Country Lovers (15 page)

They were greeted with a round of applause by the clients in reception, which embarrassed them both.

“He's getting as bad as that Scott, he is.”

“Where've you two been then?”

“I don't know what it is to be in love.”

An old man, with a grin on his face, asked Megan, “Does your father know you're out?”

Rhodri beat a hasty retreat to his consulting room, slipped on his white coat, and when he saw who was the first on his list, he almost groaned. “Goliath Costello.”

Megan apologized for their late arrival to Joy, but she simply laughed and said, “Don't worry. I'm glad you've put a smile on his face; he's badly in need of it.”

“I know. Something has to be done.” But she didn't enlighten Joy about what it should be.

Megan's last words echoed around Joy's head long after she had left. Had the time come to do something positive about Duncan's being missing, but was he actually
missing
? Or had he kind of mislaid himself for a while because he needed time alone? He'd been dreadfully distraught and exceedingly frank the night she'd admitted she tried to love him. What a stupid, hurtful thing that was to have said.

When Joy got home that night, she searched frantically for his passport, first in the place they always kept them, namely the secret drawer in his desk, but it wasn't there. They'd both renewed their passports at the same time, so she checked her own and saw it was another two years before they needed renewing again, so it wasn't because he'd sent his off for renewal. But he wouldn't anyway without hers. So the truth dawned on her: He'd decided before he left that he might go abroad. A grown man in his right mind was free to go where he wished. It didn't mean he was in danger, did it?

Money! Did he have access to money? She checked the small amount of mail that had accumulated since he left. They'd always been scrupulous about not opening each other's mail, but she overrode her feelings on the matter and stuck her thumb in the flap of the envelope from his bank and took out the statement. He'd withdrawn all the money and closed the account. This was when she began to think she should contact the police.

         

T
HE
next morning she went straight up to the flat to find Miriam. Mungo, she knew, had already gone downstairs to begin work, so this was her chance. She found Miriam still at the breakfast table, reading the morning paper.

“Hello! What can I do for you, Joy?”

“Just need a word.” Perkins hurtled in to have a word before she could say anything. “Hello, my best dog. And how are you this morning?”

She found comfort in his greeting, but it did nothing to lighten the pain in her heart.

Miriam put down the paper. “Tea?”

Joy shook her head. “Tea, no. Sympathy, yes.”

“What's the matter?”

“It's Duncan.”

“Yes?” Miriam realized Joy didn't look her usual self this morning and dreaded what she might hear.

“He's gone.”

Relieved, Miriam said, “Oh! Is that all? He often does. How many times have you told me that? In the middle of a project, can't sort it, goes out for long walk, comes back. Resolved! Hey presto!”

“He's been gone for days and days. Taken his passport, clothes, and hasn't been in touch once.”

“Why?”

“We had a row.” She told the whole story in detail and then, surprisingly, broke down in tears.

Miriam pulled a tissue from the box on the windowsill and handed it to her. “He is a grown man, well used to surviving on his own. Accustomed to solitude. Just because he's taken his passport doesn't mean he's gone abroad. He's taken it just in case he decides to, I expect.”

Joy looked up at her and said sharply, “Don't take it so calmly. He's a missing person, don't you understand?”

“But, Joy—”

“Never mind ‘But, Joy.' That's what he is: a missing person. I just want to know where he is. If he's all right. You'd think the least he could do is ring me.”

“Joy! Joy! You should never have asked him to have sympathy for Mungo, of all people. No wonder he disappeared. He's probably sitting in some mountain hut somewhere in Switzerland, enjoying the sun, eating his breakfast, wishing you were with him.”

“Ever the optimist.” Joy wiped her tears away. “I'm going to the police. Just to say he's kind of missing.”

“If it makes you feel better, you do just that. Take photographs, in case.”

“Do you think he's lying on a mortuary slab somewhere, and no one knows who he is?”

“You've watched too many TV hospital dramas, you have, Joy Bastable. He's got his passport, you said so yourself. Of course he's not, but if it puts your mind at rest, then go to the police and inform them.”

“I will. At lunchtime.”

“Go now. I'll keep an eye downstairs. Look, I'm fully dressed; I'll fling the breakfast things in the dishwasher and be down there in two ticks.”

“Don't tell them where I've gone. Say it's a doctor's appointment. OK?”

“OK.” Miriam stood up, hugged Joy, and said, “Why shouldn't they know, though? You've a right to be anxious about your husband, surely? Go in our bathroom and adjust your makeup. I feel quietly confident he'll be all right. There's no need to worry.”

         

T
HE
police took it calmly too. Her husband was adult, in his right mind, and free to come and go as he chose. But yes, they'd keep an eye. Let them know if he came back. Description? Ah! A photo. Good. Well, it was on the records now, madam. With a lovely lady like you to come back to, he'll soon be home. Don't worry.

What else could she do but worry? The fool. In her heart she knew she'd have a long wait. Why on earth should Duncan
want
to come back to her? She looked in her rearview mirror at herself. She didn't look like a lovely lady this morning…more like an old hag. To have said she
tried
to love him! She was such a fool. As she swung into the practice car park, Joy braced herself to face everyone.

Chapter
• 11 •

D
an was on veterinary duty at the weekly cattle market, so Rose had arranged to collect Mr. Jones and take him to see it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to one and was up and about early to make sure he didn't delay Rose. Megan was flustered, hoping against hope that he wouldn't turn vicious on Rose, as he often did on her; some mornings the slightest thing could set him off. But he appeared too enthusiastic about his trip to bother being aggravating.

“You'll be all right on your own today? I'll be back before lunch, though.”

“I shall be fine. Absolutely fine. You go and enjoy yourself. More toast?”

“I think I will. Now you're sure Rose will have room in her car for me? And the chair?”

Megan nodded. “Of course. I've told you—they have a huge Mercedes sedan. They've room for two wheelchairs.”

“Is the baby going, did she say?”

“No, the cleaner's taking care of him.”

“Pity, I'd have liked to see him. Rose is a lovely girl. Full of zest about everything.”

“She's very beautiful too. Such poise. Yet she doesn't rub your face in it like some people would do when they know they're lovely to look at.”

“Can't think why she fell for that ugly beggar. She could have had anyone she liked.”

“Da! He isn't ugly. Not at all. Just a bit craggy. He's lovely when he smiles.” Megan paused with her teacup almost at her lips and looked far away into the distance. Her da looked up and saw what he called her “Rhodri look” on her face. He was about to say something cruel that would hurt her, but he changed his mind. He'd realized she was just as beautiful as Rose, but she hadn't been given the opportunity to glow with love as Rose had. And that would make the difference. And why didn't she glow with love? He didn't get time to answer his own question because Rose was at the door calling, “I'm here. Are you ready?”

They left for the market in a flurry of fitting in the wheelchair. Had he got his blanket for his knees? Would he need a hat? Should he…? Impatient of Megan's concern, he said abruptly, “Let's be off, Rose, or it will all be over.”

Rose kissed Megan good-bye and whispered, “Have a quiet morning to yourself.”

Megan waved them off and went indoors, glad to be alone.

         

R
OSE
parked her car in a space reserved for the disabled and got Mr. Jones out and ensconced in his chair. He was so eager to see what was going on, he didn't complain once about her ineptitude with the wheelchair nor the fact that she hadn't Megan's strength when it came to helping him out of the car. Mr. Jones could taste the sounds and sights of the market before he could even see it, and he was looking forward to a reminder of life as it used to be.

He relished the goat pens; admired the cows; studied the chickens, ducks, and geese; saw some pigs he rather fancied; and thoroughly enjoyed listening to the farmers and the farming community exchanging news and views.

They spotted Dan after a while near the sheep. He was arguing with a farmer about a dozen or so sheep in a pen in front of them. “I'm sorry, I'm saying this for the last time: These ewes are not fit. I have to insist you withdraw them from the sale.”

The farmer, Bernard Wilson, a big burly man, unshaven and unkempt with a noticeably prominent broad nose, folded his arms across his chest and said belligerently, “I'm damn well not listening to a load of soft-in-the-head, do-gooding tripe. There's nothing wrong wi' 'em that some good food won't cure.”

“I shall need to examine each one, and if I find that any of them are unfit to travel, then I'm afraid I shall have to put them down.”

“Put them down! You damn well will not.” He squared up to Dan, prepared to fight for his rights.

Tad Porter materialized beside Dan. “I might have known that lot were thine. They're rubbish and tha knows it.”

“Since when 'as Tad Porter known better than me? I've been in the sheep business for forty years, and I say there's nowt wrong wi' 'em.”

“I'd shame to own sheep in that condition.”

Phil Parsons erupted from nowhere shouting, “You're at it again then, Bernard. I knew them were yours the minute I clapped eyes on 'em. Rubbish, they are. It's neglect that caused that lameness, and there isn't a peck of flesh on 'em.” Phil leaned over and reached into the pen, digging his fingers into thick fleece and feeling the spine of one of the sheep. “Skeletons they are. Skeletons.”

Bernard put up his fists. “And you can mind your own damn business. Yer can't even see 'em wi' that balaclava over yer eyes.”

Phil shouted, “I may not make a fortune from farming, but I do know neglect when I see it. He's right, is Dan, they're not fit for sale. Cruel neglect, that's what.”

Tad Porter, puffing on his pipe, drew a powerful pull of smoke into his lungs, released it in a pungent cloud, then said, “Trouble is, Bernard, tha's idle. Phil's right, it's nowt but sheer neglect.”

Dan hadn't heard Tad speak in such long sentences ever before and sensed he was deeply stirred by the condition of the sheep, though there seemed to be another bone of contention mixed with his anger. Dan said firmly, “You know as well as I do they are not in good condition, and I've half a mind to get the RSPCA involved.”

By now a small crowd had gathered, hoping for some excitement to add an extra thrill to their day. There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd, and someone who looked as though he might be an animal rights activist waded in with, “Criminal! That's what. He shouldn't be allowed to keep animals if he can't care for them better than this. It's my opinion he should be prosecuted. Are you willing to put the wheels in motion?” He addressed his question to Dan, but before Dan could answer, Bernard had planted an almighty fist on the man's nose, knocking him back into Tad and Phil and scattering them into the crowd. Blood poured from the man's nose, splattering on anyone close to him. Bernard roared, “And you can keep your nose out of it too. I know you from before—you're another of them do-gooding activists.”

Dan intervened. “Now, now, this can all be settled quite amicably. Let's not get too excited.” Bernard advanced on Dan, who nimbly skipped out of his way, hands palm upward. “That's enough. We can't have a brawl in the middle of the market. I'm doing my job to the best of my ability, and in all conscience I cannot allow these animals to be put up for sale. They are in such poor condition it amounts to neglect, as Phil said.”

Tad Porter stepped forward. “It's not the first time he's brought sheep unfit for sale. He's done it before, but no one does anything about it. Even the RSPCA can't pin 'im down. You go for 'im, Dan. And while you're at it, look at 'is dogs.” In a quiet aside, Tad volunteered to take care of Bernard's sheep for a couple of months, get them up to scratch, sell them, and give Bernard the money. “Can't abide to see animals neglected like this. I may not like the chap, but his animals aren't to blame for that. It's a genuine offer. I feel real sorry for the poor old sods. You tell him.”

When Dan put Tad's proposal to him, Bernard exploded. “Definitely not. I'm not a charity case. Far from it.” He took up his belligerent position again, arms folded, chest stuck out, bottom jaw jutting. “Do your worst.”

The activist, having stemmed the flow of blood from his nose, said thickly through the clots of blood still blocking his nostrils, “There's Richie! Come over here; you're needed. We'll see what the police think about this. I'll have him for assault.” He vigorously beckoned the inspector over.

Dan had had no intention of involving the police, but it was now too late. Richie, whom he'd met at Bridge Farm, was coming across.

Mr. Jones rubbed his hands with glee. “I haven't had such fun in years.”

Rose wasn't quite so sure. She didn't count it as fun to see her beloved under threat from a bully like Bernard Wilson, and was, truth to tell, relieved to have the inspector on the scene. The activist wanted Bernard prosecuted for grevious bodily harm, and insisted on his right to have him charged, but Dan declined to get involved in charges about neglect, preferring to approach the whole matter on a long-term basis of ensuring Bernard was supervised much more closely and, dare he use the word, educated into a positive attitude rather than being under threat of prosecution.

It all fizzled out after a while because the inspector had to make notes, and Bernard, seeing he was about to be arrested if he didn't calm down, lost his belligerent edge and was positively meek and mild. Only Phil Parsons and Tad Porter remained to see it through.

Phil said quietly, “His dogs—he breeds beagles—are a disgrace. Disgusting conditions. Broke my Blossom's heart once when she fancied one and went to have a look. Filthy they were. The RSPCA had a go at him a year or so back; he improved for a while, but they're as bad as ever, I bet. Honest. He advertises pedigreed puppies for sale in the newspaper, but I bet there isn't one that's in good nick. I'm off to the trailer for a coffee; want one?”

Dan nodded. Phil asked Mr. Jones and Rose if they wanted one too and they both agreed. He came back with a tray laden with paper cups steaming with coffee, wooden spatulas instead of spoons, and a mountain of packets of sugar. Very pointedly he'd brought one for Richie too but not for Bernard Wilson. Tad Porter insisted he pay for his own. Phil refused his money. “Don't be daft, there's no need.”

“I won't be beholden to anyone. We're all of us doing badly; you can't afford to be generous.” He pushed the money into Phil's jacket pocket. Phil said gruffly, “There's no need for that.”

Mr. Jones and Rose took their coffees to a quiet corner and Rose sat down on a wall to drink hers. “I guess I'd no idea being a vet could be so…well…lively.”

Mr. Jones gratefully took a sip of his coffee and then said, “You've no idea how much I've enjoyed myself this morning. I haven't been to a market for…well, I can't remember when, and I want to thank you for taking the time. You've made an old man very happy.”

Rose patted his arm. “I've an idea you're not much older than my stepfather, so less of the old.”

“Where is he?”

“Coming to England next week on business. Privately, I think it's an excuse to see Jonathan. He's so proud of him, you'd think he was his own grandson. Which he is in a way, but not really.”

Mr. Jones stared ahead at the auctioneer working his way down the pens. “I miss out on life, you know. Megan can't marry because she has me to look after, and as for my son, well, he won't marry in a thousand years. He's…you know.”

Rose thought she knew what he meant and simply answered, “I see.” The tension between them was relieved by her mobile ringing.

“Rose, here.” She listened, then said, “Right, I'm on my way.” She snapped her phone off and said, “Sorry, got to go. Jonathan needs feeding and won't be pacified with a bottle. I'll tell Dan. He'll look after you and see you home. I should have expected this.” She stood up from her seat on the wall, and Mr. Jones thought yet again what a lovely girl she was. So elegant. And so…well, beautiful.

“That's all right, my dear. I'm sure Dan will take care of me. Hurry home. And thank you.”

“I'll find Dan for you—”

“No. No. That's all right, I'll find him myself.”

“Are you sure, I don't like leaving—”

“Of course I'm sure. I
can
manage this thing, you know. Megan can always come for me if needs be.”

H
AD
Megan witnessed her father's surprising spurt of independence, she would have been astounded. But at that moment she was more than occupied with the situation she was facing. Her dogs were not allowed to sleep in the house, but had warm, snug beds in one of the unoccupied stables. From time to time she cleared out the stable, washed their bedding and today, while her father was out, she was painting the inside walls to keep them fresh. She was wearing an old scarf around her head because she always managed to splash paint everywhere and most especially on herself, an old pair of black Wellingtons kept specially for the purpose, old cotton trousers, and a shirt that had seen better days. This job she could do without his continual interruptions, and she was busy singing while thinking about the coming evening when she and Rhodri were going to a classical concert in the old town hall.

She'd promised herself to make plans that would free her from her daily obligations to her da, but so far had not come up with any ideas. Bending down, Megan painted the last corner on the third wall and then turned the ladder round to paint the wall with the window and the door in it. She was adjusting the ladder to enable her to reach the topmost part of the wall when Gab appeared in the doorway.