The Mushroom Man (19 page)

Now her gaze was fixed on the top right-hand corner of the ceiling. She went on: ‘Then, when I was about eight, it all turned sour. Daddy vanished. Years later I learnt that he ran off with a female colleague. First the pony had to go. I changed schools and we moved to a smaller house. Mummy hit the bottle. We’d come home from school and find her drunk, with the house like a refuse heap. The day after I passed my eleven-plus she took an overdose of painkillers and died.’

I’d been nibbling the bread. Now I pushed the plate away and listened.

‘The three of us were spread amongst relatives. I went to live with Aunt Grace, in Cheltenham. At first it was much better there, and I was sent away to school, which I enjoyed. Then one Christmas I came home to find that Aunt Grace had married again. He was called Alec. Uncle Alec. He seemed to take a shine to me. He…took me for walks, to the pictures, bought me special treats. I thought he was wonderful.’ She paused. I saw her swallow before she took up the story again: ‘One night, in the dormitory, the girls were talking. The older girls were telling us about…well…about sex. I suppose it was all invented, the product of girlish imaginations, but suddenly I realised that Uncle Alec’s affection wasn’t as innocent as I had believed.’

Annabelle had drawn up her knees and was embracing them with her arms, still staring at the ceiling. She continued: ‘After that it was horrible. Once he realised that I knew what he was after and had not told Grace, he became crude and persistent. I hated going home for the holidays. I would make excuses and stay behind for an extra week, and always went back for the new term a few days early. Half-term holidays I stayed at school. I visited as many friends as I could. I became quite a proficient little liar, I’m afraid.’

‘Understandably,’ I said.

She put her feet back on the floor and looked at
me. ‘The net result was that I did well at school. I was determined to, so I could get away from them as soon as possible. I was accepted for Lady Margaret Hall when I was seventeen. They suggested I do a year’s voluntary work, so I packed my rucksack and went to Biafra. It was quite a shock to a little girl from the Home Counties. But Peter was there to help me. He was thirteen years my senior and I fell hopelessly in love with him. I thought he’d hardly noticed me, but towards the end of the year he was transferred to Kenya and asked me to go with him.’

The microwave beeped four times. Annabelle jumped up and served the soup. ‘Would you like some more bread?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘No thanks, but I’d like you to continue the story.’

After serving the soup she resumed her seat and began again. ‘Kenya was wonderful. You must go, sometime. Peter insisted I continue my education, so my degree certificate says Nairobi University. Not as prestigious as Oxford, but more colourful.’

‘Mine says Batley College of Art,’ I admitted between mouthfuls.

‘We married when I was nineteen and stayed in Kenya for another eight years. I’ve been back a couple of times.’ She was smiling now, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I miss Kenya. Those were probably the happiest days of my life.’

‘So why did you leave?’

‘Peter was taken ill. Malaria, a particularly persistent strain. He regarded it as God’s will and we came back to England. He threw himself into his ministry and the rest, as they say, is history.’

‘You never had children?’

The clouds came back. ‘No. It wasn’t to be. Something else that Peter put down to God’s will. Understanding what is willed by God and what isn’t is a science known only to a few.’

For the first time I detected that things had not always been sunshine and roses between the bishop and his lady. ‘What happened to him?’ I asked.

‘Cancer. He wouldn’t see the doctor because he thought it was the malaria and it would just run its course. When he did go for tests it was too late. It took him two painful years to die.’ She fixed me with her blue eyes. ‘My faith was never as strong as his, Charles. What I experienced in Biafra saw to that. But I’ll never forget how brave Peter was; right to the end. If faith can do that I wish I had more.’

It was my turn to reach out and place my hand over hers. She turned her hand over so that our fingers intertwined. I couldn’t help comparing her childhood with my own: an only child of doting parents who took exaggerated pride in my modest achievements. ‘You’ve had some rough times,’ I said. ‘It hasn’t all been bedtime cocoa and Winnie the Pooh, has it?’

‘No. Did you think it had?’

‘Yes,’ I confessed. ‘I probably did.’

‘C’mon,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Let’s go where it is more comfortable.’

We went through into her sitting room. It was a tasteful amalgam of the modern and the traditional; bold prints and lots of dark wood. I sank into the settee while Annabelle searched for a CD.

‘Any requests?’ she asked.

‘Something light and breezy,’ I suggested.

‘Vivaldi?’

‘Perfect.’

She came to sit alongside me and we waited for the first crystal notes to fill the room.

It wasn’t really a Zen experience. Exactly the opposite, I suppose, but the feeling was similar. All of my senses were switched off except my hearing, as if I were floating in a bath of liquid so perfect that I couldn’t feel its presence. Maybe my eyes were closed, or perhaps they were open but there was a complete absence of light to trigger the optic nerve. This was the state of grace that drug-takers and religious fanatics crave. The music was Mozart.

I appreciated him as I had never done before. Perfection. Maybe he was the master, after all. But why Mozart? I thought. Where am I? Ought I to be going somewhere? Has the alarm gone off? Surely it was Vivaldi a minute ago.

Oh Carruthers! I remembered where I was. It’s at unguarded times like this that the real inner you expresses itself. I sat up and blurted out: ‘I fell asleep!’ Not very bright but it could have been a lot worse.

Annabelle clutched her sides with laughter. She was sitting in one of the easy chairs. I held my head in my hands and said: ‘Oh God, what must you think of me?’

‘I think you must have been exhausted,’ she said, still giggling at my discomfort.

I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. ‘Im sorry, Annabelle. You must think I’m dreadful company. I just felt so relaxed and…’

‘Don’t worry about it, Charles.’ She’d regained her composure. ‘You were tired. Actually, it was quite nice to have a man snoring on the settee again.’ The giggling erupted once more.

‘I didn’t snore!’ I exclaimed in horror, adding: ‘Did I?’

‘Mmm…just a little.’

‘Oh no! It gets worse.’ I slipped my shoes back on, not remembering having taken them off, and rubbed the fur from my teeth with my tongue.

‘Would you like a drink before you go?’ She was in full control again.

‘No thanks, Annabelle. I’ve already overstayed my welcome. It’s been a lovely evening for me, if not for you.’ I retrieved my jacket from the kitchen
and we walked towards the front door. I said: ‘Annabelle, I’d like to see you at the weekend. There’s a few loose ends to sort out in the office, then I want to change my priorities; sort out my life. May I, see you?’

‘Yes, Charles. I’d like that.’

‘Saturday? I’ll book a table somewhere.’

She, shook her head. ‘No. I’ll cook us something. You bring the wine.’

‘That sounds nice,’ I said. It was my entry for the Understatement of the Millennium competition. We were at the door. ‘Thanks for putting up with me.’

‘It should be me thanking you, Charles.’

‘For what?’

‘For asking about Peter.’

She’d opened the door slightly, allowing a blast of cold air into the hallway. I pushed it shut again and took her in my arms. I could feel the heat of her body as it moulded to mine. She was so slim my arms easily encircled her, and her ribs were a gentle ripple beneath my hands. Her lips were strong and mobile…and she took them away far too quickly.

‘You smell nice,’ she whispered. ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, it’s er, called…Nigel’s,’ I croaked, tracing her spine with my fingertips. ‘Nigel’s aftershave.’

‘I think you ought to go, Charles,’ she sighed.

‘Me too,’ I lied, adding: ‘Saturday,’ as I gave her a farewell peck on the cheek.

The rain had stopped. Or maybe a blizzard was
raging – I forget. I drove away from the Old Vicarage as quietly as I could. At the end of the street I mixed up the gears and stalled the engine. Then I switched on the wipers when I tried to indicate.

The wind and rain had scrubbed the air clean, so you could see for ever. All the lights of the valley were stretched out below, prickly bright against the blackness of the night. Just above the horizon, barely broken free from the earth, was the slenderest arc of a new moon I had ever seen. It was red, like the imprint of a thumbnail dipped in blood. The thumbnail had belonged to a madman called Purley, the blood to the late Michael Ho. Bad memories came pressing in, trying to dislodge the good ones, but I didn’t let them.

Dewhurst didn’t die. He was charged with murder and transferred to the hospital wing at Bentley Prison. CPS didn’t envisage any problems with my evidence. We have some good friends in the Chinese community, so instead of going to the police social club and getting rat-arsed I suggested we have a speciality banquet at the Bamboo Curtain. To my surprise, everyone agreed.

It was a memorable meal. Ten of us sat round the table and the dishes kept coming until we could eat no more. Sparky earned our displeasure by snaffling all the wontons. He said he liked junk food. Nobody laughed. Then we went to the social club and got rat-arsed.

Houses were still being burgled in Heckley. Old ladies were having their pensions snatched and cars were being taken from unconsenting owners. Three tortoises had been stolen from different addresses.

‘Tut tut,’ I said. ‘We can’t have this, can we? Three tortoises purloined. What has the world come to while I’ve been busy? We’d better send a posse out.’ We were in the Super’s morning meeting and I was looking at the print-out of offences.

‘Don’t mock,’ rebuked Gilbert. ‘They’re an endangered species and mean a lot to their owners. Ask the pet shops to look out for them. Apparently it’s an offence to sell one these days.’

‘Yessir!’

‘I’ve heard it said,’ Sparky informed us, his face a mask of solemnity, ‘that some members of our immigrant population like to gamble huge sums of money on tortoise fights.’

Gilbert removed his spectacles. ‘Listen, you cocky sods,’ he said. ‘While you’ve been swanning around at vast expense to the force looking for a murderer who was under your noses all the time, everybody else has been up to their ar…ar…ar…’

‘Arseholes?’

‘…armpits in proper crime. Earning their bread and butter. So go to it!’

Getting back to normality was difficult. I sent the troops out and settled down to writing thank-you letters to various people. Towards the end of the morning DI Peterson called in to offer his congratulations. He wanted to sit and talk, and had a defeated air about him. The library trail had grown cold so he was retreating back to Trent
Division. The Mushroom Man had dropped out of the newspapers, until the next time. As Peterson left, Sparky came in.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Sparky, holding the door for him.

‘Good morning, Constable,’ he replied.

I rocked back on my chair and scratched my head with the blunt end of the ballpen. ‘What was it that Oscar Peterson played?’ I asked.

‘Don’t ask me,’ Sparky answered. ‘I’m useless at sport.’

The best phone call of the day came in the middle of the afternoon. ‘
Carmina Burana
, Carl Orff,’ said the voice on the other end.

‘Er, er, let me think…Schubert,
The Trout
,’ I answered.

It was Bill Goodwin, a DI at City HQ. They are based in the town hall, and Bill is my source of concert tickets. He has a standing order with the box office for first refusal on any cancellations, and sometimes lets me know about them, although I hadn’t done business with him for a long time.

‘Congratulations, Charlie. I hear you did a good job.’

‘Aw shucks, it was nuthin’,’ I replied.

‘Well done all the same. What about these tickets?’

‘What tickets?’

‘For
Carmina Burana
.’

‘Are you serious?’

The concert season lasts six months and normally all the tickets go in the first week of sales. For a big showpiece concert like this there would be a waiting list longer than a wet Wakes Week in Morecambe.

‘I’d love them, Bill. When are they for?’

‘Friday.’

‘Tomorrow? Someone’s left it a bit late.’

‘They’re mine. Joyce was rushed into hospital yesterday. Appendicitis. They operated this morning. The tickets are yours if you want them.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear about Joyce. How is she?’

‘The op went off OK, but she’s still groggy. I’ll go to see her straight from here.’

‘Good. Good. Give her my love, Bill, and I hope she’s fit and well before too long. Can I ring you back in five minutes about the tickets?’

Annabelle was at home, fortunately, and
Carmina Burana
was one of her favourites, although she had never heard a live performance. ‘It sounds wonderful, Charles. They were sold out months ago. How on earth have you done it?’

I told her that when I said I needed two seats they promised to kick two students out of theirs. ‘What’s the point in being a fascist if you don’t reap the benefits?’ I said.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ she replied.

I was saying the usual goodbye formula when
Annabelle interrupted me. ‘Food,’ she said. ‘I expect you intend grabbing a pork pie or a bowl of breakfast cereal, so I’ll prepare something for afterwards. We can come back here and eat. All right?’

‘Oh, are you sure? It seems a lot of trouble…’

‘Nonsense. See you tomorrow.’

I rang Bill and accepted his offer. After a few quiet moments I said a little thank you, to no one in particular.

First thing Friday morning I announced that I would be leaving at five p.m. come fire, flood or assassination. Three nasty muggings were done during the day by a gang of steamers. Two youths make the initial grab while five or six others hover nearby ready to combat any attempt at resistance. They were all Afro-Caribbean, so descriptions were sketchy. ‘He was black,’ they say, and expect us to recognise them immediately. I put everybody I had on the streets looking for them. Knives are only a grasp away in these cases. Mugging turns to murder as easily as spring snow turns to slush.

Myself, I went shopping. I thought about a haircut but decided it would look as if I were trying too hard. Besides, it had just reached that indolent bohemian stage; good for my new image. I bought a bottle of Glenfiddich for Jimmy Hoyle – he deserved the credit for retrieving the bin-liner from
under Dewhurst’s car – and some aftershave for myself. I searched high and fairly low but couldn’t find Nigel’s anywhere. I settled for some called Charlie. The biddy who served me was wearing enough make-up to grout a shower cubicle.

On the way home I topped up the petrol tank and bought a bunch of salmon-pink roses. After a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast I set both alarm clocks and grabbed an hour’s nap. I was taking no chances. In the shower I used the last of the blue jelly stuff that somebody bought me about ten Christmases ago. Choosing which suit to wear wasn’t a problem. I mated it with a dark blue shirt and a bold tie in a Picasso design. He’s my favourite painter. I considered the socks with little clocks on them but settled for a diamond pattern in the same colours as the tie. I brushed my hair and looked in the mirror. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Annabelle answered the door immediately. I thrust the roses forward.

‘Oh Charles, they’re lovely,’ she said. ‘They are my favourites; how did you know? Come in, I’ll put them in some water.’

I followed her through into the kitchen, where she filled a large plain vase and arranged the flowers in it. She was wearing a suit in an unusual lilac colour, with a very short skirt which I quickly realised was a pair of culottes. The jacket had
three-quarter
-length
sleeves and her blouse was a deep blue in a curious material. It had a bloom to it, like yeast on a grape, that exactly matched the colour of the suit. Her tanned legs were bare and she wore high-heeled shoes. Annabelle never tried to disguise her height; she rejoiced in it.

The effect on me was like a kick in the stomach. The pain was physical. I wondered what the other bishops’ wives had thought of her. And the other bishops.

I didn’t start the engine immediately. Faith might move mountains but compliments work better on people. ‘You look absolutely wonderful,’ I told her, shaking my head in disbelief.

‘Oh, just a few rags I threw on,’ she declared with obvious delight, adding: ‘You don’t look bad yourself.’

We hit the usual Friday-evening traffic but I’d allowed plenty of time.

‘Will you be able to find a parking place?’ Annabelle asked.

‘Leave it to Uncle Chas,’ I reassured her, with a conspiratorial wink. At the town hall I drove round the back and through the entrance to the police station private car park. All the top brass were at home, tucking into their quiche, so I pulled up in a spot marked CH. SUP. ‘Tonight,’ I announced, ‘you are in the company of an honorary chief superintendent. I told them it was a special
occasion, so they’ve promoted me. It runs out at midnight, though.’

‘Will the car turn into a pumpkin?’ she asked.

‘Oh, a pumpkin. A lay-by. It’ll turn into something.’

The tickets were at the front desk. During the drive I’d told Annabelle how we’d acquired them. I led her in and pressed the button. A WPC appeared.

‘My name’s Priest,’ I told her. ‘DI Goodwin has left some tickets for me.’

‘Yes. Mr Goodwin is still here. He asked me to let him know when you arrived.’ She picked up the phone and dialled his number. He was with us in seconds. I introduced him to Annabelle.

‘I’m so sorry to hear about your wife, Bill. How is she?’ Annabelle asked.

She was doing well, so we didn’t feel too bad about deriving so much pleasure from her misfortune. Bill was going straight round to the hospital. he handed me the tickets and I slipped him a cheque.

Annabelle said: ‘Well, give Joyce our best wishes, and as soon as she’s better we will try to repay you by inviting you both round for dinner, won’t we, Charles?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said. We. I liked the sound of that.

There’s a passage leading from the nick into the main body of the town hall, with a door locked on
this side. Prisoners are transferred to the courts that way. I said: ‘Any chance of using the private entrance, Bill?’

‘Sorry, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘No can do. It’s a fire door now; emergency use only. If you open it you’ll start the sprinkler system. That’d make you popular.’

‘You mean we’ve to walk round the outside, with the
hoi polloi?
I sounded hurt.

‘’Fraid so.’

‘This is no way to impress a lady. C’mon, Annabelle, let’s go.’

They said their farewells. At the door I turned to give Bill a wave of gratitude and he made an approving nod of his head.

The tickets said Row D. Because of the size of the orchestra and all the choirs involved, rows A, B and C had been removed. We were in the front row.

‘The front row!’ Annabelle whispered, incredulously. ‘We’re in the front row!’

‘I don’t muck about,’ I told her. ‘I just hope the conductor is not too enthusiastic with the baton. I could easily lose an eye.’

‘Watch out for the trombones,’ she warned.

‘Maybe we should have brought an umbrella,’ I replied.

The warm-up piece was a Stockhausen. The orchestra plinked and clanged through it with concentrated enthusiasm that wasn’t matched by its
reception from the audience. A few know-alls cheered and everybody took too many bows. Then the removal men came on and reorganised everything. When the stage was set for the new piece the orchestra began to filter back. The percussionists tuned the big timpani, hinting at what was to come. Line after line of choristers filed on, recruited from every choral society in the North, plus a couple of school choirs. Slowly the huge stage filled and everybody coughed and tuned instruments and fidgeted for the last time. Then, as if to a signal from the back of the hall, a hush came over the auditorium.

I winked at the cello player. He winked back.

Annabelle leant towards me. ‘I think the cello player fancies me,’ she whispered.

‘No. He fancies me. I fancy you,’ I hissed, taking her hand.

The leader entered and bowed and was applauded. Then the conductor. He was popular. Not everyone had my view of him. His shirt looked as if he’d worn it all week and his suit needed cleaning. He turned to the stage, raised his baton, and, a few seconds later, the first crashing chords of Orff’s greatest hit shook the fabric of the building.

I’m a lowbrow when it comes to music. Decent melodies and plenty of biff-bash are what I like. Sitting there, next to the most beautiful woman in the place, I’d probably still have been as happy as a
sparrow on a chimney if they’d just tuned up for the next hour, but the music engulfed me.
Carmina Burana
is based around a collection of medieval verses written mainly in Latin. Some are sacred, others profane. It could have been written for us, I thought. All too soon the orchestra began the relentless build-up to what must be the longest finale in the repertoire. At the end every pair of lungs on stage was at full extent, fiddlers’ elbows, were going like mating rabbits and the drummers were flailing their arms as if attempting flight. And then it was over.

After a moment’s breathless silence some courageous soul shouted: ‘Bravo!’ and we erupted into applause. I turned to Annabelle and she was as delighted as a schoolgirl. The leader and conductor had more bows than the Royal Navy and she clapped every one.

We joined the throng shuffling up the aisle, the rhythms and tunes and
wa-wump!
of the big drums still pulsing through our bodies. ‘That was wonderful,’ Annabelle told me. ‘It’s so nice to have an influential friend.’ She took my left arm in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. I buried a kiss in her hair.

In the foyer we merged with a sea of excited, smiling faces and were borne slowly towards the exit, which is a revolving door, flanked on each side by a swing door. Coming from the centre aisle we
were in the stream of people heading towards the revolving door.

I remember wondering what etiquette demanded in such situations, but it was out of my control. When it was our turn the pressure of bodies propelled me in first and Annabelle squeezed behind me. We shuffled forwards, and she placed her hands on my hips. It didn’t feel right – I ought to be following her. I made a few movements with my feet, as if doing a party dance, and felt her echo my steps.

We moved round in a semi-circle and slowly a gap appeared and enlarged. Eager to make amends for my slip of manners, I stepped briskly out and skipped to one side, raising my arm in an extravagant gesture, like a bullfighter making a pass.