“Right.” Anne didn’t know what else to say. “Well, thank you.” She was confused because although she hadn’t changed her opinion of Barbara as a neurotic cow, the woman was obviously sincere. She also found it odd that Barbara could speak with such authority about a company matter. Godfrey had never mentioned her in connection with it and Anne had imagined her a good northern wifey, staying at home and washing socks, keeping her nose out of her husband’s financial affairs.
“Are you involved with your husband’s business?” she asked. Perhaps Barbara went in a couple of times a week to work in the office.
“We’re partners. Not that I’ve played an active role since Felicity arrived, though of course Godfrey consults me. It was different in the early days. I grew up with the business. My father owned our first site at Slateburn. When we married he retired and we took it over. It wasn’t easy. In fact it was a terrible strain working every hour in the day just to keep going. But looking back I suppose I enjoyed it.” She smiled. “I enjoyed it more when a bit of money started coming in and we could catch our breath.” She seemed lost in thought. The nervous frown returned and she twisted the paper napkin she was still holding. She looked, Anne thought, like someone rolling a joint, though that was hardly her style.
Anne wondered why Godfrey never admitted to marrying the boss’s daughter. Perhaps struggling to success alone made a better story. She didn’t resent that. She told stories about her own past the whole time. The truth was so unexciting.
The woman stood silently for a moment. All around them was conversation and laughter. A great deal of the tepid wine had been drunk. Above the buzz she heard Peter’s voice, schoolboy clear, the diction perfect.
“Neville! Well, this has all gone very nicely, hasn’t it? You must be pleased.”
Langholme was a small place so she’d heard of Neville Furness. Son of Dougie who’d gone to college and got above himself. Land agent for the Holme Park Estate and then head-hunted to join Slateburn Quarries because, word had it, he was someone who could talk with the big landowners. Soon after, the deal was announced between Godfrey and the Fulwells. She had seen him when he’d lived in one of the tied houses on the estate. She’d taken to walking her dog along the lane at a time when he often went jogging, had tried to engage him in conversation but nothing had come of it. She’d tried to find out if he had a woman, but apparently not. She was aware suddenly that Barbara Waugh was looking in the same direction. But while Anne’s gaze at the dark muscular body was frankly admiring, Barbara’s was hostile, even afraid.
Barbara reached out and grabbed Anne’s arm.
“Come to see me,” she said, ‘ Alderwhinney. That’s the name of the house. We’re still in Slateburn. Anyone will tell you where it is.
I’d like to talk to you. Come for coffee. Or lunch. Any time. I hardly ever go out.”
It was almost a repetition of what Godfrey said when he first mentioned his wife. She didn’t say goodbye. She pecked Anne on the cheek and ran back to Felicity. Anne watched with astonishment.
Perhaps I should have gone, Anne thought. She pushed in the final pole. Tomorrow she would come back with the quad rats It might have been amusing. I suppose I could still go now, keep Barbara informed about the survey. It’s not as if Slateburn’s miles away. I wonder what Godfrey would make of that.
Chapter Fifteen.
The next day it was pissing down with rain so they were all holed up in the cottage together. Anne suffered an hour of Rachael nagging about how this was a good opportunity to tidy up a bit, then couldn’t stand it any longer. She took the grotty Fiat into Langholme. The rain was so hard that she had to stop occasionally for the windscreen wipers to push the water from the screen. She phoned Godfrey from the public call box next to the garage.
It would have been more convenient to go back to the Priory but Jeremy was there and she couldn’t stand the thought of his fussing. He’d spent the last few weeks telling her that they’d have to tighten their belts. He’d even raised the possibility of selling the Priory. She’d only realized then how much the house meant to her. The thought of giving up the garden made her feel murderous. She’d nearly told him that she’d only married him for the Priory but realized in time that might be foolish. One of his famous deals might yet come off.
A boy, whose voice still seemed to be breaking, answered the phone.
“Hello! Slateburn Quarries Ltd. How may I help you?” When Anne said she wanted to talk to Godfrey there was a pause, then some whispered conversation. She was immediately suspicious. At last the boy spoke again: “I’m sorry, Mr. Waugh isn’t available just now.”
“When will he be available?”
“Not until tomorrow evening. He’s at a conference.”
“Where?”
The boy sounded confused. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know.”
It was then, in a fit of pique, that Anne phoned Barbara. She wanted to pay Godfrey back for not coming to the phone, when she was feeling so miserable. He hadn’t mentioned a conference to her. First she dialled directory enquiries. That almost took the decision about phoning away from her. If the Waughs were ex-directory, which they almost certainly would be, she’d have to give up the idea. But she was put straight through and before she could have second thoughts Barbara answered, a curt
“Waugh’. It sounded so like the imitation of a dog barking that for a moment Anne was distracted. When she did speak she managed to sound as confident as if they were old friends.
“You did tell me to get in touch. I thought I’d better not just turn up. You might be busy.”
But Barbara Waugh wasn’t busy. And she remembered Anne perfectly, though they had met only once several months before. She insisted that Anne come to the house now.
“Do come if you’re free. Stay for lunch. It’s perfect. Felicity’s spending the day with a friend and Godfrey’s away for two days at a conference.”
So if he’s lying, Anne thought, it’s to both of us.
Godfrey had never invited Anne to his house. After all, it was one of Barbara’s characteristics that she never went out. Apparently, even if she occasionally planned a trip shopping or to the cinema, she didn’t always go. Perhaps it was a sort of sickness. Anne knew where the house was, all the same. She had driven past out of curiosity, seen a rather stern modern house built of grey stone with a grey slate roof.
Anne would have broken the harsh lines with creeper and climbers but the Waughs’ garden was conventionally tidy. There was a bare expanse of lawn, curved borders, coloured now by symmetrical clumps of crocus and snowdrops, backed by more mature shrubs. The only touch of imagination was the tree house, nailed into a gnarled sycamore.
Although the platform on which the house was built was only about three feet from the ground it was reached by a wooden ladder. Anne thought Godfrey had probably built the house himself for the Beloved Felicity.
Recently she had come to think of the child in this way, seeing the words beginning with a capital letter like an obscure saint or martyr.
When she arrived it was still raining. The front door opened before she left the car. Barbara was standing there. Anne sprinted over the gravel to meet her and stood in the hall shaking the water from her hair. Barbara was dressed in blue denim trousers, but not the sort of jeans Anne was wearing. These wouldn’t fade at the knee or rip at the bum. Over the trousers she wore a navy fine wool sweater. Her face was discreetly made up and there was a hint of perfume. Anne had considered going home to the Priory to change but couldn’t face bumping into Jeremy. Besides the jeans she was wearing a rugby shirt and a waterproof. She wore no make-up and her hair could have done with another application of colour tint. It was more grey than rich chestnut brown.