Intrigue in the Village (Turnham Malpas 10) (15 page)

He rattled on the door once more. ‘Mrs Bliss?’ Eventually the door opened again. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Be my guest. Who are you anyway?’

‘Been sent round to see about repairs.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ll make a list.’

‘Right.’

‘May I go upstairs, see where the rain’s coming in?’

She hesitated. ‘Very well.’ She didn’t offer to accompany him so he went alone. He felt sick at heart when he saw the bedrooms. His stomach heaved at the memory of his father’s voice: from all those years back, ‘
Get to bloody bed, the lot of yer
.’ He almost retched. Could feel the weight of his father’s hand. He recalled, all too easily, hiding under the blanket, trying to shut out the sound of his father arguing with his mother downstairs, waiting for the inevitable crash of their pitiable furniture as he lunged to hit her. His heart broke at the memory. He’d never gone back to see if she was all right. His neglect of her hit him with such fierceness he had to put a hand against the wall to steady himself. When he recovered a little he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand, remembering how dirty the walls of his childhood bedroom had been. The only difference between that bedroom and the one he stood in now was that the sheets looked clean, so at least some effort was being made. But that was the only plus. The poor woman must be deeply, deeply depressed in a way he had never experienced.

He couldn’t make any notes, he was too overcome. His hand trembled and his damned electronic diary just wouldn’t cooperate. Damn the blasted thing. He didn’t need notes anyway; it was all too familiar, embedded in his mind.

He rattled back down the stairs as fast as he could.

‘Could Mr Bliss help with the work at all? Is he a handyman?’

She stared at him and turned away to look out of the window. ‘There is no Mr Bliss any longer.’

‘Sorry. Well, if anyone should ask you who’s doing the work on your house, say anything but don’t say the landlord or they’ll all be wanting things done. Right?’

He didn’t even know if what he had said registered with her, because she never answered. So he left, filled with a kind of missionary zeal, a feeling he couldn’t remember having before. That poor woman needed help. Help to get her self-respect back, her zest for life. He wished he’d seen the children. On his way back he heard the schoolchildren out playing so he turned into Jacks Lane, pulled up and got out of the car to lean on the school wall. What fun they were having. How carefree they all appeared. Free as air.

He almost wished . . .

Hetty Hardaker was on playground duty and she came across to have a word when she spotted him. ‘Hello, Mr Fitch. How’re things?’

‘Kate said you’d got some new children, a family of four.’

‘That’ll be the Blisses.’ Hetty turned to search the playground. ‘Those two boys standing talking by the main door and the two little girls skipping over there. Lovely children. Very bright. The smaller girl has dance in every bone in her body. A delight to watch.’ She turned back to look at him, curious about his reasons for visiting the school like this. ‘How are you, Mr Fitch?’

‘I’m very well, thank you. Don’t let me interrupt your duty.’

Hetty nodded. Obviously she wasn’t going to get anything out of him this morning. For a moment she paused to wonder why Kate had married him.

Maggie Dobbs crossed Jacks Lane on her way to the school and saw Mr Fitch still leaning on the wall watching the children.

‘Morning, Mr Fitch.’

‘Good morning, Mrs—’

‘Dobbs. I’m the school caretaker.’

‘Of course, of course, Kate’s mentioned you.’

Mrs Dobbs joined him, laying her forearms on the school wall. ‘Them new kids, nice little things. That little Una, over there look skipping, you should see her dance. Smashing! Like a ballet dancer she is, so light on her feet and such, well, I think style’s the word.’

‘So Hetty said.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Kate’s delighted with the way you look after the school. She thought she’d never get anyone as good as Bel Tutt, but you are.’

Maggie blushed. ‘Thanks. It’s all right as a job until it rains and then . . . my floors, even before prayers, are filthy. Still . . . must get started on the dinner tables. Be seeing you.’

She left him still standing there and went inside to begin.

Jean, senior dinner lady, was early and helped Maggie to put out the tables.

‘You know,’ she said softly, ‘the other night, Dad’s spirit saying what it did? Well, it was right. I challenged Larry with it when I got ’ome. Except you know that other spirit, Edna or something, warned Ginger about tempting other women’s husbands? Well, it wasn’t her, it was . . .’She couldn’t bring herself to say it so Maggie said it for her.

‘Not her with the mealy mouth?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe it. Her? That’s a laugh. So what happened with your Larry? Move that table a bit closer. That’s right. Is he full of apologies?’

‘Oh yes! Amazed he was that I’d found out. Been going on for three months and her as sweet as a nut to me. The slut.’

‘So how come Ginger was black and blue, then?’

‘Well, I gave her a lift home and went with her inside and even though she’d protested it wasn’t her I told her husband, and before you could say knife, he’d fetched her one. Trouble was, that night, Mealy Mouth’s husband found out in the Royal Oak from a mate of his and he went home and hit her across the mouth.’ She added with a disgusted look, ‘Very rough they are, you know.’

‘So has anyone fetched your Larry one yet?’

‘No, only me and he’s promised to behave himself from now on. Thank goodness, and thank you, Maggie, very much for contacting Dad, and finding out for me. I wouldn’t mind another go sometime.’

Maggie surveyed the hall, satisfied the tables were in the right places, and as Jean walked off to the kitchen, she thought, behave himself? Till the next time. That Larry had a roving eye by all reports. Mealy Mouth wouldn’t be the last, and certainly wasn’t the first. With these approaching light nights, she wondered about changing to that Ouija thingy she’d read about. But would it be any more successful than an ordinary seance?

On Saturday night the bar was filled to overflowing. Dicky had piled logs on the huge open fireplace and the flames were licking up the chimney and throwing out enormous heat. But they did need it, for it was a bitterly cold night and the refuge of the Royal Oak, with its glittering brasses and comfortable chairs, was exceedingly appealing. Seated on a chair as close to the fire as possible was Vera from the nursing home. Alone and looking worried.

‘Hello, Vera. Long time no see.’ It was Sylvia from the Rectory.

‘Hello, Sylvia.’ Vera wasn’t altogether sure she wanted Sylvia’s candid grey eyes focused on her, however kindly.

Sylvia found a chair, pulled it across beside Vera and sat down. ‘You’re not too well?’

‘I’ve been at the hospital all day.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Those sweet grey eyes of hers were filled with sympathy. ‘I’d no idea you were ill.’

Vera shook her head. ‘It’s not me. It’s Don.’ She felt Sylvia’s hand on her arm, stroking her with such gentleness.

‘Oh, Vera. I didn’t know he was sick.’

She’d be crying in a minute. It was only keeping a tight
grip on her emotions that was keeping her going. ‘He isn’t ill, well, he is . . . he had a bad fall this morning.’ Vera had her handkerchief at the ready, knowing she couldn’t hold out for much longer.

‘Broken some bones, then?’

Vera nodded. ‘Mending the gutter. One joint had slipped and when it rains, the water pours down the windows, so he’d climbed up the ladder to mend it. He was very high up near the gable end and . . .’ Her sobbing was quiet but altogether painful. She felt Sylvia’s arm around her shoulders.

‘There, there. They’re very good at the hospital. Remember when Flick Charter-Plackett was run over when she was little? They put her back together again and I’m sure they’ll do the same for Don.’

Vera felt herself being hugged. She could hear the words of comfort but they meant absolutely nothing. Sylvia didn’t know what she was talking about because she hadn’t seen him in hospital after they’d operated. She had and it was a sight she never wanted to see ever again.

A loud, hearty voice said, ‘Hello, Vera! Nice to see yer. Oh, sorry. Whatever’s the matter?’

Vera couldn’t answer Willie. She did hear Sylvia say, ‘Just go get yourself a seat, Willie, I’ll be a while.’

Between her sobs Vera told how she’d heard the crash of Don falling down. At his age he shouldn’t have been climbing but he was the odd-job man now he was retired and anything that needed doing he did. There was blood seeping from his head, and his shoulders and spine seemed awkward and she remembered someone shouting, ‘Don’t move him.’ After that, she heard nothing because the only
sound that penetrated her numbness was the ambulance siren. On and on and on, all the way to Culworth.

‘You know they work miracles nowadays. They’ll get him sorted, believe me. Look, why not come and sit with Willie and Jimmy like we used to, eh? It’ll be like old times. How about it? Don’t sit here by yourself.’

But there’d be no orange juice to order for Don, not tonight or any other night. Not with his brain . . . ‘No, thanks, I wouldn’t be good company tonight. We’ve had such happy times lately, it doesn’t seem fair.’

‘We can’t order these things, Vera.’

Vera looked up sharply. ‘You’ve housekept at that Rectory for far too long. Them’s the sort of words the Rector would use.’

‘Look, let me go get him. He’ll help.’

‘No.’

‘Please. He’s wonderful in a crisis, so reassuring.’

‘No. Just go and sit with Willie and leave me alone. There’s nothing anyone can do.’ Vera felt Sylvia move away. Why ever had she asked Jimmy to drop her off here instead of taking her straight to the nursing home to her lovely, airy flat where she and Don were so happy? She’d come for help, that was it. The hospital had said to go home, to get a good night’s sleep and come back tomorrow. How could she sleep with Don laid unconscious in intensive care, bandaged, black and blue, eyes made into slits with all the swelling, a neck brace on, and tubes and wires all over the place? The laughter and bustle of the bar passed by unheeded as she wallowed helplessly in a sea of misery.

Maggie Dobbs came in about half past nine. She surveyed the bar. The usual trio of Willie, Sylvia and Jimmy were sitting at their table, Mealy Mouth was with her husband, some noisy men were celebrating something or another and then, as she glanced at the fire and thought how welcome it was, she saw the Rector sitting beside Vera. He was speaking earnestly, his long back bent as he held her hand, one arm laid across the back of her chair. She paid at the bar for her favourite tipple, gin and orange, then went directly across to the settle to sit beside Sylvia and find out what was wrong with Vera.

‘It’s Don, he’s had a serious fall off his ladder. He’s in a bad way.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. Poor Vera. They are good landlords to me. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Mind you, they are putting up the rent from next month.’

Rather snappily, Sylvia retorted that she didn’t think they’d be worrying much about that at the moment.

Maggie sipped her gin. ‘He could die from it, you know. I expect she’d perhaps want to be back in her cottage if he did. That’d land me in a mess and not half, just when I’ve got a steady job and my home sorted out and friends and things . . . God, I hope not.’