Fall of a Philanderer

by Carola Dunn

  4

  Thursday was another sunny day, but Friday brought a dank and dismal grey mist that left droplets beading everything it touched. Before dawn, Daisy’s dreams were haunted by the mournful howl of a foghorn. At breakfast, the far side of the inlet was invisible from the dining room window. Donald Baskin decided to take the motor-ferry to Abbotsford and walk inland, hoping for better weather.

  Belinda and Deva begged to go on the ferry too, just for the ride. They had been too tired and excited to appreciate it after the train ride from London, especially in the rain. The idea of sitting shivering in a noisy open boat did not attract Daisy, but nor did the alternatives of shivering on the beach, staying cooped up in the house, or tramping through the mists and doubtless falling over a cliff.

  So she told Mrs. Anstruther they would have lunch in Abbotsford and off they went, dropping off the library books at the post office on the way to the quay.

  The first part of the trip was as miserable as Daisy had foreseen, but as they wound their way up the branching inlet, the sun came out. They spent several pleasant hours in the market town. In a little dark shop in an eighteenth-century arcade, Belinda found a man’s Panama hat with a pink and purple band, which she insisted on buying for Sid the beachcomber. It was very cheap because no one else wanted a pink and purple hat-band.

  “But Sid will like it, won’t he, Mummy?”

  “I expect so, darling. He does seem keen on bright colours.”

  “Anyway,” said Deva, “it’s much better than his broken one. My ayah says beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Halfway back to Westcombe, they could see ahead a solid-looking mass of fog lying in wait, crouching between the hillsides, “Like a big grey cat waiting to pounce,” Belinda said.

  But when they passed from sunshine into gloom, it felt more like a wet blanket. The girls had no desire to spend the rest of the afternoon on the beach, as they had planned in sunny Abbotsford. On arrival in Westcombe, they all went up to the post office library to choose some more books, walking with caution up the slippery cobbled slope.

  When they came out, Belinda was pleased to see Sid coming down the hill with his cart. “Mummy, will you give him his hat?” she whispered.

  “You bought it for him, with your own money. Don’t you want to give it to him?”

  Belinda shook her head.

  Never having been in the least shy, Daisy didn’t really understand what her stepdaughter felt. She didn’t know what was the best way to help her, whether to make her buck up and act for herself or just let her be. She tried a compromise. “Why don’t we all go over to him, then I’ll tell him you have a present for him and you hand it to him?”

  “All right.”

  Looking up, Daisy saw Mrs. Hammett on the other side of the street, in blue polka-dotted with white today. To her dismay, Mrs. Hammett spotted her, waved her umbrella, and started across. She stepped right in front of Sid. Trying to stop, he slipped on the slick cobbles. The heavy cart pushed him a couple of feet down the hill before he managed with a heroic effort to come to a halt, inches before he crashed into Mrs. Hammett.

  Backing away, she whacked him with the umbrella and started berating him at the top of her voice. “You clumsy clown! You nearly sent me flying. You’re a disgrace to the village, in your disgusting clothes with that load of smelly rubbish you pull around. You didn’t ought to be allowed out on the streets. You ought to be in an institution, that’s what!”

  As she continued to rant, several people stopped to look and listen. Sid looked more and more frightened. Suddenly he turned his back on Mrs. Hammett, bent down, and peered at her between his legs.

  “Look at him!” she screeched at the top of her voice, backing off a little further. “It’s indecent. I’m a respectable woman. I won’t be subjected to such disgusting treatment.”

  One of the local men who had gathered snickered and remarked, “He’s just turning the other cheek, Mrs. Hammett.”

  “That’s blasphemy, Jim Small. And obscenity, too!” She raised her umbrella as if to strike Sid across the buttocks, but another of the men took it from her and spoke soothingly. A third had caught the cart when Sid let it go, preventing a nasty accident. Quite a crowd had collected by now.

  “Awright, awright, awright, what’s a-going on here?” The local bobby turned up. “Awright, Sid, that’s enough o’ that. Straighten up, this instant. Stand up, I say.”

  Sid obeyed, more or less, cowering back against his cart.

  “Awright, what happened?”

  Several voices rose at once, but Mrs. Hammett’s was the loudest by far. “This man nearly ran me down, Fred Puckle, and then he insulted me. I’ll thank you to take him in charge. Disturbing of the peace, that’s what it is. He ought to be put away.”

  As the hefty policeman’s heavy hand landed on Sid’s cringing shoulder, Belinda clutched Daisy’s sleeve.

  “Mummy, don’t let them take him away. It wasn’t his fault! Tell them. Tell them she stepped right in front of him and then she hit him.”

  “Darling, I will, but I’m not going to get dragged into a vulgar public brangle with that dreadful woman. I’ll go to the police station and speak to the constable there.”

  Sid hung onto his cart. A couple of men jerked it out of his hands. “We’ll get rid of this junk for you,” one said with a snigger.

  With a wordless wail, he reached back, as the burly bobby hauled him away by the arm. Mrs. Hammett followed them, still haranguing.

  “Come on, Deva,” said Belinda, and before Daisy could stop her she marched across the street. In a passable imitation of Daisy’s imitation of the Dowager Viscountess’s grande dame voice, she said, “We will take care of that. Bring it to Mrs. Anstruther’s house at once. Sid,” she called, “we’re going to look after your stuff for you. Don’t worry!”

  Startled, the two men looked at each other. One shrugged. “Right you are, little missy,” he said, humouring her, and he started wheeling the cart down the hill, followed by a very determined Belinda with Deva tagging along.

  “Good for her!” A woman, a handsome, buxom, peroxided blonde, had come out of the Schooner to stand near Daisy and watch the goings-on. “Your kid?”

  “Yes. I’d better go after her.”

  “Don’t worry, Ned Baxter won’t bring ’em no harm. The men like to tease the idiot, that’s all. No harm in him either, come to that, poor soul. That Ellen Hammett’s a troublemaker. Nothing but a farmer’s daughter, when all’s said and done, but she’s been too big for her boots ever since she married James Hammett, poor chap.”

  “James Hammett?”

  “Biggest fish wholesaler in these parts, he is, with lorries taking the catch from Abbotsford into Exeter to catch the London express. Not but what he ought to’ve known better, a smart business-man like him. Ellen’d’ve turned out a scold no matter who she married.”

  “She does seem to be a difficult person.”

  “That she is.” The woman sighed. “But there, he’s not the first to be taken in, nor won’t be the last, and people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

  This as good as confirmed Daisy’s guess that the blonde was Mrs. George Enderby. “Handsome is as handsome does,” she offered in a commiserating tone, being unable to think offhand of a more apposite proverb.

  “A truer word was never said. Still, them as has made their bed must lie in it.”

  “No use crying over spilt milk.”

  “Nor spilt beer, neither. Well, I’ve work to be done. Don’t you fret about the little girls. Ned Baxter’ll see ’em safe and sound to Cecily’s.” With a friendly nod, Mrs. Enderby retired into the inn. If she was aware that Cecily Anstruther had been one of her husband’s conquests, she seemed not to bear her any ill-will.

  Slowly and reluctantly, Daisy proceeded up the hill towards the police station. Not that she was having second thoughts about interceding on Sid’s behalf, but she didn’t want to meet Mrs. Hammett while on her errand of mercy.<
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  And there was Mrs. Hammett coming out of a whitewashed cottage with a blue gas-lamp over the door and turning down the hill. Daisy plunged into the nearest shop, which turned out to be an ironmonger’s. Fortunately, as well as nails, screws, bolts, hinges, buckets and such, it had things like saucepans, patent egg-beaters and toasting forks. These were conveniently hanging in the window where she could keep an eye on Mrs. Hammett while pretending to examine them.

  Luckily the ironmonger was busy with a customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment, madam,” he said, but Mrs. Hammett passed and Daisy escaped without having to buy a corkscrew she didn’t need.

  When she marched into the police station, Daisy found Constable Puckle seated at his high desk, chewing the end of a pencil and contemplating the big ledger in front of him with a puzzled frown.

  “What can I do for you, madam?”

  “I witnessed the … um … altercation in the street just now. I’m afraid Mrs. Hammett gave you quite the wrong impression of what happened. She stepped out into the street right in front of Sid, and it was only with a great effort that he avoided running her down. Then she hit him with her umbrella. He was frightened—that’s why he did that trick of his. So, you see, if anyone ought to be arrested it’s Mrs. Hammett.”

  “Sid can’t be let to go around upsetting respectable people like that.”

  “He only does it when he’s afraid,” Daisy protested. “You can’t let Mrs. Hammett go around hitting people with her umbrella.”

  “Aye, I’ve had a word wi’ her about that. But it’s no good talking to Sid, he’s got to be given a shock so he understands he’s not to be disturbing of the peace.”

  “That’s utterly unfair! You can’t arrest him for just trying to protect himself.”

  “Who says I arrested him?” Red in the face, Puckle was quite as indignant as Daisy by now. “Didn’t I talk her out o’ pressing charges? Breach o’ the King’s peace, likely he’d get thirty days seeing as he’s got no money to pay a fine and the magistrate’s a friend o’ Mr. Hammett’s. A night in the wash’se out the back won’t do Sid any harm. More comfortable nor his shack, I reckon.”

  “Fred!” A stout woman bustled in. “What’s that poor creetur doing in the wash’se? Sobbing fit to bust his heart, he is. You just hand over that key.”

  “Now you’re not to let him go free, Martha,” Puckle said feebly. “Creating an affray, he was, and Mrs. Hammett wanting to charge him.”

  “Well, I won’t then,” Mrs. Puckle conceded. “You’ve your job to do. But I’ll take him some nice hot soup to cheer the poor soul up, for ’tis a nasty, chilly day for August. And then I’m off to the vicar to get some decent clothes to cover his back. There’s plenty suitable in the jumble for the sale, and I won’t have him leaving this house in rags.” She held out her hand for the washhouse key.

  Seeing Sid was going to be well looked after, Daisy slipped out before the constable could take out on her his ire at his wife’s interference.

  The mention of soup had reminded her that the fried plaice and chips in Abbotsford was a long time ago and Mrs. Anstruther would have tea on the table by now. Nonetheless, she descended the slippery slope with caution.

  At last the sun was beginning to burn through the fog. There was blue sky overhead and the hills across the inlet were no longer invisible but veiled in mystery, like a Chinese painting. As Daisy reached the quay, a ferry was pulling in from Abbotsford, with the usual shouting and tossing of ropes. Donald Baskin stood at the rail, near the gangway, waving to her.

  She stopped to wait for him. “You’re back early today,” she said as he caught her up and they walked on together.

  “Yes.” The sun-browned face was serious. “I wanted to talk to you, privately, and you mentioned that your husband will arrive tomorrow.”

  “He’s coming down tomorrow, yes,” Daisy said guardedly. “What is it?”

  Baskin chewed on his lip for a moment, as if having second thoughts on the wisdom of what he meant to say. Then he made up his mind. “It’s George Enderby. You may have noticed that I’ve asked one or two questions about him.”

  “I certainly have.”

  “Well, I’ve noticed that Mrs. Anstruther is reluctant to talk about him. Of course, it’s only natural that she doesn’t care to gossip about a neighbour.” He paused.

  Not at all natural, Daisy considered. In her experience, neighbours in general loved gossiping about their neighbours. Cecily Anstruther had a far more potent reason for avoiding the subject.

  “Yes?”

  “So I thought I’d better catch you alone. Being a visitor, you won’t know as much as she does, but I hoped you might have heard something.”

  “About what, exactly?”

  “Oh, well, you see, in the pub in the evening, they’re both serving and they kid each other a lot and laugh and seem to get on like a house on fire and—well, I want to know if it’s real or just show for the customers.”

  Daisy was puzzled. If, as she had assumed, Baskin was a betrayed husband after his wife’s seducer’s blood, why should he care about the relationship between the Enderbys? Perhaps he was afraid of upsetting Mrs. Enderby if he bloodied Enderby’s nose, in which case, Daisy could relieve him of that apprehension. Nor would she suffer many qualms about doing so: George Enderby deserved a bloody nose.

  Or was it possible that the hiking schoolmaster had fallen for the fair Nancy and wanted to know whether she might be available? Though he was rather too old for blind calf-love, a man could make a fool of himself at any age. In that case, to inform him of the state of things between husband and wife would be to encourage his pursuit. Daisy didn’t consider herself a prude but, despite rationalizations about matching sauces for goose and gander, she couldn’t consider it proper to promote any such scheme of Baskin’s.

  “Why do you want to know?” she asked.

  He flushed. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret.”

  Unfaithful wife, Daisy decided. How much could she decently reveal to him? “The Enderbys may not be my neighbours,” she said cautiously, “but I don’t care to pass on gossip about them, all the same. I will just tell you this, because I heard it myself and several other people in the street were close enough to hear: The other afternoon they were quarrelling in the bar after it closed.”

  And if that earned George Enderby a pasting, thought Daisy, so be it. With luck, he’d be in no shape for Cecily Anstruther’s husband to wreak vengeance upon him, which would lessen the likelihood of disruptions to Alec’s first proper holiday since their honeymoon.

  But Baskin did not look as if he contemplated mayhem. In fact, he looked relieved.

  5

  Saturday morning dawned misty, but with a promise of heat to come. Before breakfast, Belinda and Deva went out to the garden to make sure Sid’s cart was still where Baxter had parked it, behind the shed.

  Daisy had told them she thought the beachcomber would be freed today.

  “We’re going to stay nearby till he comes to fetch it,” Belinda announced at the breakfast table, “so that I can give him his new hat.”

  “You don’t need to do that, darling. You’re bound to see him around sometime.”

  “But we have to stay at home today anyway, because of Daddy coming.”

  “He won’t be here till after lunch. The train gets into Abbotsford just at lunchtime, so I’m sure he’ll stop and eat there before he catches the ferry.”

  “He might come early, Mummy. You never can tell. We can’t wait on the beach, because the tide’s coming in. Anyway, we don’t mind staying in the garden, do we, Deva? We’ll go on reading The Wind in the Willows together. It’s a ripping book.”

  “I like books with talking animals,” Deva agreed. “My ayah knows lots of stories about Hanuman, the monkey god, and Ganesh, who has the head of an elephant, but Mole and Ratty are more fun.”

  Daisy was amused. This was the first time she had heard Deva prefer anything English to the Indi
an equivalent. “All right,” she said, “wait to see Sid and give him his hat, and then we’ll consider the rest of the morning.”

  Donald Baskin was intrigued. He hadn’t come across Sid in his wanderings and asked all about him. Daisy let the children tell him.

  “And it’s not fair,” Belinda said indignantly; “people pick on him just because he can’t talk. It’s not his fault! Besides, he can sort of talk with his hands, can’t he, Mummy?”

  “He certainly explained very cleverly that the glass ball he gave me should be kept on a windowsill to catch the sun.”

  “It sounds as if his intelligence is at least not far below normal,” said Baskin. “I wonder whether something can be done for him. A friend of mine is active in teaching the deaf and dumb to express themselves in sign language and writing. Where does Sid live? In the town?”

  “I don’t know. Do you, girls?”

  “No, but we’ll ask him, won’t we, Bel?”

  “Yes. May we get down, Mummy? We don’t want to miss him.”

  “Finish your milk, Deva, then you may both go.” Daisy sighed as the girls rushed out of the door. “I’m quite new at this mothering business,” she said. “It’s sometimes rather wearing. Belinda’s my stepdaughter, you see, and this is our first summer holidays together.”

  “I thought you looked too young to have a daughter that age,” Baskin said gallantly. “I’d say you’re doing an admirable job, and I speak as an expert. I see all sorts of mothers in my work. May I trouble you for the marmalade?”

  Passing the marmalade, Daisy decided another piece of toast with Mrs. Anstruther’s heavenly raspberry jam would not come amiss. They munched in companionable silence. When they finished, Baskin opened the door for her and followed her out into the hall.

  At that moment came a brisk tattoo on the front door. It was flung open without ceremony and a stocky, bearded man appeared on the threshold, blinking at the dimness within after the bright sun outdoors. He wore a navy blue jacket, with gilt buttons and a narrow band of gold lace around each cuff, and navy trousers. In one hand he held a uniform cap with the crown, laurel wreath and foul anchor badge of the Royal Navy.