A Clubbable Woman (13 page)

‘Right, love.’

His arm was round her waist now as they walked on, quietly, anticipatingly.

It was darker on this side of the road. The trees, the older less efficient lamp-posts, all contributed. Ahead they could see the telephone-box which stood almost outside their gate. ‘They didn’t need one till the
hoi polloi
came,’ Fernie had once commented. When he was in the mood, everything appeared as evidence of the difference between ‘us’ and ‘them’.

Now it looks like a beacon, welcoming us home, thought Alice, though not without a wry glance at her own romanticism.

They were nearly there and she turned to cross the road. But he pulled her back and leaned her against another tree.

‘Dave!’ she said.

He kissed her again.

‘Afraid of the neighbours?’

‘Of course not. I’m afraid of me. There’s some things you can’t do out on the street.’

‘Why not?’ he whispered, it’d be fun.’

‘Oh, you fool,’ she murmured.

They kissed once more.

‘Let’s go in now,’ he said, eagerly.

As they stepped out from behind the tree, a figure, walking rapidly and glancing back over his shoulder, stepped off the pavement a few yards up and came at them on a collision course. There was an urgency about the way he moved which caught Alice’s attention, but it was her husband who spoke first.

‘Hey, Stanley! What’s up, then?’

The figure stopped dead and saw them obviously for the first time.

‘Mr Fernie. It’s you.’

Then no more.

It was Stanley Curtis, his face rather pale, breathing deeply, quickly.

‘Is something wrong, Stan?’ asked Alice.

‘No. Well, yes. It’s just that, well, I was passing Mr Connon’s house and I just looked over the hedge and I saw someone. Someone there.’

He stopped again.

‘Where, boy?’ asked Fernie, sharply. ‘What doing?’

‘In the garden. Just prowling around. Then he disappeared up the side of the house. I thought it might be. .’

‘Yes, Stanley?’

‘… the man who killed Mrs Connon.’

Fernie nodded vigorously, not so much, it seemed to Alice, at what Stan had said, but rather at some thought going through his own head.

‘Right. Come on, lad. Alice, you stay here.’

‘Dave! What are you going to do?’

‘To have a look. What else? There’s two of us. Come on, Stan.’

But Stanley made no movement. Poor kid, thought Alice, he’s scared stiff.

She moved to him and put her arm over his shoulders. He was shivering violently.

‘Don’t be a fool, Dave,’ she said sharply. ‘Stan’s not coming with you. And you’re not going either. There’s the phone-box. Get on to the police straightaway.’

Fernie stood irresolutely for a moment. Alice glanced round. The Curtis house was in darkness. Maisie and her husband were obviously out.

‘I’m taking Stan inside,’ she said. ‘You come on in when you’ve talked to the police. You can watch in comfort then.’

So much for the perfect end to a perfect night, she thought resignedly as she walked up the path. All that build-up gone to waste. It’d have been better if I’d told him to go ahead up against the tree. We might have missed Stanley. And he was too scared to notice us. But he’d have called the police anyway and they might really have caught us at it. Against a tree!

The thought made her smile. Alice Fernie was a woman of indomitable spirit.

Behind her, her husband stepped into the telephone-box and began to dial.

‘Connie,’ said Hurst, ‘I’ve brought you a drink. You’re not going to hide in here all night, are you?’

Connie recognized the half-jocular, half-sympathetic note in Hurst’s voice. It was a tone he was growing familiar with. Condolences first. Then afterwards talk as if nothing had happened, but inject enough sympathy into your voice to show you’re still aware that something has.

He hadn’t meant to sit so long by himself. He had come down to the Club that night with a real purpose, a purpose only half of which had been carried out at the meeting. The sight of Dalziel and Pascoe had disconcerted him more than he had cared to show. He felt illogically that somehow he was responsible for introducing a dissonant element into the Club. It was a rugby club. He had long been disturbed by the growing diversification of the Club’s interests. And therefore of the Club’s membership.

But he put these thoughts to the back of his mind now, with a silent promise that they would be uttered one day soon.

‘I’ve been glancing through the teams, Peter,’ he said. ‘What’s happened to Jim Davies?’

‘He knocked his knee on Saturday. Seemed all right at first, but came up like a balloon over the weekend.’

‘So you brought in Gerald on the open side. He’ll never hold the place, will he? Did you think of any of the youngsters? Jo Walsh? Or Stan Curtis?’

Hurst laughed.

‘You might almost have been eavesdropping, Connie. Yes, both of them. But Joe’s best-manning at a wedding on Saturday so he’s not available. Though he’d come along, white carnation, wedding-ring and all, I reckon, if he was asked to play for the Firsts. But we couldn’t do that. And young Curtis has been a bit under the weather, missed training this week, so he’s out. Anything else?’

‘Yes. I see Marcus’s name’s missing from the Fourths.’

‘Time marches on, Connie! He’s asked not to be considered, for a while at least. Feeling his age, he says.’

‘Considered!’ smiled Connon. ‘You don’t get considered for the Fourths. You get press-ganged. He’ll have to join the great gang of us who move around in disguise on Saturdays till half an hour after kick-off time. You’ll be one of us soon, Peter.’

Hurst nodded and started to pin the team-sheets back up on the board.

Then he seemed to make his mind up about something.

‘Connie, that letter. I was desperately sorry to hear about it.’

‘Yes?’

It was a calm, simple interrogative, inviting but not pleading for a continuation.

‘I’d like to see it if I might,’ said Hurst.

‘Why?’

‘I might be able to help. Might, perhaps; there’s just something; that’s why I asked at the meeting, but I’d have to see the letter first, partly to see what’s in it, partly just to see it.’

‘Well now, Mr Hurst. I think that might be arranged. We’ll get in touch with you tomorrow shall we?’

In the doorway stood the solid bulk of Dalziel. Hurst flushed an angry red. But Connon remained as cool and unmoved as he had been while listening to Hurst.

‘He’d have to know, Peter,’ he said calmly. ‘The police have the letter. Did you want to speak to me, Superintendent?’

‘That’s right. I didn’t come just to eavesdrop. We’ve had a report on an intruder on your premises. The station have just phoned me here. I’ve told them to observe, but keep off till I get there. I’d like you to come too, if you would.’

‘Of course. Who reported this?’

‘Your friend Fernie. He seems to spend most of his spare time keeping an eye on your house.’

Connon smiled thoughtfully.

‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Good night, Peter. Perhaps we can talk again tomorrow.’

They moved out into the social room. As they passed through the dancers, Connon noticed Pascoe moving slowly around with an attractive young girl. Sheila, he thought. I saw you last Saturday. It seems like a thousand years.

Dalziel noticed him also and made a motion of the head. Pascoe didn’t seem to notice and carried on dancing. But as they walked towards the car park, buttoning up their coats against the frost, footsteps came up quickly behind and Pascoe joined them.

‘Jenny,’ said Connon suddenly.

‘She left,’ said Pascoe laconically. A cold fear gripped Connon’s stomach.

‘Where?’ he asked. There was no reason why they should know the answer, but he felt sure they would.

‘It’s all right,’ said Pascoe. ‘Not home, I shouldn’t think. She left with Ted Morgan.’

Connon tried not to let his relief show. Ted Morgan was manageable. Ted was forecastable. As far as anyone was forecastable, that was. And perhaps that was not very far at all.

He reached into his pocket for his car keys. The frost on his windscreen was merely dampness still and after four or five sweeps of the wiper-blades he began to see more clearly. Dalziel’s car was waiting for him by the exit. Carefully he began to follow it out on to the main road.

It was a silent drive back down into the town. Ted lived with his mother, an arrangement which, while it lacked many of the usual tragi-comedy trappings of such situations, did present certain problems. Ted was not altogether happy at the prospect of explaining to her how he came to be covered with mud down the front of his suit.

Jenny had put Ted quite out of her mind and was threshing over problems and questions she would not have believed could have existed a week ago.

She felt very lonely. There was only her father. She loved him deeply, but their relationship had generally been tacit; there had never been a need for definition, explanations, analyses. Love didn’t need these things.

But now she needed someone to talk to, with; at, if you liked. She needed someone to take her thoughts and rethink them. Look at them in a new way.

She had thoughts she did not wish her father to look at.

And she was certain that whatever was going on in his mind, only the sheltered, leeward aspect would be revealed to her.

I don’t want to be protected, she thought angrily. I want to be consulted, listened to, argued with. I’ll make him talk to me, I’ll force him. I know I can. I know!

But even in her anger she also knew she could not add anything more to the heavy burden of worry and doubt she had seen her father was already carrying.

‘Is it right here?’ asked Ted in the voice of one speaking only through dire necessity.

‘That’s right.’

Poor Ted. He’d had a bit of a raw deal. And to slip in the mud must have been the last straw. If Daddy was home, she’d invite him in for a coffee and a clean-up. But only if Daddy was at home.

‘This side of the road, just before that phone-box,’ she said.

There seemed to be a lot of cars parked in the street tonight. Without lights. Like taxis. Or …

She rubbed the side-window and peered out. She had been right. That was her father’s car.

‘Stop here,’ she cried.

They were almost at the house and Ted was already braking. But her sudden command made him stand violently on the pedal and they were both jerked forward against their seat-belts.

Jenny smacked the release button sharply, opened the door and stepped out.

Connon came trotting up the pavement towards her.

‘Daddy,’ she said, her voice full of relief. ‘What’s happening? What’s the matter?’

‘No need to worry, my dear,’ said Dalziel, coming up behind her.

She ignored him and looked expectantly at her father.

‘Someone’s been seen prowling round the house. Or at least Mr Fernie believes he saw someone.’

‘You have too little faith in Fernie,’ said Dalziel. ‘A man who feels his civic responsibilities more than some. Still, we’ll soon see. My ferrets are in. We’ll see what they nip out.’

Connon put his arm over his daughter’s shoulder as she shivered at Dalziel’s imagery. There was some kind of sound made remote and distant by the night.

‘Ah, action, I think,’ said Dalziel. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’

He strode out energetically towards the gate. Connon and Jenny followed. Jenny was curiously reluctant to come face to face with this intruder whoever it was.

A small group of men were coming down the path. Some were uniformed policemen. One silhouette she thought she recognized as Pascoe’s. And another outline looked strangely familiar.

‘My dear officers,’ said a rather breathless but still well- modulated voice, ‘of what am I accused that you should treat me like the nucleus of a civil rights demonstration? Is this the effect television-watching is having upon the constabulary? Have a care - my father sells meat to the wife of a prospective Liberal candidate.’

‘Antony,’ she said with delight. ‘Daddy, it’s Antony.’

The group stopped before them.

‘Ah, there you are, Jenny. I cannot say how touched I am at the warmth of the reception you have arranged for me.’

Even dishevelled as after a slight struggle and with his arms firmly gripped by two impassive policemen, he looked elegantly in control of the situation.

‘Do you know this man, miss?’ asked Dalziel.

‘Of course I do. Please let him go at once. How bloody stupid can you get?’

Dalziel nodded at the policemen, who released Antony’s arms.

‘I think we had better go inside for some explanations,’ he said with a sigh. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Connon.’

Connon nodded and set off up the drive. Jenny put her arm protectively round Antony’s waist and led him after her father, the uniformed police still in close attendance.

Dalziel looked around. At Ted Morgan who stood against his car, hardly able to take in what was happening. At Dave Fernie who was coming over the road. At Alice Fernie and Stanley Curtis who stood at the Fernies’ gate.

‘You look after matters out here, will you, Sergeant? Make a thorough job of it, eh?’

He too went up the driveway into the house.

Pascoe looked after the vanishing figure. Then turned back to those remaining, letting his eyes run coldly over them, finally coming to rest on Morgan’s mudstained suit.

Yes, he thought, I’ll make a thorough job of it, never fear. Sir.

Connon came up out of blackness into a dream. It was as if he had fainted in his sleep and the recovery from the faint made the level of sleep seem reality by comparison. There stretched before him a great expanse of mud-trodden grass, gleaming brokenly like water viewed from a height in the summer sun. Immeasurably distant on the horizon stood a pair of rugby posts, so high that they were clearly visible despite the miles that seemed to separate them from him. He set off running towards them, smoothly at first, balanced, feeling all the old confidence in his muscles, the ability to shift his weight at will in any direction, to stop dead, accelerate, turn, sidestep. He knew when he felt like this that, given a yard to move in, no man on earth could stop him.