by Miss Read
'Don't worry,' said his friend, licking a gummed angel and thumping it heavily on the waiting card. 'I'll fight all right, but I want to stay with Miss Fogerty as long as possible.'
He held up the latest card and gazed at it with immense satisfaction.
'Think she'll like it?'
'Smashing!'said Paul.
They continued their labours.
***
The same subject was being debated by the grown-ups in the next room.
'I can't see any harm,' Frank was saying, 'in going down to look at the place. It doesn't commit us, but if he's due to start next September we'll have to get him entered. Actually, I don't suppose they'll have him until the following year, but we ought to get moving.'
'But Frank, he's so young,' protested Phil. 'And you know how I feel about it. He's getting on perfectly well at the village school, and he has the fun of living at home. What's more, I can see that he is properly fed, and happy. And he is! That's the whole point! Why snatch him from here?'
Frank smiled and shook his head.
'That's partly why. I can see your point, my darling, but don't you see that the very fact that you and Jeremy are so close means that it may not be good for him to stay that way for too long? He's an only child – and likely to be so. You've had to be father and mother to him for most of his life, and he needs the rough and tumble of school to toughen him.'
'He gets the rough and tumble of the village school. He has friends, like Paul next door. Above all, he has a decent home. I can't see why he should be taken away from all that he enjoys, especially after the loss of his father.'
'That's just another reason for getting away to school – away from the unhappy memories he must have when you were left alone. He doesn't say much, but he understands a lot. I think a fresh start, away from Thrush Green, would be an excellent thing for the boy.'
'Well, I don't,' said Phil mutinously. 'And I don't see any point in going to visit your old prep school if I feel that the whole thing is wrong for Jeremy. I hate to say it, Frank, but he is my child – mine and John's – and I intend to do what I think is right for him.'
Frank shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the window in silence. Phil realised that she had hurt him deeply and was sorry. Nevertheless, she intended to stick to her guns. She did not mind making sacrifices herself for peace and quiet; but to sacrifice Jeremy's happiness was unthinkable.
'There's no sense in prolonging the argument,' said Frank at last. 'I can see you're adamant, at the moment, anyway. But there's just one last thing I want to tell you.
'If I thought there were any doubt about the school, I'd give way, but I truthfully was extraordinarily happy there, and so was Robert. The head was a splendid chap – a real inspiration, and he had a fine staff. I know there's been a new head for these last few years, but from all accounts he carries on the good work. Tom, at the office, has both his boys there and they seem to do well. Think about it, my dear. I've Jeremy's welfare as much at heart as you have, and perhaps in a more detached manner.'
At that moment, the telephone rang and he hurried from the room to answer it. It looked, thought Phil, as though he had had the last word on this vexed question, but she knew, only too well, that he had not.
Dotty Harmer had taken Betty's advice on that dark morning when the summons had arrived, and proceeded in her car down the hill to Lulling and up the High Street to the market square where Justin Venables had his office.
She drove with unusual caution, so that the procession of vehicles which she led was of some length, and friends on the pavement had plenty of time to exchange witticisms about Dotty's driving.
Anxious not to offend against the traffic laws in any way, Dotty drove straight to the car park behind the Corn Exchange, as previously advised by P.C. Darwin, and backed carefully between a van labelled 'Lulling Rodent Control' and another bearing the inscription 'Vacuum Chimney Cleansers'.
'And what's wrong with Rat-catcher and Sweep?' muttered Dotty crossly to herself, locking the car.
She then realised that the important envelope was inside on the back seat, unlocked the door, rescued the documents, relocked the door, and decided she should have her umbrella, which necessitated putting the package on the car roof, unlocking the door again, fetching out the umbrella, relocking the door, and setting off. That she had forgotten the package on the roof will surprise no one who has to do these manoeuvres, but luckily Dotty remembered before she had gone far, and only needed to return to collect it before it blew away into oblivion.
Twitter and Venables' office had changed little during the years. Mr Basil Twitter and Mr Harvey Venables, Justin's father, had set up their plate as young men just before the outbreak of World War One, taking over the practice from an eighty-year-old solicitor, and returned to their office at the cessation of hostilities, with honourable war records which rightly impressed the good folk of Lulling and district.
The practice flourished, and with the growth of motor traffic more people needed litigation. A third partner, called Treadgold, was taken on, but was soon discovered to be what Mr Twitter called 'flighty', and when he ran away with the wife of a wealthy land-owner, thus justifying Basil Twitter's misgivings, his name was erased from the board, and Twitter and Venables reigned supreme.
In the twenties, young Justin joined his father in the firm, amidst general approval. 'Very solid chap. Very solid,' was the comment one heard most, and when Basil Twitter succumbed to pneumonia in the wicked winter of 1947, and Harvey Venables to sunstroke in Spain five years later, Justin became senior partner and still so remained.
There were three junior partners, now men in their forties and fifties, but still looked upon, as the rector of Thrush Green had said, as 'mere boys'. The older generation always asked for Justin to attend to their business and were sometimes hurt and suspicious when one of the younger men was assigned to them. Dotty Harmer counted herself lucky to be represented by the senior man at Twitter and Venables.
Justin's office was on the ground floor for the very sensible reasons that, firstly, it always had been, and secondly, the younger men could manage the stairs better.
It was somewhat dark, for across the lower half of the sash window was black gauze bearing the wording 'Twitter and Venables Solicitors' in gold letters, forming a tasteful crescent. The walls were lined with the ginger-coloured match-boarding beloved by the Victorians, and rows of shelves carrying black tin boxes added to the general gloom.
Justin Venables sat behind a massive desk which had once been covered in red leather which had now darkened to brown. Upon it were piles of papers, some tied with pink tape, which Dotty supposed, correctly, to be 'the red tape' one hears so much about. A hideous cast iron ash tray, bearing the legend 'Long Live Victoria 1837–97' stood at one corner, for the benefit of clients, as Justin did not smoke himself.
A heavy oblong glass inkstand held two cut-glass ink bottles, one containing blue, and the other red, ink. Each was topped by an apple-sized silver lid, and the stand itself was embellished with an engraved silver plate testifying to the fact that it had been presented to Harvey Venables on the happy occasion of his silver wedding. Dotty, not normally observant, could not help thinking that it could do with a polish.
They sat on hard wooden chairs facing each other across the assorted objects on the desk top while Justin read the documents, nodding solemnly.
'You see that you are asked to state if you will be pleading "Guilty" or "Not Guilty".'
'I am not guilty,' said Dotty hotly, 'as you well know.'
'Quite, quite,' murmured Justin soothingly. 'A simple clarification at the outset. I think we can fill in these forms together.'
They bent to their task. Justin's beautiful unhurried copperplate filled the appropriate places, while Dotty answered relevant questions and admired progress.
'Well, now,' said Justin, leaning back and looking at his client over his half-glasses. 'We must turn our attention to witnesses. Mr Levy is being most pub
lic-spirited, and will add great weight to our defence. It's a good thing his butcher's shop has such a clear view of the scene of the accident.'
'I'm pretty sure,' said Dotty, 'that there was a school teacher near the playground gate. He might help.'
Justin made a note on a little pad.
'And some boys, of course,' added Dotty.
'Boys are sometimes unreliable,' said Justin weightily.
'Perhaps some of the other shopkeepers might have seen something,' said Dotty hopefully.
'Maybe, maybe,' agreed Justin. He leant back again and put the tips of his fingers together. He blew thoughtfully upon them for a minute.
Outside, Dotty could hear a dog barking, and the raucous squabbling of the starlings which lived in the eaves of Twitter and Venables' property. Two women talked and laughed together, and Dotty thought how lucky they were to be there in the normal bustle of the street, and not cloistered in this fusty room with all the cares of Christendom which she was bearing.
She sighed involuntarily, and Justin put on his professional air of modified hope.
'Now, don't be cast down, Miss Harmer. We have a very good case, you know. I have every confidence that we shall be successful. I shall make it my business to get in touch with Mr Levy at once, and no doubt he will know other reliable witnesses. It is a pity, of course, that you were alone in the car. A passenger could have been of vital importance. Vital!'
'I don't propose to carry a passenger in my car in the expectation of an accident,' said Dotty bridling.
'Quite, quite,' said Justin. He patted the papers together, and stood up.
'I really think that is all that we can do at the moment, but I shall be in touch, naturally, at every step. I see we have a month before we need to appear at court. Much may happen, I assure you, Miss Harmer. We must live in hope, live in hope.'
He accompanied her to the front door, and watched her cross the market square. The hem of her coat had become unstitched, he noticed, and her stockings were in wrinkles round her skinny ankles. Really, she dressed in a deplorable manner.
It was a great pity, he thought, returning to the office, that he could not ask her to dress decently for her court appearance. It could make all the difference.
But there it was. One must take the rough with the smooth in this life!
He rang his bell, and Miss Giles, who had been with the firm for almost as long as Justin had, appeared at the door with a cup of coffee.
'Mr Baxter from the car dealer's is waiting, Mr Justin,' she said.
The rough with the smooth, thought Justin! After Dotty, Mr Baxter would be very smooth indeed.
'Show him in,' said Justin, 'and bring another cup, if you please.'
13 A Question Of Schools
WHEN Dotty heard from the sister in charge that Cyril Cooke 'had had a slight set-back', she found herself trembling as she replaced the receiver.
'A slight setback!' Unspecified, of course, but it could mean anything from bed sores to a serious relapse. All that she had elicited so far had been such euphemisms as: 'Comfortable' or 'Making progress' or 'Getting on quite nicely' which, though in the extreme, were mildly reassuring. 'A slight setback' sounded ominous.
She muddled about her domestic affairs in her usual haphazard way, her mind much agitated. After lunch, taken standing, with a stalk of celery in one hand and a lump of cheese in the other, she could bear it no longer, and decided to call on Mrs Cooke.
That lady was taking some dilapidated tea cloths from the line when Dotty arrived, and took her visitor to the shelter of the back porch, but did not invite her inside. To Dotty this appeared a bad sign.
She had called on Mrs Cooke once or twice since the accident, and although somewhat truculent, Cyril's mother had not been actively hostile. This afternoon, however, she looked decidedly grim.
'I came for news of Cyril,' said Dotty coming straight to the point. 'The hospital people said that he had had a slight setback.'
'You can say that again,' said Mrs Cooke menacingly. 'I saw that poor child, after they'd sent word he was bad – and bad he is! High temperature, tossin' and turnin', and can't swallow nothin.'
'I am very sorry to hear it,' said Dotty.
An ugly flush crept up Mrs Cooke's grimy neck and over her face.
'Yes, you should be too. See where your rotten driving's landed my poor boy! If he passes on, his death'll be laid at your door. And rightly too.'
Dotty, inwardly shaken, nevertheless held her ground. She had faced worse than this in her father's time.
'I am not going to argue with you, Mrs Cooke, about a matter which must be decided in court. I simply came to see if there was any practical way in which I could help, and to find out the latest news of the boy.'
Mrs Cooke suddenly lost control.
'You clear off! Go on, clear off! I've enough to put up with, worrying about my boy what you've near enough done in! You old maids don't know what us mothers suffer!'
She advanced upon Dotty with upraised fist. A lesser woman would have fled in the face of such threats. Dotty stood stock still. Her steady gaze was fixed upon Mrs Cooke's inflamed countenance.
Despite her raggle-taggle appearance, there was dignity in Dotty's demeanour, her back straight as a ramrod, her face expressing cold disdain.
Mrs Cooke stopped in her tracks, and let the intimidating arm fall to her side.
'I can sympathise with your concern,' said Dotty, 'but I deplore your insulting behaviour. I shall bid you good day.'
She turned and strode towards the gate, watched by Mrs Cooke. It might have been her father all over again, thought that lady, and everyone knew what he was!
'Murderess!' she shouted after her.
Dotty returned in good order outwardly, but was seriously upset by the turn of events. Her anxiety for the boy's condition was now tempered with concern for her own position if the child succumbed. This possibility had never really occurred to her, and Mrs Cooke's final dreadful word rang in her head.
Of course, it could never be construed as murder! There would have to be intent, surely, plotting or passion or some true evil, thought Dotty, clinging to those principles with which she was familiar. But it could well be a charge of causing death by dangerous driving, she supposed. Should she call on Justin Venables and find out? What an appalling thing!
Dotty was not normally imaginative, but anxiety thrust a hundred horrid scenes into her agitated mind. She could see herself in one of those dreadful cells, at Holloway, wasn't it? The window always appeared to be hermetically sealed, in the pictures she had seen of the place, and the very thought produced acute claustrophobia. And to hear a key being turned in the lock, and to know that one could not possibly get out! Naturally, prisons had to be secure, that was sensible, but it did not lessen their terror.
Then the food, she had heard, was so starchy, most unhealthy, and the company would, at best, be suspect. Dear, oh dear, what a prospect! And for how long, she wondered?
And who, she thought with sudden shock, would look after the animals while she 'did time', if that was the right expression? This last terrible thought stabbed her to the quick. Would Ella, perhaps, of her charity, see that they were fed and cared for? It was a lot to ask, and one could not really expect such kindness if one were a common criminal.
A common criminal! Something about the cold phrase acted like a splash of icy water upon the fever of her imaginings.
She was not a common criminal. She was an unhappy woman who had, by sheer accident, knocked down a boy who had crossed her path. She was in the right. She must hang on to that basic fact. Dear Justin had been hopeful, and she would be too. For had not her upright father said many times that if one spoke the truth and shamed the Devil then right must prevail?
She turned into her gate slightly comforted, and set about preparing the animals' last meal of the day.
That the goats received the chicken's mash, and the chickens received the goats' cabbages was some small indication of Dotty's in
ner turmoil. Not that they complained. Dotty's charges soon learnt to be adaptable, and to be grateful for favours received.
One winter evening, Charles Henstock paid a call upon his friend Harold Shoosmith.
It was clear and cold. The stars were already pricking the sky, and frost was in the air.
Charles was glad to settle by Harold's log fire, and to accept a small whisky and water.
He looked about the room appreciatively. There was a fine cyclamen on the side table, leather-bound books on the shelves, and a well-filled tantalus on the sideboard. Everywhere the hand of Betty Bell was apparent in the glossy furniture, the plump cushions, the shining glass.
'You manage to make things so very comfortable,' commented Charles. There was a wondering note in his voice. 'Somehow the rectory never achieves such snugness.'
Harold could hardly point out that good curtains and carpets were one of the basic requirements for soft living, and an ample income another, to supply other amenities, including first-rate domestic help.
'I have the advantage of lower ceilings, for one thing,' said Harold, 'and not such an exposed position. Those Victorian Gothic buildings never were designed for cosiness.'
'Dimity does wonders,' went on Charles, nursing his glass. 'When I think how bleak the house was when I lived there alone, I never cease to be thankful for her presence. Do you remember Mrs Butler who kept house for me?'
'I shall never forget her,' said Harold firmly. 'I have never, in all my travels, met a meaner, tighter-fisted old harridan.'
Charles looked shocked.
'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' he protested.
'Of course you wouldn't. But it's true. I remember the disgraceful way she allowed you to be neglected when you had flu, only bringing up a water biscuit or two when she deigned to climb the stairs! You were sorely put upon, you know that, Charles. Saints often are.'
'She was rather frugal,' admitted the rector. 'But why I mentioned her was that I heard by chance that she has married again.'
