by Annie Murray
The following day he was due to go out. He approached Vera in a brisk, ‘we are here to do business’ manner.
‘I’ve promised to go and see Mrs Mackrell again,’ he told her. ‘Poor dear – she’s having to sell something else.’
‘Umm?’ Vera said, seated at the office desk with her back to him. George wondered why he suddenly felt like the employee, trying to make appeasing noises.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Vera again if anything was wrong – Alan complaining, perhaps? – but he remembered the expression on Vera’s face when she’d met Sylvia and decided he did not necessarily want to know the answer to this.
‘While I’m over there,’ he went on, attempting obliviousness, ‘I think I’ll go on up Oxford way . . .’ He had no particular reason to visit Oxford. He realized he was looking for excuses to stay out of the way.
‘Ah,’ Vera seized on this and at last swung round. There was something tight-looking about her today, George felt. The hair again. ‘There’s a Mrs Parker in Peppard . . .’
This was hardly Oxford, but he didn’t think he’d argue.
‘She wants you to come over and look at a few of her things. Oh, and . . .’ She bent to consult the notes in front of her. The side of her hair shone like metal. It was brushed back with pristine smoothness. ‘There was a call from a Dr Hargreaves – well, from his secretary.’ She frowned. ‘Bit vague. Something about a house clearance but he wasn’t sure exactly when he’d be able to be there. Just that he wanted you to come and . . .’ She looked up in irritation. ‘Oh I don’t know. The woman sounded addled to me. If that’s the sort of person running a doctor’s surgery, all I can say is, heaven help them.’
‘Well yes, quite,’ George agreed. ‘Right-o then.’ He took the details, ordered Monty back into the kitchen and went outside. He was about to take the car, but on second thoughts, went and climbed into the Morris. If there were things he could bring back, he might as well do it straight away.
He steered out of the drive and away up the hill, the chalky downs spreading in front of him, with a lightening sense of freedom. Escape! A day out, a nice pub on the way back somewhere, depending where he ended up. And he could at least break free from all the confusions of the fair sex for a few hours.
Or so he thought.
Mrs Mackrell was as moistly emotional as she had been on his last visit as she parted with an elegant walnut china cabinet – ‘Mother would break her heart’ – so much so that it crossed his mind to write the poor old dear a cheque and tell her to keep the damn thing. But he could already visualize Vera’s face when this piece of accounting came to light. Business was business.
The two dealers he visited in Oxford were both, thankfully, men. By mid-afternoon, mellow from a couple of unexpected but most welcome pints and some chappish conversation, he turned towards home along the prettiest back routes. In the high cab of the Morris he meandered through the Chilterns, humming scraps of half-remembered songs. As he flashed past a field, somewhere between Nettlebed and Stoke Row, with a heart-leap of pleasure he thought he saw a cluster of donkeys. He decided his mind was playing tricks. They must be ponies – no one had that many donkeys. Finally he reached the lush lanes of Rotherfield Peppard.
He parked beside a hedge comprising a bulging mixture of copper beech and hornbeam with swirls of clematis growing along the top of it, which bordered the house he was due to visit. As he slid, stiff-legged to the ground, he heard the ‘pock’ and bounce of a tennis ball from the other side of the hedge. Someone, a young girl by the sound of it, gave a cheer.
‘I say, Julia!’ a woman’s voice tinkled above it. ‘Jolly good shot! You are getting good. Oh yes, and you too of course, Lucinda.’
The house, end on to the road, was long, Tudor and decked with yellow climbing roses. Golden showers, George thought, and smiled. They looked splendid.
He opened the green wicket gate and knocked on a front door of the same colour. The place felt empty. Realizing he might never get an answer, he was about to set off along the side of the house when the door opened abruptly and with some vigour. A wholesome female appeared, compact and strong-looking with brown hair in a neat bob, enquiring blue eyes and cheeks moistly pink from her leapings around the court. She was clad in the minimalist garb of tennis whites, a snip of a skirt well north of her knees.
‘Mr Baxter?’ There was laughter in her voice. ‘I’m Mrs Parker. How very punctual of you. Do come in.’
‘I thought no one was in,’ he said, for something to say, adding, ‘I was admiring your roses.’
‘Ah, yes . . .’ she replied vaguely, her back to him already.
George was thrown by the sheer amount of flesh on display. He had already taken in that the shirt was short-sleeved and very low at the front. Muscular little thighs disclosed themselves below the skirt. She was not a large woman, but he seemed to be able to see most of her, he thought, averting his eyes so completely towards the floor that he almost walked into a beam.
‘Oops, careful!’ she chuckled, glancing back.
Despite the heat George felt glad he still had his jacket on, though there was no real logic to this thought.
‘I came racing inside,’ she said, pausing at the foot of the stairs, which were muffled snugly in crimson carpet. ‘Rather hot I’m afraid, not to say dishevelled. We were playing tennis – my daughter and a friend.’
‘Ah, yes.’ George thought he had better look up, in case of seeming rude or worse, peculiar.
‘Now, the thing is, Mr Baxter . . .’
Her face, previously dimpled and cheerful, collapsed into dolefulness. The large blue pools of eyes filled with tears.
Oh dear God, George thought, not another one.
‘I’ve recently inherited some . . .’ She swallowed. George saw it in her throat. ‘Some things, of Mummy’s, you see . . .’
George gave a slight bow. ‘My condolences.’
A tearful story followed involving protracted illness in which whisky seemed to feature in some way; the troublesome practicalities of finding suitable nurses, the searing awfulness of a house clearance.
‘I mean, I just couldn’t bear to part with it all. Not at first. Boxes and boxes! Mummy was not herself you see, at the end. And she was rather unusual even before – so clever. But then being clever isn’t always . . . If she could only have stayed off the . . . Anyway, I mustn’t go on.’
She fished a hanky out of her waistband and blew her nose with unexpected heartiness before tucking it back in again.
‘What I really need is someone just to take it off me. All of it. D’you see? Otherwise I get so hopelessly emotional. Robert – that’s my husband – says it’s not good for me. Look, come out and I’ll show you.’
Outside he could just hear the noise of the tennis game again. Close to one end of the house stood a Victorian brick outbuilding, in which Mrs Parker showed him a not especially alarming, he thought, number of items. There were boxes of china and a few items of furniture.
‘These are Mummy’s things.’ She picked up a small, flower-patterned plate and looked soulfully at it, before replacing it. ‘I’ve no idea if they’re worth anything – but they meant the world to her.’ This brought on another bout of sniffing.
George looked round, light-hearted. A feeling of easy competence overcame him and a hint of male protectiveness. This was going to be easier than he had thought. And he could ease the burdens of this poor lady.
‘Look,’ he offered. ‘It’s not so very much, is it? If you’re agreeable I’ll take it all away – I’ve got my van with me. When we’ve had a chance to go through it all we can telephone you with an offer for whatever is saleable – and an inventory of course.’
‘Oh – that would be just marvellous!’ She clasped her hands together under her chin, the lips turning up in what he saw was a perfect Cupid’s bow. She really was quite a looker when she smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Baxter.’
‘Right,’ he said, reaching for the edges of his jacket t
o take it off. ‘Well I’ll just get started . . .’
A small but arrestingly strong hand clasped his forearm. He caught a sweet tang of something expensive in the perfume line and a hint of womanly sweat. Mrs Parker’s peachy face was suddenly close to his.
‘There’s just one more thing, Mr Baxter. ‘The painting. It’s upstairs.’
George opened his mouth to disavow knowledge of painting in any form. However, Mrs Parker, who he guessed to be about thirty-five and did not have to guess was in the prime of her life and muscular as a dray horse, was already steering him back towards the house.
‘I’m afraid it’s in my bedroom,’ she announced with a coy tilt of her head, when they reached the stairs. George had already assumed this. He had noticed, over the years, that a certain kind of woman had a tendency to want to show you the interior of their bedroom. It was a queer thing, but there it was. He could usually follow the hints and signs and find ways of rebuttal. But in this case, being in the garden he had not seen it coming and was also not accustomed to being dragged to a staircase by the arm.
Politeness dictated that she precede him up the stairs. A glance, before he ducked his head in self-preservation, showed him the little pleats of the skirt flicking upwards with each step. Forcing this image from his mind he prepared something diplomatic to say about the painting, which he already knew he did not want to take away with him.
‘Here we are, Mr Baxter – and you must have another name?’ She skipped up onto the creaking top step. ‘Do call me Rosamund.’
‘Er, George,’ he admitted – ill advisedly, he was quite sure.
‘George,’ she purred, her round face beaming at him, all traces of grief over Mummy quite gone.
‘Now – do come in. My little room. Do mind your head.’
She unlatched the wooden door and both of them ducked to enter. George had an impression of ceiling beams, latticed windows and a wide bed with silky peach-coloured coverlet. The perfumed smell grew stronger.
‘There you are, you see.’ Rosamund Parker, beside him, gestured at the wall above the bed. To George’s abundant relief the painting was not, as he had more than half expected, some garish oil painting of a disrobed female prone on a couch.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ he heard her breathe, close to his ear. He became aware that she was nudging against his arm. Some part of her was, anyway, and it was not one of her hands, which were clasped demurely in front of her. Heat rose at the back of his neck and even more perturbingly, in his groin. ‘Mummy always said it was done by one of the disciples of Constable – sadly not by the great man himself.’
This had a ring of truth. It was a lovely, gentle pastoral: river meadows, the line of water in meandering perspective, a spring day with cattle grazing.
‘You plan to sell it then?’ he asked, inching gradually away from the fleshy pressure on his left bicep.
‘Oh no! It’s far too perfect to sell. I just thought you might be able to,’ her voice dropped, huskily, ‘give me a tiny . . .’ The breast was back, insistent. ‘Just an idea, a clue how much it might fetch if I did, George.’
She inched round to face him, looking up at him, one hand now on his arm. The invitation in her eyes was so blatant that it sent desire through him like a shock. Good God – what the hell was he supposed to do now?
‘You’re a nice man, George, I could see that as soon as you arrived.’ She reached out and her warm palm stroked his cheek. The perfume filled his nostrils again. He saw the soft texture of her neck, the little cushion of flesh under her chin. Observing him flinch she laughed sweetly. ‘It’s all right, we’re all alone. The girls will never come up here.’
Keeping her gaze fixed on his, cheek dimpling as she spoke, she said, ‘How would it be if I took my top off? I’ve only got on the teeniest little—’
‘No!’ George forced himself into action, stepping back from her before she could touch him any more, lead him into burying his face in those breasts, into the dreamland blur of physicality from which he would not wake until he had taken her and emerged horrified the other side. He ran his hand over his hair as if suspecting it might be already rumpled in some incriminating way.
‘Now this must stop,’ he said sternly, as if to a child. ‘You’re a married woman, and—’
‘Married to a plank,’ she said sulkily, withdrawing from him. ‘No fun at all, let me tell you.’
‘Well . . .’ George found himself feeling sorry for her. He tried to keep up the fatherly tone. He must be at least twenty years her senior so he could carry it off. ‘I’m sorry to hear it my dear, but he is your husband and this is no way to—’
‘But George – just a bit of fun?’ An irrepressible grin spread across her face. ‘You look like a man who would be great fun in bed!’
This was flattering to hear. All the same, he wondered how many tradesmen who looked ‘great fun’ were acquainted with a painting possibly in the school of Constable that they just had to see.
He smiled back, unable to dislike Rosamund Parker. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘Really – no, my dear. But it was nice of you to offer.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Let’s go down, shall we?’
‘Look,’ he said, in the hall, ‘I haven’t loaded the van. I think I’ll send my man round to collect all your mother’s boxes and things. I think that would be best.’
‘All right.’ She stood with her arms folded now, faintly sulky he thought, though he could not tell exactly what was in her tone. Perhaps she was wondering what his ‘man’ would be like. As he said goodbye and let himself out, he wondered if Clarence would be treated to a sighting of the painting when he came to do the pick-up.
On the journey back between fields just turning gold with ripe wheat and hedgerows hanging with elderberries, he found himself full of cheer. He burst into song. Not a bad afternoon really. Some good pieces from Oxford. An offer from a rather inviting lady – nobly refused, he reflected. He had shown a principled dignity along with a certain sympathy. Should he stop for a pint somewhere on the way? He decided he had had enough at lunchtime. Home, James. The weekend. Peace and quiet!
Still pom-pom-ing he swept in triumph down the chalk-edged road into the village. The ‘GREENBURY’ sign seemed to welcome him with a homely smile. He swung the Morris with a flourish of speed into the drive.
Where a truly horrifying sight met his eyes. Women. A cluster of floral shirtwaister frocks in front of the house. And they were, all too obviously, waiting for him.
3.
He parked the Morris, trying to pretend he had not seen them. Head down, he gathered his things from the seat of the van, wondering whether he should keep up his pretence and try to escape round the back into the garden. It was the Cronies and Vera out there; he had glimpsed enough to know that. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. All he wanted – longed for, as for a fading dream – was his chair, a pint of homebrew with Monty at his side, and a quiet, empty house.
Bag under one arm, he opened the van door and slid to the ground, slamming it behind him. Perhaps, he suggested to himself, the women were in fact gathered coincidentally for a general natter that had nothing to do with him?
This flare of hope spluttered out as soon as he began to walk towards them. They fell silent and watched him: Vera, Rosemary Abbott, Pat Nesbitt (minus spaniels) and Eunice MacLean.
‘Evening, ladies!’ he hailed them, in a bid to take command of the situation.
There was a long and uncomfortable pause as they looked at each other; seeming, he thought, unprepared for whatever it was they were obviously awaiting.
Vera took the initiative and stepped forward, looking upset and fraught. She straightened her arms at her sides in her pale blue dress. Something dangled from one hand – a newspaper, he saw.
‘Mr Baxter, I –’ Her voice was husky. She seemed close to tears. ‘I’m so sorry. But you’d better come inside with us for a moment. We . . .’ She glanced round at the others. ‘Well, we need to talk to you.’
George
looked at them all. Eunice MacLean, in a green and white frock, looked elegant, her bony face solemn and giving nothing away. Pat, in a peach floral affair, seemed strangely incomplete without the dogs. She tried to give him a smile, but beneath the blue-eyeshadowed lids her eyes seemed full of tragedy. Rosemary, in a bright pink skirt and white blouse, hair set like concrete, was not wearing her customary air of self-righteousness. She looked – they all looked, he realized – pained and sympathetic. The way they had looked when Win was ill.
‘Better get on with it then,’ he said.
He led the way inside. A mighty woofing began from the kitchen. George immediately felt the need to have Monty at his side as possibly his only ally in this so far mysterious conversation, but, as they filed along the hall to the sitting room, Rosemary Abbott immediately said, ‘Do keep that dreadful dog away from us, won’t you?’
‘He’s been fed,’ Vera told George. ‘He’ll be all right for a bit, won’t he? But would you like me to make you a cup of tea, Mr Baxter? I expect you’ve had a hard day.’
George was already beginning to feel the need for a good deal more than tea.
‘It’s all right, Vera,’ he said. ‘Let’s just have you all say whatever it is you’ve come to say.’ He had an inkling that this was something to do with Alan. Some sort of female ganging-up that he could not yet understand. ‘Do take a seat, ladies. Monty’ll calm down in a minute.’
‘It might be best not,’ Eunice MacLean said. Her deep voice and her manner, as usual gave a sense of grace and gravity to the situation. ‘We don’t intend to trouble you for long. We did feel, though, that we might lend Vera a little support for what she needs to say to you.’ Eunice stretched her lips into a tactful smile.
‘It’s a disgrace,’ Rosemary Abbott remarked with sudden fervour, but Pat Nesbitt shushed her with a hand on her arm.
‘Let Vera speak, Rosemary,’ she said. George was surprised at Pat’s firmness. ‘Don’t jump the gun.’
