Untimely Graves Page 7

  A tall, narrow farmhouse, gaunt and unadorned, stood like a grim fortress a few hundred yards away at the end of the lane into which they turned. There was no doubt what sort of farm it was. Tone sniffed the rich aroma as he uncurled himself from the back of the van, announcing ‘Pigs!’ Unnecessarily, since a nearby signboard advertised itself as ‘Covert Farm, Organic Pig Rearing’.

  Val had drawn the van up, not at the farm but in front of a cottage, crouching low to the ground and suddenly appearing in an unexpected dip in the lane. It had probably been two, or even three tiny cottages at one time, where farm-workers had brought up broods of children in rural squalor. The pump still stood picturesquely outside what had once been a barn attached to the end of the row. Now knocked into one house, modernised, centrally heated and with indoor plumbing installed, even in its present surrounding sea of mud, the cottage, with rosy bricks between black beams and wavy, pantiled roofs that sloped nearly to the ground at the back, unexpected windows and crooked chimneys, was the sort that fetched mega prices. It had a twee ceramic plaque on its gatepost, decorated with flowers of unknown origin, proclaiming it to be Wych Cottage.

  No one who has ever experienced their home being flooded can have any idea what it’s like, Cleo thought as they surveyed the task they were to undertake. Daphne’s washing machine had once flooded the kitchen at home, and what seemed like tons of water had reached right across into the dining-area, where it had lifted the parquet flooring. The carpet tiles in the kitchen, despite their claim to be washable, had taken weeks to dry. But at least it was clean, soapy water and there was only a measurable amount of it.

  The ground floor of old Mrs Osborne’s home had been under eighteen inches of dirty river water for over a week, and now that it had receded it had left a thick, stinking layer of alluvial mud over everything. Somebody had already got rid of at least the top layers of it, but a lot – and the stink – remained. She told them tearfully that the upholstery on her sofa and three chairs had been utterly ruined, though her precious Persian rugs, now at the cleaners, might be salvaged. What still had to be assessed was the damage done to her other furniture. Luckily, the boys from the farm had come over and carried the more portable pieces upstairs before the worst of the water came seeping in. Lucky was the word, Cleo thought when she saw those tables and chairs. Most of them had to be antique, and expensive antique at that.

  Mrs Osborne, a deceptively frail-looking old woman in her seventies, insisted on making them mugs of coffee, which they drank while they worked, since it would otherwise cut into their cleaning time.

  ‘She’s getting under the feet, I know, but never mind. Drink it or the old duck’ll be offended,’ Sue whispered to Cleo as they attempted to make inroads into the devastation, while Mrs Osborne sat on the window seat and chatted, drawing her legs to one side every time anyone came near her. Perhaps she wanted to keep her undoubtedly sharp eyes on them: if they looked like missing a corner, she wasn’t slow to point it out.

  She told them she’d once lived up at the farm proper, up the lane, but it had been sold when her husband died and she’d moved down here into this cottage. She seemed an unlikely farmer’s wife, and not averse to the change; the cottage was obviously the pride of her life. She sighed as she said, ‘I was never much of a farmer’s wife. To tell the truth, I never was one, very much. I’ve occupied my life with much more interesting things.’ What they were, she didn’t say, as she smoothed her coral pink skirt and matching jacket and adjusted the string of pearls around her neck.

  Cleo could imagine the interior of the cottage as it had been before the flood: the chintz and china, the pretty ornaments on the walnut tables and chests, the Persian rugs on the polished stone floors. These thick stone slabs made getting the mud off much easier than if they’d been wooden floorboards, and with all the windows and doors open to let the brisk, blowy wind through they were drying quickly, after several sluicings followed by a thorough scrub. It surprised Cleo what six hours brisk work could accomplish. Once they’d managed to make the floors presentable, they had washed down the walls right up to the low, beamed ceilings so as not to leave further tidemarks. ‘No way can you wash half a wall,’ said Sue, speaking from experience.

  ‘We can get some of your furniture down for you now, seeing the floor’s nicely dry,’ she told Mrs Osborne at last. ‘Then we can give a quick once-over upstairs, and next time we come, do a proper spit and polish on everything. A good rub-up and these flags’ll come up a treat.’

  ‘Oh, could you? But no, it isn’t really necessary for you to move the furniture back. The boys will do it!’

  ‘We‘ve time to shift some of the smaller bits, anyway, so it’ll start looking more like home,’ Sue said, conscientious about not wasting time they were being paid for.

  ‘You’ve done marvels already. Wait until my daughter sees it! She’ll be coming down to pick me up presently. I’ve been staying with her since that dreadful night. She’s a teacher and she has a lovely new house over at Lattimer. Even so, I shall be glad to get back into my own home. Just do as I want, you know, without bothering anyone else,’ Mrs Osborne added wistfully.

  ‘You shouldn’t live out here all on your own,’ said Tone suddenly. ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘No, why should I be? I’ve got some good door locks and a telephone, and I’d never answer the door after dark.’

  ‘All the same, nasty things can happen to old ladies living on their own.’ He mooched off upstairs and in a moment, the sounds of furniture being moved penetrated through the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Sue said, ‘His mother never taught him to mind his manners. He’s not as bad as he looks.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve already cottoned on to that! His heart seems to be in the right place. And he’s a good worker.’

  Cleo didn’t know about his heart being in the right place – it might have been anywhere, looking at Tone – but to her surprise, her cynical private observations about his capacity for hard work had proved quite unjustified. When he took his jacket off, she could see he had strong muscles and he used them to good effect. And being so tall, he could reach as far as the low ceilings, which had been a help. He didn’t say much, but got on with the job, chugging away like a steam engine. Sue worked just as briskly. They seemed tireless. Cleo’s back was breaking, her arms ached with the unaccustomed exercise. But she thought she might get used to it, given time. Providing she didn’t drop dead first.

  In the end, Mrs Osborne surrendered to Sue’s persuasions about moving some of the smaller furniture down, and followed Tone nimbly upstairs to indicate what was what. He had already manoeuvred a walnut chest of drawers to the top of the stairs, and he and Sue began to assess the logistics of getting it downstairs. Cleo could see the old lady looking at the chest nervously and couldn’t blame her. Neither Sue nor Tone were weaklings but the stairs were narrow and twisting, and the chest looked valuable.

  ‘If you took the drawers out it wouldn’t be as heavy,’ she ventured, pulling out one of the top ones as she spoke and carrying it over to rest it on the bed.

  Mrs Osborne gave a little scream. ‘Oh goodness, they’re in such a mess, let me tidy them a bit first!’ She darted over to the one Cleo had pulled out. She hadn’t seemed to be the sort to be prudish about anyone seeing her winceyette nightdresses and thermal bloomers, and it turned out that wasn’t the reason she’d grabbed a woolly bedjacket and thrown it over the contents of the drawer – which weren’t undergarments, anyway, but table linen. Quick as a little sparrow, she still hadn’t been quite quick enough to conceal what Cleo had seen lying there.

  A car drew up outside.

  ‘Oh, there’s Eleanor,’ Mrs Osborne said, with evident relief. ‘Just you leave everything, now. Eleanor and the boys will see to it.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Quite sure,’ Mrs Osborne said firmly.

  They followed her downstairs, collected their belongings and Mrs Osborne was just writing out the che
que for their services and arranging for the next visit when Eleanor Robson walked in.

  Her critical glance swept around the room. ‘Well,’ she announced grudgingly, after a moment or two, ‘you’ve made a start, I’ll say that.’ She glanced at her watch and saw that there was still five minutes to go, which Cleo supposed meant fifteen in real terms, and said pointedly, ‘Didn’t you have time to get the furniture downstairs, then?’

  Sue began to explain, though Cleo was sure it wasn’t part of their job requirements to go lugging furniture around. Any offers to do so had been made out of the goodness of Sue’s heart, but Mrs Osborne cut her explanations short. ‘Eleanor,’ she began warningly, ‘it’s been a perfectly filthy job, they’ve worked wonders and I’m delighted with what they’ve done. The furniture will stay where it is, for now.’

  Little Mrs Osborne, Cleo saw, could insert an edge of steel into her voice with the best of them when necessary. Her large, forbidding daughter, obviously having had experience of this before, shut up.

  Cleo was rather glad to see her put down. She didn’t take to Mrs Robson at all.

  She was tall, with a big bosom and her dark hair drawn back from her face into a low bun on her neck, her mouth set in an uncompromising line. You could imagine her swishing a cane in her hand. She looked like the sort who’d enjoy terrorising unwilling children. I’ll bet it’s maths she teaches, Cleo thought.

  ‘Let’s get off, then,’ Mrs Osborne said.

  ‘We can’t go, yet, Mother. The police are here, wanting a word with you.’

  All eyes in the room followed her glance out of the window, where a couple of large, uniformed men were standing beside the police car that was parked on the muddy frontage of the cottage, next to the MO van, and Eleanor’s own car. ‘The police?’ Mrs Osborne’s voice rose to a squeak. ‘What do they want with me?’

  ‘It’s all right, don’t look so worried, Mother, they’re questioning everyone in the neighbourhood. It’s that woman who was drowned. They seem to think her body went into the water somewhere just below here.’

  7

  One of these days, thought Charles Wetherby, he was going to inform Mrs Atkins, in no uncertain terms, that he loathed the smell of the air freshener she insisted on spraying around the office, and forbid her to use it. But unpalatable though it was for him to admit this, she was one of the few people who intimidated him – he’d never even been able to bring himself to call her by her Christian name, Daphne, though everyone else around the office seemed to manage it. He would have found some reason to dismiss her before now, except that she was so damned efficient and besides, she’d been appointed by Conyngham, the school Secretary, who not only thought the sun shone out of her, but called her Daph, to which she made no objection. Her smooth blonde hair, her immaculate complexion and her gold-rimmed spectacles irritated him beyond belief, and he pretended not to know why. The truth, which he refused to admit, was that, while being perfectly polite, she would not grant him the deference he regarded as due to the Bursar of Lavenstock College.

  She had put an African violet on top of the filing cabinet, and a neatly typed list of his most important obligations for the week on his desk, including reminders for his attendance at the Safety Policy Committee, and the Senior Administrative Staff meeting, which was starred. Starred. That meant he would have to make time to see Conyngham first, because the subject of the purchase of 16 Kelsey Road was bound to be paramount on the agenda. If that stubborn old woman continued to refuse to sell, it might be necessary for the school to consider the possibility of making the new entrance by demolishing only the two houses – 14 and 12 — which stood together. This was a less satisfactory proposition by a long chalk than the present proposal, to pull down the middle two, of which number 16 was one, and to utilise the end ones as the new porters’ lodges. Or even for some very necessary overspill accommodation. Discussing this would inevitably bring up the vexed question of admitting sixth-form girls into the school as boarders. Not that Wetherby, as Bursar, would have any say one way or the other in either matter, but both situations would certainly pose him with more administrative problems.

  He gazed into the mirror which faced the glass panel in his door. He’d had this strategically hung so that he could see what went on beyond the door without them being able to see him. One of the girls from the outer office had appeared with two mugs of coffee, and was handing one to Mrs Atkins, leaning against her desk to gossip as she drank her own, which meant that the switchboard had been left unmanned again. Infuriated, he pushed his chair back to go and remonstrate with her, then saw it was not Trish, in one of her eye-catching outfits, but Beverley. For some reason she was dressed up today, not wearing her usual ethnic garb. He subsided into his chair, thinking, not for the first time, that something would have to be done about her. He’d been a fool to play so near home, and not to have realised the extent of her gullibility.

  He was a bad judge of women, he had to admit it. He was destined to pick the wrong kind, their physical attraction blinding him to flaws in their character, which only became evident too late. His wife, Hannah: pretty and aimless when he’d met her, but full of high spirits and with an endearing adoration for him. But she’d developed a knack of arguing with him too much, and then, when he’d finally succeeded in breaking her spirit, she was no longer any fun. It had been pretty much the same with other women. Angela Hunnicliffe, for instance. Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Angela, with her mean, acquisitive ways, her transatlantic twang and her devious mind. He was glad to have seen the last of her – she and her husband – but when they’d departed for their native shore, they’d both left behind them a legacy of trouble. And now, Beverley Harriman. Who was a different proposition altogether.

  Cleo wasn’t sorry to leave Wych Cottage when their stint was over. It still didn’t smell good, which was only to be expected after being under flood water. Mrs Osborne, in fact, said there were parts which never dried out completely. The idea of living with something like that gave Cleo the willies.

  Sue was anxious to get home, so she drove fast all the way into Lavenstock, concentrating on her driving. She only worked mornings for MO, and she said she had her own house to clean when she got back, to pick up her children from school and cook the evening meal. In addition, it appeared she was wallpapering the main bedroom and wanted to get it finished so that she and her husband could move back in that night. She made Cleo tired just thinking about it all, and even more certain that she’d been right only to sign up her services part time; she wondered how long they’d put up with her, anyway. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  ‘Tired? You’ll soon get used to it – and you did OK,’ Sue remarked, but Cleo had the feeling that she was just being kind, and that she hadn’t really pulled her weight; yet the thought of getting the sack depressed her with a sense of failure.

  ‘The first fifteen years are the worst,’ Tone said from the back. ‘After that you get used to it.’

  He had his sketch pad out and all the way back Cleo heard the pages rapidly turning over. Tone was beginning to interest her.

  They reached the MO premises in record time, signed off and Sue hurried off home to her DIY decorating, cooking, minding her children, and the rest. Tone stood about on the pavement, looking as though he wanted to say something. Finally, he got out, ‘Could you do some lunch? There’s a good place round the corner.’

  ‘Cheap?’ Cleo asked, making sure he understood by this that she was going to pay her way. Her plans for the day hadn’t included lunching with anyone, never mind young Tone, but all that hard work had made her ravenous. Perhaps that was why she felt so low: her blood sugar needed a boost.

  He nodded. ‘Good grub, too.’

  ‘OK, if you’ll let me look at what you’ve been drawing.’

  ‘Why do you want to do that?’ he asked in amazement. But eventually he agreed.

  The caff to which he led her looked like a greasy spoon outside, but appearances were deceptive.
It was as antiseptic as an old-fashioned hospital ward inside. It wasn’t much more than a counter with cooking facilities behind, and a few tables, but the plastic tablecloths were spotless and the sauce bottles weren’t sticky. A woman of roughly the same proportions as Sue, though twenty years older, was serving behind the counter, otherwise the place was empty. ‘Hello, each,’ she greeted them. ‘Brought your girlfriend today, Tone?’

  ‘This is Cleo, Marge, she’s come to work with us. You go sit down, Cleo, I’ll get it. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Oh anything, as long as it’s food, I’m starving. Burger or something,’ she said absently.

  While he was waiting at the counter and oniony smells came drifting over, making her mouth water, she flicked through the sketch pad he’d left with her. He was really, at least to Cleo’s thinking, really good. He must surely have had some sort of professional training. It was a true artist’s sketchbook – odd, quirky details of people, places, things. He seemed to have total recall, he’d remembered all sorts of surprising things about Wych Cottage: she flicked the pages over, seeing the little wooden carvings on the inglenook, the iron-barred bake-oven where someone had once been able to bake enough bread for an army. He’d drawn every detail of the heavy, wonderfully wrought iron latch on the low, crooked door, leading directly on to an almost vertical flight of damp stone steps into the low, stillflooded, unused cold-store at the side of the house, which someone had once dug out to six feet below ground, generations before freezers and fridges had been invented. You could still have used it for that purpose, Mrs Osborne had said, except that it never completely dried out, despite a big air space high up in the wall. There was also an apple-loft and what she called the cheese room, half-way up the staircase. It still smelled cheesy, or was that imagination?

  There was a sketch of Cleo herself, which made her laugh, wondering what Daphne would think of it – on her knees, mopping the floor, with a harassed expression on her face and her bum in the air. And one of Mrs Osborne. Tone had done a funny drawing of her, sitting like the Queen Mum on the window seat with her fluffy white hair and her little feet in their high-heeled shoes drawn to one side.