‘I didn’t say they were fat,’ said Harry, ‘just big.’
‘Brawny,’ said Helen, who was the acknowledged intellect of the family. ‘That’s the word you want.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. They do all the work that men would normally do; it builds you up. It’s a farm run by women, just about.’
‘Why aren’t they married?’ asked Lydia. ‘Don’t they want to be?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe there was no-one suitable. There’s never much choice in a country village, you know, and then there was the war.’
‘There must have been someone for them surely?’ said Lydia. ‘Even if they’d got a leg missing or something, like Mr Baker up the road. Were they pretty, when they were young?’
Harry smiled in recollection. ‘They were all right, I suppose.’
‘That means they weren’t,’ said Lydia. ‘They weren’t pretty when they were young and now that they’re fat and old nobody wants them. How utterly putrid for them! Aren’t there any men on the farm, even to talk to?’
‘I think Jeremy’s still with them.’
‘How old is Jeremy?’
‘I don’t know. Getting on a bit.’
‘Couldn’t one of them marry him?’
‘Lydia, dear,’ said Helen, ‘there are other things in life besides being married. They may not even want to be married. Some people don’t.’
‘I should hate that,’ said Lydia. ‘Imagine not being married ever! I should rather die!’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely in your case, dear. Can’t we talk about something else?’
‘All right. Is Cousin Charles staying for Christmas? I mean, staying as long as we are.’
‘Yes, of course. He’ll be bringing one of us back with him, I hope.’
‘He’s frightfully handsome, isn’t he?’ said Lydia dreamily. ‘Maybe I’ll marry him.’
A few hundred yards behind them, the rest of the family was being conveyed in some comfort. It was a nearly new Austin Seven saloon and its heater worked very well, so much so that Ethel Falkner had slipped off her coat and stretched out her long legs in the footwell. ‘You drive very cautiously, don’t you?’ she said, gazing at the frost-whitened hedgerows. ‘Not like some I could mention.’
Cousin Charles gave a wide berth to a wobbling bicycle before replying. ‘I’m doing so today, yes.’
‘Why today particularly?’
‘Because in case you hadn’t noticed, the road is practically solid ice. Also, I don’t want to get too close to your father in case he’s forced to stop suddenly, and he hasn’t done more than twenty or so since we started. Also, I wish to impress you with my calm maturity and good sense. Also, I fear for my precious car.’
‘Hmm, and which is the most important, impressing me or preserving the car?’
‘Oh, the car undoubtedly. I can impress you any old time.’
‘I see,’ said Ethel.
‘Though naturally, if it came to it, your safety and security would trump all other considerations. Even unto my life.’
‘Your life?’
‘Even that.’
‘What about me?’ said eleven-year-old Archie, from the back.
‘You don’t count,’ Ethel told him. ‘Well, that’s a comfort, I suppose. And what would you do, exactly, in such an event? Assuming, of course, you hadn’t already laid down your life for me.’
‘Why, sweep you up in my manly arms, naturally, and carry you, swooning, to a place of safety,’ said Charles. ‘That’s what one does.’
‘Why would I want carrying?’ frowned Ethel.
‘Because you’ll have turned your ankle,’ said Charles, ‘though I’ve never been sure why, to be honest. I suppose it’s the shoes.’
‘I’m wearing flats,’ Ethel pointed out, ‘so it’s not very likely. I think that’s more to do with hiking isn’t it? Getting one’s foot stuck down a rabbit hole or something. Or there’s this huge and dangerous bull —’
‘Don’t you know the way without following Dad?’ said Archie. ‘Suppose we were to lose him?’
‘Not without referring to the map,’ said Charles. ‘And don’t interrupt your sister; it’s rude.’
‘How am I supposed to talk if I don’t interrupt?’ grumbled Archie. ‘I’d never get a word in edgeways if I didn’t.’
‘If you’ve nothing useful to say,’ snapped Ethel, ‘there’s no need to say anything at all, is there? Shut up and watch the nice scenery. And stop poking your knees in my back.’
‘I can’t help it, can I?’ said Archie. ‘This is a really poky car. Can’t you move the seat forward a bit?’
‘Compact,’ said Charles with dignity. ‘The word is compact.’
‘Well, I think it’s poky. Dad’s is much better.’
‘Pity you didn’t stay in it then,’ said Ethel. ‘You didn’t have to come with us. You could have stayed and talked to the others.’
‘You just don’t want me here,’ said Archie sulkily. ‘You want to be alone with your boyfriend. You want to be alone so you can kiss.’
‘Archie, we’ve only just met!’
‘He’s your boyfriend. You can always tell if they’re a boyfriend because you say stupid stuff and they say stupid stuff back. I’ll bet you want to kiss him on the lips.’
Ethel turned fiercely in her seat. ‘Archie Falkner! Do you want to walk the rest of the way? It can be arranged!’
‘I should like to point out, young man,’ said Charles, ‘that we have no mistletoe. A kiss would therefore be illegal. You wouldn’t want your sister to break the law, would you?’
‘What do you mean, illegal?’ frowned Archie. ‘Why is it illegal?’
‘You don’t know much, do you? You need to be under some mistletoe when you kiss someone, or you’re likely to get into trouble.’
Archie considered this. ‘That’s silly,’ he said. ‘Mum and Dad kiss and we haven’t even got any mistletoe.’
‘That’s because they’re married,’ said Ethel. ‘You can kiss without mistletoe if you’re married, else you need some. Don’t they teach you anything at that school of yours?’
‘It’s a confounded nuisance sometimes,’ said Charles, developing his theme. ‘You’re desperately eager to kiss some wonderful girl – like your sister, for example – and though you search high and low for a sprig of mistletoe, you can’t find any.’
‘Do you mean to tell me you don’t carry a bit with you?’ frowned Ethel, blushing somewhat, ‘I thought all men did that.’
Charles patted a pocket. ‘Wrong coat, I’m afraid. Sorry.’
‘Then I’m not impressed. Clearly you weren’t a boy-scout.’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted Charles. ‘I’ll have to see if one of your aunties can find me some, and then I’ll get back to you. How many kisses does one get per sprig? Can you remember?’
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Archie disgustedly.
Chapter Three
The village of Arnoldswell was situated in the narrow but relatively fertile Arnoldscombe valley which acted as a local pass over the hills. It was very much an agricultural community; a couple of small farms having their yards and buildings almost in the village itself, with the larger ones standing a little apart on the outskirts. Of the eponymous Arnold little was reliably known, other than that he’d managed rather successfully to put his stamp on the place, including giving his name to Arnold’s farm, which for some three hundred years had been the Falkners’ own.
‘Here it is, the old homestead,’ said Ethel.
As they turned in at the gated entrance, they found her father’s elderly Austin Twelve standing a few yards away. He’d waited for them to catch up before proceeding uphill towards a large and impressive-looking farmhouse. More hillside rose behind it, terminating in an ice-blue skyline.
‘N
ice place,’ said Charles appreciatively. ‘My umpteen times great uncle built it you know.’
‘And my umpteen times great grandfather.’
Charles smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose it was. Isn’t that nice?’
‘Have you never seen it?’
‘Only in photos. I don’t really know much about it. Have you?’
‘I was born in it, though I don’t really remember living here. We left when I was quite small.’
They drew up beside the others who were climbing stiffly out.
‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Harry, stamping his frozen feet. ‘Hello, Mother. Hello everybody.’
Hannah Falkner was there to greet them. Seated in a species of wheelchair with her plastered leg stuck rigidly out in front of her, she was flanked by an honour guard of starched and formal aunties. ‘I feel like a queen or something,’ she chuckled, accepting their kisses.
‘Is that a handcart?’ frowned Archie.
‘Yes, it is, dear,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m an old lady in a handcart. What do you think of it?’
‘I think it ought to be painted.’
‘Why that’s an idea.’ She gazed brightly about her. Now let me see. You, of course, are Archibald, last seen as a babe in arms, and these two young ladies are your grown-up sisters. How like your mother you are, especially you, Lydia.’ She turned to Charles. ‘And you, young man, can only be a Bartlett, though with a touch of Falkner about the eyes I fancy. Do I have the pleasure of addressing my great-nephew Charles Edward?’
‘Hello, Great Aunt, yes you do,’ smiled Charles, taking her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you at last.’
‘Where’s your father?’
‘He’ll be along shortly, I expect. You know we’re coming from opposite directions?’
‘Brrr,’ said Lydia, hugging her coat to her.
‘Come inside before you all freeze,’ said Alison.
Harry made to take the cart but Rosie demurred. ‘It’s all right; it requires a technique.’
‘Only two weeks until the plaster comes off, thank goodness,’ sighed Hannah, pushing aside the front door.
‘Two and a half weeks,’ said Rosie. ‘And that doesn’t mean you can suddenly start running about.’
Harry glanced at her sharply but said nothing.
They had just been settled with cups of tea in the parlour when the purr of a Daimler heralded Walter Bartlett, driving himself. Appearing younger than his fifty-one years and good-looking like his son, he shared with him the Bartlett family colouring of black hair – much grizzled in his case – and blue eyes. ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.
‘Itchy,’ grumbled Hannah.
‘You want a knitting needle.’
‘Not long enough.’
‘Snow on your car, Dad,’ observed Charles.
‘Aye, there’s a couple of inches of it up the country. Thought I might need the chains but then it cleared.’ His interested gaze fell upon Ethel. Let me see now — kissing cousins, would it be? Yes, of course you are.’
‘They can’t kiss,’ said Archie, ‘they’ve no mistletoe.’
‘Mistletoe! We didn’t need no mistletoe when I were a lad.’
They were spared embarrassment by the arrival of Alf Brown and Florence Gray on horseback.
‘You see? Inseparable,’ muttered Beatrice sourly. Beatrice was the sister with the highest hopes of Mr Brown.
Alf gravely shook hands with the Falkner girls. ‘What a couple of beauties you’ve become,’ he observed. ‘Don’t you think so, Bartlett? And young Archie’s a chip off the old block, eh?’
‘Meet my lad, Charles,’ said Walter, introducing him. ‘Took himself down south to study medicine. God knows why. Hello, Florence.’
‘Hello, Walter,’ said Florence.
‘Not Wally?’
Florence smiled shyly. ‘Wally, then.’
‘Qualified?’ asked Alf, turning to Charles.
Charles nodded amiably. ‘I’m a houseman at the Royal Berkshire. Lowest form of human life.’
‘And do most of the work I daresay,’ smiled Florence. ‘Where do I put these presents, Miss Falkner?’
‘Under the tree, please,’ said Alison. ‘Goodness, what an armful! Let me take some.’
‘Florence seems nice,’ whispered Ethel. ‘Attractive too.’
‘Not bad,’ agreed Charles indifferently.
‘What sort of women do you like then?’
‘Look in the mirror,’ said Charles.
‘Are you coming to Christmas dinner, Alf?’ asked Hannah, ‘It’s goose.’ She was on her feet now, leaning heavily on two sticks.
‘We’d be delighted,’ said Alf, ‘wouldn’t we Florence?’ Florence reached up to whisper something to him. ‘Why yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose we better had. Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for an announcement. Florence has done me the very great honour of agreeing to become Mrs Brown.’
There followed the customary expressions of congratulation and delight; the feminine embraces, Alison noted, being less than effusive in the case of her sisters. She, of course, no longer cared, now that she had her Albert.
◆◆◆
They were in the kitchen, getting afternoon tea.
‘I don’t know why he had to announce it now,’ grumbled Beatrice. ‘Funny sort of time if you ask me.’
‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ said Delia, buttering bread for sandwiches. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted us thinking we were dining with a servant, would he? It might have led to awkwardness.’
‘Humph! Never thought she was one,’ said Beatrice. ‘Straight off the train into his bed, very likely. Unless you call that a servant.’
‘Beatrice, really!’
‘Where’s Mother?’ asked Alison, when they’d stopped laughing.
‘Resting in her room,’ said Rosie. ‘I think she quite likes it now, though she’d never admit it. It’s brighter than her old one. Warmer too.’
‘Yes, and what does she want to borrow?’ said Beatrice, trapped in her foul mood, ‘Being so nice and charming to everybody. It’s not natural.’
Helen and Lydia came in. ‘We’ve come to help,’ said Helen. ‘Harry has opened the folding table but we’ll need a cloth. Are they still in the hall cupboard?’
‘I’ll get you one,’ said Alison.
‘How’s the shop?’ said Delia. ‘I forgot to ask.’
‘Thriving, thanks. We’ve started a paper-round now, you know, and are hoping for a post-office. What about you?’
‘Ah!’ said Rosie. ‘We’ve plans of our own, haven’t we, girls?’
‘We’re going to expand the hens,’ said Delia, ‘and maybe have ducks.’
‘Is that your mother’s idea?’
‘No, and you’re not to tell her.’
‘Not if you don’t want me to. Why not?’
Alison came back, giggling. ‘I’ve just found Ethel and Charles making good use of our mistletoe. I don’t think they even noticed me!’
‘What, already? It’s not proper Christmas until tomorrow.’
‘That was quick work,’ smiled Helen. ‘They must have really clicked.’
‘You don’t mind, then?’
‘Not at all; he’s a very nice young man.’
‘When did they meet?’
‘The day before yesterday.’
‘Crickey! Just as well Mother is lying down.’
‘I think that’s jolly unfair,’ pouted Lydia. ‘I’ve hardly spoken to him yet.’
◆◆◆
‘We must be getting near the limit,’ observed Ethel, when they came up for air.
‘Limit?’ enquired Charles.
‘Kisses per sprig.’
‘That’s all right; there’s another bit over the parlour door. I’ll just swap them.’
&nbs
p; ‘Doesn’t that mean someone gets a used one?’
‘True, but I don’t suppose it matters. No-one else is likely to avail themselves, that I can see. Alf Brown and Florence are out of it, one supposes, and who else is there? I suppose I should give your sister a peck, out of politeness. Would you be terribly jealous if I did?’
‘Yes, I would! I don’t want to share you with Lydia.’
‘Good, because I don’t want to share you either.’
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Chapter Four
Soon after tea the wind got up. ‘Snowing,’ said Harry, peering between the curtains.
He and Rosie went out to secure things. ‘I see the barn door still pops open,’ he said.
‘We use that stone. To your left.’
‘I could repair it for you while I’m here.’
‘You don’t want to be doing that at Christmas. We haven’t got the bits anyway.’
‘Doesn’t Jeremy see to things like that?’
‘Yes, in theory, but he’s never got the time. He’s laid up at the moment anyway.’
Beatrice appeared beside them. ‘I’m just going up to check on him. Want to come?’
Harry found his feet placing themselves automatically as they negotiated the darkened yard. How little things change here, he thought. Neither of them needed a torch but he flashed his once or twice to see if the snow was settling. It was. ‘What’s he got?’ he asked.
‘I suppose it’s bronchitis, but he’s taking a while to shake it off. I don’t think it’s catching or we’d all have it by now.’
They found the old farmhand crouching over the embers of his fire.
‘You’ve stopped tissicking!’ exclaimed Beatrice.
‘Mostly,’ agreed Jeremy. ‘It starts again if I goes out in the cold though. Hello, Mr Harry, how are you? How are the family?’
‘We’re all fine, thanks,’ said Harry. ‘No, don’t get up. I’m sorry to hear you’ve been so poorly.’
‘Not that some people care,’ grumbled Jeremy. ‘Have you spoken to the boss, Miss Beatrice?’
‘Now don’t you worry about that,’ said Beatrice. ‘You’re not going to lose your job. That’s a promise.’
Death Among the Kisses (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 10) Page 2
