Death of a Friend (11 page)

‘No, you can’t,’ chimed in Clement, like a little echo. ‘We won’t let you. There isn’t anybody to be our dad now Charlie’s gone.’ 

‘You’ve got Richmond,’ Martha interrupted.

The boys’ eyes met, and Hugh gave a small frown. ‘We really want Nev,’ said Clem, with a polite smile at his aunt. ‘He’s our proper father.’

Nev clasped both hands around his head, and squeezed. A groan came from somewhere deep inside him. ‘What a fucking mess,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t deal with this, I just can’t.’

‘Tough,’ spat Alexis. ‘That’s really tough, kiddo. Because as I see it, you don’t get any choice. As Hugh so rightly says, you are their father.’

Nev raised his head, and stared hard at her. ‘Since when have fathers been so bloody important around here?’ he demanded.

A renewed barking outside effectively halted the conversation. ‘Somebody’s here,’ said Clem. A minute later, there was a knock on the front door.

Alexis was forced after all to lead Val and Polly into the living room, because the kitchen was so crowded. The fire was smouldering uncertainly and she added two more logs. She directed the visitors towards the settle, and took a window seat for herself. The weak light from outside was enough to throw her face into shadow, so that neither visitor could fully make out her expression. She, on the other hand, could see
them only too well, and was struck by the vivid contrast in their appearance.

‘I hope you don’t mind Polly coming as well?’ Val said carelessly.

Alexis shrugged. ‘It’s all the same to me,’ she said. She wasn’t in the mood for bland courtesies after the events of the day so far.

Polly Spence had her thick black hair pulled away from her face and tied at the back of her neck. Her movements were economical, graceful, betraying her Indian grandmother as much as her skin colour did. A persistent tension between her obvious strong feelings and her cool manner made her a fascinating figure.

‘We’ve come about Nina and Charlie,’ said Val, at the outset. ‘I’m not sure I made that clear yesterday? After all, they were both part of the protest movement.’

‘Even though they hardly agreed on anything,’ said Alexis dryly. ‘Funny, that.’

‘Funny that you should think it true,’ observed Polly. ‘It bears little relation to the way I saw it.’

‘Anyway,’ Val ploughed on. ‘We’ve had a phone-round, and everybody agrees that there should be a proper memorial to them, Nina especially. She was our leader, and we’re going to be lost without her. She was such a special person, too. The favourite idea is a charitable fund of some sort. We’d set it up properly, and
get a committee to run it. It could be quite a big thing – a national appeal. Honestly, Alexis, you probably don’t even realise what a significant name Nina was.’

‘You weren’t at the funeral, were you?’ Alexis shocked the woman into silence with her question. Polly sat back, awaiting her moment. Val’s mouth fell open.

‘What? Oh – I wrote to tell you – didn’t you see my letter? I had a case conference, which I absolutely couldn’t miss. What difference does that make?’

‘Sorry. None, I suppose,’ Alexis shook her head. ‘Except that Polly already mentioned all this to Martha, and we’re frankly not very impressed by the idea. Nina was a rebel by nature. And a good organiser, I admit. But her claim to fame was as a sort of gang-leader, if we’re honest. I’m not sure that her reputation bears much scrutiny. Now, Charlie was different. He had it all sorted: the ethics, the psychology, the tactics – everything. I’d be more interested in memorialising him, quite frankly.’

Val hastily nodded concurrence. ‘Yes of course. As we said …’ She looked to Polly for help. ‘At least, we thought Nina’s name should be on the appeal. But there’ll be plenty of opportunity to talk about Charlie. Although – um – he was in fact
murdered
, wasn’t he? I’m not sure—’

‘You think that tarnishes his image?’ said Alexis. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It isn’t very glamorous being bashed to death, is it? I do see.’

Polly stirred uncomfortably. ‘We are
terribly
sorry about Charlie,’ she said earnestly, her large brown eyes widening with sincerity. ‘And it’s all so recent – you can’t possibly have got used to it yet. We should have waited before coming to see you – but it is rather urgent. The hunt season ends in a few weeks, and then everything goes quiet for the summer. We did want to get the appeal launched right away, you see. If you could just give it your consent, we can get out of your way.’

‘Why do you need my consent? What have I got to do with it?’

Polly looked shamefaced. ‘We need to know that you won’t try to prevent it. We’re very keen to avoid any embarrassment.’

‘I see.’ Alexis smiled at a passing thought. ‘After all, we Cattermoles are a highly embarrassing family.’ She waited a moment, aware of the undiminished tension in the room. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you what you want. I think the idea stinks, quite honestly. My sister was no saint, and not a suitable figurehead for any appeal. If you’d listened to Charlie, you’d know that fox hunting is doomed anyway. I know he put a lot of energy into the
protests – but he believed he was just hammering a few more nails into its coffin. It doesn’t matter how much money you raise or what rallies you organise. It’s over, already. Stop wasting your time and go back to doing something useful. That’s my reply. Sorry.’ She regarded the stunned faces with some pleasure, and something lifted slightly inside her. She thought she could hear Charlie faintly applauding her for the stand she had taken.

Polly Spence stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, inclining her perfect oval head on the swanlike neck. ‘Come on, Val. We did our best.’

‘You can’t mean it,’ Val blustered. ‘It isn’t just hunting. What about live exports, battery farms, genetic engineering?’

‘And pollution, packaging, population and prison reform?’ added Alexis with sarcasm in her tone. ‘Charlie cared about it all, and a lot more. But it needs real live people out there, getting publicity and taking risks – not people salving their consciences by giving money to charity. No appeal fund in the world can make a real difference.’ Her voice became quieter, serious. ‘As I see it, the world’s doing pretty well, in spite of all these problems. I think you protesters are misguided, in a way. Charlie knew how I felt about it. It’s entirely a matter of perception. But I don’t want to argue with 
you. Go, please. Leave us in peace with our grief.’

The women left, Polly with dignity intact, Val bristling with outrage and disappointment. Just before Alexis closed the door on them, Val turned, and said, ‘You haven’t heard the last of it, you know.’

Eight Friends gathered at the usual meeting for worship on Sunday, at eleven a.m. Three Elders – Hannah, Bill and Silas; two members – Dorothy Mansfield and Miriam Snow, and one attender, Polly Spence; plus the wardens. Nobody spoke throughout the Meeting, but Hannah Gratton found herself fighting back tears as the silence deepened. Her emotions began to swirl uncontrollably, laced with memories and increasingly uncomfortable thoughts. The police had been restrained in their account of how Charlie had died, but enough of a picture had been given for Hannah to feel a sense of horror at the brutality of it.

She knew Silas would waste no time in going
over all Charlie’s misdemeanours yet again, as soon as Meeting was over. Her cousin had always been a trial to her, and there seemed to be no respite to be expected in the old man’s lifetime. She winced at the idea – it came close to wishing him dead, and that was an unwholesome thought to be having at any time, let alone during Meeting for Worship. Families could be a curse, she knew only too well. They could bring more acute suffering than anything else, as well as the most love. Yet she had come back to the family when she could have made a life for herself in Africa or Eastern Europe. Hannah had given ten years of her early life to a village school and other work in Madagascar before coming back to Devonshire and her brother with his motherless sons.

At the time, she had confided in Sarah Beamish, the wise Elder, who had lived far into her nineties, and been forced to agree when Sarah said, ‘My dear, caring for those boys is Quaker work, just as much as bringing education to little African children.’ So Hannah had made the best of it, and become a mother to Charlie, in her prime, when she could have done anything, gone anywhere. She might even have married Benjamin.

Unbidden, the image of her lover formed behind her closed eyelids. So tall and strong he’d been, with skin like nothing she had ever known before, and a mouth that could consume her in
flames. He only had to smile and show the tip of his crimson tongue for her to lose all sense of who and where she was. That was over thirty years ago now, and the power of her feeling for him was as great as ever. She had been thirty-five and her African lover only twenty-two – but the age difference had no meaning to them. Leaving him behind had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

Because it had been impossible for them to make a life together in Britain. He could never have settled in this alien land, with its rain and its unwelcoming people. Benjamin was born to live in the sun, to walk ten miles a day and work his magic on his own people. And Hannah was called home to give stability and love to Charlie and Frank.
Surely, Lord,
she thought to herself now,
I might have been given a little more reward for my sacrifice? What have I now, but one dead nephew, and one who feels himself lost to us because of what he did?
A bitter taste filled her mouth. She recognised it as self-pity and resentment. And anger. Not against Frank or Silas or even the wreckage that was now Bill. No, the person Hannah was enraged with was Charlie, dead in a ditch with the marks of horseshoes all over his head.

Bill came to her side, as soon as hands had been shaken, and the announcements given out
by Hannah herself, in her capacity as Clerk to the Meeting. His shoulders were hunched, his skin an unhealthy grey. Bill was a naturally silent man, poor company by any standards; the loss of his younger son had only driven him further into his own lonely world.
What must we look like?
Hannah wondered, thinking of Charlie’s girl Alexis, who had come to the special meeting a few days ago.
What a strange lot we are.
She looked round at the small group, waiting for the undrinkable tea which Mandy had scurried off to make. It seemed to Hannah that they all had some peculiarity which set them apart from the modern world. Silas was an old curmudgeon, living in the past, afraid of his telephone and ridiculously doting on his smelly dog. Clive was walking wounded, though he would never admit it. His zeal for Quakerism made the others uncomfortable – people who needed to would find their way to the Meeting without being rounded up by the Warden. Over the centuries, there had been a diminishing enthusiasm for evangelism amongst Quakers, until now it was quite frowned upon. Clive stood slightly aside now, his dark features set in a fixed expression which betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. ‘Probably the oddest one of all,’ thought Hannah, taking care not to meet his eye.

Dorothy and Miriam were chatting with
some animation, and Hannah moved over to join them. ‘Oh, Hannah,’ said Miriam, laying a soft, well-manicured hand on Hannah’s arm, ‘I did want to come on Friday, but it was just impossible. You know how
terribly
sorry I am to hear about Charlie. It’s just too horrible for words.’

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Hannah. ‘That’s kind of you.’ She did her best to like Miriam, but the white hair and the pink face conveyed a vacuity which Hannah found it difficult to embrace. It was unusual for such persistent lack of intelligence to find satisfaction in Quaker activities. The silence of the Meeting, and the assumption of honest integrity, threw people onto their own resources, drawing out whatever nascent qualities lay within. Miriam was something of a failure in this respect. She drifted with whatever media-induced breeze might blow, rising to give ministry about fleeting headline trivia, which she became deeply concerned with for a brief period, before something new caught her attention. Miriam had taken Charlie and his animal rights very seriously for a while, particularly when he made the front page of the local paper for three weeks in succession.

‘Bartholemew was here,’ said Dorothy. ‘Pity you missed him.’

Hannah inwardly smiled at this small piece of
mischief. It was no secret that Miriam harboured an unsuitable affection for Barty which was sternly and consistently rebuffed.

Regret flitted over Miriam’s face, and she said nothing.

‘Have you and Bill made any plans for the funeral?’ asked Clive from behind Hannah’s shoulder. She jumped violently, and swung round with a frown on her face. ‘Sorry,’ he said carelessly. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you.’

‘Well, don’t creep about like that,’ she said tartly. The shock on his face was almost comical. ‘Especially when everyone’s nerves are so jangled. My nephew has been
murdered
, you know.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ he told her gravely. ‘An awful thing to happen, especially amongst Friends.’

‘We’re not immune to violence,’ she said quietly. ‘Just unlikely to be the practitioners of it. At least, we like to think so.’

‘We do indeed,’ he nodded. ‘I can’t think of a single Quaker murderer, throughout history.’

‘I can’t either,’ she said. ‘But I dare say there have been one or two.’

‘The funeral?’ he prompted.

‘We have to wait for the police to deliberate. If there’s a prosecution, their defence is entitled to call for another post-mortem. That means we can’t have a cremation. If the inquiry is prolonged,
then I understand they would give permission for a burial after a certain time. We just have to be patient and do what we can to assist the police in their investigations.’ ‘Of course,’ said Clive. ‘I didn’t realise what was involved. What a business this is! If only Charlie could have been a bit more—’

‘A bit more
what
?’ demanded Hannah. ‘Prayerful? Ready for an early death? What do you wish he had been, Clive?’ Irritation was overflowing, and she could do nothing to stem it.

Clive looked at his feet and pursed his lips in exaggerated compassion. ‘No, no. Just … well, he was rather confrontational, wasn’t he. Showed the Quakers in a poor light, in that respect.’ He glanced up and noticed her expression. ‘I’m sorry. I ought not to criticise him now he’s not here to defend himself. I did say it to his face. He knew how I felt.’

As if that makes any difference,
thought Hannah sourly.

Polly’s was the next orbit to coincide with Hannah’s. The tea was now being distributed, as always so slowly that it was cold before it touched one’s lips. In such a small group, this was hard to understand, but it was always so. People hung back, the cups were wide-brimmed and cooled quickly, and Hannah suspected that Mandy never waited for the kettle to reach
boiling point before making the tea. She always took a cup, and always found it revolting.

‘No Val today?’ she asked Polly, who shrugged.

‘I don’t consult her before Meeting, you know,’ she said impatiently. ‘We don’t come in the same car. We live six miles away from each other. It’s strange the way people think we’re inseparable or something.’

‘You’re quite right,’ Hannah placated her. ‘I can see it must be annoying.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the woman exhaled, with a long, mournful breath. ‘I’m in a foul mood.’

Me too,
thought Hannah, grimly. But she was an Elder, she had duties. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me about?’ she said gently. ‘It’s a pity to feel like that after Meeting. We always hope it will improve people’s state of mind.’

‘No, no. I’m really sorry to dump it on you, when you’ve got so much to cope with. Unforgivable of me. But everything seems to be falling apart just now. Do you know, they’re shipping another load of calves from Plymouth tomorrow? They’re older than before, but it’s just as cruel. After everything we’ve tried to stop them! There’s just so much cruelty going on. I sat there in Meeting, going through it all, and getting myself more and more upset about it. And wishing Charlie was here to give us some guidance. It’s going to be very hard to carry on
without him. Him and Nina, of course.’

Hannah made a great effort. ‘Nina?’ she queried, before recollecting herself. ‘Oh, yes. Alexis’s sister. Poor girl. You’ll miss her?’

‘Of course. She was amazing. A wonderful person. We want to start a special fund in her memory, although her family aren’t entirely co-operative.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘Well – we probably approached them too soon. It was an absolute
tragedy
when Nina died. Such a silly accident, too. And here I
can
speak for Val. She feels just the same as I do about it.’

Hannah could do no more than shake her head. She felt suddenly weak, giddy and faint, and put out a hand to catch the edge of the table. She leant heavily, causing the tray of empty teacups to rattle.

‘Oh dear,’ wailed Polly. ‘You poor thing. Sit down, for goodness’ sake. It’s shock, I expect. After everything you’ve been through.’

Mandy, Miriam and Dorothy all gathered round Hannah to express their concern. Bill stumped over, and gruffly announced that he would take her home, and they needn’t worry. ‘Hasn’t been eating much,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Difficult time.’

Silas tagged along behind them, muttering grumpily. They usually took him back to their
cottage and gave him a good Sunday lunch. Hannah turned to speak to him.

‘Silas, can I ask you not to say anything about Charlie on the way home? I know what you thought of him, but I really can’t bear any more just now. Is that all right?’

Silas stared at her, mouth half-open, and gave a confused nod. Hannah smiled slightly. For once she had managed to silence her cousin. It was a small source of satisfaction.

Left to themselves, with the little Meeting kitchen to clean up, Mandy and Clive were preoccupied at first. ‘They never realise how much work they make after a meeting,’ Mandy said after a few minutes, as she mopped up wet patches left on the worktop and folded the tea towel neatly before placing it on its rail. Clive had stacked the cups in precise ranks and disposed of the teabags and biscuit wrappers.

‘All part of the job,’ he said. ‘Nothing to grumble about.’

‘It doesn’t occur to them, either, how late our lunch always is on a Sunday. I can’t peel potatoes and get them roasting as well as being in here till half past twelve. I’m not complaining, Clive, but I think a bit of acknowledgement now and then would be nice.’

‘It wouldn’t occur to them that we eat a roast
lunch, just the two of us. They’d think it was old fashioned.’

She looked at him anxiously. ‘But you still want it, don’t you? You said—’

‘Of course,’ he said shortly.

Although they’d finished all the work, Mandy continued to fiddle with teaspoons. The roast needed all her attention upstairs in the flat, and the vegetables had to be prepared; they’d be lucky if it was on the table by two o’clock. But she had something to ask her husband and the necessary courage was slow in building.

‘Clive …’ she managed at last. ‘Why did you lie to that policeman on Friday? About us going riding on Monday, I mean. I could have told him you didn’t go anywhere near High Copse. It wouldn’t have done any harm to tell the truth. After all—’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said through tight lips. ‘It’s a matter of committing a small sin to prevent a larger one. It seemed to me that it would save a great deal of police time if we were simply eliminated from the enquiries from the start. Do you understand?’

Not in the least
, she wanted to say.
What you just said is madness
. But she merely smiled and nodded.

‘It’s so sad for them, isn’t it,’ she changed the subject, as they finally went back up to the flat.
‘That poor family! Two deaths in less than a week. However will they cope?’

Clive sighed impatiently. ‘I expect they’ll cope quite well. People can deal with these things. You managed it; I managed it. If we can, I’m sure those transgressors at High Copse can get through.’

‘Transgressors?’ she echoed, a flash of defiance breaking through the meekness. ‘What a word to use! They’re just ordinary people, Clive, and you know it.’

He took a step towards her, towering over her, seeming much larger than he actually was. His black eyes glared piercingly down. With difficulty she stood her ground; she had learnt over the years that it was the only way to handle him. He seemed to hover for a moment, predatory, dangerous, before stepping back and thumping down onto the sofa behind him. ‘Better get on with that dinner,’ he said. ‘Tell me if you need any help.’