Hartsend (17 page)

‘‘I don't really know. She said he was the best-looking boy in the village, and everyone knew he got violent when he drank, except her. All her friends knew. And afterwards she said to them, ‘why did none of you tell me?' ''

‘‘Why didn't they?''

‘‘They told her they thought marriage might change him.''

‘‘Ah. The love of a good woman,'' he said, with a deep sigh. ‘‘Well, love just doesn't cut it all of the time. I take it her parents are dead?''

‘‘The mother is. The father's in a care home somewhere.''

‘‘And there's no male figure who can intervene in any way? No brother or uncle …''

‘‘I don't think so. I suggested her priest and she was horrified. She would be very upset if she knew I was talking to you.''

The minister folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling, as if admiring the plaster work. She was fond of it herself. And the fireplace was handsome, as Mr Robertson had said. But the rest of all these too-large, unrelentingly solid family heirlooms that left so little space in which to move: the bookcase full of books unread for decades, the pink-flowering cacti that only flowered for a fortnight and looked so depressed for the other fifty weeks of the year …

‘‘Did you know,'' the minister said suddenly, ‘‘that guppies were named after a clergyman in Trinidad?''

It took her a moment to remember that she was the one who had mentioned them.

‘‘The Reverend Robert John Lechmore Guppy. What a leisurely life he must have had, the dear man.'' He looked up at the clock, and got to his feet. ‘‘I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm full of useless information. We play a lot of Scrabble. You don't need an answer from me right now, do you? For your friend? Give me a day or two.''

She closed the door behind him with a feeling of relief. He hadn't once tried to turn the conversation round to her situation. ‘‘You're looking better,'' he'd said when she opened the door. She glimpsed herself in the hall mirror. Perhaps he'd meant it. The woman with the diamond in her nose had actually cut her hair very nicely. She might ask for her again. But not the manicure. She'd bought nail polish removal pads on the way home, unable to think straight until her fingers looked like her own again.

Duncan felt that fate was blessing him when his mother mentioned that it was her turn to host the Knitting Circle. It was still called the Knitting Circle, though few of the ladies knitted any more. The exchange of news was reason enough to keep attending. Supper was never lavish. The hostess was expected to provide tea and biscuits and there was a rota for the bringing of a plain iced sponge. Over the years Duncan had overheard mysterious words like
intarsia
and
self striping
and
double front cross
, but his mother never attempted anything complex now. She was content to make crochet squares that someone else sewed into blankets destined for Peru. Those ladies with grandchildren made small pastel-coloured items. It was a monthly ritual that seemed to gain just enough new members to compensate for the loss of others.

If Mother had been going out to the group, there would still have been problems. She might change her mind, there might be snow, her knee or her neuralgia might play up. Hosting the Circle, however, was a matter of honour and duty. She would be preoccupied with her own visitors, and although winter vomiting was doing its rounds and might keep some away, it was most unlikely that everyone would cancel.

What pleased him most was that there was no need to lie. He'd failed to mention that Lesley was coming, but he hadn't lied. And now, soon, when it was too late for Mother to change anything, when her first fellow knitters were beginning to arrive, Lesley would turn the corner, and her brave little boots would ascend the hill towards him. As soon as he saw her, he would go and announce diffidently that she was about to arrive.

There was a fluttery sensation inside his chest. That very morning, Mrs Fleming had asked if he was doing anything interesting at the weekend.

‘‘A friend's coming over for coffee tonight,'' he'd said, wondering how much he might say, if she asked what for, or who.

She had not asked.

From his position on the upstairs landing, he could see everyone before they reached the house. It was an easy matter to reach the door just as Lesley pressed the bell.

‘‘Did I say something wrong?'' They were in his study.

‘‘Wrong?''

‘‘Your mother looked …''

‘‘Flustered?'' he suggested.

‘‘I was going to say surprised. ''

The correct word for Mother's expression was ‘‘astonished'', so astonished that she had gone back into the lounge, completely forgetting to help Lesley off with her coat. It was her good one, he saw, with the velvet band round the edges of the collar, not the brown one she wore every day.

‘‘Here, let me take …'' He hesitated. If he went back to the hall with her coat, he might be caught and questioned. ‘‘Let me put it here.'' ‘‘Here'' was a row of small hooks on the back of the door where he kept his caps. He put one cap on top of another to clear a hook.

No woman, except for his mother, and Mrs Flaherty who was permitted to vacuum the carpet and dust around objects without moving them, had ever been in his study. What would Lesley think of it, with its shelves of magazines and books, paintings inherited from his grandfather and great grandfather, the line of boxed Dinky cars that stretched along the top of the fireplace. Suddenly everything looked commonplace to him, even the Melville original.

Lesley had seated herself in the leather recliner.

‘‘If you push that button, you can lie back,'' he told her. ‘‘That is, if you were wanting to make it recline. Not that you look tired. I mean, you're looking well. Very trim. Not that you were needing to lose weight …''

‘‘Yes, I was. And I still do. Mother went on cooking for three after father died and I ate for two.''

He was burbling on like an idiot. And
trim
?
Trim
? Where had that rusted relic of a word sprung from? He'd never used it in his life. It was a word for a vintage car, or a gent's haircut …

‘‘I made a list of the books.'' She took a sheet of paper from her handbag.

He switched on the computer, the word ‘‘trim'' still spinning in his brain. His screen saver was a photograph of his favourite bird, a robin. Oddly, there were two in the garden this week, both males, and furthermore they seemed to be ignoring one another, which was strange. Robins were so territorial …

‘‘Here we are,'' he said.

He placed the list on the desk and Lesley stood behind him. The most valuable was
The Story of the Motor Car
, for sale at £15. None of the others, including
Sleeping Beauty
and
The Ugly Duckling
, was worth more than five pounds.

‘‘I'm sorry,'' Duncan said, swivelling round. ‘‘I shouldn't have raised your hopes.''

‘‘No, that was fun,'' she said, moving back to her chair. ‘‘I don't mind if they're not worth anything. Some of those were Mother's and some were Sunday School Attendance prizes. I don't think I'd like to sell them anyway. I used to read them over and over, probably because the illustrations were so good.
Joseph
was always my favourite.''

‘‘The one you bought at the Jumble Sale.''

He did a quick search. ‘‘How much did it cost you?''

‘‘Ten pence.''

‘‘A bargain. There's one here for 99p.''

‘‘He looked so sad, I think that was it. I was furious when his brothers put him into the pit and sold him.''

‘‘I don't think I won any prizes. I must have missed too many Sundays.''

‘‘You won the writing prize in Primary Seven.''

‘‘So I did,'' he said, remembering. A Parker pen. It was probably still in a drawer somewhere. Mottled green, with a silver clip. He hadn't been allowed to use it at the time.

‘‘You know, Duncan, I always wondered why you didn't learn the piano. You have such long fingers. Wasn't there a piano in the back sitting room?''

‘‘It made too much noise,'' he said, trying not to look at his hands. ‘‘And it was a very old piano. I suppose if I'd shown any proficiency, they would have let me continue.''

‘‘But you love music, Duncan.''

‘‘I expect the world has been spared another dreadful amateur,'' he put on a smile. ‘‘Would you like some now?''

She nodded. ‘‘You choose something.''

Beethoven. Brendel. Not the
Appassionata.
He settled on The Late Piano Sonatas, Opus 110.

Why
had
he stopped? It couldn't have been his decision. Of course he had been deported to boarding school around the same time. But some of the boys had music lessons. Why hadn't he?

‘‘Actually,'' he said, ‘‘I do feel strongly about it. I wish I hadn't stopped. Which is rather a waste of emotional energy.''

‘‘Take lessons,'' she said.

‘‘What?''

‘‘Take lessons. Lots of people do. I would, if I wanted to.''

As the first notes of No. 31 trickled gently into the room, he pictured his ‘‘long fingers'' on piano keys. Of course he would first have to buy a piano. And where to find a teacher? Perhaps the people on the Music floor would know. Liszt would never be within his grasp, but some Mozart perhaps? His mind drifted to Austria and the Rheinland and all the music festivals advertised in his monthly BBC Music magazine. And cruises where experts gave lectures.

‘‘Lesley, what do you think of cruises?'' he asked.

She looked puzzled.

‘‘Cruises. Holidays. On the crest of the wave, as it were.''

He'd thought about them on and off since the day of the Jumble Sale, picturing himself in a deck chair, waiting for Italy to materialize out of the mist.

‘‘Your mother might hate it. It's an awful lot of money to spend if you don't like the people you meet. And she doesn't eat much either. People who go on cruises always say the food is the best part. And then there's those dreadful bugs that go round the whole ship.''

She had neatly summed up what he thought himself. These were exactly the reasons his mother would have given for saying no.

‘‘On the other hand, it might be restful. I can understand why some people like them. You see different places, you have lots of people looking after you, even a doctor if you're sick, and you can do as much or as little as you want. And if you like food, there's plenty of choice, I suppose.

He felt a little sad without quite knowing why. Perhaps he'd hoped for more enthusiasm. More commitment, one way or the other.

‘‘On that note, shall we have some supper?'' he said, ‘‘Coffee or tea? Or something cold?''

‘‘Tea, please. Just milk. No sugar.''

‘‘I broke a sugar bowl last week,'' he confided, ‘‘one of the good ones. I haven't mentioned it to Mother yet.''

‘‘Why not?''

‘‘Isn't it obvious?''

Lesley let out a laugh. Or was it a giggle?

‘‘This is serious,'' he told her, wishing he hadn't broached the subject.

‘‘Not that serious, Duncan.''

‘‘No, really. She's had the set for years. I think it may have been a wedding present.''

‘‘Duncan, you're an idiot. You could probably find a replacement in ten minutes on Ebay.''

‘‘You told me you didn't have a computer,'' he said.

‘‘I don't, but I hear the staff talking about the internet and Ebay all the time. What make of china is it?''

‘‘I don't know. Blue and white, with handles. And in my defence, to be strictly truthful, it was Mrs Flaherty who broke it.''

‘‘Oh dear. Poor Mary.''

‘‘Yes. On top of everything else.'' He pictured again the dreadful son with his black coat dragging on the ground and his pointed shoes.

‘‘I haven't been much help, I'm sorry to say. Going to the police seems a bit extreme, but it might come to that, I suppose, if Johnny doesn't go away.''

‘‘I thought his name was Ryan.''

‘‘No, that's the son. Her husband is Johnny.''

Brendel was approaching the quiet passage with its wonderful descending notes.

‘‘Why are we discussing the Flaherty family?'' he said at last.

She looked up. ‘‘Because we're concerned. I hate gossip as much as you do. But how long has Mary Flaherty been part of our lives? I don't believe this counts as gossip, Duncan. The only person I've spoken to is Mr Smith and I didn't say who I meant. I'm glad she spoke to you,'' she went on. ‘‘I think she confided in me by accident, really. I was no use to her. It was just days after the funeral.''

Brendel's magic was drawing him away. He tried to concentrate.

‘‘And the boy, Ryan …''

‘‘Oh, she hasn't told him or the daughters. I think she's afraid he would want to take the father on. He's very moody. I don't know. We see some people every day, and we don't see them at all. Not as real people. I wonder if it's because we just don't want to.''

Purely by chance these last words sounded as the final crescendo gave way to silence. For a moment it seemed to him that the entire audience was waiting for him to reply.

After a while Lesley asked, ‘‘Do you want to look for a sugar bowl? All we need is the maker's name and the pattern.''

‘‘How do we find that?''

‘‘Oh, Duncan. Go and look,'' she told him.

He paused with one hand on the half-opened door.

‘‘On the bottom of a plate,'' she said. ‘‘Or a cup. Or a saucer. ''