by M C Beaton
“No?” Roy was feeling bolder now. She hadn’t thrown anything at him. “Well, what about your seccies, love? Darting along to Personnel in floods of tears and sobbing their little hearts out on Mr Burnham’s thirty-four-inch chest. What about that rag-trade queen, Emma Roth?”
“What about her? I got a spread on her in the Telegraph.”
“But you told the old bat she had the manners of a pig and her fashions were shoddy”
“So she has, and so they are. And did she cancel her account with us? No.”
Roy squirmed. “Don’t like to see you like this. Get back to Carsely, there’s a love, and leave all this nasty London behind. I’m only telling you for your own good.”
“Why is it,” said Agatha evenly, “that people who say they are only telling you things for your own good come out with a piece of bitchery?”
“Well, we were friends once…” Roy darted for the door and made his escape.
Agatha stared at the door through which he had disappeared, her mouth a little open.
His last remark had dismayed her. The new Agatha surely made friends, not lost them. She had blamed London and London life for her loneliness, never stopping to think that by sinking back into her old ways, she had once more started alienating people.
There was a separate box on her desk, full of cosmetics and scent, products of her various clients. She had been going to take it home. She called out, “Bunty, come in here a moment.”
Her secretary bounced in, fresh face, no make–up, ankle-length white cotton skirt and bare feet. “Here,” said Agatha, pushing the box forward, “you can have this stuff.”
“Gosh, thanks awfully,” said Bunty. “Too kind. Got everything packed, Mrs Raisin?”
“Just a few more things.”
There was something lost and vulnerable in Agatha’s bearlike eyes. She was still thinking of what Roy had said.
“Tell you what,” said Bunty, “I’ve brought my little car up to town today. When you’re ready, I’ll give you a run to Paddington.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha humbly.
And so Agatha, unusually silent and not back-seat driving one bit, was taken to Paddington by Bunty.
“I live in the Cotswolds,” volunteered Bunty. “Of course, I only get home at weekends. Lovely place. We’re over in Bibury. You’re near Moreton-in-Marsh. If I’m home during the week, I go with Ma to the market on Tuesday.”
And so she rattled on while Agatha kept thinking of how lonely her stay in London had been and how easy it would have been to make a friend of this secretary.
As Agatha got out of the car at Paddington, she said, “You have my address, Bunty. If you ever feel like dropping over for a meal, or just coffee, please do.”
“Thanks,” said Bunty. “See you.”
Agatha trudged on to the train, taking up the seat next to her with her boxes. When the train moved out, gaining speed, and London fell away behind her, Agatha took a long slow breath. She was leaving that other Agatha behind.
Carsely again. After a long dreary winter and a cold wet spring, the sun was blazing down, and Lilac Lane, where Agatha had her cottage, was living up to its name, heavy with blossoms of white, mauve and purple. She saw James Lacey’s car parked outside his house and her heart lifted. She admitted to herself that she had missed him – along with everyone else in Carsely, she told herself sternly. Her cleaner, Doris Simpson, who had been caring for Agatha’s two cats while she had been away, had been looking out for her, and came out on the step with a smile of welcome.
“Home again, Agatha,” she said. “Coffee’s ready, and I got a nice piece of steak in for your dinner.”
“Thank you, Doris,” said Agatha. She stood back a moment and looked affectionately at her cottage, squatting there like a friendly beast under its heavy roof of thatch. Then she went indoors to a chilly reception from her cats, who in their catlike way would not stoop to any raptures on the return of an owner who should have had more consideration than to go away.
Doris carried Agatha’s boxes in and put them in the small hall and then went through to the kitchen and poured Agatha a cup of coffee.
“I forgot about the garden,” said Agatha. “Must be a right mess.”
“Oh, no, the Ladies’ Society took it in turns to do a bit of weeding, and that Mr Lacey did quite a bit. Why, what’s the matter, Agatha?”
For Agatha had begun to cry.
Agatha took out a serviceable handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. “I’m glad to be home,” she mumbled.
“It’s London,” said Doris, nodding her head wisely. “London never did folks any good at all. Me and Bert go up now and then to the shops. It’s all crowds and push. Glad to get back to where it’s quiet.”
The cleaner tactfully turned away until Agatha had composed herself.
“So what’s been going on in the village?” asked Agatha.
“Not much, I’m glad to say. Reckon as how us is in for a nice quiet time. Oh, there’s a new thing. We’ve got a ramblers’ group.”
“Who’s running that?”
“Mr Lacey”
Agatha was suddenly conscious of the expense-account rolls of fat around her middle. “I’d like to join. How do I go about it?”
“Don’t think anyone joins, ‘zactly. Us meets up outside Harvey’s after lunch on Sunday, about half-past one. Mr Lacey takes us on one of the countryside walks and tells us about the plants and things and a bit o’ the history. Lived here all my life and the things I don’t know!”
“No trouble with the landowners?”
“Not around here. Lord Pendlebury’s people keep the walks nice and neat, and signposted, too. We did have a bit of trouble over at Mr Jackson’s.” Mr Jackson owned a chain of computer shops and had bought a large piece of land. “We was following the marked path and came up against a padlocked gate right across it and there was Harry Cater, Jackson’s agent, with a shotgun, telling us to get off the land.”
“He can’t do that!”
“No, but Mr Lacey said with so many nice places around, it wasn’t worth the trouble making a fuss. Miss Simms, she told Cater what to do with his shotgun and where to put it, and with the vicar and his wife listening and all. I didn’t know where to look.”
“Rambling,” said Agatha thoughtfully. “Now there’s a thing.” This was Friday. On Sunday she would see James again if she did not run him to earth before then.
Roy Silver walked into Mr Wilson’s office the following morning, wondering why he had been summoned to work on a Saturday.
Mr Wilson, the boss of Pedmans, was sitting with a copy of the Daily Bugle spread on his desk in front of him.
“Seen the paper this morning?” he asked.
“The Daily Bugle? No, not yet.”
“Our Mrs Raisin has turned up trumps again. Lovely piece about Jeff Loon, worth thousands in free publicity. My God, if she can promote a pillock like Jeff Loon, she can promote anything. He was your account and we turned it over to Mrs Raisin when you weren’t getting anywhere with it.”
“Well, no one wanted to know,” said Roy defensively.
Mr Wilson looked at Roy over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
“I’m not blaming you. I don’t think anyone else in PR could have pulled off a coup like this.” He leaned back in his chair. “I thought you and Mrs Raisin were best friends.”
“So we are.”
“I noticed you seemed to avoid her while she was here. I overheard her asking you to go for a drink with her after work one day, and then you came out with the lamest of excuses.”
“Must have heard the wrong thing. I adore Aggie.”
“You see, I want you to get close to that woman. I want you to talk to her about money, lots of money. I’ll even make her a partner. She can choose her own accounts. She doesn’t like me. If there’s any affection left between you…”
“Lots,” said Roy fervently.
“Okay, get down there. Take your time. Don’t rush her. Loo
k for a way to get her back.”
“Maybe next weekend?”
“No time like the present.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll go now.”
Roy rushed off home to pack a weekend bag and then took a taxi to Paddington. He had not phoned Agatha, fearing she would suggest another weekend or put him off altogether. If he just arrived on the doorstep, so he reasoned, she could hardly turn him away.
Had James Lacey been in the Red Lion that Saturday evening, which is where Roy finally ran Agatha to earth, then she might have told Roy to get lost. But the thought of seeing James again on the Sunday was filling her with nervous anticipation. To have even the weedy Roy along might mean she would not be tempted to monopolize him. So she ungraciously said, “I am surprised an ex-friend should be so anxious to stay with me, but I suppose I’ll have to put up with you putting up with me. Prepare for an energetic day tomorrow. In fact, it’ll probably bore the pants off you and serve you right. Tomorrow morning we go to church, and after that we join the Carsely Ramblers for a long and healthy walk.”
“Just what I need,” said Roy, smiling ingratiatingly. “Ready for another drink, Aggie?”
Two
Sir Charles Fraith sat at his desk in his study and looked again at the letter from the Dembley Walkers. It was signed by a Ms Jessica Tartinck and was militant, to say the least. “You aristocrats think you own the countryside,” went one sentence. “But we do,” murmured Sir Charles. “I own this land, anyway.” He looked at it again. It claimed that there was an old right of way across his land. He spread out the maps of his property. There was a thin dotted line marking the right of way. He had never even noticed it before. They could use it all right, but with one exception. At one point it went right through a field of oil-seed rape. These old rights of way had originally been paths to the school or the church or work, as far back as the Middle Ages. They were not really intended for suburbanites to clump across in serious boots.
Sir Charles was a baronet who lived in a large Victorian mansion which commanded one thousand acres of good arable land. Although in his mid-thirties, he was still unmarried. He was a small neat man with fine fair hair and a mild, sensitive face. In him occasionally warred three characters. There was the bluff squire type, on the hearty side, given to rather obvious jokes and puns; then there was the clever intellectual who never talked about his first in history from Cambridge; and then there was the withdrawn character who really trusted no one and did not like anyone to get too close to him.
He lived with a faded aunt, his late mother’s sister, a Mrs Tassy who, although absent-minded, acted as hostess for him at house parties and saw to little else. The running of the household fell on the shoulders of his late father’s butler, Gustav. Gustav still styled himself ‘butler’, but in these days of dwindling servants Gustav was really a sort of houseman, doing light cooking when required, ordering in the groceries and wine, and helping out sometimes in the garden, or with the housework if one of the cleaners who came in from the village fell ill. He was no old retainer but was in his early fifties and kept his country of origin a well-guarded secret. He had a clever, mobile face, a male dancer’s figure, and small black eyes.
He came into the room quietly and began to make up the fire, for the day had turned chilly.
Sir Charles held out the letter. “What do you think of this, Gustav?”
Gustav took out a pair of spectacles and scanned the letter. “Screw the silly bitch,” he said.
“Probably not screwable, Gustav. Can’t offend them or they’ll put in a complaint under the 1980 Highways Act, and you know what a trouble that will cause. Best to send back the soft answer, hey? Tell you what, I’ll tell them this time to walk round the edge of the field and invite them for tea.”
“Got more to do with my time than serve tea to a bunch of Commie bastards,” said Gustav.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” said Sir Charles mildly.
He rolled up the maps and proceeded to write a polite letter to Ms Jessica Tartinck.
The Carsely Ramblers gathered outside Harvey’s, the post office⁄general stores, on Sunday.
At first Agatha had only eyes for James. “Back again,” he said mildly.
“Thank you for looking after my garden,” said Agatha, suddenly wishing Roy weren’t glued to her side.
“Not at all.” He turned away and addressed the small group. There were Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society; Miss Simms, the society’s secretary; Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife; Mr and Mrs Harvey from the stores; Jack Page, a local farmer, and two of his teenage children; and, horror upon horrors, that elderly and constantly complaining couple, Mr and Mrs Boggle. Although the sun was shining, the day was unseasonably cold, and grey clouds were piling up in the west.
“Now, as it is so cold,” said James, raising his voice, “we will walk up to Lord Pendlebury’s estate by the back road. There is a pretty walk round the edge of the fields that we haven’t been on yet. Nothing too strenuous. Are you sure you are up to this, Mr and Mrs Boggle?”
“Course,” said Mrs Boggle truculently. “Us’ll probably do better than this young whipper-snapper here.” She jerked a thumb at Roy.
James set off. Agatha wanted to run forward and walk with him but felt suddenly shy. He was as handsome as ever with his thick greying hair, tanned face and blue eyes. She fell into step beside Mrs Bloxby.
“Nice to see you back,” said the vicar’s wife. “It’s been a dreary winter. Horrible weather. Nothing dramatic, just rain and more rain.”
“You don’t notice the changing seasons much in the City,” said Agatha. “Just look at the weight I’ve put on! Taking taxis everywhere and eating expensive food.”
“This is as good a way as any to take it off,” said Mrs Bloxby. “I really find it hard to have Christian thoughts about the Boggles.”
“Is this the first time they have turned up?”
“Yes, and how they will stay the distance, I do not know.”
“Don’t walk so fast,” shouted Mrs Boggle, and they all slowed down to a crawl.
“They’ll give up in a minute,” said Mrs Bloxby on a sigh, “and demand someone runs them home, and somehow I fear that someone is going to be me. Did you enjoy your stay in London?”
“Aggie was a whiz,” put in Roy eagerly. “Best PR ever.”
“And according to you, the most unpopular one ever,” said Agatha waspishly.
“Just my joke, sweetie. You always take things too seriously.”
“I have always wondered,” commented Mrs Bloxby, “why it is when someone says something cruel or offensive, they immediately try to cover it up by saying, “It was only a joke. Can’t you take a joke?” There was a woman, a visitor to the vicarage, the other day, who said, “Don’t you just look like a typical vicar’s wife!” I said crossly I did not think I looked like a typical anything and she said, “Can’t you take a joke?” But she said it so nastily, you know, obviously implying that I looked mild, correct, prim and faded. I could have struck her. Oh, here we go!”
Mrs Boggle’s voice was raised in complaint. “Me heart! Me heart! Take me home before I die.”
“I’d better go,” said Mrs Bloxby regretfully.
To Agatha’s dismay, James swung around. “No, you stay. I’ll get my car. Go ahead. I’ll come back and catch up with you.” He set off back down the hill with long athletic strides. They waited while Mrs Boggle panted and gasped and her husband muttered it was all their fault for keeping up such a cracking pace, no consideration for the elderly, and young people these days were downright selfish, ignoring the fact that Roy was the only member of the party, apart from the teenagers, who could be considered young.
After James had driven up and collected the Boggles, the rest of them walked on. A chill wind from the north rustled the young leaves of the trees over their heads. Everything was very fresh and green. They turned off on to the back road which ran along the edge of Lord Pendlebury’s est
ate. Fields of oil-seed rape spread out on either side, virulent yellow, Provencal yellow.
“Not allergic to rape, are we, Mrs Raisin?” called out Mrs Mason.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” Roy giggled. “At her age, our Aggie takes anything she can get.”
“Shut your face,” exclaimed Agatha wrathfully.
“Just my joke,” said Roy, avoiding Mrs Bloxby’s clear gaze.
Oh, this is not what I expected, thought Agatha. I thought I could sink back into Carsely like lying back in a warm bath. I wish Roy hadn’t come. He seems to have brought that part of myself I don’t like with him from London. She cast a covert glance at him. His thin white face was pinched with cold. Why had he come? At first she had naively thought he had regretted his remarks, but now she was not so sure. Roy moved away to speak to Miss Simms.
“So are your PR days really over?” The vicar’s wife was looking inquiringly at Agatha.
“Oh, I hope so.” Agatha, gazing out across the golden fields, felt quite weak and tearful again. Was this the menopause at last? Was she tired? “The last account was the pits, pop singer called Jeff Loon. I had to sweet-talk some pill from the Daily Bugle.”
“Would that be Ross Andrews?”
“Why, yes!”
“We take the Daily Bugle. There was a big spread about Jeff Loon, highly complimentary, on the entertainments page. Was that your doing?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
Agatha stared at Roy. Suddenly she was sure she knew what had happened. She herself had not even bothered buying a copy of the Daily Bugle. But that spread would make a tremendous impact in the PR world. She knew for the first time how much Pedmans would want her back. Wilson must have sent Roy down, and so the nasty little creep had oiled his way on to the train, babbling, “Don’t worry. I’ll get her back.”
The party started to climb over a stile on to a path which ran alongside a field. It was a muddy path. Agatha was wearing flat shoes, fine for walking in London, but not really suitable for the country. Roy was wearing loafers and thin socks. Miss Simms was wearing a pair of Doc Martens and Agatha reflected it was the first time she had seen Carsely’s unmarried mother wearing anything other than spindly high heels. Roy squelched into a muddy puddle and let out a wail of dismay.
