Die Happy

by J M Gregson

  Ros Barker was only thirty herself, but she felt an almost maternal need to support and protect the man beside her. ‘May I just endorse how well I think Sam’s done to get Bob Crompton for us? I know Bob does a lot of poetry readings, but to get him (a) to venture south and (b) to talk about his craft are achievements indeed. My own efforts have not secured so definite a conclusion as yet. The committee will recall that I agreed to try to get Arthur Jackson to talk to us about the history of art. As you will no doubt understand, he has many demands upon his time, as most television personalities have, and it is possible that he might be abroad during the week of our festival. But he has assured me that he wants to come and that if it is humanly possible for him he will do so.’

  ‘That is good news indeed. Once again, thank you for your efforts on behalf of the festival, Ros. I know that Mr Jackson has a high regard for you.’

  Ros Barker felt that she was blushing, a sensation she had not endured for years. She spoke hastily in an attempt to divert attention from herself and back to her visitor. ‘I owe him a lot. I was about to go to art school when he saw some of my work and advised me not to go. As you may know, Arthur Jackson has a low regard for the teaching in art schools at the moment. I went and served a sort of apprenticeship with Bernard Goldberg. I think I learned a lot there. I would never have got my own exhibition so early without Mr Jackson and his advice.’ She paused, looking round the table, flicking a strand of her long, straight black hair away from her eye. She was talking about herself, when she had never meant to do that. ‘I should mention that the other day someone questioned whether a painter should be speaking at a literary festival. I pointed out that Mr Jackson has written several books on the history of art and would no doubt be addressing the issues he raises in them.’

  Mrs Dooks nodded emphatically. ‘I’m sure you were right to do so. As you say, Mr Jackson has written extensively about art. We have already agreed that a literary festival should include all forms of writing. I am sure he will prove a popular as well as a stimulating visitor.’ She glanced again towards Peter Preston, but met only a disdainful smile from a man nursing his wounds. ‘I should report briefly on my own efforts. Davina Cooper’s new novel is due out a fortnight before our festival. Her publisher has lined up a series of radio interviews and signing sessions for her. But she is keeping the Tuesday evening of our festival week clear and is determined to honour her promise to be with us in Oldford on that day.’

  Preston saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the chair and reassert his standing with the committee. ‘I think you in turn should be congratulated on your efforts, Madam Chairman. You are the obvious person to chair that meeting and introduce your protégé.’

  Marjorie smiled, well aware of what he was about but anxious to avoid an open rift in her committee. ‘Hardly my protégé, Peter.’ She glanced round the table and saw mystification on a couple of faces. ‘Perhaps not everyone is aware that Davina Cooper was once a member of my staff in the Civil Service. In fact, she came to me some ten years ago to tender her resignation, after the modest success of her first novel. I told her to think very hard before giving up a promising career and a safe salary in the public service. Fortunately she did not heed me, or I might have aborted a promising literary career at the outset. I suspect she may take some pleasure in recalling my advice to her when she visits us.’

  There was amusement around the table and a relaxing of tension, as Marjorie had intended. She closed the meeting quickly and gathered her papers whilst the members departed. ‘Christine, could I have a quick word with you, please?’

  Mrs Lambert liked Marjorie Dooks, but she stopped now reluctantly, because she knew what was coming. The person who had chaired the meeting waited a moment until they were alone in the room. ‘Did you broach the matter of an appearance at the festival with your husband?’

  ‘I did. He wasn’t enthusiastic. Unlike some policemen, he doesn’t enjoy the publicity he already receives.’

  Marjorie smiled. ‘Fact of life, Christine. John Lambert is a local celebrity, as we all know. Something of a local hero, indeed. A popular policeman is a rare phenomenon nowadays. We should like to exploit that.’

  ‘But didn’t Sue Charles say that she’d be happy to introduce her crime writer?’

  ‘Indeed. And so she should. But I had an idea last night. I thought it would be good to have John on the platform with them, so that we could explore the real situation in serious crime against that depicted in fiction. It would make the question and answer session after David Knight’s talk much livelier.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could get John to do that. As I said—’

  ‘We’d need Mr Knight’s agreement, of course, but I’m sure Sue could secure that. It wouldn’t need any real preparation on your husband’s part.’

  Mrs Dooks was in her masterful mood. It would take a braver woman than Christine Lambert to confront her with a blank refusal. She said, ‘I’ll talk to John about it. It’s difficult for him to give definite promises about attendance, of course. He might be involved in the investigation of a murder at the very time we want him with us.’

  She was merely searching for an excuse, of course. At the time, she had no idea how ironic a ring those words would have during the week of the festival.

  THREE

  Two days after she had chaired the literary festival committee, Marjorie Dooks attended the local council meeting. There she expressed herself forcefully on things as diverse as the appalling state of the Gloucestershire roads after the ravages of a hard winter and the need for more resources for primary schools from the local education authority.

  As usual, with the end of the financial year in sight, the need to set the lowest possible level of council tax dominated all discussions, with the result that many assurances of support in principle were offered to her and no firm promises made. This was the usual state of affairs in local government; they agreed with her sentiments, but nothing was going to happen. Marjorie held her peace and refrained from voicing that thought. She recognized the dilemmas they collectively faced, but the reality was that she could see no way of securing the finance needed to implement her proposed reforms. It was immensely frustrating, but to resign and abandon ship would be an evasion. Evasions were not part of the Dooks creed.

  The fact that she understood exactly why these things were as they were didn’t prevent her from feeling disheartened as she drove back to the big house on the outskirts of Oldford. But she didn’t allow herself to be depressed for long. It was good that she had the festival to think about and to plan. She had more control there, and the programme was shaping up promisingly. Five o’clock, the dashboard clock told her. With a bit of luck she’d have an hour, perhaps two hours, to herself before James returned. Hadn’t he said that he had a meeting this afternoon which might go on for a while?

  But the big BMW was in the drive when she got there. She felt a rush of resentment that she was not to have the time alone that she had anticipated. James was sitting in a chair in the conservatory with the Telegraph business section open upon his knee. He had not heard her come through the house; she paused for a moment to study him and prepare her smile before she went through to the conservatory.

  He was ageing well, Marjorie decided reluctantly. She had spent an unusually long time in front of the dressing table mirror before she had gone to the council meeting, noting with surprise that the crows’ feet were extending around her eyes and that the lines on her neck were becoming deeper and more obvious. She had allowed herself a small moment of melancholy at the swiftness of life’s passage, at the relentless advance of the body’s decay. Then she had told herself with her usual brusqueness to snap out of it.

  The memory of that moment four hours earlier now made her more piqued by the capacity of men to grow more handsome as the years advanced. Some men, anyway. She should probably be happy that James was one of them, but at that moment she was not. He had a good head of hair, not very much diminished in thic
kness or tone from the days when she had first known him thirty years ago, but silvering becomingly at the temples. His features seemed mysteriously to retain most of the tan they had acquired during their summer holiday in Tuscany; he still looked healthy and vigorous at the end of a winter that had been the longest and coldest for twenty years.

  His blue eyes remained clear and sharp. He read the paper without glasses, which she could not, but she noticed now that he was holding it a long way from his face and peering at it a little. Such a small, comical vanity should have inspired affection in one who loved him. Marjorie was surprised how contemptuous she felt when she noted it.

  She took a deep breath, then opened the glass-panelled door and accorded him her smile. ‘You managed to get away early after all.’

  ‘Yes. The chairman cancelled the meeting. Got back later than expected from New York. Matthew doesn’t think anything can function properly without his presence. He’s probably worried we might make a decision without him.’

  ‘No. Not good at delegation, most British industrialists, are they? The papers foster the doctrine of their supremacy. The solution to the problems of an ailing firm is always a new chairman. No wonder megalomania sets in when they’re continually fed the myth of their own importance by the financial press.’

  He smiled, recognizing a familiar theme in her. ‘Whereas in the Civil Service there was no need for autocracy. You merely advised and implemented. All the important decisions were taken by politicians.’

  ‘That’s just the myth we liked to foster. And it’s a while now since I was a civil servant. You should try organizing unpaid volunteers some time, when you’ve no sanctions if they don’t toe whatever line you’ve drawn for them.’

  James Dooks tried to simulate the interest in local affairs he had never really felt. ‘Yes. How’s the literature festival coming along, by the way?’

  It was two days since the meeting in the library complex. She realized now that she had been waiting for him to ask about it. When he had finally done so, dutifully and belatedly, she felt merely irritated. ‘It’s taking shape quite well. Dealing with the artistic temperament is a new and enlightening experience for me. I’ve no doubt it would be very good for you.’

  He smiled. ‘No thanks. Do you want to eat out, as I’m home in plenty of time?’

  ‘No. It’s only a Marks and Spencer’s meal for two, but we should eat it today. It won’t take very long to prepare.’ Somehow she couldn’t face eating out alone with him and the long silences whilst they sought for something safe to say to each other. It was much easier when they were out socializing with other people; perhaps it was easier to sustain the fiction that all was well when you had other voices to bring into the conversation.

  He came into the big dining kitchen when she called him and opened the bottle of wine that had come with the meal. He glanced at the label, then said as he sat down at the table, ‘How did your meeting go this afternoon?’

  For a moment she was pleased that he had remembered her council concerns. Then she realized that he had looked at the calendar by the telephone where they each entered their commitments and picked up the information from there. She should have been glad even that he had taken the trouble to check on her day. Instead, she was more annoyed than if he had never asked his question. She dismissed the council meeting briskly, without commenting upon her concerns or her frustrations.

  As if he sensed her mood and was anxious to dissipate it, he began clumsily loading the dishwasher when they had finished. Even that annoyed her; he was so pathetically anxious to please that he was acting outside his character. She knew she was being petty and unreasonable, but she chose to ignore that. At that moment, she just wished to be rid of him, even for a few minutes, so that she could compose herself to behave better. Thank heavens for the television! You didn’t have to talk much, once the goggle box was busy.

  She glanced up at the clock on the wall and said as lightly as she could, ‘There’s a programme about opera on BBC Four in five minutes. If you go and put it on I’ll bring the coffee through on a tray.’

  James smiled and said, ‘That reminds me. I think we’ll probably get our invitation for Glyndebourne again this year. Clive Morrison, who entertained us there last year, owes me a favour. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow, if I get the chance.’

  It was not until she glanced at the clock that she saw the white foolscap envelope on the unit beneath it. James followed her gaze and said, ‘Oh, I forgot about that. It was behind the door when I got home. It’s addressed to you, without a stamp. It must have been delivered by hand.’ He went into the lounge dutifully as he had been told to do; a moment later she heard the sound of the television newsreader.

  She inspected her printed name on the envelope, then slit open the end of it with the small kitchen knife beside it. It contained a single sheet of paper, neatly folded.

  Her first reaction was surprise, not fear. Nothing remotely like this had happened to her before. You read about it in books, or heard other people talking about something similar. You never expected it to be part of your own experience, and when it occurred you could not quite believe it. For sixty seconds her mind raced, but she could not have said what she was thinking, what emotions were hammering in her head.

  There were only twelve words on the sheet, but the print was large, black and uncompromising.

  RESIGN NOW FROM THE FESTIVAL COMMITTEE IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN ALIVE

  Peter Preston was nursing his wounds. That damned woman Dooks had no standards. If the citizens of Oldford had had any sense, they’d have put him in charge of the literary festival from the start and given him a free hand with budgets and speakers. But they hadn’t, and it was no surprise that they hadn’t. Provincial, that’s what they were, so you shouldn’t expect anything other than provincial attitudes.

  He said as much to his wife, but she’d heard it all before. He shouldn’t have got involved if he was going to get upset like this, Edwina told him. She had lost count of the number of times before when she had had occasion to tell him that. A very conventional woman, Edwina. That was both her strength and her weakness.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to withdraw my support altogether,’ said Peter.

  ‘You mustn’t do that.’ She was assailed by visions of him around the house all day, increasingly fractious as he realized that he had lost all influence on the intelligentsia of the area. ‘You’d miss the festival if you weren’t involved.’

  She was right, of course. Some small part of his inner self saw that quite clearly. ‘This place just doesn’t appreciate everything I’ve done for it over the years.’

  ‘I don’t know why you allow yourself to get so upset about these things. You should realize by now that you’re always going to be disappointed.’ Another of her hackneyed, predictable statements; he could have foretold it, word for word. Didn’t she realize that stuff like that would just infuriate him? For a surprising, delicious moment, he saw himself with his hands round her throat, squeezing the life out of her, watching her eyes dilate with terror as her string of clichés was stilled for ever.

  It was a glorious vision, as fleeting as it was delightful. It left him shocked but delighted. It was another sign that he wasn’t as other men, when it came to the strength of his emotions. Another sign that his extra sensitivity meant that he felt things more keenly than the common run of men. Peter was wrong there, as he often was; his knowledge of human nature was nothing like as profound as he proclaimed it to be. He didn’t realize that all over Britain on any single night there were thousands of married men and thousands of married women who enjoyed delicious escapist moments as they envisaged choking the life out of a perpetually irritating spouse. He would have been astonished to know that even that conventional woman Edwina occasionally thought of him with his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and those too-mobile lips stilled for ever.

  Fortunately for the forces of law and order, only a tiny percentage of people ever transform thought
into action. Any murderous move of that sort would certainly set Peter Preston apart from other men.

  Christine Lambert chose her moment and her menu with great care. They had steak and their first Jersey Royal new potatoes of the year, with purple sprouting broccoli from their own garden. She had one glass of a very agreeable Merlot and John had two. They had cheesecake for dessert; she passed him a second helping without a word after his first longing glance at what was left. She sent him into the lounge to decide upon their television viewing for the night, whilst she cleared the dishes and prepared the coffee. She poured him a brandy to drink with his, then, after a moment’s consideration, set a second, token measure for herself beside it on the tray.

  The feminists would have been tutting long ago, she thought. But she had her methods of achieving things, old-fashioned but generally effective. She looked at the tray and wondered if she was overdoing things, whether John might see through her obvious ploys. But men were credulous creatures, when your weapons were food and drink. That was surely a thought of which even the most modern woman could approve.

  She asked him about his day and he talked to her a little about it, as he would never have done twenty years ago. When he asked her about her own day, she knew that this was the moment she had been waiting for. ‘I’ve been tying up a few things concerned with the literary festival. I like Marjorie Dooks. She says what she thinks and doesn’t say other things behind your back. She treads on a few toes, but she gets things done. And she’s not afraid of work herself. She doesn’t ask you to do things just because she doesn’t fancy them herself. She makes you feel as if you’re definitely the best person for the job.’

  ‘That’s good. I’ve had mixed reports about her, but nothing to contradict what you’ve just said.’ John Lambert contemplated the big globe of his brandy glass, rolled its contents pensively around inside it, and took an appreciative sip.