by Ann Granger
Meredith, clinging to the consul’s dictum of ‘my countryman right or wrong’ steered him firmly into the café area with a view to buying him some breakfast which might at least stop the flow of profanities. But there they had been cornered by relatives of the aggrieved boyfriend who, it afterwards turned out, had tracked them from the hospital. Her initial reaction had been dismay especially when lagerman beside her, overjoyed at finding himself back in a familiar situation, had immediately seized an abandoned beerglass. It had been a very hairy moment. Meredith found herself standing between two brawny six foot bauxite miners from the Banat and her gleeful British subject, brandishing his glass cheerfully.
It certainly was the moment for some nimble footwork and wits. Meredith dived into the middle of the group, thanking her lucky stars she spoke a basic Serbo-Croat and was five foot ten herself. She pressed English cigarettes she kept handy for emergencies into the massive paws of the miners, detached her boy from his beerglass, delivered herself of a pithy speech and manoeuvred him, as he protested at being rescued, through the gates of the departure lounge. There, safe, he had gestured graphically at the two miners beyond the glass partition. He hugged Meredith and informed her she was ‘all right’ and clumped his way off, a noticeable cordon sanitaire of clear space creating itself between him and fellow-passengers. She had taken comfort in the thought that he wouldn’t be allowed back in, especially as the two miners were still in the main hall watching suspiciously and had been joined by a pair of hefty airport policemen summoned by the woman in the cafeteria. Meredith took refuge in a time-honoured process for mending fences. She bought them all a drink. They bought her a drink. They bought one another drinks. By the time she left, slightly unsteadily, they had all been on the best of terms.
Bolstered by the memory of this success, Meredith turned her attention back to Alan’s card which now appeared merely a gesture of friendship, like lagerman’s hug. Yes, kind of Alan and thoughtful but really nothing more. For a brief moment Meredith toyed with the possibility that he might also have fixed the abominable plastic holly wreath on the door. But she knew he would never be guilty of such a crass lapse of taste. She took another look at her martyred thumb. It had stopped throbbing but it was sore and still red and angry. She wouldn’t be surprised if she developed verdigris poisoning from that wire. An inauspicious beginning to Christmas. Perhaps the creature on the holly wreath was a bird of ill omen.
As if prompted by the idea, Meredith was suddenly transfixed by a new sound. It was so quiet here that any noise struck the ear like a thunderclap. But this was a distinct, sinister crunch of slow heavy footsteps purposefully approaching the back door. She tensed, and a trickle of nerves ran down her spine. She had been so certain Pook’s Common was deserted. And if it was – apart from whoever was approaching her door – she was in all the more vulnerable a position. She jumped to her feet and, taking a leaf from lagerman’s book, grabbed a meat mallet from a row of kitchen utensils hanging on the wall.
A chesty wheeze was audible, followed by a scrabbling. Then a key was inserted noisily in the lock. Meredith felt a small wave of relief wash over her and put down the meat hammer. She still didn’t know who the visitor was, but the caller had a key and presumably therefore some bona fide reason for entry.
The door opened with a rattle and revealed a stocky female form. Meredith forced back an impulse to giggle, largely at her own foolishness, and at the contrast between the figure standing before her, and the one she had constructed in her panicked imagination. The visitor advanced, ample contours encased in a beige quilted raincoat. A knitted green bobble cap perched atop her tight grey curls and a pair of suede winter boots with zips protected her feet.
‘’Ullo,’ she said agreeably. ‘I thought you’d turned up. Mrs Russell, she wrote me you was coming this week. Get here before Christmas, she said, and that you’d want me coming in to clean for you like I done for her.’ She was nodding emphatically as she spoke, in constant agreement with herself, and the bobble pom-pom rolled back and forth, loose on its wool moorings. ‘I seen the car when I come out of Miss Needham’s, the lady what’s opposite,’ she added in final explanation.
‘Mrs Brissett?’ asked Meredith.
‘That’s right, dear. And you’re Miss Mitchell. I put some things in the fridge. Did you find ’em? Oh yes, so you did, there’s the bread. You’ll have to go into Bamford if you want to stock up with a bit more because we haven’t got no shop round here. Tomorrow being Friday Bamford will be fair crowded, what with Christmas almost on us an all. The money people spend on Christmas! Mind you, it’s nice to see all the pretty things, that’s what I think.’
A small puzzle solved itself. ‘Was it you who, who so kindly put a Christmas decoration on the front door?’
‘Oh, you seen it then?’ said Mrs Brissett, relieved. ‘I thought someone had pinched it. As I say, I like to see things Christmassy and, knowing you was coming from abroad, I thought it would be nice. I don’t know if they does things like that abroad. I don’t like to think of Dr and Mrs Russell out there in the desert and not a Christmas tree for miles, just camels and such. Where’s it gorn?’
‘It fell down,’ lied Meredith. ‘I don’t think the sticky tape was strong enough. I’ll put it back when I find a tack, or perhaps I ought not to knock nails in Dr Russell’s door. I am only renting, after all.’
‘Pity it fell down,’ said Mrs Brissett regretfully. ‘I got it off a stall in the market last week, ever so cheap. Better fix it up indoors somewhere. I’ll bring some more things. I got loads at home, paper chains and a nice big Chinese lantern and up in my loft there’s a big plastic Father Christmas stands oh, two feet high, sort of holding his tummy and laughing. I could bring it over and put it in your front window.’
‘I really shouldn’t like to deprive you, Mrs Brissett!’ said Meredith hastily.
‘It’s no trouble. Make this place look cheery, especially you being on your own. Spending Christmas alone, are you?’
‘Probably. I don’t mind, really.’
‘I shouldn’t like it. Got my grandchildren coming over.’
‘I must settle with you for the food in the fridge,’ said Meredith, putting a stop to a conversation which threatened to end with an open invitation to drop in at the Brissetts over the Christmas period. She reached out her hand to her shoulderbag lying on the table.
‘No need now, dear. I’ll be in tomorrow. I clean here on Tuesday and Friday and I clean at Miss Needham’s on Monday and Thursday. I just thought I’d pop in and see if you’d got the heating going.’
‘Yes, thanks.’ It seemed she had at least one neighbour, then: the Miss Needham who shared Mrs Brissett’s services.
‘It don’t take long to warm through,’ pursued Mrs Brissett. These old walls is near on two foot thick and keep in the heat wonderful. And there’s a gas fire in the living room besides. Put that on, I should. Oh, and I made up a bed but I should stick a hot water bottle in that, if I was you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Meredith again, breaking firmly into the stream of instructions.
‘All right then,’ Mrs Brissett prepared to leave at last. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Half past eight I come along and generally go at twelvish. Got me own key, as you see.’
‘Fine, thanks. I’m on leave – holiday – until after Christmas so I shall be here, although tomorrow I’ll probably go into Bamford and stock up with provisions.’
‘Go early,’ advised Mrs Brissett. ‘If you wants to park your car. Market day, remember!’ She departed, closing the door noisily behind her. A regular, slowly fading squeak, indicated she had cycled here, it would seem likely from Westerfield.
Meredith sighed deeply in relief. But Mrs Brissett was right in one thing and the cottage was already noticeably warmer. Meredith unzipped her anorak and set out to inspect the rest of it. Downstairs there was only the living room, besides the kitchen, and a tiny cloakroom. She climbed the spiral stair and found herself on a minute landing. Bathroom,
very cramped, to her right and two bedrooms corresponding to the two rooms below. Mrs Brissett had kindly made up the bed in the larger room above the living room. It contained a double bed, obviously the Russells’ own. Meredith wrinkled her nose in doubt at the thought of sleeping in someone’s marital couch. She walked across to it and sat down on the edge. It was a pretty room with roof beams and a funny little dormer window. A late Victorian wash basin and ewer, just for show, stood on a stand in one corner. A clothes closet had been built in under the eaves. Meredith spread her hand over the flower-sprigged duvet.
She was glad that Peter had been able to build a new life for himself. But she understood the still newlywed Russells quitting Pook’s Common for Dubai as they had. Sometimes, to start anew, you have to go away and begin among strangers.
Meredith was pleased for the Russells. They needed one another, lent one another support. But what suited them wouldn’t necessarily suit her. She was used to being alone, fending for herself. She didn’t need a permanent relationship.
But, she thought ruefully, there were undeniable attractions in a temporary one. The bed looked extremely comfortable and she found herself thinking about Alan Markby again and wondering whether to phone to let him know she had arrived and thank him for the card. Christmas was a time for being with friends, not alone. After all, she reasoned obstinately, temporary didn’t have to become permanent and Alan was not the sort of thick-skulled egotist who imagined the slightest sign of friendship on the part of a woman signalled a burning passion. If she was going to be some time in Pook’s Common, she needed to set about creating a social life for herself. To do that she’d have to build on the slender foundations laid down in her previous visit, and she’d have to look towards Bamford. In Pook’s Common itself there didn’t appear to be much going on.
‘This place,’ she observed aloud, ‘is dead.’
Her return had been the subject of some conversation elsewhere, that previous Sunday afternoon.
‘You can’t spend Christmas on your own, Alan!’ said his sister reproachfully. ‘Christmas is a family time.’
‘You don’t say,’ Alan Markby said bleakly. His gaze moved towards a newspaper-covered heap on the sofa which represented his brother-in-law. The newspaper rose and fell gently and regularly. Markby returned his gaze to his sister, curled up in her armchair with feet tucked beneath her, and smiled. Laura wore a bright scarlet sweater and black cord pants and her long blonde hair hung curling on her shoulders. She was short-sighted and large spectacles perched on her nose but only made her look endearing.
‘You look less like a legal-eagle,’ he said, ‘than an owl.’
‘I am more family-minded than business-minded just at the moment, I have to confess. There’s always so much to do at Christmas.’ There was a snort from beneath the newspapers. Laura contemplated her sleeping spouse. ‘You are coming to us for Christmas Day at least, aren’t you Alan? You cannot, really cannot, spend it all on your own talking to plants. Paul’s cooking the meal so it will be good. He’s got a recipe for some sort of chestnut stuffing for the turkey and he’s spent ages decorating the cake.’
Markby looked doubtful. ‘Well, you know, Laura, some of my colleagues are married men with families so it seems only fair to let them have Christmas Day and work myself. Morton and his wife have got a new baby. As I understand it, the baby has something called “six months’ colic” and his wife is suffering post-natal depression but I dare say he’d like Christmas at home even so—’
‘You don’t have to go in – so long as they have your telephone number and can reach you. You’re a senior CID man, not Mr Plod. You don’t propose to sit on the desk and take details of lost kittens? Of course you don’t. Unless someone robs a bank or murders their lover, you’re superfluous.’
‘What makes you think violent crime doesn’t take place at Christmas, Laura? It’s one of the busiest times of the year as regards violence in the family circle. How many clients come to you wanting a divorce in the New Year saying that Christmas was the last straw?’
She was not to be put off. ‘I expect you here midmorning on Christmas Day. A place will be set for you. The children are counting on your being here.’
Markby shuffled about in his chair. ‘To tell you the truth, Laura – now don’t go making more of this than it means – but I’ve a friend who will be staying near Bamford and I rather thought—’
Behind her outsize glasses, his sister’s eyes gleamed as if she had just spotted a loophole in a contract. ‘Meredith Mitchell! You kept saying you didn’t know whether she was coming or not, you lying dog. You’ve fixed up to spend Christmas with her!’
‘No I haven’t. I think she’ll be here. I was going to ring – no! She’s not due until the end of the week!’ This last came out as a shout because Laura’s eyes had turned to the telephone and her mouth opened. From beneath the newspaper came a gurgle and the top sheet twitched. ‘I feel,’ Markby went on quickly, ‘I ought to see what Meredith is doing over Christmas. She doesn’t have any family here and she might be alone and so I thought I ought—’
‘Absolutely no problem, Alan. You can bring her here.’
‘Here . . .?’ His heart sank and he stared at his sister dolefully.
‘For goodness sake! It can’t be that bad! Paul is a professional cookery writer and his food is guaranteed to be edible which is more than can be said of mine. A family Christmas, she’ll love it.’
‘It’s just that I – she might have other plans.’
‘How? No, bring her here. I insist.’
He stared at her miserably. ‘I hardly know how to ask her, Laura. She’s really only a – a slight acquaintance. I ought not to have called her a friend, to be honest. It’s a long time since we saw one another last and a lot of water’s flowed under the bridge in between. She might think it a bit pushy of me. She might not want to come and not know how to refuse.’ He paused. ‘It would put her and me, frankly, on the spot a bit. Perhaps she doesn’t want to see too much of me. Why on earth should she? Actually asking a person to join a family party . . . it might look as if I were trying to stake a claim of some sort. Which I’m not!’ he concluded hastily.
His sister’s reply was crisp. ‘Honestly, Alan, I never knew anyone make so much fuss over nothing! You’re being inconsistent. It’s a simple invitation. You said yourself you think you ought to see if she’s fixed up for Christmas. If she isn’t and she’d like to be, she’ll be delighted at being asked. If she really doesn’t want to see you, she’ll refuse. I’m sure,’ said Laura tartly, ‘she’s perfectly capable of speaking her mind!’
‘Yes,’ he said in a depressed voice.
The newspaper heaved and rustled again, this time more vigorously. Paul’s head appeared, bleary-eyed. ‘Wassatime? Football . . . telly . . . cuppa tea . . .’
‘You’ll enjoy a family Christmas,’ said Laura in final judgement. She pressed the remote control and the television screen flickered. ‘We’ll all watch The Wizard of Oz together and play games. We’ll have charades, Matthew and Emma are big enough to join in this year. We’ll light a real fire and bake chestnuts on the fender, provided you and Paul go out in the yard and saw up plenty of logs. It will be such fun.’
The telephone rang for Meredith the evening of her arrival as she was washing up after her bacon and egg supper. The sound of his voice at the other end was not unexpected but she took time to compose her voice before replying.
‘Yes, yes, I did have a good trip, thanks . . . well, I am a bit tired. It was a long drive.’
His voice at the other end was cautious. He was asking if she would like to come out for a meal the following evening. He was asking in that careless way which was meant to indicate that it wouldn’t matter if she couldn’t make it, but couldn’t disguise that he hoped she would.
His evident nervousness increased her own self-possession. She was back in charge of the situation, where she was used to being. ‘A pub?’ she said cheerfully. ‘No, I don’t min
d eating in a pub. You’ll pick me up at seven? Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you, too. Oh, and Alan!’ She pulled back the receiver she was about to put down. ‘Thanks for the card.’
The receiver clicked softly back into its cradle. Meredith beamed into middle distance and congratulated herself. That hadn’t been difficult, had it? She’d been friendly, casual, hadn’t gushed, twittered or giggled. He was a mature man and wanted a correspondingly mature relationship. Ditto herself. Her brow crinkled. She sounded like an ad in the personal columns of a magazine. Who really wanted mature relationships anyway? She did, she told herself again firmly.
She pushed herself resolutely away from the telephone console and went back into the living room. Dimly lit by the gas fire and one lamp, its chintz cheerfulness in the mellow glow from the fire looked warm and comfortable like a nest. Whatever went on outside, one could feel safe in here.
The noise of a car engine leaping into life fell on her ear. With idle curiosity Meredith went to the window and tweaked the curtain aside to peer out. Across the road stood a cottage very like this one. Its front door stood open letting out a stream of yellow light which outlined the dark silhouette of a woman standing in the porch. She was waving goodbye to a visitor about to drive away in a large car. It looked like a Granada. The car roared off into the night, headlights sweeping the lane ahead. The woman turned back into the cottage and closed the door. Darkness fell over the road outside, almost total darkness which made Meredith realise for the first time how little in the way of street lighting existed in Pook’s Common. In this stretch of lane there was just one faint glimmer from a lamp-post at the corner. As for the woman’s appearance, of that she had made out little, just a tall, athletic figure. She thought, ‘Miss Needham’ and was a little surprised. For some reason – quite illogical – she had imagined Miss Needham to be an elderly spinster of genteel appearance and retiring habit, not someone much younger and in the receipt of visits by drivers of large cars. But perhaps Miss Needham was thinking the same about her, she thought wryly.
