At least that daughter of Mantel’s had had a bit of life about her, a bit of spirit. He’d seen it during the Sunday dinner when they’d all come to the Point. You could tell by the way she’d tossed her head; she’d wanted you to look at her. If Jeanie had been a bit more like that perhaps they wouldn’t have fought so much. Except, he thought, there had never been much real argument. More a bad-tempered silence, with Peg acting as a buffer between them, squashed between Jeanie’s surly resentment and his anger. The Sunday dinner had been Peg’s idea. “Jeanie’s obviously mad about the man. He’s older than her but that’s no reason to disapprove, is it? You’re older than me. It’s not like he’s still married.” He’d tried to explain to her that there was more to it than that, but she hadn’t been able to see it.
At seven o’clock Michael allowed himself to get out of bed and make some tea. Still all he could think about was Jeanie and how he might have got her wrong. The anger had become a habit like waking up too early, only now he had no one to turn it against except himself. Even conjuring up images of the probation officer didn’t work any more. While the kettle was boiling he thought of the whisky in the cupboard under the sink and it was a real effort not to reach down and fetch it out. Then he heard Peg’s voice. Had to stop himself from turning round because he could almost believe she was in the room with hinfr Drinking before breakfast, Michael Long? I’d not put up with that. As he squeezed out the tea bag against the side of his cup it occurred to him that he might be going mad. What he was going through would send anyone crazy. How could he stand the same thoughts and memories rolling around in his head until he died? That was why he’d gone to church of course. He’d thought there might be magic, that when he put the round cardboard wafer on his tongue, they’d all disappear. It was nothing to do with repentance or forgiveness at all. But it hadn’t worked. Nothing would.
He took the tea to the bedroom but he didn’t get back into the crumpled sheets. He sat on the edge, holding the cup in one hand and the saucer in the other. He heard himself slurping the hot liquid and imagined Jeanie’s horrified face whenever he’d done that in public. Mantel’s daughter had only laughed. It had been at the same lunch, the only time Mantel had stepped foot inside the house on the Point as far as he knew. Peg had made a pot of tea after the meal, and he’d drunk it as he always did, only perhaps he was even noisier because he had been drinking before they arrived to give himself a bit of courage. There’d been a silence, the look of disgust on Jeanie’s face, then Abigail Mantel had thrown back her head and laughed. Somehow that had broken the ice and they’d all joined in; even Jeanie had eventually managed a thin smile.
The prison governor had come to tell him about the suicide. It had been about this time of day, maybe a little later. Michael had opened the door to fetch in the milk and he’d been standing there, a tall grey man in a suit and a black overcoat. He must have been planning in his mind what he intended to say, because his lips had been moving. The sight of Michael, still in his dressing gown, had surprised him. He’d recovered himself quickly though. You had to think on your feet if you were a prison governor.
“Mr. Long,” he’d said. “I’m from Spinney Fen…”
Michael had interrupted. “You’re wasting your time. I told the other one. I can’t have her here.”
“Jeanie’s dead, Mr. Long. I think you’d best let me in.”
And he’d sat in the small front room for more than an hour telling Michael what had happened. How an officer had come to unlock Jeanie for the morning and had found her. How she’d already been dead for a long time, probably soon after lock-up the night before. How there’d been nothing anybody could do. “We’re all dreadfully sorry, Mr. Long.” Sounding as if he meant it. The bombshell had been dropped when he’d been about to leave. “It’s possible that Jeanie was innocent, Mr. Long. I understand the police intend to reopen the Abigail Mantel case. Jeanie hadn’t been informed. There was nothing official, you understand. Nothing we could do at this point. But I thought you should know.” He’d paused in the hall. “Would you like to see your daughter, Mr. Long? I can arrange that if you’d like it:
For a moment Michael had been tempted. Then he’d thought, I don’t have the right. I wouldn’t see her when she was alive. What right do I have to intrude on her now?
He’d shaken his head without speaking.
The man had walked out of the front door, stooping as he went, because he was so tall that he was afraid of hitting his head on the lintel. Michael had watched him go to his car, which was bright red and rather sporty, and had decided that he could kill himself too. There’d been one indulgent day when he’d fantasized how best to go about it hanging like Jeanie herself, or pills, or drowning. He’d fancied drowning. This time of year when the water was cold it didn’t take long to lose consciousness and there was something fitting about a boatman sliding to rest under the waves. He hadn’t done it, of course. He’d seen it as cheating. He’d stay around long enough for Abigail Mantel’s killer to be brought to justice. He owed Jeanie that much.
Michael went to the bathroom and washed and shaved. The last few days he hadn’t bothered, except yesterday just before church, but if he were going to stay alive he supposed he’d have to do it properly. Play by the rules to the end. For the same reason he put some bread under the grill for breakfast and forced himself to eat it.
He was drying up the plate and the cup when the doorbell rang. It was just after eight thirty. It wasn’t the day for the woman who came once a week to clean for him, so he ignored it. It would be the press again, some reporter offering a fortune for a picture of Jeanie, promising to tell his side of the story. The bell continued, a sharp continuous ring, as if someone was leaning against the button. He went into the hall. Through the frosted glass of the front door he saw a shape, a bulky shadow.
“Go away,” he shouted. “Leave me alone. I’ll call the police.”
The noise of the bell stopped and the letter box flap was pushed open from outside. He saw an open mouth, a throat, moving lips.
“I am the police, pet, and if you don’t fancy a little jaunt in a jam-sandwich to the police station you’d best let me in.”
He opened the door. A woman stood on the doorstep. Something about the way she stood there reminded him of Peg, and he changed his attitude and felt well disposed towards her for no other reason than that. Perhaps it was her size which triggered the memory, the thick legs and heavy, comforting bust. But there was something else. The way she smiled, knowing he was a grouchy old git, but miraculously seeming to like him anyway. She walked into the hall.
“Bit poky in here,” she said.
He didn’t mind. Not like he minded the probation officer Winter pushing his way in, presuming to know something of what he was feeling. She was the sort of woman who said what she thought as soon as she thought it. There was no putting on a show for the rest of the world.
“I saw you in church yesterday,” she went on, followed you out. But you seemed a bit upset and I thought it would best wait a day.”
“Probably just as well.”
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Must be coffee time then.”
“I don’t have coffee,” he said. “Will tea do?”
“It will if it’s strong. I can’t bear weak tea.”
She was still standing when he came into the lounge with the tray. He’d made tea in a pot, and covered it with a cosy Peg had knitted using up old scraps of wool. There were mugs. He thought she might sneer at a small cup. She was looking at the photographs on a shelf in the alcove next to the gas fire. One of him standing next to the boat that day they’d given him the award, a big grin on his face which had more to do with the ale he’d supped, than with the medal. And another of him and Peg on their wedding day, him as skinny as those Africans they showed on telly whenever there was a famine, her all soft and round with a circle of silk flowers in her hair and roses in her hand.