The Wood Beyond

'That, I suspect, is Pottle's point. Look, I was going to tell you all this last night, when we got to talking about it. Then you came up with your alternative therapy..'

After seeing Pottle he hadn't bothered to go in to the station, justifying himself with the argument that if there was anything more important waiting for him there than the usual pile of paperwork on his desk, the radio would have been foaming with his call sign all afternoon.

At home there hadn't been a chance to talk with Ellie about his day till Rosie was safely stowed in bed. She'd demanded a further episode of a bloodthirsty serial Pascoe had been inventing intermittently for longer than either could remember. Rosie sometimes went weeks without wanting a further episode but when she did, she had total recall of every detail of plot and personnel, and any variation was instantly and savagely corrected. With her editorial help he'd steered the latest instalment to its usual cliffhanging conclusion and she'd smiled up at him blissfully, murmured, 'Fucking great, Dad,' and fallen asleep.

'Ellie, we need to do something about this swearing thing,' he'd said when he got downstairs.

'I'm seeing Ms Martindale tomorrow,' said Ellie.

This was Rosie's head teacher, a charming smiling young woman, who came across as cooperative and conciliatory till you collided with her will of steel.

'Best of luck,' said Pascoe.

'So how was your day?' she asked.

'I'll tell you over dinner,' he said.

He'd started light-heartedly, making her laugh as he recounted his meeting with Polly Pollinger. But when he tried to carry on the mood into his account of his visit to Kirkton, he failed miserably.

'Let me get this straight,’ said Ellie. 'Your great-grandfather, Peter, was married to Alice Clark, both of Kirkton,’

'Yes.'

'Also living in Kirkton was his cousin, Stephen Pascoe, who was married to Mary Quiggins.'

'Yes.'

'And this Stephen was making it with Alice and when Peter was executed for cowardice on the Western Front, Stephen left his wife and child and ran off with Alice.'

'So the old Quiggins woman claims. The other one is too young to have any personal knowledge, but she confirms that was the family tradition.'

'Did Ada ever say anything about having a new dad? Or an uncle called Stephen?'

'Not that I heard.'

'And why did she grow up with the name Clark, her mother's maiden name? If Alice was shacking up with a man who had the same name as her husband's, wouldn't it have been easier just to carry on as Mrs Pascoe?'

'I'd thought about that before all this came up. I was theorizing that she'd gone off and changed her name out of shock and shame. From what I've seen of Kirkton, it can't have been much fun living round there once it got out that your man had been executed by his own side for cowardice. But if she ran off with Stephen, she might have a double reason for changing her name. Shame, and the police.'

'Why the police?' asked Ellie puzzled.

'Because la Quiggins called Stephen a deserter. I know from what Studholme said that he was wounded during the Ypres campaign in 1917. Presumably if he had recovered enough to be having an affair with Alice by late autumn, he'd recovered enough to be returned to duty. Perhaps he didn't fancy it.'

'Hold on,' said Ellie. 'Before you start tarring all the Pascoes with the same brush, Studholme didn't say anything about this Stephen being a deserter, did he?'

'No.'

'Don't you think he'd have mentioned that? Perhaps he ran off with Alice, had a couple of days with her, then when it was time to report back, he went off like a good little soldier back to the Front and got killed.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because clearly he didn't go back to his wife and family, and equally clearly if Ada's silence means anything, he didn't go back to Alice. So, unless he was a real shit and treated his fancy woman like he treated his wife, it seems likely he didn't make it.'

'Yeah, maybe.'

Pascoe passed his hand over his face as if trying to rub something off, a gesture of weary despondency Ellie recognized and deplored. It meant that, quite unnecessarily in her view, he was letting this ancient history get to him in a big way. Damn Ada, she thought. What right did she have to let her life's obsession spill over into her grandson's?

This was the point at which Pascoe had felt ready to bring up his visit to Pottle but before he could start Ellie excused herself and went into the kitchen returning a moment later with an open bottle of his precious Nuit St Georges which she set alongside the already half-finished Hungarian Chardonnay.

Pascoe raised an eyebrow and said, 'Thirsty?'

'You could say. You know how a big red oils my wheels.'

'I can't say I'd noticed them creaking.'

'That's because you're not close enough to listen yet,' she said sultrily. She was very good at sultry when the mood was on her.

They finished the bottle in bed. Of all the teetering tightropes alcohol sets a man to tread, that between desire and performance is perhaps the most perilous, but it seemed to Peter Pascoe that for once he'd got the balance perfectly right, moving forward steady as Blondin, till the air exploded in a blast of nuclear light, sending him plunging joyfully over the edge into what had been a welcome and welcoming darkness.

Then had come that other darkness, and the waking dream which was not all a dream.. but at least it had sparked off this talk … he felt better now. . Ellie had turned away from him, snuggling into the reclaimed duvet. He put his arms round her and cupped her breasts … twin salients these but full of comfort and promise … I too am Homo Saliens, he thought, Salient Man posted here for the duration. .

'Hey, I said no ideas,' Ellie murmured drowsily. 'Far too early. . your hands are cold … let us sleep now.. '

Next time he awoke it was to the sound of the postman whose way with a doorbell marked him as a frustrated fireman. He sat up quickly, wished he hadn't, looked at the alarm clock, wished he hadn't done that either, and rolled out of bed, dragging the duvet with him.

'For God's sake,' said Ellie. 'You're doing it again.'

'We've slept in,' he said. 'I'm late for work, Rosie's late for school, and you're late for.. something.'

'Life,' she groaned. 'Jesus, what do those fucking Frogs put in their booze?'

Catch her unawares and she could be deliciously politically incorrect. But no time now to enjoy the sound, not to mention the sight, of her, sprawled across the bed in a state of naked abandon which even in his present haste brought the familiar lustful tightness to his throat.

The doorbell had long stopped ringing. He dragged on his dressing gown and staggered onto the landing, shouting, 'Rosie, love, get up, will you? You're late.'

'No I'm not,' said his daughter from the foot of the stairs. 'I've had my breakfast and I've been making yours.'

She was all dressed ready for school, neat and tidy as could be, and in the kitchen the percolator was bubbling, the toaster toasting, and two bowls of muesli sat on the table.

By his there was a bulky package.

'I had to sign for it,' said Rosie proudly. 'The postman said really you or Mummy should sign but I said you were busy.'

That at least was something, thought Pascoe. On recent evidence, he'd not have been surprised if she'd told the man her parents were pissed out of their minds and probably bonking their eyeballs out.

He said, 'You've done really well, darling. But you should have waited. You know you oughtn't to be playing around with electrical things in the kitchen.'

She regarded him with the scorn of one who'd been born knowing how to programme a VCR, and said, 'Skimmed milk or Gold Top?'

Pascoe examined the package. The label told him it was from Barbara Lomax, Ada's solicitor. He'd phoned her office to say that he'd carried out Ada's instructions with regard to disposing of her ashes, and would be interested to know what other duties his role as executor required of him. He'd expected there might be a few papers to sign, but this package looked like serious work.