Most of that fury, of course, was addressed to herself. She knew what she should do. The windscreen repairer summoned to Shefford’s probably hadn’t even started on the job yet. She should ring Bill and put him off. Then she should dial 101 and get a Crime Number. She should also tell the police in that call about the unpleasant message still lying on her kitchen floor. She had, after all, been deliberately targeted by a criminal.
But, because she was Carole Seddon, she did none of these things. Because all of them would have drawn public attention to her shortcomings. She should have known about the limitations of her car insurance. Or at least she should have checked its provisions before she authorized the repair. And someone who had spent most of her career at the Home Office should have known the right thing to do was to report the crime.
But all Carole could think was that, if she allowed the repair at Shefford’s Garage to continue, very few people would ever know about her Renault having suffered the indignity of being vandalized. Bill Shefford, yes, but no one else at the garage. The repairman would know nothing about the circumstances of the breakage. Inevitably, a few locals taking early morning walks past Fethering Parade would have recognized her car. But only a few. Hopefully, her prompt action would have staunched the noxious flow of village gossip at source.
The next thing she did, Carole knew was wrong by any standards. She picked up the piece of paper on the kitchen floor, got out a box of matches and burnt it in the sink. She washed the ashes down the plughole. She shuddered slightly as the last black flakes disappeared.
Her fear of doing something wrong was not as strong as her fear of drawing attention to herself.
Carole Seddon was very good at blanking things out.
She continued with her morning as if the call to the insurance company had never happened. Gulliver stayed at High Tor beside the Aga, trying on the reproachful look of a dog who hadn’t just been for a nice gambol on Fethering Beach. The reproach was mixed with resignation. Long experience had taught Gulliver that he very rarely got more than his scheduled morning and evening walks. But it was worth trying, hope once again triumphing over experience.
The only difference when she got back to Shefford’s was that the Renault had been moved. Presumably, that meant the repair work had started and was being done round the back of the building. Inside the reception area, there was no one around, not even Frankie in her glass box. Carole moved towards the workshop door, which was ajar. She was about to go through when she was stopped by the sound of a voice raised in anger.
‘But, for God’s sake, you’ve got to make a decision soon!’
She recognized the tones of Billy, Bill Shefford’s son and – everyone in Fethering assumed – his father’s partner in the business.
‘I don’t want to be hasty,’ responded Bill, clearly not enjoying the confrontation.
Carole moved to sit on one of the plastic chairs, the optimum eavesdropping position.
‘We can’t just let things drift on,’ Billy persisted.
‘They’ve been “drifting on” – as you put it – quite satisfactorily for nearly forty years.’
‘Yes, but times have changed, Dad. You don’t seem to realize how much times have changed.’
‘Just give me time to think about it, Billy.’
‘You’ve had bloody years to think about it, and you’ve still got no nearer a decision!’
‘Don’t shout. The windscreen repair guy will hear you.’
‘I don’t care who hears me! You know when Mum was alive, she kept saying that you should make changes. She’s been gone seven years and what’s happened? Bugger all.’
‘Hm. Valerie always did spoil you.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m talking about saving this business.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Bill Shefford insisted feebly.
‘Oh yeah? After you’ve consulted her, no doubt?’
‘Obviously, I won’t make decisions on something as major as this without consultation.’
‘“Consultation”? The person you should be consulting is not her. It’s me, your bloody business partner!’
There was a silence after this outburst. Then a new voice joined the discussion. Frankie’s. ‘And what’s this about her doing a book-keeping course?’
‘The education system wasn’t so good where she grew up. She’s got a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Oh yes?’ Frankie’s voice was larded with cynicism. ‘Sure you’re not lining her up to take over my job?’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Frankie. You know I wouldn’t.’
‘Wouldn’t you? You’d do anything she tells you to.’ The cynicism in Billy’s voice was laced with pain. ‘And why didn’t you tell me she was doing a car-maintenance evening class as well as the book-keeping? Thinking she’ll be able to replace me too, are you?’
‘Billy, son, you know it’s not like that. I do have some concept of loyalty.’
Carole looked up at the sound of the garage’s front door opening. A short, rather beautiful woman of Asian origin entered, just as Billy said, ‘And what kind of loyalty did you show to Mum’s memory by marrying her?’
‘Ah,’ said the new arrival, in very slightly accented English. ‘They are talking about me.’
THREE
Jude, Carole’s neighbour, was, as the French say, a woman who fitted her skin. And with the passage of the years, there was no lack of skin to fit. The precise definition of her contours was vague, because her dress style always involved a lot of floaty garments and light scarves. In the same way, the contours of the furniture in her sitting room were softened by a plethora of rugs and throws. Jude’s blonde hair was always piled up on top, secured in a gravity-defying structure of grips and pins. There was a natural warmth about her which, for men, invariably translated into sexual magnetism.
Jude was a healer whose sitting room in Woodside Cottage was her treatment space. She worked to her own timetable. Though she would be there for anyone in a crisis, she generally didn’t book in any appointments before ten in the morning. She liked the waking-up process to be gentle, and faced the world more happily after a cup of tea in bed.
But receiving a phone call at nine thirty that morning seemed quite acceptable. It was not from someone she recognized, a man who identified himself simply as ‘Jeremiah’. (Given her own reluctance to use any of her surnames, Jude could hardly blame him for that.)
‘Good morning. My name is Jeremiah, and I am a healer.’
‘Ah. Good morning, Jeremiah.’
He had a deep, confident voice which she was sure could sound very empathetic in a therapy situation. ‘I’ve recently returned to this country after practising in the States and Australia for some years. Well, since I’ve been working in this area, everywhere I go I’m told that the go-to local healer is someone called Jude in Fethering.’
Unsure whether this was just flannel, Jude said nothing, so Jeremiah went on, ‘Anyway, a) I’d like to meet you, and b) I have an idea for a project on which I would be interested to get your views.’
Jude was wary of ‘projects’, particularly when put forward by other people in the therapeutic world. Too often, they involved some collaborative venture and, though Jude was very open to other people, she knew that her healing was only effective when she did it on her own. The concentration of energy she asked of herself was never so easy to summon up when there was a person other than her client present. But it would have been churlish to refuse to meet Jeremiah. Over the years, she had made a lot of friends through the business of healing and complementary medicine. Jude was a great believer in learning from other people.