A Hovering of Vultures (5 page)

“Lettie Blatchley!” said the woman triumphantly. “I can still make out your features. I'm Milly Winkworth. I were the year after you in school.”

“I think I remember the name . . .”

“I used to be a bit sweet on your brother.”

“A lot of girls were.”

“Well, you
have
done well for yourself, I can see that. Folk sometimes said as how you had, but no one really knew. Come for this weekend do, have you?”

“Yes, I have. Rather on an impulse. I don't know why.”

The woman looked at her conspiratorially.

“Never thought owt to the Sneddons in our day, did we?” She said it in the reductive way some Yorkshire people have. “She were a bit of a slut, that's what folk said. And we thought the books were mucky.”

“Perhaps we were wrong,” said Lettie, finding the woman's attitude distasteful. “Perhaps we were a bit jealous because she did write things, did get them published, did get known.”

“Happen. Any road, it's a good thing for the village.” She nodded down the hill in the direction of the Black Horse. “Mike Bradshaw says he's never known so many tourists and gawpers.”

Lettie Farraday smiled a farewell that was also a dismissal.

“Very nice for him. I hope he makes the most of it. I'm a tourist and a gawper now, and I'm going to join them.”

It was as she was turning away that the woman lobbed her a question that stunned her like a blow from a club.

“You'll be going up to see yer Mam, will you?”

I
t was Charlie who bore the brunt. When he saw Lettie Farraday, white with shock, tottering towards him down the hill, saw her shoulders heaving with barely suppressed sobs, he went forward, put his arm around her, and supported her into the Saloon Bar of the Black Horse. He found a dark corner free of tourists or locals and let her sink into a sofa seat.

“Brandy,” he said firmly. “That's what you need. And have a good cry if you want to. Nobody's paying any attention to you.”

That wasn't entirely true. As he went up to the bar to get the brandy he saw several people casting glances at Lettie out of the corners of their eyes. Her clothes, her make-up marked her out as not English. Some of the elderly locals were creasing their foreheads, and some of those who were clearly in the area for the Sneddon Weekend were already eyeing off the drinkers to work out who was there on the same mission. In any case an elderly woman in a state of
shock and weeping in the corner of a pub will always arouse attention, usually of a contemptuous kind.

“Right—get this down you,” said Charlie, putting the double brandy down in front of her. “And then have another if you feel the need.”

“I shall feel the need,” said Lettie with conviction. “What an old fool I am . . . But then, it was such a shock, you see. Such an
awful
surprise.”

Charlie kept quiet, not wanting to seem inquisitorial. But when she looked up he raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, I assumed they'd died years ago.”

“Who?”

“My parents. Believe me, I would
never
have come back here if I'd known.”

“You'd had no contact since you went to America?”

“I did send them a postcard in . . . in 1939 it would have been. To give them an address and tell them I was married. That was my first husband, and his name was Ciesinski. To tell you the truth, I knew a name like that would send them into fits. Not English, probably a Catholic, sure signs that I'd gone irretrievably to the devil. So I knew they'd never contact me . . . I was glad. I suppose I really sent the card to say I was all right and that all was over between us. But they must have known that. I would
never
 . . . Oh God, stop me when I keep saying that.”

Charlie was pleased to see she seemed to be regaining some spirit. Self-mockery was a good sign.

“Anyhow, now you find they're still alive?”

“My mother. Just my mother. That woman out there says she's in some kind of home at Hipperholt. That's twenty miles north. She said it with a knowing, malicious kind of smile on her face. She must have known it would be a horrible shock.”

“But if your mother is alive . . . I don't know how to put this tactfully—”

“She must be as old as Methuselah? Right. You don't have to be tactful with me, young man. I'm seventy-five. My mother was twenty-four when she had me. Jesus Christ! Next year she'll be getting a telegram from the Queen! She'll complain that she didn't bring it herself! Well, just so long as they don't expect me to be around to pose with her for the photographers!” She paused to sip her brandy. “Good Lord—what must you think of an old woman who cries when she finds her mother is still alive?”

Charlie shrugged.

“If I like the old woman, I decide that the mother must have been a bit of a monster.”

Lettie Farraday considered.

“Monster? No, not that. Narrow, bigoted, hard, joyless . . . I had a childhood in which there was no joy . . . I felt nothing for her—either of them—because they couldn't love. You have to be taught love; it's not a one-way process. I loved my brother. When he died I got out.”

“What did they do, your parents?”

“My father worked on a farm down the hill. My mother was mostly at home, but she did occasional cleaning for people. She worked for the Sneddons, actually.”

“She worked for the Sneddons!”

The voice came from behind Charlie's shoulder. A young couple had edged their way forward, and had been listening. Charlie had seen them in one of the old advertising mirrors on the wall, but as Lettie didn't seem to object he had said nothing. He had recognised them as the young couple he had heard talking on the train, and now he looked at Lettie to see if she wanted them given their marching orders. But
she seemed well on the road to recovery, and not displeased by the attention.

“Oh yes, every Thursday. Sweeping, dusting scouring. Susannah Sneddon was a bit of a slattern. It was hard work because everything was so dirty, and they didn't have vacuum cleaners or running hot water or anything like that. They did towards the end have electricity, which marked them off from most people in the village. That was so that they could write in the evenings comfortably. My mother liked hard physical work. It made her feel good. It made her grimmer as she erased every stain and chased dirt in every corner. She thought how grubby other people were, and how inferior to herself. Cleaning houses gave her a sort of perverted spiritual pleasure.”

The girl behind Charlie had been drinking in every word. She now leaned over his shoulder, an expression of intense interest on her face, or rather, an expression of something more than interest: she was drinking all this in, like a leech sucking blood. Charlie shifted uneasily in his seat, but the girl insisted on introducing herself.

“I'm Gillian Parkin. I'm writing my Ph.D. thesis on Susannah Sneddon. This is my boyfriend Gregory Waite. He's not really a Sneddon person.”

“Well, hi, Gregory! You and me both,” said Lettie Farraday, a full return of her old spirit.

“You can't mean that!” wailed Gillian. “You knew them. You must have so much knowledge that you can share with the rest of us!”

Lettie shrugged.

“Have I? I used to go up with my mother sometimes in the school holidays. But look: say the person you were writing your thesis on was Browning, and you went along to a
séance and got in touch with the woman who did his rough cleaning. How much of interest do you think she'd have to tell you?”

“I'd be interested in what kind of porridge he had for breakfast,” said Gillian stoutly. “And you saw her, you know what she looked like.”

“There are photographs—there's a good one on the back of
Orchard's End
.”

“But photographs then were usually posed,” put in Gregory Waite quietly. “What kind of physical impression did she make?”

Lettie Farraday considered.

“Not altogether pleasant. But I may be confusing physical impression with something else. You see normally when I went up there with my mother Susannah would be out walking—I suppose she organised it like that, so that the day the house was cleaned was her day for thinking and planning. She might come in just before we finished, and let my mother make us all a cup of tea, though she never had any conversation much, or any interest in how we lived. But if she did happen to be writing that day she'd bundle us off upstairs, insist on quiet—well, to a young girl it all seemed a bit pretentious.”

“What about the physical impression?” persisted Gregory.

“Heavy. Or rather running to heaviness. There was something quite attractive about the face, and perhaps there once had been about the body too. She rather let herself go. She wouldn't be the only girl who had had her emotional life ruined by the First World War. I'm trying to be fair, you see, but to my young eyes there was something else—a sort of self-regard, a feeling of being different from the rest of us, that she cherished. That didn't help to make her more attractive to me.”

“Did you hear of any boyfriends?”

“None. I suppose she could have found herself a husband if she'd wanted to.”

“Why do you say that?” Charlie asked.

“She earned money—not bad money. There was a lot of talk about that in the village. Someone saw a cheque from a publisher for two hundred pounds. A farm worker in a tied cottage was taking home a weekly wage in shillings not pounds at that time. It seemed to us an immense sum, just for writing.”

“And yet the farm was such a poor place.”

“Joshua wasn't much of a farmer.”

“Did the money go to the farm, do you think?”

“I've no idea. It could have done, if Susannah wanted to stay put, like Emily Brontë never being happy away from Haworth. But I can't say she ever showed any great love for the farm itself, only for the countryside around.”

“Was it your mother saw the cheque and spread the gossip?” asked Charlie.

“I shouldn't think so. My mother—with all her faults, and they were legion—wasn't one for gossip. She never had the sort of friends you need to gossip
with.
Oh God—why did you bring her up? What am I going to
do
?”

She looked beseechingly at Charlie.

“Do you want to see her?” he asked

“
No
 . . . Oh, I don't know. I never for a moment imagined the question would come up.”

“Don't you even have the sort of grisly curiosity that asks: ‘What on earth will she be like at ninety-nine?' I'm afraid I would.”

“Well . . .” Lettie shot him a quick, humorous glance. “I do rather think I would like to
see
.”

“She may be in the sort of state where it makes no difference one way or the other. She might not know you.”

“No . . . I suppose I could ring the Home.”

“That's what I was thinking. On the other hand she may be mentally very spry.”

“Oh God! Spare me! She'll probably lecture me on my wicked ways. I'm too
old
to get involved with that kind of thing.”

“You could have a nice ding-dong row,” Charlie suggested.

“No—
she's
too old for me to involve her in that.”

“But what is—was—your mother like?” asked Gillian.

“Young lady,” said Lettie, leaning forwards, “I left home at fifteen and went to America at twenty, and since then, beyond a postcard, I have never tried to communicate with her. I think that tells you all you need to know about what I think of her,
and
how welcome she is as a topic of conversation.
Now
”—she looked at her watch— “I think my taxi will be waiting. Are you intending to walk down the hill, as well as up, Charlie?”

“Not if a better way presents itself. One of the things I've learnt since coming to Yorkshire is that steep hills are as gruelling down as they are up.”

“Whoever would have thought anything else? You can come with me and help me up to my room.”

She looked enquiringly at the young pair.

“I'm staying here,” said Gillian.

“And I'm sleeping on the floor, and taking off tomorrow to get away from all this Sneddonry,” said Gregory.

“Then I'll say goodbye to you, and goodnight to you, young lady. We shall no doubt talk—or at any rate see each other—during the Weekend.”

“Did I rather slap her down?” she asked Charlie in the taxi.

“Not really. You made it clear the subject is a painful one. She's bright, if a bit intense. She will have understood.”

“Hmmm—intense she was. It's that mania we talked about.”

At the door to her room Mrs Farraday turned to thank Charlie.

“I'm sure you've had more than you'll have wanted of an old lady's company for one day. I've got a lot of hard thinking to do. But I want you to know I'm grateful, Charlie, I really am . . . Charlie Peace: didn't your mother know about the murderer?”

Charlie grinned. It was an old question.

“Don't blame my mother. It's a nickname. My real name is Dexter.”

“Dexter! Now that's a nice name. I once had an American friend called Dexter. I shall call you that.”

Charlie had noticed, in the course of the evening, that Lettie Farraday's speech had become less American, more English, and even more Yorkshire. That obviously had not meant a lessening of affection for things American. Coming to Yorkshire was not, for Lettie, coming home. It was being away from home.

Charlie clattered down the stairs to the foyer, intending to go straight back to his room in the Haworth Road. But as he passed the door into the bar he saw the darkly handsome man who had arrived earlier, now standing at the crowded bar trying to catch the barmaid's attention. On an impulse he swerved aside, went into the bar and managed to stand beside him.