Rough Cider (12 page)
“Of course.”
I was glad I’d come. Here I was, inside the place I’d so often returned to in my nightmares. I propped my stick against a bale, pocketed the lighter, groped for the ladder, and hauled myself up. Hard work, but I wanted keenly to prove something to myself, and, I suppose, to Alice.
Flat to the floor, I leaned over and provided light again. She mounted the ladder fast and held on to my arm after I helped her. She was trembling.
Without my stick I had to put a hand on her shoulder to get upright. She automatically curved her arm around my waist. Disability can bring compensations.
I told her, “If you wonder how I got up here as a boy, I had two good legs then. The polio struck later.”
There were fewer bales than formerly, and they were differently stacked, but I parked myself on one and tried to visualize the scene that November afternoon in 1943. I moved the lighter towards the angle of the roof where I’d found the gap to see through, and then over the area where Barbara and Cliff Morton had been lying.
Alice questioned me closely—in fact, it seemed to me, with excessive, if not prurient, interest—in the details of the rape, the precise position of the two of them, and their state of undress. She wanted to know if Morton was wearing trousers (he wasn’t; the memory of his hairy thighs and jerking buttocks still nauseated me) and if Barbara’s breasts were visible (her blouse and bra were forced up to her shoulders), if she was wearing scent (I didn’t notice), and if her knickers were made of cotton or something finer (I ask you!). I answered everything as candidly as I was able, even down to the way Barbara had cried out and hammered the floor with her legs and arms as she tried hopelessly to twist from under him. I don’t mind telling you that some of the things I had to say stuck in my throat, but Alice waited impassively until I found my voice and then coolly asked me supplementary questions. She wasn’t held back by inhibitions.
We looked for the bullet hole and found a place at about hip height where a whole section of wood had been sawn out of a beam by the forensic expert, Dr. Atcliffe. Without seeing the angle of the bullet, we couldn’t estimate the line of fire.
“Enough?”
Alice nodded.
Descending a ladder with my handicap is harder than climbing it. I was breathing heavily when I joined her. She suggested we sit down a moment on a bale.
“Was it worth the trouble?” I asked.
“It’s not an experience you can evaluate,” she said sharply, then, sensing that she ought to soften the remark, “But I’m grateful.”
“What’s next?”
“The Lockwoods.”
“They must have left the farm by now.”
“I’ll find them.”
I noted the change of pronoun. Up to now she’d been only too pleased to have me at her side. Was this an assertion of independence? Was my usefulness played out? Oddly, considering my earlier reluctance, I felt a stab of rejection. If Alice was going on with her absurd quest, I was beginning to want to be part of it.
I reached for my stick. “Let’s try the farmhouse.”
The wind whipped up the rain as we crossed the yard. I thought a curtain twitched at one of the windows, but it may have been a gust getting through the casements. There was no response to our knocking.
I repeated, “It must have changed hands by now, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” called Alice, already moving around the side of the house. “Look what I found—if the memory isn’t too painful.”
I followed her. She was by the back door, and she had her hand on the rusty mangle Mrs. Lockwood had bent me over when she slippered me.
I gave a mock groan. We needed some light relief.
“Any new people would have gotten rid of this piece of junk,” said Alice. “Can you see inside the kitchen? Does it look the same?”
I got up close to check.
There was an instantaneous gunshot.
“Christ!” I said.
Chips of stone had been dislodged from somewhere above us and peppered the cobbles.
I asked Alice, “Are you all right?”
She was brushing moss off her sleeve. “I think so.”
“Bloody lunatic!” I could see him across the yard holding the gun, a figure in a black oilskin and boots, standing beside the tractor, grinning inanely. I shouted, “What the hell was that for?”
I limped towards him, so angry that I gave no thought to the gun. “Did you hear me?” I yelled.
By way of reply, he spat copiously on the bonnet of my car.
“Peasant!” I said.
Alice had caught up with me. “Theo, be careful,”
“Leave this to me.”
I was close enough to recognize him. The face had thickened, and the black hair was flecked with gray. There were a couple of gaps in the grin, but it was still a strong, good-looking face that wouldn’t look out of place on a Fair Isle pattern.
Bernard Lockwood.
I said, “You could have killed us.”
“Rats.”
I glared at him. There was no glimmer of recognition on his part.
He leered at Alice and said slowly, “I were firing at rats.”
I felt like throwing a punch at him. I’m not incapable of using my fists. Without taking my eyes off him I said, “Alice, I think you’d better get in the car.”
Bernard said, “Don’t ‘ee understand English? I were aiming at two old rats by the guttering there. Vermin.” He made a creeping motion with his fingers. “Them as has four legs and tails.”
I said, “God-awful shot if you were.”
Alice hadn’t moved.
Bernard folded the gun under his arm. “What you be doing here?”
“Visiting”
“Trespassing, more like.”
I said, “It’s bloody pouring and I haven’t the time or the inclination to discuss it with you. We’re going.”
“No, Theo,” butted in Alice. “Please.”
“Save your breath,” I told her. “The man’s a thug.” Perhaps I should have said moron. He seemed impervious to insults.
Alice told Bernard civilly, “Maybe you could help us. We want to get in touch with the Lockwood family.”
Let’s give him credit for some artifice. He didn’t admit to his identity immediately, though it may have been due to sheer obtuseness. “Lockwood? What’s your business with they?”
I said to Alice, “You see? We’ll get nowhere.” I really hoped we could beat a retreat without introductions, but she was digging in.
She explained to him, “They were the people who owned this place in World War Two, right? Are you the present owner by any chance?”
“Could be,” conceded Bernard.
I’d had enough. I switched to the attack. “Come off it. You’re Bernard Lockwood. Where are your parents, in the house?”
His hand tightened around the butt of the shotgun.
Alice turned to me in amazement. “This is Bernard?” She said it the American way, stressing the second syllable.
I was watching Bernard’s spare hand. He’d taken two orange-colored cartridges from his pocket. I didn’t have long to get my message across. I took a steadying breath and told him, “I was the boy evacuated here. The young lady is a friend. I promised to show her the place and, if possible, look up your parents.”
Before Bernard could respond, Alice rashly chimed in, “My name is Alice Ashenfelter and my daddy was the man convicted of the murder here.”
I could have belted her.
Muscles were bunching on Bernard’s jawline. He frowned, grappling with what he had heard, trying to make the connection. His brown eyes darted between me and Alice. Finally, he abandoned the attempt and said through his teeth, “What’s past is over. You’d best get on your way.”
Curiously the words didn’t carry the force represented by the gun. I risked an appeal to his better nature. “Come on, man. We’ve driven out specially from Reading. Your parents were good to me in the war. The least I can do is present my compliments.”
“I’ll pass ‘em on for ‘ee.”
“Are they inside?”
I’d pushed too far. He snapped the cartridges into the gun, locked it in the firing position, and leveled it at my chest.
“Get in the car and go.”
Keeping my eyes on him, I said to Alice, “It’s hopeless.”
She evidently disagreed. “Mr. Lockwood, we came here in good faith—”
“Good faith be buggered!” Bernard cut in savagely.
“Bloody liars, the pair of you.”
Alice protested in a high, accusing note. “That’s unfair. I’ve gone out of my way to be honest with you·”
Bernard sneered. “Honest? And you tell me you’re the killer’s daughter? And your name is Ashenfelter? You’re no more Ashenfelter than I am, young lady. Name of the killer was Donovan.”
I started to say, “That’s easy to explain—” but Bernard talked over me.
“Ashenfelter was his friend, the littl’un. The other GI. What did he call himself? Harry.”
Alice gave a gasp and grabbed my arm. “That can’t be true. Theo, it can’t be true!” She’d gone deathly white.
Myriad possibilities raged in my brain. For Alice’s sake I said, “Sheer coincidence. Don’t let it get to you.”
She blurted out a rush of words: “Duke Donovan was my real daddy. Henry Ashenfelter was the man my mother married in 1947, when I was a kid. I was given his name. If he was Duke’s friend Harry, I figure he came back from the war and married my mom.”
Bernard looked unimpressed. “Good try, miss. Not good enough. Ashenfelter married Sally Shoesmith.”
I said, “Barbara’s friend?”
“You’d remember if you were here. They were courting like cats in heat.”
“And they actually married?”
“Live in Bath like a lord and lady, don’t they? Publican’s daughter, that’s all she were, and now you need a bloody visiting card to speak to her.” He grinned slyly. “Not that you’d get much sense out of her, from what I’ve heard.”
“Is something the matter with Sally, then?”
He spat again, aiming it at my shoes. “Clear off. Bloody liars.”
Alice said in a choking voice, “Theo, let’s go.”
I took a step backwards, nodding to Bernard.
He lowered the gun.
We drove away without another word.
A
lice sighed and said, “I just don’t understand.” She said it again, twice, before we reached the end of the lane.
I pulled off the road outside the Jolly Gardener, switched off, and turned to look at her. Until that moment I hadn’t appreciated what a soaking we’d both taken. Her hair was so saturated that you’d never have known she was normally a blonde.
She blinked. The drops of moisture on her cheeks might have rolled off her head, but I wasn’t certain. The edges of her eyes and mouth were creased with worry. She tried to form a word and didn’t succeed. She was obviously deeply troubled.
I wasn’t a picture of serenity myself.
Yd
never met a woman who triggered such conflicting responses in me.
I took her hand. She was cold, as much from shock, I decided, as exposure. I told her with gentle authority, “There’s a log fire in the pub. I’m taking you in there to dry out.”
It was near closing time and the barmaid was clearing the empties, but she seemed genuinely pleased to see us. I don’t think she was run off her feet. The clientele consisted of two motionless old men perched on stools at opposite ends of the bar. Without consulting Alice I ordered two double brandies and carried them to the fireplace. The barmaid—did I mention that she was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties?—followed me over, fussed sympathetically about our sodden clothes, and set to work with the poker to coax more activity from the fire. She wanted to know if we’d found the farm and I thanked her. If she was expecting some gossip about the Lockwoods, she was disappointed. Instead I asked if we could borrow a towel for Alice’s hair.
There’s a lot to be said for real flames and the smell of charred wood. It was a wide, stone-built fireplace with an iron pot-crane, a pair of dusty bellows, and a paved hearth. We flopped gratefully into a well-scuffed leather settee already occupied by two black-and-white cats. Alice removed her glasses, uncoiled her plait, and leaned forward, letting the damp hair get the benefit of the heat.
The barmaid returned and handed the towel to me with a wink and a firm instruction not to handle the young lady too roughly. It would have been churlish after that to pass the towel to Alice, so without discussing it I applied myself to die task and gradually restored some of the softness to her hair.
Presently she took out a comb and worked silently on the job of easing out the tangles. I sat back, sipping the brandy, and spoke the words of reason I’d been rehearsing as I used the towel. “Don’t you think you’re getting sidetracked? Does it really matter a tinker’s cuss about Harry? He’s unimportant.”
She stopped the combing and lowered her eyelids in a way that made me wish I’d phrased it more sensitively. I was treating her like one of my second-year students who’d messed up an essay on the feudal system. Without her glasses and with her hair unfastened like this—you’re right, girls, I’m a dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist—she was an extremely appealing woman.
I made another stab. “Alice, I can see you’re going to suffer until you make sense of what we’ve heard. I’m not pressing, but if it would help to talk it over…”
She lifted her face and said, “Please, Theo.”
You can put it down to the firelight, or the brandy, or the clear blue trust in her eyes, but if there was a moment in our association when it promised to become a relationship, this, for me, was it. I wanted her.
There was a short hiatus before I marshaled my thoughts sufficiently to say, “All right. Let’s compare notes on Harry the GI and your stepfather. See if we’re talking about the same guy. Harry must have been slightly older than Duke, say about twenty-five in 1943. He’d put in a few more years of service and made a sergeant’s rank, then lost his stripes over some disciplinary thing.”
“The age is spot on,” Alice confirmed. “Henry was twenty-nine when he married Mom.”
“Short—say five-five—thickset with sandy-colored, crinkly hair?”
“Mm.” She frowned, concentrating hard. “Stubby, nicotine-stained fingers with small, pinched-in nails that looked ingrowing?”
“Snap.” I’d watched Harry use those repulsive little hands to pick leaves and pieces of twig from Sally’s hair. “Do we need to go on?”
