An Affair to Remember (15 page)

Beatrice, waiting nervously in her office, rises to her feet. “Thanks, Juan, I’ll come at once.” His somewhat large bulk resting on a small chair of ultra-modern design by the front door, Dr Hardcastle looks about him with interest; he hasn’t visited Brown End since old Mrs Peters died, and the place is unrecognisable. Slightly bemused by it all, he’s contemplating a painting on the wall opposite – a small blue object that could be a mousetrap in the centre of a large expanse of black background – when Beatrice, somewhat out of breath, looking nervous but sane, appears from a side door. She holds out her hand: “Good afternoon, Dr Hardcastle, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?”

“No, not at all.” Rising to his feet with difficulty, he shakes her proffered hand. She’s a looker, he thinks, for some reason surprised; no one told him that, why not?

“Do come through to the sitting room – if you don’t want to examine me, that is.”

“Won’t be necessary, Miss Travers, not at this stage anyway.” Following Beatrice into the sitting room, now all red leather, wrought iron and white, fluffy rugs, he looks about him. “My goodness me, I wouldn’t have recognised the place. You used to have to pick your way through the stuffed heads and the colonel’s weapon collection, there was too, as I remember, a strong aroma of parrot.”

Beatrice smiles and waves him to a chair, grateful for his efforts to put her at ease. “Actually the whole thing’s got to be changed, the designer made a bit of a mess of it, Mrs Woodhead’s trying to find another one, but thinks she might do it herself…”

“A safer option perhaps. Now Miss Travers, come and sit down,” he gestures to a chair opposite, “try to relax, and tell me as far as you can, what seems to be the trouble?”

Half an hour later, Dr Hardcastle, baffled but game, having fallen back on his sovereign remedy for the treatment of neurotic young women – a prescription for sleeping pills and the latest tranquilizer, plus a smile and a friendly squeeze – hurries upstairs to visit his next patient. More my line of country, he thinks, as he follows Juan, swaying gracefully ahead of him, along the thickly carpeted passage leading to Clarrie’s bedroom. She awaits him stretched out stormily on her Louis Quinze bed.

“I may as well tell you at once, Doctor, before we waste any further time, I want out.” Dr Hardcastle, his friendly bedside manner smile stopped in its tracks, looks at her in shocked surprise. “And what’s more,” Clarrie continues, sitting up in bed and lighting a cigarette, “I want her out, that so-called secretary. She’s bonkers. I’ve never been one to mince words, that’s one of the reasons why Sel married me, he likes people to be frank.” (You could have fooled me, Dr Hardcastle thinks, his mind harking back to the TV programme of Sel’s he’d been coerced into watching by his wife, an ardent fan.) However, he nods encouragingly: “Of course, admirable I’m sure but –”

“And frankly I simply cannot cope. Being a good wife to someone in Sel’s position is no mean task, I can tell you, and to have to put up with a mad secretary and being pregnant at the same time is altogether too much.”

It’s obvious tears are on the way; Dr Hardcastle, thankfully back in familiar territory, sits cosily down beside her on the bed, pats her hand. “Now, my dear…”

This, he’s thinks, is turning out to be all rather fun. Will he be late for surgery, he wonders?

*

That night Sam comes again to the rookery: the rooks stir sleepily, but make no noise as he digs steadily down into the roots of the great tree. Just before dawn he finds what he’s looking for. The tiny cup still has a few fibres adhering to it from the bag in which it was buried so long ago; although encrusted with earth you can see a glint of silver.

The rooks maintain their silence while, after carefully wiping away the worst of the mud, in the manner of a priest holding up the chalice, Sam raises the cup above his head and kisses it, then wrapping it in his handkerchief, places the tiny parcel in the pocket of his dressing gown. At peace at last, he picks up his spade, and returns to the car. The fox from the Grove, back from a night’s hunting, is momentarily blinded by the car headlights as it passes him on its way down to the village.

Beatrice, unaware, sleeps on, her senses drugged by Dr Hardastle’s Mogadon.

Chapter 10

“Good morning, dear, and what progress have we made?”

“Progress?” Beatrice, slumped at her desk, looks up at him vacantly. It’s eight thirty am and she still feels drugged.

“My list, dear, my list,” Sel tries not to sound impatient, “the list I left for you yesterday, have you managed any of it?”

“A bit, and I’ve made some notes… Look I’m awfully sorry, Sel, but the doctor gave me some sleeping pills, I took two last night, and I’m really not quite with it yet.”

Sel feels a pang of guilt, not something he experiences very often. He lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to appear unfeeling, dear, I know things must be hell for you at the moment, but to coin a cliché, life continues and a morning spent at the typewriter might help to bring you back down to earth so to speak, and perhaps, fingers crossed, keep that troublesome alter ego at bay.”

Beatrice winces at the mention of her alter ego, but, straightening up, gives him a bleary smile. “I’ll do my best…”

“That’s my girl,” he bends down, kisses the top of her head. “Now, before you settle dear, I have some good news. Yesterday at Coltsfoot, I managed to pull the odd string, and all things being equal, your Uncle Sel has got you off the hook! No charges are to be made against you, just a single payment to The Trojan landlord, Andy Rutherford, for the damage done, and as you have the good fortune to be classed as one of my servants, this will be covered by insurance.”

“Surely they expect something in return?”

“Don’t be cynical, dear, it doesn’t suit you. I simply suggested my Clarrie as temporary leader of the Trojan darts team, Andy (we’re great mates now) happened to let slip a charity match is shortly to be played and, well, the attendant publicity – you know the sort of thing – could give the place a badly needed boost. I understand from sources who have their ear to the ground The Trojan Horse has not been doing too well lately and, to use the words of my informant, is in dire need of bucking up.” Beatrice giggles, then feels guilty because she did; she of all people should know the situation was far too serious for flippancy.

“Can Clarrie play?”

“Can Clarrie play what, dear?”

“Darts.”

“She can learn, dear. My Clarrie’s always been a quick learner. Now, one more thing before I leave you to your toil. I’ve managed to locate Mrs Bogg senior, and arranged for you and me to visit her this afternoon at two thirty. She apparently resides in a home in Belchester, and although in her nineties and somewhat cantankerous, does still retain her marbles. Then after seeing her, we should have plenty of time to meet our ‘experts’ off the train from London. Clever of you, by the way, to locate Ron Head, not an easy man to deal with, as I remember, but one of the best in his field. As to Philippa Rainsford, one thing I can say about dear Pippa, she can always be relied on to come up with something original.”

A knock at the door – Mrs Bogg, pregnant with news. “Sorry to intrude, Mr Woodhead, but I thought you’d like to be informed of the latest –”

“Yes, what is it, Mrs Bogg, I am rather busy –”

“The major’s been digging again, came in the night in his car, you can see the wheel tracks large as life, and there’s another hole…”

“Oh no!”

*

Sam, still out for the count at seven thirty, is woken by Emmie banging on his door – he’s sleeping in the spare room now, it seems easier all round – saying she’s off to Belchester any minute, Karen won’t be in until later as she’s seeing the doctor, so he better get a move on and make sure the shop opens on time.

Dragging himself out of bed, every muscle in his body screaming a protest, he sees the dirt under his fingernails; then, a further shock, the mud on his pyjamas. Christ almighty! He must have been walking in his sleep – outside too, where? He knows where, though, doesn’t he? There can only be one place.

His dressing gown lies in a heap on the floor, bits of leaf and thistle adhering to the hem. Trembling, he picks it up. There’s something in the pocket, something surprisingly heavy. He dips his hand in, pulls out the package, wrapped, he notes, in one of his handkerchiefs. Trembling still more, he carries the package over to the window, gently unwraps it, holds the tiny two-handled cup up to the light; looks at it in wonder. It appears to be made of metal, silver perhaps, or bronze. With the help of the early sunshine slanting through the window, he can just make out that interspersed with some sort of monogram there are tiny animals prancing round the rim. Hard to see what sort of animals, horses perhaps? Whatever they are, they’re executed by a master, even he, philistine though he is, can see that. Still holding the cup up to the light, he begins to experience this strange feeling: part of him wants to rejoice, shout Hallelujah, even dance about, the other half wants to weep. He, who hasn’t cried since his puppy, Box, died when he was eight years old, feels his eyes misted with tears. The room’s becoming hazy too – there but not quite there. A voice not his own, although seemingly coming from him, starts to croon softly, over and over again: “
My son
,” it says. “
My son
…”

*

“I should like, if I may, to speak to Mrs Clarrie Woodhead please, it’s her Uncle Charles speaking.”

Beatrice presses the buzzer, “Your Uncle Charles on the line, Clarrie, I’m putting him through.”

“My Uncle who –?”

“Clarrie, pet, it’s Jack. Just thought I’d give you a tinkle – see how things are.”

“Bloody awful, if you really want to know. And that damned secretary’s still here. Sel’s managed somehow to do a fiddle with the Trojan landlord and persuaded him to drop the charges.”

“Well, thank heavens for that. Can’t say I was looking forward to being called as a witness, wouldn’t have done me much good at Head Office either.”

“Personally I think she should have been charged. Why should she get off, anyway? She damned near killed me with that sodding ashtray.” Jack makes soothing noises down the line. “And now, would you believe,” Clarrie continues, sounding more aggrieved by the minute, “if all this wasn’t enough, my dear husband tells me he’s arranged for me to learn to play darts.”

“Pardon?”

“Sel wants me to learn darts.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” Jack closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, is everybody in this place bonkers? What next, he wonders, what bloody next? For the first time in many years he has an urge to return to Barnsley.

*

The morning’s still fine, although with a hint of autumn in the air, when a maroon Mini Clubman driven by a smallish man in a fishing hat and dark glasses, turns into the all-but-empty car park at The Trojan Horse and pulls up with a flourish in a parking bay by the back door. The driver gets out and after carefully locking the Mini and checking the windows, strolls round to the front of the pub. The main door is locked – they obviously don’t do lunches – but there’s music emanating from the public bar so that must be open. This too, like the car park, apart from a couple of lethargic youths playing a space invader machines, turns out to be empty. Behind the bar an elderly man is reading a newspaper. No one looks up. About to return to the car and see if he can find somewhere slightly more welcoming, he notices the sign to the Pink Panther Bar and decides to have a decco: by the size of the car park, the place must surely cater for a more discerning class of punter than he’s come across so far.

And the Pink Panther does seem marginally more friendly: a kindly looking lady behind the bar gives him a welcoming smile, and the young couple holding hands in the corner stop munching crisps long enough to look up and say ‘Hi’. The kindly lady puts down the glass she’s polishing:

“Good morning, sir, and what can I get you?”

“Gin and tonic, luv, please – with ice and lemon if you have it.” The man’s voice has a slight Australian intonation. He removes his fishing hat and dark glasses, to reveal spiky ginger hair and a pleasant if somewhat ordinary face. The lady looks at him approvingly, it’s nice to serve a stranger for a change, The Trojan doesn’t seem to get many visitors these days.

“Come far?”

“From the Smoke, luv,” the man pulls over a bar stool and sits down, “and am I glad to get away from it. All that noise and traffic’s not for me, give me the wide open spaces any time.”

“You don’t live in London then?” The lady hands him his drink; hopes he doesn’t notice the bare patch on the wall opposite, they’ve cleaned it up, but she has to admit it doesn’t look too good.

“No, used to though, and how I stood it beats me. No, I’ve been living in good old Oz for the last eight years.”

“That’s nice. On a visit then?”

“You could say that.”

Sounds of disruption are coming from the couple in the corner. The young man, who sports a Mohican haircut, has risen from his chair and is making for the door; his girlfriend, looking sulky, remains seated. Her pink tinged hair is dragged into knot on top of her head, her ample form squeezed into a pair of acid green jeans.

“Come on then,” the young man sounds aggrieved.

The girl reluctantly gets to her feet, “I don’t see why we always have to stay in the Public. It’s much nicer in here – at least it’s got a bit of atmosphere.”

Her boyfriend snorts derisively. “We don’t come in here, because the drinks are too expensive, you know why we don’t. The only reason we are now is you wanted to have a nose around after that bird from Brown’s kicked up a rumpus here the other night. To be honest, that whole business makes me want to puke. If we’d done what she’d done, we’d have been carted off to the nick before you could say fart, it’s only because her boss’s on the telly they let her off.”

“Oh stop griping, Ken. And don’t be such a scrooge. There’s nothing to see anyway and it’s about time they had a new photo.” Still squabbling, the pair disappear down the passage to the Public Bar. The man from Oz watches with them with amusement, orders himself another drink.