Telling Tales (12 page)

They rode in line with Robert at the front. He was dressed in big khaki shorts which flapped at the leg and a T-shirt with the Christian symbol of the fish on the front. Emma enjoyed the sensation of riding, the pull on her legs, the smell of salt and seaweed and mud. But all the time she was thinking, Please don’t let anyone from my new school see me. Not with my parents and my nerdy brother, all of us looking like something out of Enid Blyton.

Then they were at the Point, and that must have been where Robert was aiming for all the time though he never said. And suddenly it was like riding over the sea, with water on both sides and gulls flying alongside them. At the ice-cream van they stopped. They flopped onto the grass, with the bikes on their sides next to them, while Robert went to buy the ice creams. Christopher rolled onto his stomach and trapped a ladybird under his cupped hands. He’d always captured insects that way. He was looking at it through a hole he’d formed between his thumbs and first fingers, then there was the roar of an engine. He sat up to look and the ladybird flew away.

Arriving back with the ice creams, Robert glowered at the noise. His perfect family afternoon had been disturbed. He muttered about hooligans. The car was black and shiny, a convertible with the roof down, and it pulled up beside them. Loud music, which Emma failed to recognize, continued even after the engine had been turned off. In the passenger seat was Abigail Mantel, her red hair in effective disarray. At first, Emma thought the car must belong to a boyfriend. Abigail seemed much older than she was. Even at that first glimpse you could tell she was the sort of girl who would attract a boyfriend with a powerful car.

Abigail slid out of her seat. She was wearing a denim skirt with a slit down the side and a tight red vest top. They presumed she intended to buy ice cream and made a point of not staring, though Christopher didn’t manage too well. Emma was surprised. She’d never seen him take any notice of girls before. But to everyone’s astonishment Abigail approached them. The ice cream dripped down soggy cones. She lowered herself onto the grass beside Emma. Christopher’s mouth was slightly open, but he was too far away for Emma to kick him.

“Hi,” Abigail said. Her voice was slightly drawling, but not unfriendly. “Aren’t you the new girl? I’ve seen you on the bus. I thought it was you. I asked dad to stop.”

Emma hated the school bus. It was crowded and noisy and no one had made an effort to be friendly.

Each morning she made sure she sat in a corner and stared out of the window. Certainly she had never noticed Abigail.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. Hi.”

Had Keith got out of the car to join them too? Although she strained to think, Emma couldn’t form a picture of him sitting on the grass beside them. She couldn’t hear his voice in her head. Robert certainly had spoken to Abigail. There’d been quite a conversation and he’d been impressed by her politeness. He’d asked her name, then introduced the family. They’d discussed where she lived and the subjects she was taking at school. When at last she’d returned to the car with a wave, he’d said, “She seems a pleasant girl, Em. There, I said it would be easy to make friends in the country.”

Mary hadn’t said a word. She’d seemed frozen. It had been as if she were holding her breath. Perhaps she’d been less certain than Robert that they’d be readily accepted by the natives.

It occurred then to Emma that the meeting with Abigail on the Point must have slipped from Robert’s mind too. He’d told his manager that it would be appropriate for him to supervise Jeanie Long because there was no conflict of interest. He hadn’t known Abigail Mantel, hadn’t even met her. Emma supposed that such a fleeting conversation would hardly count as a meeting.

Wendy, always immaculately turned out for work, always precise and meticulous in anything concerning the launch, lived in domestic chaos. Emma loved the disarray in the whitewashed cottage. Perhaps that was the basis for her affection for the coxswain. They had little else in common. In this house of overflowing waste bins and mountainous laundry baskets she felt liberated, and at the same time superior. She envied Wendy’s confidence. How sure of herself she must be! 1b allow people into a kitchen with unwashed dishes, the foil containers from last night’s take away piled on the table, knickers, still slightly stained despite having been through the wash, draped on a radiator. But despite the envy Emma felt she was a better person because her house was more ordered. She was proud of the clean windows, the boiled dish cloths, the washed curtains.

“I’m really not sure how Wendy would cope with a baby,” she’d once said to James, knowing as she spoke how smug she must sound.

Today Wendy had finished her twelve-hour shift at midday, but Emma had known she’d still be about. She seemed not to need sleep. Cigarettes and caffeine kept her going, she said, and today there was a cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth, as she used both hands to rewire the plug of an iron. She always kept busy despite the mess. When Emma brought in the baby she stubbed out the cigarette and opened a window, but the smell of smoke lingered, hiding something more unpleasant which Emma couldn’t quite identify. Rotting vegetables perhaps, or sour milk. It appeared to come from the larder. Wendy seemed not to notice. She moved her bag of tools from a kitchen chair so Emma could sit down.

“Did you hear the news about Michael’s daughter?”

Her first words, with her back to Emma, as she poured boiling water over instant coffee. Then she turned to judge Emma’s reaction, to share the shock. Throughout the village, Emma thought, people are talking like this. Enjoying the excitement. Feeling that geography has given them an unexpected role in the drama.

“Yes,” Emma said. “I saw it on the television.” Then, offering up the information as a gift, as you might bring chocolates and wine to a dinner party, “Michael was in church yesterday.”

“Was he? I can’t say I liked the old bugger, but you can’t help feeling sorry…”

“He walked out,” Emma said. “I suppose he didn’t want to face people after.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the scene he’d made, spitting wine at her father.

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” Wendy leaned forward. She’d changed from her uniform into jeans and a big, hand-knitted sweater. Her eyes were bright with exhaustion and something else, which made Emma wonder about her, wonder what was really going on in her head. What was it? Desperation?

Exhilaration? Wendy wasn’t always alone. There’d been men friends, lovers. Occasionally they’d moved in, but they’d never stayed long. Wendy had made out she didn’t mind, and at the time Emma had been taken in.

“What does it mean?” she asked gently.

“That the murderer’s still out there, of course,”

Wendy said. “And I can’t see that it could have been a stranger. The police must have asked, ten years ago,

if anyone had seen a stranger around. It would have been noticed, wouldn’t it? A Sunday afternoon in

November, you don’t get many trippers. And if you were the sort who liked young girls, you’d not expect to find one lurking on the edge of a bean field. Besides, she weren’t raped, were she?”

She stopped abruptly, her hand over her mouth, a gesture too stagy, surely, to be sincere.

“I forgot. She were a friend of yours. I am sorry, love.”

“No,” Emma said. “She wasn’t raped.” She looked across her coffee mug to Wendy. “Were you living round here then?” Wendy must be in her thirties. She’d have been about the same age Emma was now.

“In Elvet. In one of the council houses. Married to a bastard. Just before I saw sense and started work on the ferries.”

“Did you know Jeanie Long?”

“I went to school with her. Not that we mixed much. She weren’t my type.” The eyes flashed. “All I’m saying is watch yourself. Don’t take chances. I’m surprised James let you out today on your own with the baby.”

“He’s asleep. He doesn’t know.” She looked at her watch. It was nearly four o’clock, already getting gloomy outside. “Perhaps we should get back.”

“Aye,” Wendy said. “You get on before it gets right dark. And take care now.”

But when Emma left she didn’t lock the door behind her guests. She lit the cigarette and returned to the iron, as if she sensed that she was in no danger.

Chapter Fourteen

When they returned from the Point it was dark and the doors of the pottery were padlocked shut. The square was deserted. It could have been midnight. Inside the house, Emma felt suddenly safe. There was that relief of coming in and slipping off her shoes and making tea, which she remembered from when she’d been working. Perhaps that’s all that’s wrong with me, she thought. I’ve been spending too much time in this house. I can’t appreciate it. Perhaps it’s time to think about going back to work.

James was up. He’d drawn the curtains in the living room and banked up the fire. The walls in this room were dark red and hung with large pictures in gilt frames which he said he’d inherited from ancient relatives. He loved it. When they came in he was sitting on the leather sofa reading a newspaper, but he stood up and took Matthew from her, held him in the air above his head.

“That was a long walk,” he said. He didn’t sound anxious and she felt resentful. There was a murderer on the loose and he wasn’t even concerned. Instead he stood leaning against the window sill looking around the room, beaming.

“We went to see Wendy.”

“She’ll have liked that.”

“She thinks the person who murdered Abigail Mantel could still be living round here.” #

He frowned. “I suppose it’s possible. Does it bring that all back? Like a nightmare? Of course, I can’t possibly understand what it can be like.”

She was surprised and moved, went up to him and kissed his forehead.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “Not to either of you.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t I cook? You get the baby ready for bed, then put your feet up.”

She thought this was how it could be. She could give up her dreams of Dan, who after all was edgy and unpredictable, not even likeable if she thought about it seriously. They could be content, the two of them. She could make small concessions, like going willingly to church with him, and taking more interest in his work, like initiating regular if unimaginative sex, and he would take care of them. For some reason she knew she could trust him to do that. He would agree to her returning to teaching, even if he didn’t much like the idea. Their marriage would survive without argument or disturbance; it would be at least as happy as that of most of their friends. Was that what she wanted? And anyway, did she deserve it?

When she came downstairs from settling Matthew to sleep, James was in the kitchen. He was standing at the workbench chopping onions and garlic, concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear her approach. He’d changed into jeans and a thin woollen jersey. There was nothing between the jersey and his skin and

Emma found herself thinking, with an odd excitement, about the faint irritation this must cause. She stood behind him and slid her hand beneath the jumper, moved her fingers down the knots of his spine, inside the waist of his jeans. He turned, still with the knife in one hand, a bulb of garlic in the other, disarmed. He bent and kissed her forehead, ran the tip of his tongue over her eyelids.

“Why don’t you leave that?” she said. “We can have it later.” It was an experiment. Could she forget her fantasies of Dan Greenwood and learn to make do with reality? A quiet domestic life?

James reached behind him to replace the garlic and knife on the bench. It was as if he had his hands tied behind his back. All the time he was kissing her, and just for a moment she felt herself relaxing.

Then there was a banging on the door. The heavy knocker was rammed down three times. In the quiet house the sound seemed to echo. Emma immediately imagined Vera Stanhope standing there. She was certain it was her, could picture her, legs apart, putting all her weight behind the knocking.

“We could ignore it,” James said. Emma thought the suggestion was half-hearted. It would be too daring for him, and already he was feeling slightly embarrassed by his abandon.

Ske came to his rescue. “No.” If it was Vera Stanhope she wouldn’t go away. She would stand there all night if necessary, get a warrant and smash in the door.

Emma had been so convinced that the inspector would be standing there that she almost felt cheated. She’d been planning an angry outburst. Do you realize my baby’s asleep? I’ve already told you everything I know.

The figure on the doorstep was taller than Vera Stanhope, better proportioned, almost athletic. He’d turned away and was looking out at the square. His long hair was tangled. He wore a thin waterproof anorak and there was a small rucksack at his feet. It was the last person she would have expected.

“Chris,. What are you doing here?”

He turned to face her. His face still had the brooding quality he’d developed as an undergraduate. She’d thought it was a pose, a way of attracting women, but now it seemed to have become a habit. There were dark shadows under his eyes, emphasized by the light over the door, which also made his features more angular than she remembered.

“I’ve come to see my sister,” he said. “Of course.” He bent and pecked her abruptly on her cheek. His lips were icy. “I hope you’ve got some beer in there. Otherwise we’ll have to send James out to find some. I’ve been travelling all day. I’m desperate.”

“How did you get here?”

“Last bus from Hull. It took bloody hours.”

“You should have phoned. I’d have come to get you.”

“I don’t believe in cars.” He laughed. She couldn’t work out if it were a joke at his expense for having such uncomfortable principles, or if he were mocking her for taking him seriously. She’d never known how to react to him. Although she’d been the older one, she’d always been intimidated by his intelligence. The gap between them had grown wider since Abigail’s death. Neither of them had made the effort to bridge it.

She realized she was still standing in the doorway, blocking his way into the house. She moved aside.