by Ann Cleeves
Because of suspicion about Godfrey Waugh’s motives, the party to celebrate the opening of the new reserve had become a low-key event.
Anne overheard one trustee, a conservative country lady in a cashmere suit, say to another: “We had planned a marquee, but in the circumstances, well, it hardly seemed appropriate.”
It was lunchtime, early October and warmer than days in most summers.
The reserve was on a lowland site. Flat fields stretched to the coast.
Although a bund, built with waste from the quarry, made the sea invisible to the guests, it made its presence felt through a shimmer on the horizon, the enormous sky.
Cattle were grazing on the bank, looking down at the celebration. One pit had already been flooded, had attracted mallard, coot and moorhen.
Anne arrived late, on purpose, to avoid the speeches and joined the people who were spilling out of the visitor centre which had been converted from one of the quarry buildings. It was time apparently for the opening ceremony. A ribbon had been strung between two sickly, newly planted trees. Eventually this would be the entrance to the car park. She recognized the back of Peter Kemp’s head and slipped in behind him.
“Who have they got to do the honours then?”
He turned round, startled. “Good God, woman. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“So which celeb’s going to cut the cord?”
“Godfrey Waugh’s brat.” Peter pulled a face. “Sickening, isn’t it?”
“I’d heard you’d joined the fat cats yourself. Haven’t you set up on your own? A consultancy, I understand.”
“Ah well, that’s different.” “Of course,” she said. “Isn’t it always?”
“You should be nice to me, Annie. I might be able to find some work for you. Proper paid work. I’ve got the contract for the Black Law
EIA.” “Christ!” she said. “How did you manage that?” She was seriously impressed. “Didn’t they want to go for someone more established?”
“I’m the best, Annie. That’s all they needed to know.” He paused.
“You don’t want the job then?”
“I haven’t got any qualifications.”
“You’ve got the skills though. I’ve been taken on to complete the report and I can employ who I like.”
She was still thinking about this, wondering in fact what Godfrey would make of it, when they were called to order. Felicity Waugh was led by her father in front of the crowd. She was a plump old-fashioned girl with hamster cheeks and long crimped hair. He handed her a pair of garden shears and she struggled to cut the ribbon. It was an awkward task because the shears were very blunt. Eventually Godfrey helped her, putting his hands over hers. There was a burst of applause.
Godfrey returned to a woman standing at the front of the crowd. This must be his wife. Anne drank a toast to the reserve in tepid white wine and looked at her.
Anne had created a fiction about Barbara Waugh. She had imagined a plump, boring woman. Godfrey would have met her at secondary school.
Their domestic life would be dreary, their conversation limited. They probably hadn’t had sex since the conception of the wonder child and according to this fiction all the couple had in common now was the daughter.
Anne saw immediately that she had misjudged the situation completely.
For one thing Barbara was serious competition. She was expensively dressed, beautifully groomed. She had cheekbones some women would die for and softly per med hair. In comparison Anne felt scrawny, ill kempt.
While she was still watching, Barbara and Godfrey exchanged a few words then Barbara broke away from him and walked over the grass to Anne. For a moment Anne wondered angrily if Godfrey had, after all, told his wife about the affair. Seeing the woman had made her reassess the relationship. Perhaps he had only been bothered about secrecy so he could preserve his respectable media image. Perhaps they were one of those sick-making couples who had no secrets. She prepared herself for a scene.
But it seemed that Barbara wanted to be friendly. She smiled anxiously. Anne could sense a strain, a definite tension. The words came out too quickly. The smile was replaced by a frown, a nervous gesture which seemed habitual.
She’s a neurotic cow, Anne thought triumphantly, glad to be able to pigeon-hole her, feeling superior. She thought Barbara wouldn’t be much competition at all. Now that they were standing close to each other it was obvious that they were much the same age. Barbara must have been approaching forty when she had the chud.
Ill “Mrs. Preece. I wondered if I could have a word … “
“Of course.”
“I just want to tell you how much I admire the work you do. The environment’s so important, don’t you think?”
It took all Anne’s composure not to appear shocked. It was the last thing she was expecting. “Oh, I do,” she said, with just a hint of pastiche. Looking over the woman’s shoulder she saw Godfrey, staring at the cows in a distracted way. She could tell he was panicking.
Barbara continued earnestly, “I just wanted to tell you that neither my husband nor I resent your opposition to the quarry at Black Law. We are fully committed to nature conservation and if the Environmental Impact Assessment comes up with any information which indicates a problem, I can assure you that the scheme won’t go ahead. We wouldn’t wait for a public inquiry.”
“Right.” Anne didn’t know what else to say. “Well, thank you.” She was confused because although she hadn’t changed her opinion of Barbara as a neurotic cow, the woman was obviously sincere. She also found it odd that Barbara could speak with such authority about a company matter. Godfrey had never mentioned her in connection with it and Anne had imagined her a good northern wifey, staying at home and washing socks, keeping her nose out of her husband’s financial affairs.
“Are you involved with your husband’s business?” she asked. Perhaps Barbara went in a couple of times a week to work in the office.
“We’re partners. Not that I’ve played an active role since Felicity arrived, though of course Godfrey consults me. It was different in the early days. I grew up with the business. My father owned our first site at Slateburn. When we married he retired and we took it over. It wasn’t easy. In fact it was a terrible strain working every hour in the day just to keep going. But looking back I suppose I enjoyed it.” She smiled. “I enjoyed it more when a bit of money started coming in and we could catch our breath.” She seemed lost in thought. The nervous frown returned and she twisted the paper napkin she was still holding. She looked, Anne thought, like someone rolling a joint, though that was hardly her style.
Anne wondered why Godfrey never admitted to marrying the boss’s daughter. Perhaps struggling to success alone made a better story. She didn’t resent that. She told stories about her own past the whole time. The truth was so unexciting.
The woman stood silently for a moment. All around them was conversation and laughter. A great deal of the tepid wine had been drunk. Above the buzz she heard Peter’s voice, schoolboy clear, the diction perfect.
“Neville! Well, this has all gone very nicely, hasn’t it? You must be pleased.”
Langholme was a small place so she’d heard of Neville Furness. Son of Dougie who’d gone to college and got above himself. Land agent for the Holme Park Estate and then head-hunted to join Slateburn Quarries because, word had it, he was someone who could talk with the big landowners. Soon after, the deal was announced between Godfrey and the Fulwells. She had seen him when he’d lived in one of the tied houses on the estate. She’d taken to walking her dog along the lane at a time when he often went jogging, had tried to engage him in conversation but nothing had come of it. She’d tried to find out if he had a woman, but apparently not. She was aware suddenly that Barbara Waugh was looking in the same direction. But while Anne’s gaze at the dark muscular body was frankly admiring, Barbara’s was hostile, even afraid.
Barbara reached out and grabbed Anne’s arm.
“Come to see me,” she sa
id, ‘ Alderwhinney. That’s the name of the house. We’re still in Slateburn. Anyone will tell you where it is.
I’d like to talk to you. Come for coffee. Or lunch. Any time. I hardly ever go out.”
It was almost a repetition of what Godfrey said when he first mentioned his wife. She didn’t say goodbye. She pecked Anne on the cheek and ran back to Felicity. Anne watched with astonishment.
Perhaps I should have gone, Anne thought. She pushed in the final pole. Tomorrow she would come back with the quad rats It might have been amusing. I suppose I could still go now, keep Barbara informed about the survey. It’s not as if Slateburn’s miles away. I wonder what Godfrey would make of that.
Chapter Fifteen.
The next day it was pissing down with rain so they were all holed up in the cottage together. Anne suffered an hour of Rachael nagging about how this was a good opportunity to tidy up a bit, then couldn’t stand it any longer. She took the grotty Fiat into Langholme. The rain was so hard that she had to stop occasionally for the windscreen wipers to push the water from the screen. She phoned Godfrey from the public call box next to the garage.
It would have been more convenient to go back to the Priory but Jeremy was there and she couldn’t stand the thought of his fussing. He’d spent the last few weeks telling her that they’d have to tighten their belts. He’d even raised the possibility of selling the Priory. She’d only realized then how much the house meant to her. The thought of giving up the garden made her feel murderous. She’d nearly told him that she’d only married him for the Priory but realized in time that might be foolish. One of his famous deals might yet come off.
A boy, whose voice still seemed to be breaking, answered the phone.
“Hello! Slateburn Quarries Ltd. How may I help you?” When Anne said she wanted to talk to Godfrey there was a pause, then some whispered conversation. She was immediately suspicious. At last the boy spoke again: “I’m sorry, Mr. Waugh isn’t available just now.”
“When will he be available?”
“Not until tomorrow evening. He’s at a conference.”
“Where?”
The boy sounded confused. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know.”
It was then, in a fit of pique, that Anne phoned Barbara. She wanted to pay Godfrey back for not coming to the phone, when she was feeling so miserable. He hadn’t mentioned a conference to her. First she dialled directory enquiries. That almost took the decision about phoning away from her. If the Waughs were ex-directory, which they almost certainly would be, she’d have to give up the idea. But she was put straight through and before she could have second thoughts Barbara answered, a curt
“Waugh’. It sounded so like the imitation of a dog barking that for a moment Anne was distracted. When she did speak she managed to sound as confident as if they were old friends.
“You did tell me to get in touch. I thought I’d better not just turn up. You might be busy.”
But Barbara Waugh wasn’t busy. And she remembered Anne perfectly, though they had met only once several months before. She insisted that Anne come to the house now.
“Do come if you’re free. Stay for lunch. It’s perfect. Felicity’s spending the day with a friend and Godfrey’s away for two days at a conference.”
So if he’s lying, Anne thought, it’s to both of us.
Godfrey had never invited Anne to his house. After all, it was one of Barbara’s characteristics that she never went out. Apparently, even if she occasionally planned a trip shopping or to the cinema, she didn’t always go. Perhaps it was a sort of sickness. Anne knew where the house was, all the same. She had driven past out of curiosity, seen a rather stern modern house built of grey stone with a grey slate roof.
Anne would have broken the harsh lines with creeper and climbers but the Waughs’ garden was conventionally tidy. There was a bare expanse of lawn, curved borders, coloured now by symmetrical clumps of crocus and snowdrops, backed by more mature shrubs. The only touch of imagination was the tree house, nailed into a gnarled sycamore.
Although the platform on which the house was built was only about three feet from the ground it was reached by a wooden ladder. Anne thought Godfrey had probably built the house himself for the Beloved Felicity.
Recently she had come to think of the child in this way, seeing the words beginning with a capital letter like an obscure saint or martyr.
When she arrived it was still raining. The front door opened before she left the car. Barbara was standing there. Anne sprinted over the gravel to meet her and stood in the hall shaking the water from her hair. Barbara was dressed in blue denim trousers, but not the sort of jeans Anne was wearing. These wouldn’t fade at the knee or rip at the bum. Over the trousers she wore a navy fine wool sweater. Her face was discreetly made up and there was a hint of perfume. Anne had considered going home to the Priory to change but couldn’t face bumping into Jeremy. Besides the jeans she was wearing a rugby shirt and a waterproof. She wore no make-up and her hair could have done with another application of colour tint. It was more grey than rich chestnut brown.
Anne was aware of a polished woodblock floor, a staircase with flower patterned Axminster and the smell of coffee. Barbara seemed eager and anxious at once. She was speaking quickly and Anne, shaking the water from her hair, couldn’t quite make out the words. Now that she was here it didn’t seem such a good idea. It had started as a bit of fun; now she wondered if she could decently make an excuse and leave. But Barbara had already led her into a large living room and was speaking, repeating perhaps what she had said in the hall.
“I’m so glad you could come. Something’s been troubling me. It seemed such a lucky coincidence when you rang. You are probably the best person to talk to.” She paused then, realizing that this wasn’t the stuff of normal social interchange. “I’m sorry. This is rude. Do sit down. Would you like a drink? Sherry or coffee perhaps? I think I’d like a coffee.”
Anne, who felt very much like a drink, said she would have coffee too.
When Barbara left the room, Anne tried to compose herself. She thought she might have the nerve to see it through without too much harm. She was sitting in a comfortable room which would have been more in keeping with an older house. Nothing was shabby, but the furniture was solid, heavy, rather dark. There was a wood-burning stove. Against one wall was an upright piano. On the stand, open, a book of child’s music. On another wall a pencil drawing of the Beloved Felicity was hanging. Anne wondered if Barbara had done it herself, but it was rather good and she thought not. The girl was frowning as if concentrating on a problem she had no hope of solving.
Barbara brought coffee in a Pyrex filter jug. She saw Anne looking at the drawing.
“Do you have children, Mrs. Preece?”
“Anne, please. No, no children.” Without thinking she continued with the flip explanation she always gave in these circumstances. “I never felt the need of them.”
Barbara looked horrified as if, Anne thought, a guest had farted at the dinner table, but she said immediately, “It was so good of you to come.”
Anne poured herself a cup of coffee but she didn’t reply. She thought the only subject Barbara could want to discuss with her was her relationship with Godfrey, but she sensed no hostility. Rather the reverse was true. Barbara seemed embarrassingly grateful to have her there, despite her not liking children.
“This is rather delicate.” She sat, hand poised on the coffee jug.
“It’s the new quarry. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
Anne was caught off guard. “I’m sorry?”
“I suppose you think I’m disloyal discussing it with you when my husband’s away but I’d say the same if he were here. I have said exactly the same to him. I think it’s a mistake. It’ll alienate too many of our customers. It’s bad for our image. I was involved with this business long before Goff was. It matters to me.”
“Why do you think he’s so keen?”
It wasn’t a question she’
d ever asked Godfrey she wouldn’t ever be able to think of him as Goff but now she found it interesting. If she were in his place she’d want the quarry for the excitement of the development, the drama, even the confrontation. But Godfrey wasn’t like her. He wasn’t greedy and he never took pleasure in being the centre of attention. Perhaps it was a fear that his business might otherwise stagnate which drew him on.
Barbara, however, had other ideas. “I don’t think he is keen. Not personally. Neville Furness has persuaded him that it’s the only way the business will survive.”
“Neville Furness?” Anne needed time to think.
“He works for Goff. You must have seen him at some of the public meetings, very dark.” “Yes,” Anne said. “I know.”
“Since Neville started working for us Goff’s been restless, preoccupied. And I hardly ever see him.”
I can solve that mystery for you, Anne thought. She said, carefully, “Do you think an employee would exert that sort of influence?”
“Not usually perhaps but … ” She broke off and her mood suddenly changed again. “Let’s go through to lunch. You don’t mind eating in the kitchen? It’s only something out of the freezer. And only paper napkins I’m afraid. Would you like a glass of wine? I put some Muscadet in the fridge.”
Anne followed her. They sat at a round pine table set in the corner of the sort of kitchen featured in magazines which end up in dentists’ waiting rooms. Anne took in the gleaming surfaces, the spotless Italian tiles on the floor and supposed that Barbara had a cleaning lady. She wasn’t jealous though. The Priory was classier. Such cleanliness smacked of the suburbs.
She was, however, impressed by the food. The rich onion flan might have come out of the freezer but Barbara had cooked it before it went in. It was topped with tomatoes and parmesan and latticed with anchovies and olives. They ate it with a salad and warm close-textured bread which must also have been homemade. Considerable effort had gone into the preparation of this meal. Anne, who often set out to impress, if not through food, wondered what Barbara was after.
