Vintage Babes (6 page)

I ought to leave, but… the wine was doing wonders for my shattered nerves – and persuading me that my vision of galloping senility was an over-reaction – so I would, I decided, stay and finish the glass. I might be an intruder, but it would’ve been a crime to let such liquid pleasure go to waste.

I knew who had been buried at St. John’s, Dursleigh’s parish church, earlier that day and who would be the reason why so many pillars of the community had congregated – Duncan Kincaid. No residents’ lounge ‘bites and drinkies’ for him, an up-market farewell in sumptuous surroundings was just his style. At one time, Mr Kincaid had owned a fair number of the shops along the High Street: the newsagent’s, the bookshop, the bakery, the dry cleaner’s, the ironmonger’s and a tearoom which is now the Tandoori. Then, as he’d approached retirement age, the self-styled ‘king of the village’ had begun selling off his businesses, one by one, to the Patels. An act which had caused much muttered consternation amongst Dursleigh’s less ‘inclusive’ denizens. We may be only twenty-five crow-winging miles from central London, but ethnic minorities are still minor.

‘Have you heard the reason why Duncan had his heart attack?’ a woman nearby said to her companion, in a cut-glass Surrey voice, a voice unhindered by volume control.

I was born and bred in Dursleigh and, apart from five years near Manchester and eleven in the cosmopolitan climes of Kensington, have lived here all my life, but I don’t possess the blah-blah accent nor the piercing tones. They come with family money, private education and impenetrable self-confidence. Usually. The speaker oozed confidence. Short, with a corseted bosom you could bounce bricks off, and bouffant, stiff-lacquered silver hair, she was headmistressy. The type who marches around dispensing orders and laying down the law. I didn’t recognise her, though others amongst the gathering were familiar. There was the lady mayor of the borough, our M.P., a Conservative, of course, several councillors, one of which was the dubious Mr Vetch, and an assortment of shopkeepers, including the Patel patriarch and his four tall, good-looking sons.

‘No, Beryl. Do tell.’

‘He was on the golf course with Peter and a couple more chaps when he claimed an eagle three on the long par five. Puffed out his chest and strutted. You know what Duncan was like.’

I did. I’d interviewed Duncan Kincaid a few years back when he had paid for a clock to be erected on the village green. A tubby sort wearing a blazer and tasselled loafers, with sparse strands of grey hair combed meticulously across his scalp, he had regarded himself as the big enchilada and taken great delight in telling me about his business acumen and the rip-roaring success he’d made of his shops, on and on and on. That said, the man had been affable and was generous. Always the first to put his hand into his pocket if funds were needed for the village football team or the brass band or some such thing. He had also been the founder, and mainstay, of the Dursleigh village fête which takes place every July.

‘Duncan said he didn’t want to boast, but wasn’t he a clever fellow?’ Beryl continued. ‘Declared it had to be a  cause for a celebration, a black-tie dinner at the Club House with him and her –’ a scathing glance was cast across the room to an elegant blonde in a wide-brimmed black hat ‘– holding court. At that point Peter interrupted and told him he’d actually played four shots. Well, Duncan went wild. Called Peter a liar –’

‘Never!’

‘To his face. And vowed he’d always been jealous of him.’

This time the blonde received a look to kill. She was the widow, Tina Kincaid, Duncan’s second wife. I’ve seen her emerging from dress shops – correction, fashion stockists – in Dursleigh, laden down with stiff parchment bags. And working on the paper, I get to hear the gossip.

Tina is slim, chic and perfectly packaged. A regular Barbie doll. She favours pastel trouser suits, with toning shoes and handbag, and wears her long straight hair tied back by a chiffon scarf which always, but always, matches her outfit. That some women devote vast chunks of their time and energy to their appearance never ceases to amaze me. I keep a couple of decent outfits for work – today I am in a black skirt suit with a lavender sweater and high heels. In all modesty, I have good legs and high heels are a vanity. If you’ve got it, why not flaunt it? But I would never go schlepping from one shop to another in search of a handbag to match the exact shade of a dress and, at home, I’m a slob. Tina Kincaid won’t be a slob. She’ll wear smart casual and full make-up, not pad around barefoot with a shiny face, clad in fraying chain store jeans.

‘However,’ Beryl went on, ‘the other chaps backed Peter up. Confirmed Duncan had indeed taken four shots, but said four was excellent, to be applauded. Still Duncan insisted he’d only had three. When Peter tried to explain that he was mistaken, Duncan swore. Told him to –’ she lowered her voice and I needed to strain to hear ‘– eff off and go stuff himself, and waved his five-iron around as if he intended to batter them all.’

‘For heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed her companion.

‘Then, all of a sudden, Duncan dropped to his knees and fell forward. One of the other chaps was Frank Carr, you know him, the doctor, now retired. He diagnosed a heart attack and asked Peter to summon an ambulance on his mobile. It’s a Nokia, top of the range. You can send and receive emails on it. And there’s an FM radio, plus digital music player. But it was too late. A minute or so later, Frank pronounced that the silly old fool was dead.’ Placing her empty wine glass on a side table, Beryl repositioned a bucket-sized handbag on her arm. ‘I suppose I’d better pay my respects. Do excuse me.’

As she made her way through the crowd – pausing to greet people, tracking the waiter to demand another glass of wine, helping herself to three prawn florets from the buffet table – I followed by a more circuitous route. Having eavesdropped this far, I wasn’t going to miss out on what came next. You could say I was being nosey, though I prefer to think of it as the journalistic drive. As I wove my way through I needed to briefly acknowledge, and avoid, several people in the throng. Though I saw that Councillor Vetch, who had seen me, kept his distance. Could Eric have warned him of my suspicions?

Ron Vetch, who exudes a persistent bonhomie, claims to be a devoted family man. His election literature always carries a photograph of him with his wife and four children, arms around each other and smiling brightly. Yet I have been reliably informed that he treats his wife, who is a timid woman, like a skivvy. She rarely appears with him in public and she was not with him today.

Beryl reached the widow just as a couple who had been voicing words of condolence were shifting into their goodbyes.

‘You must come round for coffee,’ the wife declared. ‘Some day.’

Tina Kincaid nodded. ‘Some day.’

Fat chance! A definite invitation would never be issued. You didn’t need extra-sensory perception to know that the women in the room – the wives of Duncan Kincaid’s golfing, Chamber of Commerce and Rotarian associates, he was a busy socialiser – disapproved of Tina. The glances she’d been receiving made it clear. Fifteen or whatever years ago when Duncan had married his ‘child bride’ as he’d called her, she had been slotted into the role of gold-digger and there she had stayed. If she had attempted to break down prejudice and encourage camaraderie, it hadn’t worked. Though she may have thought ‘bugger you lot’ and remained aloof.

It wouldn’t help that she was younger and left the wives standing in the looks department. With killer cheekbones, full lips and clear skin, Tina was decidedly pretty now and had been a beauty in her youth. When I had interviewed Duncan Kincaid he had talked proudly of how, in the past, she’d been on television.

‘Went under the name of Tina Sinclair,’ he’d said. ‘Used to set the male population alight every Saturday evening at eight.’

I can remember seeing her. She was a hostess on a game show, displaying the prizes. Draped over a car bonnet in a slinky dress or smiling excitedly at a food mixer, that kind of thing.

The woman must be in her fifties now, same as me, but the wives, all seventy-plus, would regard her as a threat. With reason. A procession of men had been in attendance; soothing, stroking her back, an arm around her shoulders as they comforted. Were they visualising her as a merry widow and thinking that, after a decent interval had elapsed, they would sidle close and suggest getting closer? Despite hearing aids and walking with sticks, several had the air of randy old sods. And Tina had lapped up their interest. Even when couples had come to speak to her, she had concentrated on the husbands and virtually ignored the wives.

‘I want to offer my sympathy,’ Beryl stated, standing four-square in front of Tina, ‘and say that dear departed Duncan was an exceptional human being and an inspiration to us all.’

The two-faced bitch! Her nose should’ve shot out a mile. But why is it that whenever someone dies, they are instantly transformed into a saint? You can guarantee that, before
rigor mortis
has set in, friends and relations will rush to say how warm, kind, intelligent, talented, etc., the deceased was. It would be refreshing if, just once, someone would declare that so-and-so had been a complete pain and thank God they’d gone.

As Beryl gushed out tributes with passionate insincerity, Tina’s attention began to stray. She examined her fingernails, which were lacquered a metallic ruby, smoothed the skirt of her black wool dress over the line of her hip, shot sly smiles at male admirers. Not quite the behaviour you’d expect from a grieving widow, though shock can have a strange effect.

‘I was wondering about the house,’ Beryl said, reaching the end of her diatribe.

‘House?’ Tina asked.

‘Your house. It’s a big place for one, so do you intend to move?’

‘Move?’ Tina repeated, as if stunned by the question.

It stunned me, too. Her husband had barely been placed six feet under and already Beryl was demanding to know her plans.

‘If so, I trust you won’t sell to developers who’ll demolish it and build two in its place. These new monstrosities do lower the tone and can bring in people who are, frankly, riff-raff.’

Tina shook her head. ‘I won’t be selling.’

‘Pleased to hear it,’ Beryl declared, and with her fears put to rest, she said goodbye and walked away.

The Kincaid residence was in Thyme Park, which is one of the private gated estates which edge Dursleigh. With peaceful, tree-lined roads and large houses set in large gardens, some with tennis courts and swimming pools, it is recognised as a premier residential location. A leading professional golfer lived there for a while and current home-owners include the CEOs from a couple of major companies. Most of the houses were built in the Thirties, though a few, like the Kincaid property, date from Victorian times.

But, as in the area in general, there’s an increasing trend to knock down older Thyme Park houses and replace them with multi-bedroomed, multi-bathroomed mansions which stretch from one boundary fence to the other. Or sometimes with two mansions. And recently I heard of a house in another part of Dursleigh where one old lady had lived which, when she’d died, had been demolished and sixteen starter homes erected on the land. ‘Pack ’em in’ building is happening more and more.

I was thinking that Tina would now be a wealthy woman when an elderly, upright man with U-shaped bags beneath his eyes, and a distinctly bulbous nose, arrived to speak to her.

‘Poor girl, how’re you feeling?’ he asked.

‘It hasn’t really hit home yet,’ she replied, her voice and expression suddenly touched with such fragile vulnerability that the accompaniment of wailing violins would have been appropriate.

‘Quite a surprise, Duncan popping his clogs. Seventy-six is no age these days. Don’t forget, I’m just over the fence and within calling distance so if I can be of any possible help in any possible way you mustn’t hesitate to ask.’

Raising a hand, Tina caressed his cheek with her fingertips. ‘You are so kind,’ she murmured. ‘So very, very kind.’

‘I mean it.’ He was in earnest. ‘If I can be of any help in –’

‘If
we
can be of help, Peter,’ a voice said sharply.

It was Beryl, she had returned. So the man was Peter of the golf course saga, her husband and, it appeared, Tina Kincaid’s next-door neighbour. Which explained the concern about Tina selling her house.

‘If we can be of help,’ Peter adjusted obediently, ‘you must let us know.’