Gloria and Lucy were at the stove decanting saucepans of vegetables into tureens he had forgotten he owned. Philip was opening bottles and arranging his father’s antique wine glasses at the places set around the table. They sat Bill at the head, his family (which now included Lucy, of course) all around him. In the centre, like a flotilla of ceramic ships, bowls steamed and brimmed with delights of all sorts.
Bill was dumbfounded. It was a Christmas dinner! A wonderful Christmas dinner, and it was happening now. His family were giving him his Christmas. They were giving him the one gift they could that would really matter. Showing him just how much they loved him and, in their own way, putting two fingers up to fate. If he couldn’t make it to Christmas, then Christmas would make it to him.
Gloria sat opposite Bill with a large casserole to hand. She lifted the lid and a rich, savoury smell filled the room. She served out a wondrous stew onto plates that Lucy then put in front of each person. Deep red wine shone like rubies in the glancing light of the crystal glasses. Even Jack, who sat next to his grandfather, was allowed a ‘taster’.
Beside each plate was a linen napkin. as Jack lifted his so he could tuck it into his collar like granddad did, he found that several small, brown, hard biscuits had been hidden underneath. Lucy caught his eye and winked. Jack slowly lowered one of the biscuits under the table. A warm, wet mouth engulfed it, and a large, furry tail semaphored the owner’s delight and gratitude.
When the meal was well under way and the first helpings were making way for the second helpings for those who still had corners to fill, Philip stood up and banged on the table with a spoon. Raising his glass, he said, ‘A toast, ladies and gentleman! A toast to my dad, Bill.’
They all stood and raised their glasses, and with a lot of clapping and even more joy, they drank. Bill then rose to his feet and took up his own glass.
‘Thank you, all of you. Right now I couldn’t be happier.’ Then, bowing to Lucy and Gloria: ‘You cunning wenches, bless you.’ He sat down, then leaned over to Jack and said very quietly, ‘Happy Christmas.’
Jack looked slightly puzzled, but decided being a granddad meant not knowing when it was or wasn’t Christmas. Strange, but that’s grown-ups for you.
The feast continued, relaxed and slow, and all the dishes that were placed in front of Bill he recognised as being his favourites, right down to the strong local cheddar that followed the apple pie and custard. When it was finally over, and the smell of fresh coffee began to waft from the stove, he and Philip were sent into the front room to put their feet up and get out of the way of the two women. Jack was sent outside with Clive to burn off a bit of energy in their favourite pastime of losing the tennis ball and finding it again.
As father and son sat opposite each other in their comfortable old armchairs in the comfortable old room, Bill was finally able to ask Philip about his work and how things were going. He knew that his son really wanted to start up on his own, and he understood that: he had never wanted to work for anyone, either. Philip told his father just how frustrated he was in the current setup.
‘I know more could be done for some of the clients we handle, but the senior partners are all for a quiet life and big Masonic dinners.’
Bill looked at his boy. He was slim, and taller than his father. His fair hair was thinning, but his smile was ready and engaging. He looked more like a teacher than an accountant. When he began telling his father about some of the clients he had who were small businessmen or craftsmen like Bill, he became quite passionate.
‘They’re paying good money for a service that’s just about adequate, but doesn’t really answer all of their needs. Not the way it should do, or at least not how I’d like to do it.’
Bill understood that only too well. He had employed a canny bookkeeper for years who knew the ropes and was well in with the local antique fraternity. She was getting on, however, and there would be a gap when she retired. He could certainly see that someone who was familiar with the problems of the self-employed might be able to carve out a good niche for themselves.
He asked Philip what sort of capital he would need to set up on his own, and it turned out to be not as much as he had feared. Philip explained that he would work from home, which would save a lot of expense. That gave Bill an idea. He leaned forward and looked at his son.
‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, lad. You know I’m for the chop.’
Philip said nothing, just nodded, knowing that to deny the truth would only upset his father. Bill was grateful that his son made no stupid protestations. A chip off the old block, he thought.
‘Now, you’ll get all this anyway,’ he said, waving a hand in the general direction of everything. ‘Lock, stock, and every bloody barrel. So figure out how to make these assets work for you and give you the freedom to do what you want to do.’
He leaned back, searching for his pipe, thought better of it, and continued.
‘Look, son, when you work for yourself, it’s your life you lead and you can choose how you lead it. Your clients, customers, call ’em what you want, you treat them well and give them your best advice and you’ll never want for work because word gets ’round. You’ll work harder and longer hours when you work for yourself, but it’s your business and you reap the benefits in more ways than one. With the sort of clients you’ll be dealing with, for example, you’ll never have to worry about getting a bit of building work done or moving a few antiques to a new home.’
Philip laughed at that.
‘Anyway, you and the family move in here after I’m gone,’ said Bill. ‘There’s bags of room and, trust me, there are some nice little earners tucked away that will bring in a goodly shilling when they’re sold.’
Philip thought there was a lot of sense in all his father said. He and Gloria could sell the place they were currently living in, which was a small, modern house on a new estate just outside Dorchester. Gloria was fed up with the lack of room, especially with the new baby coming, not to mention their arse-clenching neighbours. He also knew Jack would get a better education here than he would at the rather second-rate comprehensive school near their current home. He leaned forward and put a hand on his father’s knee.
‘I’ll talk to Gloria about all this, Dad, but what about Lucy?’
‘I’m glad you asked me that, son. I’m making provision for her, of course. Truth to tell, I never could have got this far without her.’
‘We know that, Dad. We’ll make sure she’s looked out for.’
Philip turned to look out of the window. It wasn’t raining, but the landscape was suddenly blurry.
Bill, too, was silent now, staring into the flames of the fire in front of him. The huge fireplace, blackened by time, gave out the only light in the room now that dusk was falling.
But life rather than death beckoned when Jack came bursting in with a very muddy Clive panting beside him and sat down on the wide leather arm of his grandfather’s chair. Out of breath, muddy, and smelling of the countryside (a certain amount of which he had, in fact, brought in with him on shoes and trousers), he put his arms around Bill’s neck and delivered a big hug. When he was finally released, Bill smiled at his muddy grandson.
‘How did you get past your mother? She’ll skin you alive when she sees the state you’re in.’
‘I just scooted through. Mum was busy at the sink. Aunty Lucy saw me but she just winked.’ Then he added, ‘I like her, she’s fun.’
‘She is, isn’t she?’ agreed Bill.
Teas and coffees were brought in. The sitting room was suddenly full of family, more logs were put on the fire, and the room became hot and cosy. They all talked and laughed together, especially when Clive farted and Philip blamed it on Jack.
A family together, but not for much longer, Bill thought. His illness was getting bad. He was in a lot of pain most of the time now, and that made even everyday things like shaving tiring. As soon as his family left, he went to bed. He was absolutely whacked.
‘H
appy but knackered,’ he told Lucy as he went up the stairs.
And for the first time, he asked her to lock up for him.
Bill’s keyring had a large collection of keys on it. Some were as old as the house, some no longer had locks that fitted them, and a few were bright new ones that shone amongst the old like a sixpence in a sweep’s ear-ole. Trust Bill, she thought, as she hefted the keyring, he never throws anything away. Gives away, yes; throws away, never.
With Clive at her heels and a heavy, rubber-handled torch in her hand, she made sure the workshop was locked and put the padlock on the big gate. As she did so, she heard the sound of someone walking on the lane just up from where she was standing. It was dark, with just a sliver of moon low in the autumn sky. She stood absolutely still. Clive growled but didn’t attempt to get over the gate. Standing there, she realised she had no weapon except the torch in her hand. Her heart pounding, she swung the beam in the direction the sound had come from.
The dim ray of light showed her a small deer daintily picking its way up the narrow lane towards Miss Templeton’s cottage. It turned and looked straight at her. Lucy thought she had never seen anything so ethereal in her life before. The old magic of the landscape seemed to be shining in its dark eyes. Then the deer moved gracefully and silently out of the light and disappeared back into the darkness.
As Lucy walked into the kitchen, locking and bolting the door behind her, she wondered if there had been some sort of message in the encounter. As she got into bed a little later, it came to her. The stew they had all enjoyed so much that day had contained venison. Sweet little deer were apt to become someone’s meal if they didn’t watch out, weren’t they? So the message was: Don’t go out at night without a fucking weapon. How very mystical!
Chapter 33
MONDAY, 22 OCTOBER
Bill had a bad night, indigestion and pain making horrendous bedfellows. Lucy left him dozing in bed and opened up the workshop. About eleven a car she didn’t recognise drove up to the gate. Peering from around the corner of the barn, she saw it contained a man in his forties with a shock of red hair. He wore heavy, horn-rimmed glasses that were slightly askew. He certainly didn’t look like anyone who would be employed by Skates, so Lucy decided to risk it and let him in.
As the man got out of the car, he smiled and, in a deep, pleasant voice, said, ‘Hello, I’m Chris Hall, Mr Sawyer’s doctor. Is he here?’ Lucy took him inside, and there was Bill sitting at the big kitchen table drinking tea, the breakfast she had left out for him largely untouched. He looked ill and tired, his face lined now with more than just age. But he stood up and greeted the doctor warmly, introducing Lucy as his niece who had come to look after him. This turned out to be an inspired choice because when she asked Dr Hall if he’d like her to leave while he spoke with Bill, the doctor said that, as she was his carer, it was all right with him if she stayed.
So Lucy made a fresh pot of tea while the doctor gave Bill a quick examination. Out came the stethoscope, and Bill was asked to take deep breaths and do all the other things that accompany such soundings. As he sat there with his shirt open and his vest up to his armpits, Lucy saw the hollow chest covered with grey hair and the skin hanging loose where muscles used to be. ‘I have to do something,’ she thought, but had no idea what.
When the examination was over and Bill was pulling on his clothes, the doctor asked him how his symptoms were progressing. Bill shrugged them off, but Lucy didn’t, which earned her a scowl from Bill as she told the doctor of the intense coughing that brought up blood, the loss of appetite, and the constant weariness. Dr Hall appreciated this. He needed to know the truth and he was glad to see that this woman was no pushover who would be cowed by her uncle. Bill was in good hands, he thought, and included her in the conversation as he laid out Bill’s options.
Morphine was not a problem. Bill could take as much – well, almost as much – as he liked. The big brown bottle could be a comfort, but was not without some side effects. Bill then got a bit embarrassed asking about some of them. Well, one of them in particular. Lucy cottoned on immediately and said Bill had been daft not to mention it before. Bill squirmed and mumbled. Dr Hall said he had a medication he would prescribe, but ‘a good, rough farmhouse cider was probably just as good.’
He then asked Bill if he had looked into a hospice yet for ‘the final leg’. Bill admitted he hadn’t, but Lucy told him she had spoken with Gloria, Bill’s daughter-in-law, and she was getting information on one not too far away. They planned to take Bill there some time in the next couple of weeks.
Bill was taken aback by this news. ‘Thick as thieves, those two,’ he thought. ‘Poor bastard like me doesn’t stand a chance.’
As Lucy walked the doctor back to his car, he asked her how she was coping.
‘Well enough,’ she replied.
‘If you like, you can register with me and I’ll give you what help I can.’
‘I’m only staying as long as I’m needed, and then I’ll go home,’ said Lucy.
And then it suddenly struck her what a lie that was. She had no home and no idea what she would do after Bill died, especially if Skates and Warren were still about.
The doctor nodded and said, ‘Well, if you need anything or just want a bit of respite, call in at the surgery. No need for any paperwork,’ he added with a smile.
Clever man, that doctor, thought Lucy, as he drove away. A clever man and a kind one. But the fact remained that she really didn’t know what she would do or where she would go after Bill died. They had been so focused on the chairs and how much they could get done each day, she had never given it any serious thought. Instead of going back into the kitchen, Lucy took Clive and went through the passage next to the workshop into the meadow beyond. She looked carefully at the place where Sid had caught the intruder. There was no sign of anyone having been there since, just the few feathers she and Bill had scattered about. As she walked around the field close by the hedgerow, she noticed the changes being made by the season. Autumn was now in full colour, the hedges just bare branches as they closed down for the winter.
Even the old oak that had stood for centuries was losing its gold and russet leaves. They crunched under her feet as she walked.
Clive had run off chasing imaginary rabbits and she was alone. She felt very much alone. She had no family of her own, and she doubted Philip and Gloria would want her about them much, reminding them of the father they had lost. And, for the same reason, would she even want to stay around?
She kept walking, trying to let the spell of the place wash over and comfort her. Finally she made up her mind to return home and was calling Clive when she saw a man with a shotgun under his arm walk out from the gate to the next field. He looked about forty, with a ruddy face and short, dark beard flecked with grey. He had on a well-worn wax coat and green wellies, and looked every inch a countryman, the sort Lucy had seen in county magazines.
‘This is private land, I’m afraid,’ he said kindly as he walked up to her. His voice had the same mellow, West Country burr as Bill’s. ‘Yes, I know, I’m staying with Bill, I mean Mr Sawyer,’ stammered Lucy, not quite sure why she suddenly felt so self-conscious.
‘I, I’m his carer. His live-in carer.’
The man broke open the gun, rested it on his left arm, and extended a strong right hand for her to shake.
‘My name’s Hugh Dawlish,’ he said. ‘My brother and I farm this land. We’re neighbours of Bill’s.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘I think I’ve heard him mention you.’
‘I heard Bill was sick. How is he getting on?’
‘He’s quite ill, actually, but still getting about.’
Hugh smiled at that. ‘I bet he is. He’s always seemed indestructible to me. But if there’s anything I can do for him, please let me know. He’s a good man is Bill, one of the best.’
‘Yes, thank you, I will,’ said Lucy and was turning to go when Hugh asked how they were set for logs.
‘Oh, there’s
a stack in the lean-to, but I haven’t really noticed how many are there.’
‘Ah, a townie, then,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ll bring a trailer-load ’round soon as may be.’
And with that he turned and went back through the gate. He whistled, and a black Labrador got up from where it had been sitting on the other side of the hedge and ran to its master’s side. Hugh turned, waved, and was gone.
Lucy looked down at Clive, who was sprawled panting at her feet, his coat matted with mud, leaves, and twigs. ‘Why can’t you behave like that?’ she asked him.
Back in the kitchen she found Bill looking a bit better, his mood a little lighter. When the dishevelled Clive came in and slumped down next to the stove, Bill berated him with mock severity. ‘You’re a disgrace to the canine race, you are!’
Lucy told him all about her meeting with Hugh in the meadow and his offer to deliver some logs. Bill laughed at that. ‘There are enough logs on the woodpile to see me out,’ he said.
Lucy felt stunned, as though he’d slapped her. Her face must have shown the pain she felt because he looked puzzled and asked her what was wrong.
‘Enough firewood to see you out!’ she said angrily. ‘Well what about the rest of us? What about me? What the hell do I do? Where the hell do I go, after you’re gone?’
And then, to Bill’s horror, she burst into tears.
Between sobs she told him she just didn’t know just how she would cope without him. She didn’t want to, couldn’t even think of, going back to where she came from, but she certainly didn’t want to be a burden on his family. So where could she go, what could she do?
Bill sat there and shook his head. He had no idea such thoughts had been going through Lucy’s mind. Stupid of him. He felt guilty and ungrateful.
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