There really should be a shipping warning when people like Heather entered one’s natural orbit, thought Mrs. Molfrey. She closed her eyes and prayed.
“Ah well,” said Heather, now safely on the threshold. “Ta-ra again.”
“Could you knock on Cubby’s caravan as you go by, please?” asked Mrs. Molfrey. ‘Tell him the lemon drizzle’s up.”
Becky sipped a little of the tea which she disliked quite as much as Heather.
“Isn’t that extraordinary, Becky?” said Mrs. Molfrey, inhaling the jasmine fragrance with a sigh of pleasure. “Going off to care for someone who’s ill with no more than a handbag. You’d think at least they’d take a little Benger’s. Or some beef jelly.”
“P’raps Mr. Hollingsworth’s going to drive over later.”
“Perhaps. What I can’t understand,” continued Mrs. Molfrey, “is why she took the bus. It takes nearly an hour to cover the distance Charlie’s taxi does in fifteen minutes.”
“Well, can’t be to save money, Mrs. Molfrey.” Becky glanced at her watch. “Sorry, I have to go now. I’m running a bit late.”
“Dear child,” cried Mrs. Molfrey. “Why didn’t you say?”
For the next couple of days Fawcett Green attempted to observe the owner of Nightingales in what it regarded as a discreet manner. This involved slowing up, often to a marked degree, when passing the house and looking in the windows. Listening keenly for the laser whir and soft metal clunk of the garage door being opened or closed. Or strolling down Mrs. Molfrey’s back garden and casually glancing over the fence. But in every instance Fawcett Green was unlucky. The object of their interest did not show himself.
It was plain, however, that Simone had not returned, which left a male person living on his own. Naturally it was thought, for there is nothing more conservative than an English village, that such a man must be in need of assistance. Immediately this need was diagnosed, a support group rallied to satisfy it.
The group did its best. An apple pie, some fresh eggs and a jar of green tomato chutney were placed on the doorstep of Nightingales and stayed there until they were aggrievedly taken back. A message slipped through the letter box offering to collect and return any necessary washing was also ignored. As was a note asking if any shopping was required and an offer to cut the hedge. Umbrage was well and truly taken when it was discovered that a boxful of convenience foods had been ordered by telephone and delivered by Ostlers, the village store.
After this the frustrated Samaritans, acknowledging that you just couldn’t help some people, gave up any direct approach. A sharp eye was still kept, though, and the village noted, not without some satisfaction, that only twenty-four hours after Mrs. Hollingsworth’s departure, things started to take a definite turn for the worse.
On Friday the curtains remained closed till lunchtime. On Saturday and Sunday they were not opened all day. Determined to regard such moral laxity as a cry for help, the team renewed its efforts by tapping on the front door and, when this was ignored, repeating the procedure at the rear, in both cases with negative results.
When the milkman called for payment, there were three full pints on the step. He rapped the knocker several times and shouted, “Milk-oh!” through the letter box. Eventually the door opened a fraction, a ten pound note was pressed into his hand and the words “Don’t leave any more” were breathed through the opening on whisky-soured breath.
Naturally this was all round the place in no time. Later, further verification of Alan Hollingsworth’s debauched state was provided when a stream of bottles descended from his wheelie bin into the masticating maw of Causton Borough Council’s refuse lorry. Avis Jennings said it sounded as if someone was disposing of a greenhouse. The vicar, put in the picture by his spouse, thought of all that Jack Daniels consumed in lonely isolation and wondered if he should once more attempt to offer solace.
In the Goat and Whistle the regulars discussed Simone’s absence among themselves. No one believed the “illness in the family” story. The landlord, no doubt chagrined that not a single swallow of Hollingsworth’s river of forgetfulness had been purchased at his establishment, was especially scathing.
“A load of old cock,” he said, pulling a Beamish for a puce-complexioned man in a Tattershall check waistcoat. “She’s buggered off to get a bit of life for herself. And I for one don’t blame her.”
There was a rumble of assent. Neglect a pretty wife, was the general theory, and you’re asking for trouble. Not everyone agreed. An advocaat and lemonade snowball thought that, far from being neglected, Mrs. H was kept on such a short leash that boredom and frustration had driven her to snap it. This was also not universally acceptable.
“You work your fingers to the bone for ’em,” said the Beamish, “buy them everything they want and where does it get you? Bloody nowhere.”
A female with arms like Popeye and a leering, pockmarked face threw darts with savage accuracy. She pointed out how totally pathetic it was that men let themselves go the minute they didn’t have some poor drudge of a woman running round after them.
“I can think of one party who won’t be heartbroken,” said the snowball very quietly. She winked and tapped her nose which was tiny, soft and porous like a mildewed strawberry. “After what Hollingsworth done to him.”
“Cruel, that was.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d run off with her hisself.”
“Nah. He’s got other fish to fry.”
Everyone turned and looked down the room to where a solitary drinker sat nursing a half of bitter. He didn’t look as if he was about to start dancing on the ceiling. More as if he was expecting it to fall on him any minute. He’d hardly spoken since he came into the bar and now, draining his glass, Gray Patterson got up and left without a word.
It had actually been in the Goat and Whistle that Gray had met his “other fish.” At the time he had not appreciated just how unlikely such a contingency was. She had visited the pub no more than twice in the five years since she had moved to the village. On this, the second occasion, Sarah Lawson had dropped in for a box of matches, the village store having run out.
He knew who she was of course—in such a small place everyone knew everyone else by sight—and a little about her. She taught parttime in adult education, had hardly any money, her house was falling down. She made models out of clay and also worked with stained glass. It was rare to walk past Bay Tree Cottage without hearing music, powerful operatic bawling that Fawcett Green accepted with a resigned shrug, for artists were known to need a creative ambience.
Gray was intrigued by Sarah’s looks and the way she dressed. By her gravity and by the fact that she appeared genuinely not to give a damn as to what anyone thought either of her or her way of life. And so, following her out of the Goat and Whistle and catching up in St. Chad’s Lane, he introduced himself.
“Oh, I know who you are,” responded Sarah. “From the front page of the Causton Echo.”
“You make me sound notorious.”
“Doesn’t take much in a place this size.”
“You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“Sounds like a useful, if slightly patronising, tip.”
“Sorry.”
A bad start. They walked on in silence while Gray sought to repair the damage. He had more sense than to attempt a personal compliment which he felt would be judged both clumsy and impertinent. But he could, in all honesty, praise her garden.
“Every time I come down this way I admire it.”
“I can’t imagine why.” She had a calm, clear voice. “It’s an absolute shambles.”
“The balance, I think. You seem to have something of everything but not too much of anything.”