Jigsaw (20 page)

He poured himself another drink. ‘Not much.' He stared into his glass for a minute, then added, ‘Actually, there is something. I'm a bit worried about this new student.'

‘The watercolourist? Why?'

‘I told you she was pale and quiet, didn't I? After today's class, I suspect there's rather more to it. She has some nasty bruises on her arm.'

Rona raised an eyebrow.

‘It was hot in the studio,' he continued, ‘and she was the only one wearing long sleeves. I noticed that last week, too. At one point, when she reached for something, they rode up, and she went bright pink and pulled them quickly down again. But not before I'd seen the bruises.'

Rona regarded him over the rim of her glass. ‘You think she's a battered wife?'

He looked at her quickly, then away. ‘I don't know what to think. She certainly seems withdrawn and – nervous.'

‘Well, there's not much you can do about it, is there?'

‘The trouble is, she doesn't know anyone. They've only just moved here, and by a stroke of coincidence, they live in Fairhaven.'

Which was Lindsey's road. ‘What's her name?'

‘Adele Yarborough.'

‘Any children?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘Well, you know what it's like when you move house. She probably banged herself heaving boxes around.'

‘I was wondering—' He broke off.

‘What?'

‘If you'd meet her. Let me know what you think.'

Rona stared at him. ‘Meet her how? For God's sake, Max, I'm not a social worker.'

‘You could get Lindsey to be a good neighbour and invite her for coffee.'

‘And how exactly would that help?'

He looked up, and she was surprised by the genuine concern in his eyes. ‘I don't know, love, but I feel I should do
something.
I might be the only one who suspects anything.'

‘I'm sure you are,' she said dryly.

He said flatly, ‘So you won't help?'

She shrugged, irritated at being made to feel guilty.

‘Fair enough. Well, her phone number's on the pad, in case you change your mind.'

‘I'll think about it,' she said ungraciously. ‘Now –' she pushed herself away from the counter she'd been leaning against – ‘what's on the menu this evening?'

For a minute longer Max remained deep in thought. Then he looked up. ‘Cheese soufflé and salad,' he said.

Tom Parish walked across the tarmac to his car, opened the door and stood back to let the furnace-like blast of hot air escape. It was a humid, thundery evening, overcast despite the hazy sunshine. He loosened his tie and flung it on the back seat, opening the neck of his shirt. Avril had gone with the bridge club on their annual outing to a West End theatre, and wouldn't be home till after midnight. The evening stretched ahead of him to do with as he chose, and he intended to go home and change, do a bit of gardening, and then go to the Jolly Wagoner for a bite to eat.

The interior of the car now being bearable, he climbed in and drove slowly out of the car park. The traffic lights were against him as usual, and as he sat waiting, he caught sight of Catherine Bishop at the bus stop diagonally across from him. The lights changed and he turned right into Alban Road, drew up alongside and wound down his window.

‘Mrs Bishop? Can I give you a lift?'

She looked round in surprise. ‘Oh – Mr Parish. That's very kind of you.'

He leant over to open the passenger door, taking her parcels from her as she got in.

‘Car playing up?' he asked.

‘Yes, I've been having a bit of trouble with it. It's in for a service and won't be ready till tomorrow. This really is very good of you. With that number of people ahead of me, I shouldn't have got on the first bus, and there's quite a walk at the other end.'

‘I don't know where you live, so you'll have to direct me.'

‘We turn off in about a mile, at Barrington Road, and drive past the park. Then it's first right into Talbot Road and first left into Willow Crescent – number twenty-three.'

‘Sounds simple enough.'

She laughed. ‘My son wouldn't agree with you, though admittedly he comes from the other direction.'

The development off Barrington Road, Tom saw, consisted mainly of bungalows. Following her directions, he drew up at one of them, distinguishable from its neighbours only by the riot of colour in its small garden.

‘Are you the gardener?' he asked her.

‘Yes, but as I was saying to your daughter, I'm restraining myself until I know what comes up of its own accord.'

He helped her out of the car and opened the gate for her.

‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Or a glass of something, if you'd prefer?'

He hesitated, and she said, ‘Please. It's the least I can do, after bringing you out of your way like this.'

‘Then thank you. Tea would be very welcome.'

She showed him into the sitting room, opened the patio doors for some fresh air, and excused herself to put the kettle on. Tom went to study the photographs on the mantelpiece. One was a head and shoulders portrait of a young man in slightly dated clothes – her dead husband, presumably – and the other a wedding photograph of a tall young man and a pretty blonde girl. The groom, Tom thought, had quite a look of his father.

He turned as she came into the room. ‘I've been admiring your photos.'

She smiled. ‘The entire extent of my family.'

‘Your son lives in Cricklehurst, you said?'

‘That's right.' She poured his tea and handed it to him. ‘His wife's expecting their first baby, and she's having a difficult pregnancy. We're a bit worried about her.

‘This is my week for seeing the Parishes,' she went on quickly, as though anxious to change the subject. ‘I met your other daughter yesterday. I didn't realize you had twins.'

‘And you took her for Rona? A lot of people do.'

‘I was one of them, but of course there are differences, and I suppose they're more noticeable when you see both girls together.'

‘Rona was very grateful for the time you gave her.'

‘It was a pleasure. I thought her charming. Would you tell her I found something else that might interest her? I was going to phone, but there's no urgency.'

Tom sat back in his chair, feeling pleasantly relaxed. It was an attractive room, welcoming and restful, and the Impressionist prints reminded him of her weekend away.

‘How was Paris?' he asked.

‘Wonderful, as always.'

‘You saw the exhibition?'

‘Fancy your remembering. Yes, I did. It was fantastic.'

‘I enjoy looking round galleries myself, but—' He broke off, unwilling to say that Avril had no interest in art.

‘It's hard to find the time,' Catherine supplied, and he nodded gratefully.

‘I brought back some catalogues, if you'd like to see them?'

‘Oh, I would,' he said eagerly.

She opened a bureau drawer and brought a pile of them over, settling herself next to him on the sofa. ‘This is from the Matisse exhibition. They'd arranged the paintings very cleverly.'

She went on to explain the layout of the gallery, pointing out juxtapositions and contrasts which Tom knew would have completely passed him by. He found himself thinking how pleasant it would be to walk round a gallery with this quiet, knowledgeable woman at his side.

Going through the catalogues took some time since she kept stopping to discuss individual paintings, and they were both surprised when the mantel clock chimed seven.

‘How inconsiderate of me to keep you so long!' she exclaimed. ‘Your wife will be wondering where you are.'

‘No, she's not home and won't be back till late,' Tom assured her. ‘They've gone on a coach trip to London.'

‘Then let me at least offer you a sherry before you go. Or a whisky, if you'd prefer?'

Before he could answer, the phone rang in the hall and she went out to answer it. He heard her voice change, become anxious.

‘But what exactly happened? Are you sure? Oh, darling, I'm so sorry . . . Yes, of course I will. Oh God, Daniel, I've just remembered – the car's at the garage. Never mind, I'll get a taxi. . . .Yes, of course I'll come.'

Tom walked quickly to the door, and she turned a worried face to him.

‘Can I help?' he asked.

‘Just a minute, darling.' She put a hand over the phone. ‘My daughter-in-law has been rushed into hospital with a threatened miscarriage. Obviously I shall have to go to them. I was just saying—'

‘I'll drive you there,' Tom said quickly.

‘Oh – oh no, I couldn't possibly—'

‘Where is she? Stokely?'

Catherine nodded.

‘A taxi would cost the earth. Of course I'll take you. As I said, no one's expecting me home.'

‘Then – thank you.' She turned back to the phone, explained the position swiftly to her son, and within five minutes they were in his car again, her overnight bag on the back seat.

‘I do so hope it'll be all right,' Catherine said tightly. ‘They've been trying for a baby for some time. It would be too bad if she lost it.'

‘They can do wonders these days,' Tom assured her. ‘At least she's in the best place now.'

‘It's Stokely General, maternity wing. Do you know where it is?'

‘I've a rough idea. Don't worry, we'll find it.'

From the corner of his eye, he saw that her fingers were gripping her handbag. ‘Try to relax,' he said gently. ‘We'll be there in under an hour.'

‘It's what we find when we get there that worries me,' she said in a low voice. ‘Daniel sounded distraught; he's turning to me now like he did when Neil died. I pulled out all the stops to be strong for him then; suppose I can't do it again? I'm so terrified of letting him down.'

Tom put a hand quickly over hers. ‘You'll find the strength,' he said.

She gave a shaky laugh. ‘Just as well you didn't know what you were letting yourself in for when you drew up at the bus stop! It's really too bad, expecting you to play knight errant twice in one evening.'

‘I'm just glad I can help.'

She was right, of course: he'd had no way of knowing what his impulsive offer of a lift would lead to. All he knew was that he didn't for one moment regret it.

They had come off the Marsborough bypass and were now on the main Stokely road. The evening had clouded over, a thin rain was misting the windscreen, and the banking clouds ahead of them seemed to presage a thunderstorm.

‘I hope you brought an umbrella, Mrs Bishop; it looks as though we're in for a downpour.'

She smiled. ‘I think, in the circumstances, we might dispense with “Mrs Bishop”, don't you? Not many people call me Catherine these days; I'd like you to be one of them.'

Taken by surprise, Tom could only murmur, ‘Thank you.'

‘So, Mr T. E. Parish—?' she prompted.

‘Tom. It's Tom.'

‘Thank you, Tom. That's settled, then.'

They drove in silence while the rain intensified and the evening grew darker. It was just on eight o'clock when they came to the outskirts of Stokely, and Tom prayed that his recollection of the hospital's location would prove to be correct. He was beginning to wonder if he should stop to ask directions when he saw it looming up on their left, and turned thankfully into the gateway signposted to the visitors' car park. The nearest space was a long way from the hospital entrance, and Catherine had not in fact thought to bring an umbrella.

Tom took her case out of the car, and with it in one hand and the other under her elbow, they ran, heads down, over the shining, slippery tarmac as the first peals of thunder broke overhead. By the time they reached the maternity wing, they were both soaked.

Daniel, white as a sheet, was waiting in the corridor. He strode forward, caught Catherine in his arms and held her tightly against him while Tom stood awkwardly to one side.

‘She's lost the baby,' Daniel said unsteadily, ‘but that wasn't even the worst of it. For a long time they couldn't stop the bleeding. God, Ma, I thought I was going to lose her too. It's been a nightmare.'

Catherine's face over his shoulder was as white as his, and her eyes were tightly closed. Tom, his throat tight, knew what this was costing her.

After a minute she put her son gently from her and said, her voice calm, ‘She's out of danger now?'

‘Yes, thank God. But Ma, she's heartbroken – we both are. If ever a baby was wanted—'

‘I know, my love, I know, and of course you're both grieving for it. But the main thing is that Jenny's safe, and in time there'll be other babies.' She became aware of Tom, silent against the wall.

‘Daniel, this is a friend of mine, Tom Parish. He very kindly drove me over here. My son Daniel, Tom.'

The young man seemed to register Tom for the first time, and came forward with his hand out. ‘I can't tell you how grateful we are, sir. Thank you.'

‘I'm only sorry we've not arrived to better news.'

Daniel nodded distractedly and turned back to his mother. ‘Could you possibly stay the night? They're keeping Jenny in, of course, and I'd be glad of the company. Her parents will be down tomorrow to look after her.'

His eyes fell to the holdall Tom was carrying, and he gave a bleak smile. ‘I should have known you'd think of everything.'

Tom said tentatively, ‘If there's nothing else I can do, I think I'll be getting back.'

‘Just a minute.' Catherine turned to her son. ‘Are we able to see Jenny?'

‘Not at the moment; they've given her something and she's asleep.'

‘Then I think we should all have something to eat. Tom and I haven't had supper, and I'm quite sure neither have you. No, don't tell me you're not hungry; nor am I, but we can't function on empty stomachs and we both need our strength. No doubt there's a hospital canteen?'