Dead In The Morning (3 page)

A smart white Rover 2000 was parked outside Reynard’s, a white-painted wattle-and-daub cottage with a garden full of Michaelmas daisies, golden rod and dahlias. Cathy looked at the car with interest as she rode by. Jane Conway must have a visitor: that was nice, for her husband had been sent to America for three months and she was left with a young baby as her sole companion meanwhile. Cathy slowed up, peering inquisitively over the fence; she liked Jane, whom she had met in the library and the village shop, although she felt a little shy of her, since though Jane looked extremely young she nevertheless had a husband and a baby, and must be Cathy’s senior by several years at least.

Jane was in the patch of garden where she grew vegetables, cutting a lettuce. She stood up as Cathy passed, saw her, and waved. Cathy waved back, and pedalled on her way.

Pantons, the last house in the village and the largest, lay some three hundred yards further along the road. Cathy turned in between the white gates and went past the lodge where the gardener lived; through the window she could see the flickering light of the Bludgens’ television. The trees that bordered the long drive were changing colour now; autumn was in the air, and Cathy felt a poignant sadness. After today, nothing would ever be the same.

Near the house, the drive forked, and the left branch led into the cobbled yard in front of the Stable House. In this courtyard Bludgen kept tubs of geraniums blooming through the summer, and Cathy could smell them as she put her bicycle away before walking up to the big house. She had been planning to move into the Stable House since she had left school at the end of last term; she was quite old enough now to be there alone while her father was in London, and perhaps he would give up the flat if she were available to keep him company. But this resolution was no longer of any importance and she might as well remain where she was in her familiar room at Pantons, down the passage from Aunt Phyllis. Luckily the news of her father’s marriage had arrived before she had mentioned her idea about moving to anyone.

Uncle Derek’s car was already parked outside the front door. Cathy’s heart began to thump a little faster. She entered the house by way of the kitchen, where Mrs Mackenzie was busy preparing dinner.

“Ah, there you are, Cathy. I was hoping you wouldn’t be late. It’s caramel souffle for pudding,” said Mrs Mackenzie. She was a plump, grey-haired woman with bright blue eyes and pink cheeks.

“Mm, scrummy,” said Cathy. “Can I lick the bowl?”

“No, dear, there isn’t time. You must go and get changed,” said Mrs Mackenzie. “You’ll want to look your best.”

“Yes,” Cathy agreed. Her thin face flushed, and her dark hair fell forward in two curtains obscuring her large brown eyes as she leaned over to inspect the mixture in Mrs Mackenzie’s bowl.

“Cheer up. You’ll be able to go to college now,” said Mrs Mackenzie, who had always agreed with Aunt Phyllis that she should if she could get enough ‘A’ levels, and this she had just done. It was Grandmother who did not approve of university education for girls, and who said that Cathy’s duty now was to look after her father.

“I know. I keep thinking of that,” Cathy said, brightening. “Isn’t it awful of me?” She had been ashamed of the prompt way in which this consoling reflection had sprung into her mind the moment she heard her father’s news.

“Not a bit of it. It’s only natural,” said Mrs Mackenzie. “Now run along, or they’ll be thinking you’ve got lost.”

“All right. I’ll come and see if you want any help when I’m ready,” Cathy said.

When she had gone, Mrs Mackenzie tipped the frothing soufflé mixture into its dish and put it in the oven, humming under her breath. Then she took up the spoon again, and with the tip of her pink, pointed tongue she licked off the sweet-tasting remnants that adhered to its surface; finally she spooned out and consumed every last tiny vestige of pudding that remained in the bowl.

“Who was that?” asked Patrick Grant, coming out of the door of Reynard’s to speak to his sister. Jane, in faded jeans and a tartan shirt, stood in the vegetable patch waving at a young girl on a cycle who had just passed the cottage.

“It’s Cathy Ludlow. A nice child, refreshingly old- fashioned,” said Jane, stooping to pick some chives. “The big house at the end of the lane belongs to her grandmother.” She indicated the direction in which Cathy was riding.

“Then it must have been her mother whom I saw in the chemist’s shop,” said Patrick. “A tall, good-looking woman with ash-coloured hair. Rather elegant.”

“That was Phyllis Medhurst,” Jane told him. “Old mother Ludlow’s daughter. Cathy’s mother’s dead. They both live at Pantons with the old girl, who’s a regular tartar, from all accounts. I’ve never spoken to her, but I’ve often seen her out in the car. She’s paralysed or something, spends her days in a wheelchair and leads them all the devil of a dance, according to gossip.”

“Is there a Mr Medhurst?” asked Patrick.

“Not any more. He departed some years back, I believe,” said Jane. “I gather that Phyllis was always the dutiful daughter at home, unpaid secretary-cum-bottle-washer and general Cinderella, until the war. Then she managed to escape by joining the army or something. She went abroad and got married, but the marriage went wrong after the war so she came home, and has been there ever since, much gibed at by her mother, so I understand.”

“Hm. We’ve a youth at Mark’s named Ludlow,” Patrick said. “Cathy’s brother, perhaps? It’s not a very common name.”

“Her cousin. Cathy’s an only child, but her uncle Derek has two sons and one of them’s up at Oxford. Your lad, no doubt. I didn’t realise he was at Mark’s. Coincidence,” she said. “One of your flock, is he?”

“Only in the general sense, like all of them,” said Patrick. “He’s reading P.P.E., as you might expect from his somewhat contemporary appearance.”

“What a charming way of putting it,” said Jane. “Can you really tell what subject they’re doing by their looks?”

“It’s not infallible. There are exceptions either way, but their styles reflect their interests,” said Patrick. “You get the English scholar who goes in for Byronic curls and lace cravats, and historians who copy the hair-dos of the Stuarts. I amuse myself harmlessly enough by noticing such details.”

“You are an idiot,” said Jane. “But I must say I hadn’t thought of such a thing myself.”

“Of course not. All you can think of these days is the needs of that tyrannic infant,” Patrick grinned. “Tell me more about the Ludlows. That’s a big house, isn’t it? Do many of them live under the matriarchal wing?”

“Technically only Phyllis and Cathy. Cathy’s father has a weekend cottage in what was the stables. The Derek Ludlows - your ones - live on the other side of Fennersham, but they have to drop everything and beetle over whenever the old lady blows her whistle, which is constantly.”

“Perhaps she holds the purse strings,” Patrick said. “Does Derek run the family business?”

“There isn’t one, or not that you can notice,” Jane answered. “Mrs Ludlow’s pretty rich, but I don’t know where her money comes from. Derek’s on the stock exchange, I think. I’m not sure what Cathy’s father does, but he’s some sort of tycoon. He goes abroad a lot.”

“What happened to grandfather Ludlow?”

“He was killed in the First World War,” said Jane.

“And your old lady’s lived here ever since?”

“Yes. Ruling her family with a rod of iron,” said Jane.

Patrick looked admiringly at his sister.

“How long have you lived in Winterswick, Jane?” he asked.

“Six months. Why?”

“I expect you know all about everybody else who lives in the village, too, don’t you?”

Jane made a face at him.

“I do not,” she said. “But the Ludlows live in one of the few big houses, and say what you like about the levelling down of society, their affairs are news. The old girl’s quite a figure, you know, driving out in her car for the air, like a dowager duchess.”

“I believe you’re almost as inquisitive as I am,” Patrick said.

“Oh no, I’m not. You’re always looking for mysteries. I’m just curious,” Jane said. “I shouldn’t waste your time brooding about the Ludlows, if I were you. There’s nothing particularly mysterious about them. Pathetic, perhaps. Phyllis must have had a pretty depressing life, and it can’t have been much fun for Cathy living all these years with her grandmother and her aunt, but she went away to school. She’s rather bright, as a matter of fact.”

“Only children often are,” said Patrick. “They get heaps of undivided attention. It brings them on.”

“You make them sound like ripening fruit,” said Jane.

“Well, and so they are. All young things have to mature in time,” said Patrick.

“Some people don’t seem to me to be very mature when they’re middle-aged,” said Jane. “And there’s some middle-aged excitement up at Pantons this weekend.”

“I’m sure you mean me to ask you what it is,” her brother said.

“Naturally,” Jane replied. “It’s Cathy’s father. He’s suddenly got married again.”

“And do you feel that this is an impetuous, immature act?” asked Patrick.

“Not necessarily. It might be for the best. Why shouldn’t he, after all? But it seems a bit impulsive. He met some female in Italy earlier this year and went chasing after her when his hols were due. He captured her, and they’re coming here this evening.”

“An Italian lady?”

“No, she’s American. A widow, she was. If you stay glued to the window tonight you may see her go by. It’s quite a thing for Cathy. I should think she’s rather scared. It’s not the same as if your father marries some childhood chum, or whatever.”

“It’s rather exciting, isn’t it?” said Patrick. “I can see that Winterswick offers plenty of diversions for the mind, checking up on all the neighbours.”

“Oh, you,” said Jane. “You’d find diversions on a desert island, studying the sex-life of the crabs. I must leave you to your fascinating meditations now and go and feed your nephew. This greenery I’m clasping is for us, but supper won’t be ready for an hour at least.”

“In that case I think I’ll just step down to the Rose and Crown for a while,” said Patrick.

“You do that thing,” said Jane. “And bring a bottle back with you.”

At Pantons, conversation during dinner on that Friday evening was sticky. Mrs Ludlow, regal in the crimson lace dress that had been made for her grandson Martin’s wedding, sat at the head of the table and ate a hearty meal; her digestion was excellent. Facing her, sat her elder son Derek; he seemed absent-minded, not the genial uncle eager to listen to the tale of all her doings to whom Cathy was accustomed. She supposed that they must all be feeling the strain of the occasion. Aunt Betty had pinned her brooch on crooked and her lipstick was uneven. She wore a purple and white nylon jersey dress that clung to her too tightly, for she had put on weight. Cathy, who had always taken her kindly, untidy aunt for granted, suddenly saw her as she might appear to a stranger: frumpy, and rather ridiculous. What if Helen found her so?

Even Aunt Phyllis, who was often brisk but never unpredictable, seemed to be thinking of other things and did not answer when Mrs Ludlow spoke to her.

“I said, are you sure they will have eaten, Phyllis?” Mrs Ludlow repeated sternly.

“What? Oh yes, Mother. They’ll have something on the plane. You always do,” said Phyllis.

“And what do you know about that, may I ask?” inquired Mrs Ludlow. “To my knowledge you have never taken to the air, Phyllis.”

“Phyl’s quite right, Mother,” Derek said. “They will have eaten on the plane, and if for any reason the airline didn’t feed them adequately, they’ll stop for something on the way down.”

“And keep us longer from our beds,” grumbled Mrs Ludlow, but the light of battle was shining in her eye. She had decided now how to play the hand, and Derek had been instructed to get two bottles of champagne up from the cellar and put them on ice, ready to greet the newly-married pair when they arrived.

“Well, I think it’s all most exciting,” said Betty with desperate gaiety. “Don’t you, Cathy? I never thought your father would take the plunge after all this time, though I’m sure he must have had plenty of chances.”

You don’t know the half of it, thought Derek. He had often found much to envy in his brother’s seemingly carefree bachelor life.

“Why isn’t Tim here?” Mrs Ludlow asked. “I thought you expected him home by now, Betty.”

Betty’s heart sank. She exchanged a glance with Phyllis. The sisters-in-law were good friends, both devoted to Tim, and they had often conspired to get him out of scrapes; too often for his own good, his mother was beginning to fear.

“He’s back from Spain, Grandmother,” she said. “Now he’s staying with a friend.”

In fact, she had no idea where her younger son might at this moment be, but there was probably some truth in her reply. “What a delicious soufflé,” Betty added, attempting to divert the conversation. “Mrs Mackenzie really is a marvel.”

“Is there any left? We ought to take it out to her before it collapses,” Phyllis said. “You know how she loves puddings.”

“That’s why she’s so good at making them, I expect,” said Cathy. “Shall I take it?”

“Please, dear. Unless anyone would like some more?” Phyllis challenged with her eye anyone to dare, lest Mrs Mackenzie should be deprived of her own portion.

“I will have just a little, Phyllis,” Mrs Ludlow said. “A spoonful, please.”

There was hardly any left in the dish when Cathy took it to the kitchen. Mrs Mackenzie was loading the plates and cutlery from the earlier courses into the dishwasher; on the kitchen table sat a yellow plate holding a large meringue, oozing cream: clearly she had not relied on any of the soufflé being left. Cathy was still giggling about this when they all left the dining-room after the cheese.

Mrs Mackenzie had already put the coffee tray in the drawing-room. A nightly ritual was Phyllis’s supervision of the Cona. Betty always admired this operation; she was impatient, and thought the quick results produced by a tin of instant coffee and a boiling kettle good enough. Nevertheless, she appreciated the results of Phyllis’s efforts. For once Mrs Ludlow did not make critical comments on the strength or otherwise of the flame under the glass; when their cups were filled, no one had anything to say and they all sat round in silence, sipping.