An Affair to Remember (13 page)

“Good morning, Mr Woodhead’s secretary speaking, can I help you?”

“It’s Sam.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Beatrice, please forgive me for yesterday, it’s imperative I see you, there’ve been developments…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sam, I behaved like a bitch, I know, and I agree we must meet. There’ve been developments here too: something happened last night, something connected with the rookery…”

“I better come round at once.” The voice of Major Mallory; concise, positive, almost a bark, not like the Sam she knows at all and despite her worries, Beatrice experiences a small thrill of excitement. Should she tell him Sel knows – better not perhaps, not yet.

“Eyes were watching me,” she says, “the Guardians…”

“I know, me too. See you in half an hour.” And the phone goes dead.

Thirty minutes later, he’s at the front door, bearing with him a box of frogs’ legs in aspic. “Good morning,” he shouts uncertainly, as Juan, looking snooty, opens the front door, “I promised Mrs Woodhead I would deliver these, and I have an appointment with Miss Travers.”

Juan takes the box of frogs’ legs with a look of disdain and places them on the hall table. “The Señorita Travers, she is at present occupied and the Señor and Señora Woodhead, they are out. I cannot –”

“In the back in the office, Major,” Mrs Bogg interrupts, appearing out of nowhere, “down the passage on your right, you can’t miss it. Selly and his missus have gone to the clinic in Belchester, said they’d be out for lunch.” She gives him a lewd wink.

“Nothing wrong, I hope?” He feels he ought to ask, he’s not in the least interested whether there’s anything wrong with them or not, but even in a crisis one had, he supposes, to keep up appearances.

“No, my love, leastways not that I know of,” Mrs Bogg says, looking as though she knew a great deal more than she was letting on, but Sam’s already hurrying away down the passage. Juan gives Mrs Bogg a look and, picking up the box of frogs’ legs, stalks off towards the kitchen. Mrs Bogg makes a rude gesture.

He hears the clack clack of a typewriter, opens the door and there she is, his beloved, looking miserable and happy at the same time, and before they know it they’re in each other’s arms pressed up against the filing cabinet.

“Sam we mustn’t, supposing it starts up again and we turn into the others, it could happen any time.”

“I agree, we should proceed with care,
we
must
not
rouse
the
Gods
…” Sam relinquishes her, and she’s not sure whether it’s him or Brian talking. But before she can say anything else she notices there’s this rook watching them from the window sill.

“Oh God, Sam, look!”

Sam looks, the rook stares insolently back, Sam flaps his arms. “Get out of here, you bastard,” he shouts, “how dare you upset this lady.” The rook continues to look, then, squirting a message on to the pristine pile of manuscript carefully placed out of harm’s way on the window sill, flaps away up the valley.

Holding hands, they watch it go. “We can’t talk here,” Sam says, “but it’s essential we pool our resources.”

Beatrice nods. “We could go for a quick stroll in the garden, I suppose, but I can’t be out of the office long because of the phone; anyway, I’ve loads of work.”

“And I must be back in the shop by twelve, it’s Karen’s lunch hour and Emmie’s gone to Belchester. What about meeting this evening after work? There’s a pub on the main road, The Trojan Horse. Pretty ghastly, but the locals don’t tend to go there.”

“What time?”

“Shall we say, eight thirty, or would you rather –”

“No that’s fine. I’ll see you out.” They reach the front door and there’s Mrs Bogg, duster in hand, looking interested.

“Sorted things out, then, dear?”

“Yes thanks, Mrs Bogg.” She turns to Sam, “That’ll be fine, Major, and I’ll tell Mrs Woodhead when she gets back, you’ll give her a ring around eight thirty this evening.”

Sam for a moment looks bewildered, then nods vigorously. “OK, Miss Travers, will do.” He knows he sounds too theatrical, he hasn’t done any acting since his schooldays, even then he’d never progressed beyond third messenger, in
Macbeth
, and is miserably aware his performance leaves a lot to be desired.

“Such a nice gentleman,” Mrs Bogg says as the front door closes behind him, “what he’s doing running the village shop I’ll never know, and there’s that wife of his gadding about all over the countryside with that Jack what’s-his-name. My Josh saw them the other night, out beyond Dibden Cross, snogging away like two ferrets in a sack, Josh said, in the back of his Volvo and what’s more –”

“I think I can hear the phone, Mrs Bogg, I’d better get back to the office…”

Sam feels deflated: he’d rushed over to Brown End, a knight in shining armour, ready to save his lady from the powers of darkness, or anything else for that matter, and instead he seems to be performing rather badly in some sort of bedroom farce. The grocer and the secretary, he smiles wryly as he walks across the gravel to the gate leading into the yard, acutely aware of Mrs Bogg’s eyes following his progress from the hall window. She knows something’s up, that’s obvious, and once through the gate and out of her vision, he breathes a sigh of relief. His car’s parked under the lee of the barn. About to open the door, he becomes aware of the noise the rooks are making in the trees behind it, surely unusual for this time of day. He stands listening, one hand on the car door, and the thought comes; it’s always the rooks. Anything odd that happens, there they are. What is it with them? Are they responsible in some way for what’s happening? If so, why? Perhaps now’s his chance to investigate.

The paddock grass is long and straggling and full of thistles, the hedge surrounding it rampant and uncut. In the corner, towering over the barn, are the ash trees, their branches a fuzz of nests. Feathers and droppings litter the ground and the noise is now deafening. Without conscious thought he walks over to the tree in the centre, and slowly raises his arms in supplication. “
My
Lords
,” he shouts above the din, “
I
’
m
here
to
do
your
bidding
.” The rooks fall silent, the sun goes behind a cloud and Sam kneels down and begins to dig; first scrabbling with his hands, then with a sharp stone lying on the ground beside him.

Fascinated, Josh Bogg watches him from behind the hedge. He’s been ploughing that morning, and has stopped to have a lunchtime break and eat his sandwiches. There’s a gap in the hedge and he can see quite clearly what’s going on under the ash tree. Radio Belchester mutters to itself from the cab of the parked tractor, a hopeful blackbird waits for crumbs – a lump of cheese if he’s lucky – and Josh, excitement driving him through him like a red hot wire, watches mesmerised as the pile of reddish earth beside the major gets bigger by the minute. At last he can stand it no longer.

“Looking for something, Major?” But Sam, ignoring his shout, continues to scrabble. Josh decides to investigate. Leaving his jacket and lunch box on the grass – the blackbird in luck, seizes his chance and flies off with the lump of cheese – he squeezes through the gap in the hedge and confronts the major.

“Anything wrong, Major?” No answer. “ANYTHING WRONG, MAJOR?” This time he bends down and shouts the words in Sam’s ear. At last the digging stops, and Sam sits back on his haunches. Slowly, seemingly quite bemused, he gets to his feet; brushes the earth from his immaculate, cavalry twill trousers.

“I seem to have lost one of my buttons,” he says, and both of them are aware of the total inadequacy of his explanation.

Josh’s eyes travel slowly over the mound of earth and the already sizable hole beside it. “I see, Major, I see. I thought perhaps you needed some help, I was having my lunch, see and…”

“Awfully kind of you to offer, but everything’s fine. It’s just these buttons are difficult to match, and I was sure it fell off somewhere round here.” Josh glances surreptitiously at the buttons on Sam’s khaki shirt; they all appear to be intact.

“Taking a walk, were you?” he asks politely.

“Er, not really. It was just I heard the rooks making such a noise – I was in the yard about to get in my car, and wondered what had disturbed them.”

“Been delivering at Brown’s, then?”

“Yes, frogs’ legs, Mrs –”

“Frogs’ legs?”

“Well, yes. Mrs Woodhead wanted some, and I managed to get a consignment, apparently she’s very fond of them.” At the mention of frogs’ legs Josh’s suspicions change course: his old gran, who’d been in service as a girl with the Durlston family, used to tell tales about those trees. “I wouldn’t go near ‘em after dark,” she’d say, “not for all the money in the world.” The plot, it seemed, was thickening.

“Don’t go burying those frogs’ legs in that hole, then, Major,” he says, in a futile attempt to lighten the tension.

Sam shakes his head. “No, no I won’t do that,” he says heartily, “they’re quite hard to come by as a matter of fact.”

“I can believe that.” Josh stands for a moment in silence; for the life of him he can find nothing further to say. The whole extraordinary situation is quite beyond anything he’s previously had to deal with. “Must be going, then,” he manages at last, “work won’t wait…”

“I have to be on my way too, I must be back in the shop by twelve.” Sam looks doubtfully at the hole he’s made. “Do you think I ought to fill this in? I seem to have made a bit of a mess.”

“I wouldn’t bother. Mr Woodhead’s thinking of having those old trees down; get rid of the rooks, he said, his missus don’t like ‘em. I’ve heard talk he’s going to build a swimming pool.”

“I’ll leave it then. They certainly do make rather a mess, the rooks, I mean.”

“Bye then, Major.” Josh turns away and makes for the gap in the hedge.

Standing by the wicket gate is a tall, grey haired lady in a blue robe; gold at her throat. She looks at Sam with angry, reproachful eyes. “There’s a lady…” he calls after Josh, but Josh has already disappeared. Sam turns back to the visitor, “
Mother
,” he says, “
I
’
m
so
sorry
,
so
very
sorry
…” But she too has disappeared.

*

“Don’t make too much of a thing over it, Sel, please,” Clarrie says, knowing that he will, “I’d rather we didn’t tell anyone yet, after all you never know what might happen, and Dr Hardcastle did say we must wait for the test results before we know for sure.”

“Your wishes, my darling, as always are paramount,” Sel says, slowing down as they approach the village – as a driver he tends to take risks; today is special, however, and he’s curbing his enthusiasm – “but later on perhaps… let me see, how old are you, my love?”

“Thirty-nine. And what’s that got to do with it?” Clarrie, already cross, feels herself getting crosser.

“Think, dear, think. You are to become a mother for the first time at the age of forty,” Clarrie winces, “you are, albeit indirectly, a minor celebrity.” Clarrie snorts derisively. Sel, ignoring her and continues, “As such, your thoughts and feelings on this great experience will be of interest to many women in your position, and a piece or two on the subject, syndicated of course, would not, I think, come amiss; perhaps even a little TV coverage, with a follow-up visit as the months go by.”

Clarrie closes her eyes. “I want to get rid of it,” she says. Sel merely smiles and pats her hand, his eyes on the cloud of rooks wheeling above the barn as he turns the car into the yard at Brown End.

Josh Bogg is waiting for him by the old pigsty.

Chapter 9

It’s raining as Beatrice, already half an hour late for her rendezvous with Sam, sets out for The Trojan Horse. It’s the first time she’s seen Brown End in the rain; it looks gentler, less menacing, the trees at the top of the hill beyond the river shrouded in mist.

Dinner that evening had been a silent affair. Clarrie barely ate anything, and scarcely uttered a word throughout the rather meagre repast – this one especially meagre as today was one of their twice weekly diet days – and Sel appeared preoccupied. However, the meal over and Clarrie retired to her room with a headache, he’d suggested that they should repair to the conservatory ‘and have a talk’. She’d looked at her watch, 8.15 already, she was going to be late, really late.

“You have a date, dear?” Beatrice nodded. “Never mind, I’m sure Major Mallory can hang on for just a few minutes.”

She’d blushed guiltily. “It’s just we felt we needed to talk things over…”

“Of course, dear, why not? Now, sit down there in the light so I can look at you, drink your brandy and relax.” She’d done as she was told, sat herself down on one of a job lot of Habitat garden chairs Clarrie’d recently got in cheaply from a closing down sale and now discovered she didn’t like, and sipped her brandy. Soon its warmth and fieriness had begun to permeate through her nerve-wracked body. Sel was right, she started to relax. He smiled at her encouragingly. “That’s better, dear, isn’t it?” She nodded. He’d already poured himself another brandy – Sel got through quite a lot when you came to think of it, but it never seemed to have much effect – and waved the bottle at her.

“No thanks, I’d better not, I’m driving…”

“One more, dear, it’s so good for the nerves, and I can see it’s helped already…”

“Well, only a little one.”

Then Sel dropped his bombshell. “I take it you’ve not yet been informed of the latest development? Major Mallory didn’t ring you this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Ah… Well, I understand that he came here this morning to deliver some frogs’ legs?”

“Yes.” Beatrice couldn’t help giggling, brandy always had that effect on her.

“I take it he saw you?”

“Only for a moment. We just arranged to meet this evening and talk things over, that’s all.”

“Quite so. It must therefore have been after that he was ‘taken’, as you might say, ‘funny’.” Here Beatrice had let out a kind of strangled yelp. “Josh Bogg found him digging under one of the trees in the rookery.”