‘What?’
‘Evening, to fish.’
‘No good fishing in full sunlight, any fool knows that. Old Louisa’s no fool.’
‘She’ll—er—smell—’
‘She’s already smelt it,’ snarled Mungo. ‘Don’t be an oaf. She sided with Hebe last night, practically saw us off, treated us as though we’d come to rape the girl.’
‘Wasn’t that what you, what you—’ Rory who was driving swivelled hare’s eyes to look at Mungo.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ yelled Mungo. Rory braked and stopped the car. The lane was blocked by a shiny Rover, its wings jammed into the mudguards of a Land Rover, the machines interlocked like fighting dogs.
‘Accident,’ said Mungo, stating the obvious. He opened the door of the car and got out. Rory followed.
The Land Rover contained some bales of hay, bags of fertiliser and a pitchfork. There was no sign of a driver. By the side of the road, sitting on the grass, an ancient couple and a Labrador dog. The Labrador wore the customary expression of such dogs—just say what you want and I will try to oblige if it is within my humble capacity. The couple stood up, expunging from their faces exasperation, anger and impatience, to greet Mungo and Rory with the reserved half-smiles of country gentry. They were dressed for a function. The woman wore a longish dress of flowered silk, over it a thick silk coat of navy blue, white shoes, white gloves and a hat which made Rory flinch. If there was one thing which upset his sensibilities it was plastic cherries. She wore a double row of pearls, a diamond brooch and good rings. Her husband wore morning dress of dated cut.
‘See you have had a bit of a smash,’ Mungo suggested, moving towards them.
On hearing Mungo’s impeccable vowels the elderly couple smiled with less reserve.
‘Driving too fast, always in a hurry these fellows,’ said the elderly man.
‘I see. Anybody gone for help?’
‘A—er—a young woman went for help,’ said the man. His hands trembled as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, then smoothed his trousers which had grown uncomfortable as he sat. Mungo wondered whether the old-fashioned expression ‘adjusting his dress’, which was what the man was doing, was still used. He noted with interest that the old fellow’s trousers had fly buttons, not a zip.
‘Where’s the driver of this?’ Rory slapped the Land Rover with a comradely hand.
‘We have waited hours.’ The elderly lady looked at her watch. ‘We have been here since dawn.’
‘They won’t want to know how long we’ve been here,’ snapped her husband, putting her in her place.
‘The driver of that thing got tired of waiting,’ said his wife, her voice tremulous.
‘She said she would tell the AA to come,’ said the husband. ‘They are usually reliable.’
‘But she never was,’ said his wife bitterly.
‘So a friend went for help?’ Rory brightened.
‘She said she would tell the AA.’
‘Well, someone will be along soon.’ Mungo was impatient to get on.
‘I told you nothing can pass along this lane,’ Rory shouted at Mungo in exasperation.
‘So only locals use it. I suppose the Land Rover’s local?’ Realisation was dawning.
‘Yes,’ they spoke in unison. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘I shall have to back all the way to the main road.’ Rory was furious. Then, remembering his manners, he said, ‘We will tell the AA to rescue you.’
‘We’d better write down the car numbers,’ said Mungo, making an attempt to be practical, ‘although your friend will have told them already.’ He found a pencil and walked round the car and the Land Rover, writing their numbers on the back of an envelope.
‘I expect your dog wants his dinner.’ Rory made a feeble try at amiability.
‘She drove away and left us on purpose.’ The woman spoke through clenched teeth. Rory was startled to see tears in her eyes. ‘She will not have told the AA.’ Then, recovering, she said, ‘He has his dinner at night.’ Her smile was socially pure. ‘I have it for him in the car. It is we who shall miss our luncheon. My husband was to have made a speech.’
‘Where are you going?’ Rory made conversation.
‘Ledbury. That is why we made an early start. A wedding.’
‘I have friends near Ledbury. They are—er—called—’ Rory blurted out the name of a titled uncle and aunt. ‘He’s—er—my godfather.’
‘That is near where we are going. I shall tell him you rescued us. My husband was at school with him.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Rory was not liked by his uncle who, he had heard, referred to him as the poofter hatter. ‘We will back away now and telephone the AA for you.’
Rory and Mungo got into the car and Rory, putting the car into reverse, began the drive back to the main road. ‘This will rick my neck.’
‘What d’you want to suck up to those people for?’ asked Mungo. ‘Boasting about your bloody godfather.’
‘It was you who let us in for ringing the AA. I was just being normally polite. You wrote down their car numbers—pretty officious.’
‘Who do you suppose they were? They looked like something out of a pantomime.’
‘Poor old things, they were going to a wedding.’ Rory felt a spasm of tenderheartedness. ‘The dog was rather nice.’
‘You can’t judge people by their dogs,’ said Mungo aggressively. ‘Cats, now, are another matter.’
‘I shan’t invite you to my wedding,’ cried Rory spitefully, twisting his neck as he reversed the car, ‘to—er—to Hebe.’
Mungo refrained from hitting Rory, possibly causing another car crash and further delay.
Twenty-six
EILEEN RUTTER WALKED AWAY. She was afraid Christopher would lose his temper. She tried not to listen to the sound of tearing metal as the surly owner of the Land Rover wrenched the vehicles apart with scant respect for the Rover. All he had said, arriving with a mechanic and a breakdown truck, had been, ‘Must get these apart before milking time.’ The mechanic had got on with the job.
Her shoes pinched. She was conscious of looking ridiculous in these surroundings and that Christopher looked an old buffoon. She was glad of the dog’s company. ‘She recognised us,’ Eileen said to the dog. ‘That is the only chance we’ve ever been given. We missed it.’ Thirteen years ago Christopher had refused to look for Hebe. For thirteen years she had been taboo. ‘She looks lovely,’ Eileen said to the dog. ‘I wonder what her child is like.’ She talked to herself these days, Christopher having grown as deaf as herself. ‘He didn’t hear the beastly thing blow its horn. He shouldn’t really drive.’ The dog walked beside her companionably. ‘She’s so different from the other girls,’ Eileen cried. ‘She always was.’ The dog glanced up. One could have asked whether the rumours one had heard were true. Seen at Wimbledon by Beata with a male companion; in a restaurant by Marcus, also with a man; walking along Knightsbridge, again by Beata; at the theatre with a man he said he knew quite well by Robert; glimpsed briefly in the West Country with a black youth too old to be her child, by Delian. Did that prove anything? One met black people, like it or not. Christopher had liked the enterprising young man who installed those devilish burglar traps. None of the sightings added credence to Christopher’s conviction that Hebe lived in Brixton in the black community. ‘At least we know she is alive,’ Eileen said to the dog. ‘She was wearing good clothes, driving a decent car. Perhaps she is all right. Small thanks to us,’ said Eileen bitterly to the dog. Her hat was pressing on her forehead. ‘She lied, she deceived, she betrayed, she went her own way.’ Eileen faltered. ‘Was that so terrible?’ she said to the dog. ‘Might I have not done something to help her—’ She felt as she had felt before in the sad watches of the night, a hesitant doubt. She looked at the hat in her hand. ‘I could see she didn’t think much of this,’ Eileen said to the dog, and with all her strength she threw the hat towards the hedge. The hat sailed in the light summer air over the low hedge then, we
ighted by the cherries, fell. With a joyous bark the dog bounded to retrieve it.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Christopher drove up in the battered Rover. ‘You will teach him bad habits. Get in, get in,’ he said irritably, opening the car door. ‘That young chap keeps a hat shop in Salisbury. You had better try his wares.’ He was sarcastic.
Eileen got in beside her husband. ‘You might at least have told her the dog’s name,’ she said loudly so that he would hear, ‘not called him away.’
Christopher Rutter drove forward with a jerk so that the dog slid off the back seat on to the floor. ‘Careful, we shall have another accident.’
‘Shut up, woman!’ yelled Christopher in his cracked old voice. ‘Shut up!’ Eileen began to weep, tears smearing her sunken cheeks.
‘If you had told her his name—’
‘Shut up!’ cried her husband.
Eileen stopped crying. From nowhere came an ancient memory. Who was it she had deceived Christopher with, on that one dubious delightful occasion? Some friend of that girl Louisa. What was she called now? One forgot names. He had been small but very attractive. He had made her laugh. Eileen searched her mind for his name. She realised with pleasurable surprise that she no longer felt guilty.
‘She never meant to tell the AA about us.’ Eileen Rutter experienced a fleeting admiration for her granddaughter. ‘You should have let her pat the dog,’ she goaded her husband. ‘Look out, you’ll have us in the ditch.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Then if those young men have not also forgotten us the AA can get us out of that.’
‘Shut up!’
‘You should have let her touch him, told her his name—’
‘God!’
He had been a delightful little stoat. Eileen sat back, remembering the name. Bernard Quigley, that was it. She wondered whether he was still alive. She looked at her husband’s profile. Good looks aren’t everything. She leant back in her seat and fastened the seat belt.
Twenty-seven
IN AMY’S HOUSE THEY gathered to question Giles. Had Silas sent him a message? No. Had Silas said anything before he left to suggest that he was worried? No. Had Silas—
‘Look, Mum, I’m hungry. Can I have some tea?’ Giles felt oppressed by the torrent of questions. Should he protect Silas? Was there something Silas would not want told?
‘I’ll get the boy some tea.’ Amy busied herself producing a meal, trying hard not to look anxious. She felt unwell, had felt wretched since the morning of the flood. There was no time for that now. It had been nothing, she told herself, she’d taken fright being alone. It had been all right when Terry appeared; the pain had eased off when she took her pill.
‘He was looking forward to going. Sounded okay to me.’ Giles filled his mouth with bread and butter, spread jam lavishly.
Hannah stood over him, hoping to extract some crumb of information. Terry, leaning against the wall, watched her appreciatively. Some girl. Lovely rhythm. Quite different to Hebe. Couldn’t compare them, really. He liked the way her eyes grew dark when she came. Poor old Hebe was looking blotched with worry.
‘You were with him the day before he went away, did anything happen?’ Hannah stood over her son.
‘We got wet.’ Giles, munching, recollected the field of kale and Silas hitting him so that he fell back in the mud and got wetter. One couldn’t tell her that, not in front of this crowd. ‘No, Mum.’
‘Did you have a row?’
‘No.’ Giles shook his head. His conception of a row was plates flying as Hannah hurled them at his father. He remembered sheltering under tables and behind chairs until the storm spent itself.
‘No row? You sure?’
Giles remembered Silas last seen waving across the street. ‘He called me a litterbug.’ Can’t do any harm to tell them that.
‘You were having a row.’ Hannah pounced.
‘It was a joke.’ Giles helped himself to cake. ‘He was laughing when I last saw him.’
‘Nothing to do with the Scillies, anyway,’ said Terry, hoping to get back to the point.
‘I am going to try to telephone again.’ Hebe went out. ‘She may be back by now.’
As Hebe left the house she brushed past George Scoop in search of Hannah.
‘Anyone home?’ he sang. ‘Hullo, Amy.’ He walked in uninvited.
‘Hullo, Mr Scoop,’ said Amy, not wishing to call him George. ‘Sit down. Cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, I’d love a cup. Thought you might be here.’ George addressed Hannah who, answering without her usual gusto, merely said, ‘Yes’.
‘Hebe’s son Silas is missing.’ Terry looked George up and down. So this was George. ‘I am Terry.’ He held out his hand, smiling. George shook hands, took note of Terry’s lovely teeth, regular, not a single stopping. Often the case with blacks.
‘Are the police informed?’ George looked round the room. He had not been to Amy’s house before. He noticed that it showed few signs of the flood. Hannah must have exaggerated the damage. It had been a ploy to get him involved.
‘It’s hardly a police matter—’ said Hannah.
‘Let’s listen to the local news.’ Without asking Amy’s permission George switched on her television. ‘Might hear something on the news.’ He sat down opposite the set. Amy drew in her breath.
‘You want the football results,’ said Giles, guessing correctly, feeling hostile.
George registered a sensation he had had before. It would be dicey to be Giles’ stepfather. He watched the announcer. ‘I know that man’s dentist,’ he said. ‘He has a practice in Wimpole Street.’
Amy watched George, sizing him up to his disadvantage. Terry smiled broadly.
The national news finished, the local announcer took over. ‘Now he is a patient of mine. Gets troublesome plaque. I stopped three of his teeth last month,’ said George. ‘Saved a molar.’
Terry caught Hannah’s eye. She grinned. Amy said, ‘Well,’ non-committally, then again ‘Well’, on a downbeat.
‘If I get it right and Silas sent the message, then it’s not a police—’ began Terry.
‘No, no, Hebe got a message. We don’t know that it was Silas that sent it,’ said Hannah.
‘My God, I wish I could get at him.’ George leant forward to stare at a man being interviewed on a fishing boat. ‘One could do a lot for that chap.’
Hannah burst out laughing. ‘You don’t watch telly, you watch their teeth. What did the man say, George, bet you didn’t hear.’ She crowed with laughter, catching Terry’s eye, turning to Amy, who suppressed a smile. One should not make fun of visitors even when self-invited in one’s own house. George looked discomfited, began seriously to doubt any future with Hannah, though in bed she was terrific. Who was this bloke Terry? A bit young for Hannah, and coloured, black, not to put too fine a point on it. A friend of Giles? Not exactly suitable. There were other things in marriage besides bed. He turned to look at Hannah. No, dammit, from the way she was grinning at Terry she and Terry had a thing going. Tricky bitch, how could she?
Giles, passing his cup for a refill, thought, None of them are concentrating on Silas. George is bothered by Terry. Mum is teasing George. Terry feels pleased with himself for some reason. Oh, high oop, Mum’s switched to Terry, that’s it, and Amy’s just watching. They didn’t notice when Giles left the room and crossed the street to Hebe’s house. Hebe, sitting by the telephone, looked up. ‘Giles.’
‘Any luck?’ He sat beside her.
‘She must be out. I am ringing every five minutes. I know what she is doing, she is gardening. She will come in when she is tired. I must be patient.’
Trip peered round the door and walked in, pressing her flank sensuously against its edge. She strolled across to Hebe, leapt on to her lap, pressing her head up under Hebe’s chin with hard little jerks, purring.
‘She wouldn’t talk to me when I got home.’ Hebe stroked Trip.
‘Cats get affronted. We had one in the States. Very unforgiving
.’ Giles looked at the clock. ‘When is the five minutes up?’
Hebe watched the second hand. ‘About now.’ She dialled. ‘Try, try and try again.’ She listened to the telephone pealing in Louisa’s drawing-room in Wiltshire. ‘Still out.’ She put the receiver down. ‘Oh, Giles.’ She began to weep. ‘What on earth can have happened to him?’
‘Shall I get Mum?’ Giles was near tears himself.
‘No, I must just keep on trying until Louisa answers. Then, when she tells me who sent the message, I may get some idea of where he can be.’
Giles fetched a roll of paper towel from the kitchen and handed a strip to Hebe. Hebe mopped her eyes, loving Giles for his action, thinking, Small wonder Silas is such friends with him. Giles blew his nose, while outside on the rooftops the sea gulls shrieked and quarrelled.
‘I must pull myself together,’ she said, and remembered that when she was a small child she had heard her grandfather tell a man who had lost both legs to pull his socks up.
‘It’s pretty difficult,’ she said, taking another piece of paper towel from Giles. ‘I feel I am going mad.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Giles, catching his breath.
‘Do you think he is dead?’
‘Of course not,’ said Giles stoutly. ‘He may be anywhere. He has no idea of time.’
‘You know that’s untrue.’
‘What do you think of Mum and Terry?’ Could he distract her?
‘What do you think? It’s you that matters.’
‘I’m pleased.’ Giles grinned, thinking, Nobody can call Terry boring. ‘Try that number again,’ he suggested.
‘I must not be hysterical.’ She started dialling.
Louisa, sitting on her garden seat, watched Mungo and Rory snipping dead heads off her roses. She was amused by their visit, their transparent show of solicitude and affection. Enjoying the late afternoon sun she laid bets with herself as to how long the two would stay.
They had arrived in Rory’s car. They had been clearly disconcerted at not finding Hebe. Bound to secrecy by Bernard, Louisa was unable to tell them that Hebe had hurried to care for her child. Neither Mungo nor Rory knew she had a child. It had become obvious that they both thought Hebe had either gone out to avoid them or that Louisa, in spite of her denial when asked by Rory, knew where Hebe lived and could be tricked into giving her address. Since she only knew by accident through Bernard, Louisa would only say, ‘She has a forwarding address in London, but it is she who telephones when she is free and might like to come. I can give you the address.’ From the way they hedged and hesitated, Louisa guessed that Mungo at least knew of this address and knew it to be a dead end.