Dry Bones (2 page)

In the afternoon, the Colonel dozed until he became aware of heavy footsteps on the stairs and a slight shaking of the walls. A rap on the bedroom door and Naomi's face appeared round its edge.

‘Come to make sure you're still alive, Hugh.'

The rest of her stomped into the room, radiating health and vigour. Her puce-coloured tracksuit hurt his eyes; he closed them again.

‘That's the spirit! You'll soon be up and about.'

Sickbed sympathy, he realized, was not Naomi's strong suit. She had probably never had a day's illness in her life.

He opened his eyes halfway and croaked, ‘Nice of you to come, Naomi.'

‘I've brought you something,' she told him and thrust the plastic bowl that she was carrying under his nose. ‘Chicken soup. Jewish mothers always swear by it. Apparently it cures everything. I'll heat it up for you.'

‘Not just now, thank you.'

‘You must eat, Hugh. Build up your strength.'

‘I will,' he promised. ‘Later.'

‘Not sure I trust you. Men are hopeless at looking after themselves. Useless at being ill. Cecil always thought he was dying.'

‘Cecil?'

‘My late husband. The one I divorced – remember. He went off with his secretary. I bet
she
didn't lift a finger when he was ill. Serve the old bugger right.' She glanced at the lump of black and tan fur at the end of the eiderdown. ‘I see Thursday's managed to make himself comfortable, as usual. Do you want me to get rid of him for you?'

Thursday's eyes opened to gleaming slits.

‘No, no. He's all right.'

‘Of course, he is. He's a cat. They're always all right.' She looked down at him uncertainly. ‘I must say you do look a bit ropey, Hugh. Shall I ask Tom to call?'

‘Heavens, no.' He liked young Tom Harvey very much but doctors in general were best avoided. Doctors stood for illness and suffering and death, and for facing things you didn't want to face or even think about.

The grandfather clock's silvery chimes downstairs reached his ears. Six chimes. A Pavlovian call.

‘Would you like a drink, Naomi?'

‘I wouldn't say no.' She never did. ‘How about you?'

‘For once, I don't feel like it. You'll have to get it yourself, I'm afraid. Do you mind?'

‘Not a bit.'

She knew where everything was – the whisky decanter on the silver tray in the sitting room, the glasses in the cupboard. No ice required and just a splash of tap water. She was back upstairs in no time and sitting in the bedroom chair, raising her glass.

‘Cheers, Hugh. Hope you'll be feeling better soon.'

They had drunk many a glass of Chivas Regal together. An evening ritual begun when she had first called on him the day he had moved in. After a full and frank discussion of whatever was news or current gossip or of any interest at all, Naomi would return to her cottage and her two Jack Russell terriers and the Colonel, left alone with Thursday, would watch a television programme – if there was anything to watch – or listen to the radio or play his old Gilbert and Sullivan records.

He said croakily, ‘I'm rather worried about the garden. Things will be getting out of hand.'

‘Nothing that can't be dealt with, all in good time. I had a peek over the wall this morning and everything seems perfectly happy.'

‘What about the lily of the valley?'

‘Flowering away. Lucky you got the giant kind. The others always seem to get lost.'

He had done so at Naomi's particular suggestion but, generously, she hadn't reminded him of the fact.

‘Any sign of the bluebells?'

‘Lots of them. They'll all be coming out when you do.'

He said anxiously, ‘The hellebores?'

They were one of his favourites. Bashful blooms that hung their heads and hid their delicate beauty. He had planted them near the kitchen door where they were under his eye and he could see them better. For all their shyness, they were one of the first plants of the year to brave the cold.

‘Don't worry about them. They're tough as anything.'

Ruth Swynford – the daughter of the late and unlamented Lady Swynford – had given him the hellebore plants as a present and he treasured them. On her mother's unfortunate death, Ruth had inherited the Manor and stayed in Frog End instead of returning to work in London. With help and encouragement from Naomi, she had taken on the neglected Manor gardens, restoring them gradually to their former glory, as well as starting a small business selling plants. She had also become engaged to Tom Harvey, the local doctor, though not without a good deal of persuasion and patience on his part. Village gossip had it that Ruth had been having an affair with a married man in London for years.

He said, ‘Any date set for the wedding yet?'

‘Some time in the summer, Ruth says. She's being very cagey at the moment. I hope she's not going to duck out.'

Tom Harvey would almost certainly make an excellent husband, and they seemed to make a perfect young couple, but what if the magic ingredient necessary for a successful marriage was somehow lacking? Maybe Ruth was still in love with the married man in London?

‘It would be a great shame if she did.'

‘Not to mention a big disappointment in the village. They're all planning what to wear for the wedding. I saw Mrs Cuthbertson trying on a hat in Dorchester the other day – all pink tulle and feathers and the size of a dustbin lid.'

His imagination failed him. The major's wife's hats were usually the sensible country kind, made to withstand the elements and to stay in place in gale force winds.

‘It could be just a small wedding.'

‘No chance of that. Everybody will expect to be invited. Ruth's the squiress.'

‘
Everybody
?'

‘
Everybody
. And we haven't had a decent wedding in years so it'll be a good excuse to tog up. I hope you can still get into your morning suit, Hugh.'

‘I doubt it.'

He had no idea even where it was – probably among the things he'd consigned to the cottage loft. The last time he had worn morning dress had been at Marcus's and Susan's wedding, when Laura had still been alive. He could remember singing
Love Divine, all loves excelling
and praying to God that, for his son's sake, Susan wouldn't grow into anything resembling her mother.

‘By the way, Naomi, there was something I wanted to ask you.'

‘Fire away.'

‘It's something I've been thinking about . . . but I wanted to ask your opinion first.'

‘Well, spit it out, Hugh. I'm all ears.'

‘Would you have any objection if I bought a garden shed – to go where the old privy was? I don't think you'd be able to see it from your side.'

‘Of course I wouldn't object. Men seem to love sheds. I've never quite understood why, but I expect it's because it's somewhere to go and get away from women. Cecil always used to disappear for hours in his. He had rows of old jam jars on shelves, full of nails and nuts and bolts and screws. Dozens of spanners and hammers and saws and all the rest. I don't think he ever actually
used
any of them.'

There were times when he felt a sneaking sympathy for Naomi's late husband.

He said stiffly, ‘As a matter of fact, I do need somewhere to put the garden tools and the lawnmower.'

She cackled at him. ‘I was only teasing, Hugh. By all means, have your shed. Have you found one yet? Some of them are simply hideous – more like Swiss chalets.'

‘There's a place outside Dorchester that makes and delivers sheds. All sizes and perfectly plain. It'll need putting together, of course.'

‘Well, Jacob can do that for you. And he could start your sundowner terrace at the same time.'

The terrace had been Naomi's bright idea and the old flagstones that he had tracked down at the local reclamation place on her recommendation, had been stacked ready by the back door since early January.

‘No rush.'

‘Summer will be here before we know it.'

She would keep coming back to the subject again like a dog to a well-chewed bone. He wondered why on earth he had gone along with the idea in the first place. He slid a little further beneath the eiderdown and closed his eyes again. Naomi took the hint.

‘Well, I'll be off, Hugh. Thanks for the drink. Hope you feel better soon.' At the door she delivered her parting shot. ‘I'll put the chicken soup in your fridge. Be sure and have it soon. It'll do you good.'

He kept his eyes shut.

Tom Harvey called the next day. He let himself in at the front door which the Colonel had left unlocked and came upstairs.

‘Naomi told me you're not feeling too well, Colonel. I've come to have a look at you, if you don't mind.'

‘No need for that, Tom.'

‘It won't take a moment. Flu can be a nasty thing. People think of it as a kind of bad cold, but it's not like that at all. Specially as you get older. Better safe than sorry.'

He wondered how many GPs were left who still made house calls and took so much trouble. All in all, he thought, as the young doctor reached for his stethoscope, it would be a thousand pities if Ruth backed out. Both for her sake, and for the village.

‘Well, your chest's clear, so that's a good sign, but I'd stay in bed for at least three or four more days, if I were you, Colonel. Then take it easy indoors for a while. Give yourself plenty of time to recover properly.'

‘It was good of you to call.'

‘Not a problem. By the way, Ruth sent a message. She'd have come round herself, but she didn't want to disturb you. She's got a favour to ask.'

‘A favour? If there's anything at all I can do for her, I'd be only too happy. What is it?'

‘She wants to know if you'd mind giving her away to me. At the wedding.'

For a moment he was speechless. Quite overcome. He cleared his throat, recovered his croaky voice.

‘I'd be honoured. If she's sure she wants me.'

‘She says she'd much sooner have you than anyone else she knows. Her father's dead, as you know, and there's only some old uncle left whom she hasn't seen for years.' Tom Harvey smiled down at him. ‘So, can I tell her you're on for it?'

‘Of course.'

‘Looks like it's going to be the end of June, if that's OK with you.'

Naomi needn't have worried, he thought, sinking back on to the pillows when Tom had gone. And Mrs Cuthbertson would be able to sport her pink tulle dustbin lid.

He was deeply touched by Ruth's request. He was still virtually a stranger to the village, after all. Most of the inhabitants of Frog End had lived there for years, some of them for all their lives. This was indeed an honour.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem much hope that he would be called upon to give away his own daughter. If Alison ever did decide to get married – unlikely in her high-flying world – he couldn't imagine her going for a full-blown, traditional church wedding. This would be his one and only shot at the role and he hoped to God that he was worthy of it. The very first thing he'd do when he was up and about again would be to hunt for the morning suit.

B
y the end of May, the Colonel was fully recovered from his flu.

The new garden shed was up, Jacob had levelled and prepared the ground for the sundowner terrace and the first flagstones were in place. With his shambling gait and furtive manner, the poor chap might look a bit strange but when it came to doing a thorough job of labour, Jacob was second to none. The Colonel knew that if he had tried to do either task himself, he would almost certainly have made a hash of things.

The front doorbell rang and when he went to answer it he found Freda Butler, from across the green, standing outside.

She said anxiously, ‘I'm so sorry to trouble you, Colonel . . . so sorry.'

Poor little Miss Butler, he thought. Always anxious, always apologizing. She had been dealt a poor hand in life: bullied and despised by her late father, a fearsome Admiral of the Royal Navy, while she had followed a rather unsatisfactory career of her own in the WRENs. She had once,
in extremis
, confided in the Colonel – an occasion never referred to by either of them again.

He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘It's quite all right, Miss Butler. Would you like to come in?'

Her cheeks went pink. ‘Oh, no. I shouldn't dream of it . . . I'm sure you're very busy.'

Very busy were not words that generally applied to his normal day.

He said, ‘Not at all. As a matter of fact, I was just going to make myself a cup of coffee. Will you join me?'

The pink went a shade deeper and he could see her wavering. ‘I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble.'

‘It's no trouble. Shall we be informal and go into the kitchen?'

She tiptoed after him down the hallway. ‘If you're really sure . . .'

He filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘Do you mind instant coffee? It'll be quicker. And probably better.'

‘I wonder if I might have tea instead, Colonel? I very seldom drink coffee.'

‘Of course. I'll just see if Jacob would like a cup, while we're at it.'

She looked round, apparently surprised. ‘Oh, is Jacob here?'

He smiled to himself. Miss Butler would know very well that he was.

And she would know all about the shed and the sundowner terrace, too.

With the sitting room windows of Lupin Cottage in pole position on the village green, and aided by the U-boat commander's binoculars somehow acquired in wartime by her Admiral father, not very much escaped her notice. She would certainly have observed both the flagstones' and the shed's delivery.

‘He's putting down my new terrace.'

‘
Really?'
Miss Butler edged a little towards the window for a better view. ‘What a clever idea of yours.'