She was in her late sixties, sturdy rather than plump, dressed in the kind of belted blue cotton dress which, never having been fashionable, did not look unfashionable. There were thick brown sandals at the end of her stout legs. Grey hair was cut short in what was once called a ‘page-boy’ style, and her ruddy face looked as if it had never bothered with make-up.
‘Jude, so good of you to come. I’m Brenda, as you probably worked out. Jonny’s in the garden. I haven’t told him you’re coming. It’s often better if he doesn’t have time to worry about things. Do come in.’
Jude was led through an immaculate hall, whose white-painted panelling was bright with highly polished horse-brasses, trivets and warming pans, into a sitting room, from whose French windows a beautifully kept garden sloped down into a small valley. There was no sign of Jonny; he must have been working out of sight down the bottom of the garden.
But there was someone else in the room. Propped awkwardly on an armchair with a footrest extension sat a thin old man, neatly dressed in cavalry twill trousers, a Tattersall checked shirt and a lovat-green cardigan with leather-covered buttons. He appeared unable to move, though a flicker in his half-open eyes registered the new arrival.
‘My husband Kenneth. He’s had a couple of strokes, but—’ she smiled determinedly across to him ‘—you’re on the mend now, aren’t you, love?’
Brenda Tyson left a polite moment for some response, but there was none. ‘Do sit down, Jude. Can I get you a tea or coffee or something?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
At that moment Kenneth Tyson slipped slightly in his chair and was left hanging over the arm. While his wife straightened him up, Jude took in the sitting room. Like everything else about the Tysons’ cottage, it was impeccably neat. Curtains with a design of ivy on a white background toned with the sage of the carpet and the darker Dralon of the three-piece suite. Kenneth Tyson’s chair, though clearly a piece of specialized furniture, had been covered to match the rest.
And on every surface in the sitting room were celebrations of Jonny. Photographs of him as a baby, an infant, a child, a teenager, a powerful adult. The flattened face with its same huge smile beamed from every frame.
Brenda Tyson followed Jude’s eyeline and could not repress a smile of pride. ‘He’s nearly forty now, you know. When he was born, they said there was no chance we’d have him that long. But the care has improved, and . . .’ She chuckled. ‘Mind you, when he was born, he was called a “Mongol”. But we’re not allowed to say that now. “Down’s syndrome” . . . I don’t know why that’s reckoned to be any better. I suppose it’s all this political correctness – mustn’t say anything that might be hurtful to the Mongol hordes. Though, having lived in this area all my life, I think it’s only a matter of time before someone pops up and says “Down’s syndrome” is offensive to the South Downs. Doesn’t worry me, though. Whatever name he’s given, he’s still basically just our Jonny.’
There was tension in her smile as she finished and Jude realized that, in spite of her relaxed mumsy exterior, Brenda Tyson was on edge. Her long speech had been displacement activity, putting off what she really wanted to say.
Jude was good at silence, and she let it extend until Brenda felt ready to confide in her.
‘The fact is, Jude, I’m worried about anything that may upset Jonny.’ She gestured round the sitting room. ‘We’ve got everything settled here for him. He knows what to expect. He’s calm. There’s a rhythm to his life which suits him.
‘The same up at Bracketts . . . not quite to the same extent, because there are a lot of other people up there . . . but he knows what’s expected of him, and he works very hard for them in the garden . . .’ She couldn’t resist a proud digression. ‘Jonny’s wonderful with plants, you know. He really seems to understand them, be in tune with them.’ Her gaze shifted out through the French windows. ‘He does everything here, you know. It’s all down to Jonny.’
Brenda Tyson was again silent, still having difficulty getting to the point she wanted to make.
‘You’re worried that this business with the police may upset his routine?’ Jude suggested.
The woman smiled gratefully. ‘Exactly that. Most of the time, when he knows what’s going on, Jonny’s fine. He’s a real ray of sunshine to have around the place. But when there’s something he doesn’t understand . . . he gets confused. He, sort of, has tantrums. And he’s such a strong boy that . . .’
‘Are you saying he sometimes gets violent, Brenda?’
A firm shake of the head. She wasn’t going to have that word applied to her son. ‘No. He gets confused, as I said. He becomes very truculent and unco-operative. Jonny’s like all the rest of us – he likes to be liked. If he gets the impression someone dislikes him, if someone’s harsh with him . . . I’m sorry, I know I’m overprotective . . . but I’m his mother and I know him so well . . . He’s very trusting with strangers, but if someone’s nasty to him – or shouts at him – or bullies him . . . he reacts very badly.’
‘Did Sheila Cartwright ever bully him up at Bracketts?’ asked Jude tentatively.
She had feared Brenda Tyson might read this as suspicion of her son, but that anxiety was immediately diffused. ‘No. Sheila was very gentle with him. With all the . . . oh dear, what’s the current politically correct way to describe them? “People With Learning Difficulties”, that’s probably it. Sheila set up that whole system, she saw the potential for co-operation between Bracketts and all the training colleges that look after . . . people like that. And she was always particularly good with Jonny. Very calm, let him take things at his own pace. Sheila had a son too. She lost him. I think that made her extra-sensitive to Jonny.’
This was a new dimension to the image of Sheila Cartwright, but Jude did not disbelieve it. She could not imagine Brenda Tyson speaking anything other than the complete truth.
‘Does Jonny know what happened to Sheila?’
Brenda shook her head, shame-faced. ‘I haven’t dared tell him yet. And I’ve kept him away from news bulletins on the television and radio – not that he’s ever much interested, anyway. No, he doesn’t know anything.’ The face that looked up at Jude contained a mixture of apology and pleading. ‘It’s the kind of news that’ll really upset him, destroy his equilibrium. And it’ll make him angry with me. Jonny’s never very good at distinguishing between the bad news and the messenger.’
‘Would you like me to tell him about Sheila Cartwright?’
The open red face showed how much Brenda Tyson would like to say yes, how much she’d even been angling for the offer, but her sense of duty stopped her. ‘It’s something I should do.’
‘I don’t mind. He’ll have to know, because of the things I need to ask him about Mervyn Hunter.’
‘It really should be me,’ Brenda insisted. ‘I’m his mother.’
‘You’re his mother, and you’ve done brilliantly for him.’ Jude’s gesture encompassed the whole cottage. ‘You’ve made this wonderful environment for him, You’ve made him safe and secure. Much better he should hear this bad news from someone else.’
‘Well, if you really don’t mind . . .’
‘I don’t make offers I don’t mean.’
As she sat back in her chair, some of the tension left Brenda Tyson’s body. But its departure heralded a new sadness. She looked around the perfect sitting room and the perfect garden beyond. ‘And who’s going to break the really bad news to him?’
‘Which really bad news?’
She sighed. ‘When Kenneth dies. When I die. I’ve told him it’s going to happen, every day I tell him it’s going to happen, and he says he understands, but he doesn’t. “If you start dying, Mummy, I’ll make it better. Jonny’ll look after you.” He doesn’t understand.’ A distant pained look came into her eyes. ‘I know why people in this situation sometimes kill their children. It’s less cruel than to leave them alone in a world that doesn’t understand them.’