The Twisted Way (13 page)

Robbie had no idea that Janet had searched for him after James had left, and although he harboured a vestige of affection for her he did not quite forgive her for abandoning him. Time, despite his fondness for his generous adoptive parents, had not yet healed the wounds inflicted on him by the odious James.

When Robbie returned to Enderly Janet was seventy-seven years old. Although he had been reluctant to set foot in Enderly after James had rejected him he now looked round the village with surprising and unexpected interest. He parked his new silver car at the edge of a small triangle of grass that served as a mini village green and set out on foot to explore. Excitement caught up with him. He felt he had come home again, a feeling that strengthened as he wandered down the main village street flanked with old cottages, the pub, shop and the old church at the end next to the village school. A sprawling housing estate built just after the war near the school appeared vast and dilapidated. Paint was peeling from windows, front gardens were neglected and littered with broken toys, but otherwise things seemed very much like he remembered. Memories flooded back. The old grey stone church, the row of cottages, at one time occupied by agricultural workers when local landowners farmed most of the land around Enderly, and Honeysuckle Cottage where he had stayed with Alicia Merryweather and her ailing husband for five years looked much as he remembered them. Pink, red and yellow roses clambered over the doors as they had done when he was a child White and purple wisteria drooped from walls and the gardens were bursting with cottage-garden flowers. The scent of the flowers filled the air. Some of the large old trees, including the pretty white lilac that he remembered once had pride of place in the Merryweathers’ front garden, had been chopped down. A few of the window frames had been renewed together with the once dilapidated thatch. There was still one honeysuckle straggling over a metal arch that spanned a small brick path at the side of the cottage but most of the plants that had given the cottage its name had disappeared, at least he couldn’t see any from the front gate.

The well was still in the front garden but was now home to baskets of flowers that had been placed below the small tiled roof. There was a pump attached underneath the roof and a yellow hose on a hook so Robbie guessed that the well water was only used for watering the garden. The houses now had piped water and no doubt modern bathrooms. A small car stood on the sparse grassed verge in front of the cottage, a testament to progress.

He stopped to speak to a bent and wizened old man who was working in the garden.

‘I lived here near here for a while as a child,’ he said, after a slight hesitation, as the old man continued to prune bright yellow roses near the gate. The man sighed and did not turn round immediately. He rubbed his right ear with a gnarled and dirty hand as if he needed time to consider before he replied. The silence was heavy. Robbie was anxious not to give too much away. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he continued with caution, ‘but ... er ... could you tell me what happened to the Merryweather family? I believe they once lived in this cottage.’

The old man turned towards Robbie and leaned on the gate. He tipped his old brown cap back on his head and his deep-set blue eyes lit up with a vestige of a smile. His face was wrinkled and weatherbeaten from many hours spent in the sun and wind. However, he appeared almost pleased to talk to the stranger, which was a relief.

‘Dead long ago,’ he said slowly in his broad Russetshire accent and clipped tones. ‘Janet, their daughter, is still around though and living in Primrose House. She was a teacher for a long time. I can’t tell you much more.’

He turned away from Robbie and continued with his pruning. He had done his bit.

Robbie thanked him and the old man grunted and cleared his throat.

Well, he had found out something useful, Janet was still alive and living in the village, but would have to try elsewhere for more information.

The vast fields of cabbages and the unpleasant smell of rotting leaves wafting in the breeze round the edge of the village had disappeared. That was an improvement he thought. There were still some plum and apple orchards, their short stubby stumps and branches promising good crops. Enderly now looked like many other Russetshire villages. Some executive-style houses had been built by a large well-known firm – he had seen some similar in style in Oxford – and some retirement bungalows, small and box like, had mushroomed a short distance from the housing estate. Several new prefabricated classrooms had been erected in the old Victorian school’s playground. Newcomers had renovated cottages, many just for holidays, and smart expensive cars, Porsches, BMWs and four-by-fours of various makes, were parked outside on verges: the age of the commuter had invaded this once sleepy and quiet village. The community had it seemed expanded but there were, he estimated, still only about 200 dwellings.

The black and white village shop no longer had a thatched roof but one of grey slate that fitted in reasonably well with the village scene, but otherwise was much the same as he remembered it. The well-trodden step and green painted door, at odds with the rest of the building, were still the same. If anything the green paint was brighter than the one he could remember seeing as a child. There was not much room inside and the layout was much as it had been when he was an evacuee. A Post Office counter, small and cramped, had been fitted into one corner, but the shop shelves were well stocked with essentials for the villagers who needed the odd item they had forgotten when they did their weekly shop in the local supermarkets. As well as the usual groceries like biscuits, jam, milk and bread there was a rack full of greetings cards, postcards and an assortment of envelopes and writing paper. Local eggs, ham and cakes were on display together with a few vegetables and some fruit. There was a small freezer with some ready meals and cartons of ice creams. The elderly couple running the shop seemed pleased when Robbie went in to buy a local newspaper. The woman, whose thick white hair was sprayed with so much lacquer that it stood up in a stiff quiff several inches above her head, chatted voraciously in an attempt to find out about the newcomer who she hoped was not just another visitor but a potential regular customer. Astute grey eyes fixed themselves on Robbie who was in his turn having difficulty in making an effort not to stare at her almost beehive hairstyle that contrasted incongruously with her small wrinkled face.

‘Er, four ounces of those sweets please,’ he said pointing to a jar on the shelf behind her.

‘Just visiting are you?’ she asked, tipping mint humbugs into a bag and weighing them in ounces, as their predecessors had done for several generations. To Robbie’s amazement, several large jars filled with old-fashioned sweets similar to those he remembered seeing as a child stood on a shelf behind the counter.

‘Well ... sort of. Re-visiting you could say.’ ‘Oh, been here before then?’ ‘Yes.’ It was cool in the shop and he was grateful for the respite. Robbie rummaged in his pockets for some change to pay for the mints and his newspaper and turned away from her penetrating gaze, stepping out of the door with haste into the scorching midday sun. He mopped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief and strolled down the road to the local pub, the Green Man, where he hoped to obtain a decent lunch. The pub had a well-cared-for look and seemed promising. The landlord was young with a mop of red hair, tall and muscular with a wide chest and shoulders, almost as broad as those possessed by a town club bouncer that Robbie once knew, and he greeted Robbie warmly as he walked through the open door. A smell of beer and midday cooking reached his nostrils and he felt pangs of hunger. The area near the bar was dim, old slate floors and horse brasses provided atmosphere and there were some good oak trestle tables covered with check cloths, a welcome sight. His stomach rumbled; he had not realised how thirsty and hungry he had become.

‘What can I do for you sir?’ the landlord called in an accent that sounded Cornish and reminded Tom of a bull bellowing for his favourite heifer.

‘Pint of best bitter, please and some lunch.’ He walked towards the bar. ‘Can I have a menu?’

‘Of course,’ the landlord answered in a deep resonant voice and passed a bar menu to Tom. ‘There’s a nice table for one there by the window, make yourself comfortable and Mary here will bring your drink over.’

Mary was a luscious-looking barmaid; her short skirt revealed long legs and a skimpy T-shirt exposed a generous portion of a large low-slung bosom. Robbie made a determined effort to keep his eyes on the menu.

A few of the locals glanced at Robbie under lowered lashes as they sipped their pints and toyed with ham, eggs and chips, obviously the favourite meal of the day. A stocky lad in white overalls ventured to ask if Robbie was just visiting.

‘Well, yes, I am. I used to live near here years ago.’

The lad held out his hand. ‘Welcome, then. I was born here and my mum and grandma were too. My grandma was a post-war baby. When were you here?’

‘Oh, in the nineteen fifties or thereabouts.’ ‘Gosh, yes,’ the boy said. ‘There’s a picture of some of the evacuees in the other bar, you should have a look. You might recognize some of them. They were here just before your time I should imagine but a few stayed on in the village, mums and dads killed and no one else to look after them, that sort of thing you know. There are one or two more photos in the roof, I believe, but the landlord is not very interested in them which is a pity.’

Tom, or Robbie as he was now called, remembered that picture well; it was taken in front of the village hall before he was rescued by Alicia Merryweather. He had stood in the centre of the front row, a small and miserable figure. When he looked at it later he found that it had faded, and was so brown and misty that it was difficult to recognise anybody. That was a relief. He wondered what happened to the other evacuees who had stayed in the village. He hoped they would not recognize him if they were still around and doubted that they would. He had lost his cockney accent, grown a beard which covered the deep dimple in his chin and had developed a portly figure during the last few years.

‘Do you know a Mrs Janet Anderson?’ he asked, a cautious tone surfacing in his voice.

‘I can’t say I do,’ the lad replied, ‘but old Pat over there might,’ he pointed to a man of about seventy sitting on his own at a corner table, ‘best ask him – he knows most folks around here.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that,’ Robbie replied gratefully. Robbie looked with interest at Pat. He did not remember him but he probably had been around when he was a child. He was a thin bony old man with a large bulbous nose and a dark mole on his chin. His old tweedy trousers were tied with string a short way above the ankles in the manner that many old countrymen who worked on the land did earlier. He had been working on his allotment and did not want to dirty his turn-ups. Pat gave him a brief nod and managed an apology for a smile, displaying uneven and yellowing teeth.

‘I knows her,’ he volunteered, his slightly high-pitched voice emerging clearly from the corner of the room. ‘She used to teach in this here village. She’s now Mrs Janet Lacey. James Anderson, her first husband, disappeared years ago, rotten devil he was.’

Robbie agreed with that. A slight frown appeared on his forehead but he said nothing.

‘She married the headmaster of the junior school, dead now poor fellow, but nice chap. She still lives in Primrose House. Are you a friend?’

‘Well, not really, I knew some of her family many years ago,’ Robbie said, wondering if he had given too much away.

‘She’s not well now,’ Pat continued. ‘I used to help her in the garden but my knee is playing up too much these days, I had to give it up. Don’t want a job do yer?’

Robbie smiled. ‘Not really.’ ‘No, you’s too much of a toff,’ Pat said in a resigned tone as he noted Robbie’s distinct upper-class Oxford accent. ‘She could do with some help, lovely lady. Her second husband died a long time ago now. The advert is in the local shop.’

Robbie considered his remarks. Husband dead. Hmmm … interesting. Robbie loved gardening and was an excellent handyman. He had enjoyed doing jobs round his house in Oxford and woodwork had been a hobby he had indulged in over the years as a relaxation from his academic career. The money was not important but it might be interesting to take a job as a handyman and gardener for a while so that he could get to know Janet once again incognito. She would not recognise him now, at least he hoped not. He was no longer skinny as he had been as a child and his once thick thatch of brown hair was almost white with a receding hairline. The skin around his deep-set hazel eyes had crinkled and his thick pebbled glasses would not make it easy for anyone to compare his eyes with those of young Tom Hands.

Perhaps he could buy a little cottage nearby to stay in and still go home to his own rather large and up-market house outside Oxford when he wanted to. The idea began to take hold and he felt more excited about the idea of moving back to Russetshire, especially Enderly, than he had thought possible. Now that he had revisited the area he had become quite enamoured with the prospect. Although he had avoided setting foot in Enderly for so long he had an unexpected and inexplicable feeling that this village was his destiny. He looked forward to seeing Janet and if he could help her now it could be a way of repaying some of the kindness shown to him by Alicia and Will. He told himself he was being fanciful and perhaps foolish, but it did seem worth looking into.

There was no doubt that his housekeeper could keep an eye on things in Oxford for him while he made up his mind. It could be fun. Most of his academic colleagues were busy with their families and he knew stuffy old Robbie would not be missed greatly, if at all. He would go and look at advertisements for cottages after lunch. He smiled to himself and felt a surge of interest and anticipation that he had not felt for years. It could be an exciting adventure and certainly a new way of life. He had travelled all over the world during his vacations after his brief marriage failed so he had no interest in that now. He had not wanted to get married again or return to London where he was born. But village life, that could suit him very well, in retirement. A satisfied smile lit up his face. If Janet did not need him … well, he would enjoy living in Enderly anyway.