“You said two things had changed.”
“Yes, well, the other thing of course is that I’m no longer the old church mouse, am I? I’ve built up the Crown and Anchor, haven’t I? And though the actual finances there are very shaky, to my greedy little ex-wife it looks like I’m coining it. So suddenly divorce becomes a rather more attractive idea.”
In the cause of fairness, Carole felt she should point out that Sylvia also had a new man in her life. “She does actually want to remarry.”
“Yes, but I reckon marrying Matt is relatively low on her priorities. What she really wants to do is stitch me up.”
“Sure you’re not being a bit paranoid?”
“No. This is not a fantasy. Sylvia’s out to get me!”
Carole refrained from commenting that she’d never heard anyone sounding more paranoid, instead asking, “And presumably Matt hasn’t got any money?”
“You’re bloody joking. Like I said, he’s a delivery driver. Very much a step down for our Sylvia.”
“Then how’re they going to pay the bill at a place like Yeomansdyke?”
“On her credit card, I imagine – and their prospects of getting half the proceeds when I finally have to sell up at the Crown and Anchor.”
“Oh, Ted, it won’t come to that.”
“No? After the couple of weeks I’ve just had, I wouldn’t put money on it.”
“But you’ve built up that place on your own. Sylvia made no contribution at all. She has no rights on the business.”
“Not what her lawyer says.”
“Really?”
“She’s got one of these really sharp feminist solicitors. Real man-hater. All men are rapists – let’s squeeze every last penny we can out of them.”
“And what’s your solicitor like?”
Ted Crisp shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve hardly met the guy. He dealt with the purchase of the Crown and Anchor, that’s about it.”
“And was he any good?”
“How can you tell with a lawyer? The paperwork came in. Followed by the bill. Par for the course, isn’t it?”
“But does he specialize in divorce?”
“I’ve no idea.” Ted had become listless now.
Cataloguing the history of his marriage had depleted his last resources of energy.
“Don’t you think you ought to get someone who does specialize in divorce?”
“I think what I ought to do, Carole,” he said as he rose from the table, “is to thank you for the coffee – and your concern – but to tell you once again that this is my bloody mess and it’s down to me to get out of it.”
He turned and shambled away. His jeans and scruffy T-shirt looked out of place amidst the bright beachwear, and the cheerful shouts of children splashing at the edge of the sea seemed only to accentuate his misery.
“Where are you going?” Carole called across to him.
“Back to the Travelodge.”
And, no doubt, to the bottle of Famous Grouse.
Fifteen
The healing had worked. The woman with the dodgy hip had left Woodside Cottage walking more easily and in a lot less pain. As always at such moments, Jude felt a mix of satisfaction and sheer exhaustion. Only someone who has done healing can know how much the process and concentration involved drains one’s energy.
She was infusing a restorative herbal tea when the phone rang. It was Sally Monks, the social worker who had provided Ray’s address for her. Her voice sounded tense. “I’ve only just heard the news.”
“About Ray?”
“Yes. Obviously I knew that there had been a death down at the Crown and Anchor, but I’ve only just heard that it was Ray who died. Wondered if you knew any more about it.”
“A bit. Not a lot.”
“Well, look, I can’t talk now. I’m on my way to an appointment and talking in the car – which I know I shouldn’t be – but I’ve got to drive through Fethering later this afternoon. Might you be around then?”
“Sure. What sort of time?”
“I can never be quite sure because my visits can get complicated, but hopefully fourish. That be OK?”
“Fine,” said Jude.
In fact it was after five when a black Golf parked outside Woodside Cottage and Sally Monks came bustling out. She was a tall redhead of striking looks. All Jude knew of her private life was that she didn’t wear a wedding ring, but someone who looked like that couldn’t lack for masculine attention. Jude had come across a good few social workers in the course of her working life, and found they fitted into three main categories. There were the ones who were simply bossy and always knew better than their clients. There were the ones who got so personally involved with the people they were meant to be looking after that they almost ended up needing social workers themselves. And there were the buck-passers, dedicated to the covering of their own backs, so that wherever responsibility ended up, it wasn’t with them.
Sally Monks was an exception who didn’t fit into any of the categories. She was the ultimate pragma-tist. The moment she encountered a problem, she started thinking of solutions to it. But she didn’t impose these solutions, she worked with her clients, so that they felt part of the process of finding a way forward. She was also very direct, she didn’t dress up the truth with vague reassurances. This characteristic, as well as an allergy to paperwork, frequently brought her into conflict with her employers. She had been the subject of any number of disciplinary meetings and reprimands, but the social services always stopped short of sacking her. They couldn’t afford to lose anyone who was that good at her job.
“Sorry to be late,” she said as she came through the front door (which Jude had left open to get some air moving round the house). “Client was an old boy who’s just moved into a nursing home, and who hates watching television in the communal telly room. I’ve tracked down his son to get a set into the old guy’s bedroom.”
“Are the residents allowed to have their own televisions?”
“No.” Sally Monks grinned. “But I’ve fixed that with the managers of the place.”
She put down her leather bag and flopped on to one of Jude’s heavily draped sofas, glowing not only with the heat, but also with another small victory over bureaucracy. She wore a black linen shirt and trousers, creased from too long spent in the car, but still looking pretty damned elegant.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Love one.”
“Virtuously cooling or alcoholic?”
Sally Monks glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. “Oh, go on, you’ve twisted my arm. I was full of honourable intentions to write up three weeks’ backlog of case notes tonight, but…what the hell?”
“White wine be OK?”
“White wine would be perfect. Pinot Grigio for preference.”
“Sorry, don’t have that. Can you make do with a Chilean Chardonnay?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sally with a grin. “I’ve always been prepared to slum.”
As she got the drinks, Jude reflected how easily she and Sally always slipped back into relaxed banter. They didn’t really know each other that well, but there had never been any strain in their relationship. And some things – like their love lives – they just never discussed.
Jude also felt a slight guilt at how much less relaxed the atmosphere might have been had Carole been there. Much as she loved her neighbour, she knew there was always a necessary period of awkwardness when Carole was introduced to someone new. So it had been some relief to hear that that afternoon had been earmarked for one of her neighbour’s monthly Sainsbury shops. (Carole had forgotten her fabricated excuse of doing a big shop the previous Saturday.)