible shock to all of us. Actually, he was ringing because he was going to be passing through Oakham on Tuesday morning and wondered if it would be possible to meet me somewhere for coffee. He would have suggested Monday but things were a little hectic over in Coventry and he was going to be in meetings all day. He wished he could make it lunch but he had to be in a meeting in Stamford at twelve noon. He would come by the office at eleven, but could I possibly think of somewhere nearby where he and I could go for a chat?

  What’s wrong with the coffee we serve in the office? I thought. There’s plenty wrong with it, actually, but it had never seemed to bother him before.

  We talked about the Cowper case, then he rang off.

  I went through to the kitchen and got my mug, then came back to the phone. I didn’t have Cheryl’s home number but I knew she would be in the book.

  She answered the phone immediately.

  ‘Hi, it’s Alison,’ I said. ‘How’s Doug?’

  ‘Oh he’s going to be okay, you know. It was another little one apparently. He was lucky. Next time it’ll be the biggie. I spoke to him just now. I’m going over later. He says they’re talking about letting him out in a day or two. I can’t believe it. I don’t know whether they know there’s no one to look after him.’

  She sounded strained. She and Doug had known each other for so long. Anyone would look at him and know what would happen one day – the huge stomach, the florid features – he was a coronary waiting to happen.

  I always think that fat people seem more alive than the rest of us. They take up more space, use more air. It seems bizarrely just that their lives should be shorter. I realised I had not taken Doug’s heart attack that seriously because it seemed inconceivable that anything serious could happen to him. Surely the Record would fold up? Surely a hole would open up in the ground and the offices disappear into it?

  I said, ‘I’ve just had a call from George Bloomfield. He wants to have a coffee with me on Tuesday. What do you think he wants?’

  There was a long pause.

  When Cheryl spoke, her voice was cold and mild. ‘Alison, I’m sure you can work it out.’

  I realised I had rung her because I was excited and wanted to share it with her. She knew it. She was chastising me.

  I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t my fault Doug was ill.

  ‘Well, say hi to Doug from me,’ I said, eventually.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  I finished my tea, sitting on my sitting room floor with my back against the settee. Andrew had taken all the cushions upstairs to make up his bed. I wondered whether to take him a drink. I was almost out of herbal teas.

  I only had a day or two, at most, before the police got their act together and searched Burley Wood. I had to do something. I stood.

  A few minutes later I was at the kitchen window, rinsing my mug, when I saw the taxi draw up. The passenger was in the front seat, talking to the driver. I peered. I couldn’t see who it was until she opened the door and began to clamber out, with all the large-limbed awkwardness of someone who is not accustomed to getting in and out of cars. I had just enough time to go to the bottom of the stairs and shout up to Andrew.

  He came to the landing, rubbing his face with the heel of one hand. He was wearing an old towel and an expression of sleepy irritation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Mum,’ I hissed urgently. ‘She’s getting out of the taxi now.’

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nbsp; He gave me a look that encapsulated the whole of our childhood and adolescence in one appalled, wide-open stare. Then he disappeared back into the box room and closed the door behind him. There is no window in that room. I imagined him plunging himself into darkness, then climbing under the sheets and blankets and pulling them over his head. This is the man who hitchhiked solo the length of South America.

  My mother was wearing the inevitable headscarf, even though it was a cloudless, sunny morning.

  I hadn’t visited my parents for some weeks and in the intervening period I had forgotten, as I always do, how physically unpleasant my mother is. She is a big woman with a taut, bony face which reminds me of those elderly trophy wives you see on television moguls’ wives – women who have had so many facelifts you can almost see their skulls shining through their fleshless features. My mother has achieved that look without spending a penny. Perhaps it is so much prayer.

  At the same time, it is clear from a single glance that she is a poor man’s wife, a wife who has not been cherished. Her skirts cling to the fullness of her hips – her V-neck jumpers are saggy and bobbled. She is always clean, but never new.

  She stood on the threshold of my cottage, not greeting me, untying the headscarf with calm but inefficient fingers. She pulled it smoothly from her head and her hair crackled to life.

  It was only when she had folded the headscarf and pushed it under the flap of her handbag that she looked at me and said, ‘Hello, Alison. Your father doesn’t know I’ve come. I’ve come to see Andrew.’

  I stepped back to allow her in, playing for time. Once inside my sitting room, she opened the handbag and withdrew a folded copy of the Mirror. She held it out to me.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ It was several days old. Andrew’s photofit was on the front page. ‘I didn’t think it was him when they thought it was him that did it. He’s still my boy. Then they did a report the next day saying he was someone visiting someone in the village. That’s when I knew. Is he still here? Don’t tell me he’s gone when he hasn’t. He’s my son. I have a right.’

  I wondered if she had noticed that the cushions were missing from the settee.