Читать книгу Family and Friends - Emma Page - Страница 6
ОглавлениеArnold Pierson strode between the last of the shoppers, his mind as usual engaged on the convolutions of his own inner life which seemed a good deal more vivid than the shadowy figures moving past on the edge of his vision.
In the middle of the High Street he was forced to step into the gutter with its crisp heaps of slatternly snow, to give passage to a couple of gossiping women pushing prams.
The momentary interruption to his progress broke through his preoccupation. He glanced about him as he stepped back on to the pavement and saw that he was outside Underwood’s. He paused in front of the lighted windows. A couple of discreet stickers announced the sale due to begin on Monday morning. A girl knelt behind the plate glass with her back to him, pinning a ticket to the skilfully draped bodice of a dinner-gown in sage-green crêpe.
No sign of his stepsister of course; Sarah’s exalted position as manageress had long ago removed her from any necessity to crouch before the public gaze and arrange in artistic folds the skirts of last season’s models. But she wouldn’t be barricaded away behind her office door, conducting the business by remote control; that was never Sarah’s way. She would be moving along the carpeted aisles, keeping a sharp eye on the manners and attitudes of her assistants, or taking up her position behind one of the mahogany-topped counters, to serve a valued customer.
She would remain after the sign on the front door had been reversed to read Closed, dealing efficiently with the books, the orders, the monthly accounts; she would be the last person to leave the premises. Not even old Walter Pierson’s illness would cause her to go home so much as ten minutes early.
For a good many years now she had employed a woman for a few hours every day to clean the house, wash the breakfast dishes and in general perform the bulk of the chores that Sarah herself in her younger days had somehow managed to attend to in addition to a full-time job. Over the past couple of weeks she had simply arranged for the woman to stay all day, looking after Walter as well as the house.
Arnold put up a hand and ran a finger along his cheek, inclining his head and frowning down at the pavement, trying to visualize Sarah suddenly set free from the compulsion to open the front door at eight every morning, in fair weather and foul, and make her way to the warm, enclosed world of Underwood’s.
She had worked hard all her life. Would she see retirement now as a long-yearned-for release? Or would she feel herself all at once grown old and useless, banished from the absorbing bustle of commerce to a suburban desert?
Arnold shook his head slowly in bafflement. He simply didn’t know. Forty years since Sarah had followed her mother up the path into Walter Pierson’s house and Arnold still could never guess with any certainty how Sarah would feel or think about anything important. She never quarrelled with him but neither did she ever laugh or joke with him. If the two of them sat together in a room without talking, it wouldn’t be a companionable silence but the total deadness of a couple of switched-off radio sets.
The kneeling girl put out a hand and steadied herself against a display stand. She turned her head to glance out at the last of the afternoon and her eyes met those of Arnold, unwaveringly fixed on her without seeing her, looking back down the long slope of years at some childish memory of Sarah jerking him along to school in the grey of winter and the blue of summer, on her way to work.
The girl blinked, disconcerted and a little alarmed by the intent quality of that gaze, at once piercing and veiled. She drew her brows together in irritation at the queer fish staring in at her goldfish-bowl activities and then, suddenly recognizing the watcher in his dual identity of Miss Pierson’s brother and accountant at Underwood’s, did her best to transform her expression into one of professional friendliness.
A whirling eddy of icy air stung the blood into Arnold’s cheeks, whisking him back from the gate of that far-off infant school to the yellow lights of the January evening, to the melancholy plateau of middle age and the abrupt recollection that if he was going to catch Mrs Fleming before closing-time, he had better get a move on. He turned from the window, totally unaware of the girl and her nod of recognition. His long strides took him in another minute or two to the top of the High Street, down a side turning, past another intersection, and into the quieter road that led to Linda Fleming’s establishment.
It was still open, he saw as he approached. The lights shone out into the street and a woman who had been studying the window display walked without haste into the shop. Arnold halted in front of the polished panes adorned with a long streamer proclaiming a sale shortly to begin. Between the bright dresses and the trim coats he could see into the shop above the partition that reached only halfway up the back of the window.
Linda Fleming’s pretty profile as she leaned forward, listening earnestly to her customer’s requirements. Her soft dark hair was taken up in a casual swirl on top of her neat head; he could see the gleam of a large tortoiseshell slide that held the tresses in position. Behind the opposite counter a young girl reached up to a shelf, restoring boxes of knitwear to an orderly appearance.
Mrs Fleming pulled open a long drawer and took out a brilliant assortment of silk scarves, spreading them out before her one by one, lifting a corner to allow the shimmering material to drape into delicate folds. The customer assumed an expression of intense thoughtfulness. She’ll be there for four or five minutes yet, Arnold thought with a vast sense of relief. No need to walk inside just yet.
He was seized with a powerful impulse to flee. That trim dark head with its puffs and curls, those finely-wrought features, that gentle smile, seemed all at once to represent danger, the terrifying possibility of intimate involvement on a deep and intolerably sensitive level with another human being. He glanced up the road, at the drifts of fog deepening about the street-lamps, and the path to safety seemed also to lead to a dull and deadly emptiness. He had a brief, bleak vision of the days ahead, with his father gone and Sarah sunk into apathetic retirement. He closed his eyes for an instant against that appalling picture, the two of them locked in a silent vacuum for ten, twenty, thirty years.
He stared in again at Mrs Fleming, smiling and chatting to her customer, at her hands moving lightly between the patterned silks, and he saw those hands now as holding not only the threat of danger but the impossible notion of happiness.
He drew a deep breath and began to search the window display with his eyes, looking for something he might buy for Sarah’s birthday. He had bought her Christmas present from Mrs Fleming, nerving himself to enter the little shop and strengthen the slender connection with the pretty new proprietress–he had met her for the first time at the factory, when she had called in to view the sample garments and place a small order.
Owen Yorke had come across her at a social gathering of one of the trade federations of which he was a distinguished member. She had joined every organization that seemed to offer assistance; she was not very long widowed, inexperienced in business, a stranger to Milbourne, desperately anxious to make a success of her new venture. Owen Yorke had taken her under his wing, offered to advise her, invited her to take a look at his factory.
And the only thing Arnold Pierson had been able to think of, having no factory to show her round, had been to buy Sarah’s Christmas present at Mrs Fleming’s shop. There had been several customers at the time, Linda had been able to give him no more than a few minutes’ half-abstracted attention. He had bought a handbag, careless of the fact that Sarah already had three or four handbags more than she would ever have occasion to use, and that her own shop held several drawers stuffed with handbags of every conceivable shape and material.
Not that Sarah had expressed either irritation or exasperated amusement at the gift; she had in fact expressed nothing at all beyond the ritual words of thanks with which she had received presents all her life.
In the whole of her existence no living soul had ever wrinkled an anxious brow over a Christmas or birthday offering for her. She had always been given–when she had been given anything at all–something chosen dutifully and swiftly, any pleasure or usefulness resulting from the occasion being entirely accidental. She invariably made her own annual purchases on the same obscure principles, having grown up with the conviction that this was the way the system operated between relatives and she had never had a sweetheart or indeed a close personal friend, male or female, to cause her to review the system in the fierce glow of love or affection.
Arnold swept his eye over the jersey suits, the fur-collared coats, the Shetland sweaters, rejecting them all. But he frowned in determination, resolved now to buy something, even, if all other inspiration deserted him, another expensive and useless handbag.
Inside the shop, Linda Fleming admired her customer’s choice, wrapped it in gay paper and uttered a farewell comment on the harsh weather.
‘You can lock up now, Iris,’ she said to her assistant as soon as the door had pinged behind the departing customer. ‘I don’t think Mrs Bond can be coming. She ought to have been here ten minutes ago.’ She sighed, tired from the long day and the unreliability of her charwoman. ‘Not that she’s all that much use when she does come.’ She sighed again. ‘I wish I could hear of somebody younger.’ Old, erratic, no longer sufficiently competent, Mrs Bond did at least turn up from time to time. She was better than no one at all; it would be folly to dispense with her limited services before a more vigorous and willing replacement could be found.
Iris bustled about the shop, straightening it for the night. ‘I’d stay myself and do a bit of cleaning for you,’ she offered with the cheerfulness of one who knows this is out of the question. ‘But you know how it is at home, with Mum in bed and the kids to see to.’ Her mother had been laid low by the influenza that was beginning to sweep through Milbourne and there was a limit to how far neighbours could be called on when their own families were afflicted.
‘Yes, I know, I wasn’t dropping a hint, it was good of you to offer.’ Linda hoped fervently that the influenza wouldn’t claim Iris as its next victim, leaving her to struggle along without an assistant as well as a charwoman. ‘Wrap up well, it’s bitterly cold outside.’
Iris reversed the sign behind the glass panel of the door. ‘Oh–there’s another customer.’ She glanced at Linda. ‘Shall I let him in? It’s past closing-time.’
The look of weariness dissolved from Linda’s face and was at once replaced by a professional air of welcome.
‘Open the door,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll serve him.’ She was as yet in no position to turn away any customer, however late or dilatory. ‘You get off for your bus.’
Iris flung open the door and Arnold found himself inside the shop with his heart thumping and Mrs Fleming smiling at him with friendly recognition.
‘It’s Mr Pierson, isn’t it?’ The card-index of her mind threw up the relevant details. Accountant at Underwood’s, an expensive leather handbag bought just before Christmas–and the eyes, she had docketed the memory of those eyes, dark and brooding, a hint of some granite-like quality and yet at the same time a suggestion of powerful feeling restrained by iron control.
‘I hope Miss Pierson liked the handbag?’ Linda was longing for a cup of tea, fervently wishing he would get to the point so that she could serve him and lock up.
‘Oh, yes, she was delighted with it.’ Even as he spoke the words Arnold realized the incongruity of the word delighted in connection with Sarah. But actually giving tongue seemed to free some block in his paralysed brain. ‘It’s her birthday soon.’ He glanced vaguely about the shelves and stands. ‘I want to get her something.’
Iris had struggled into her coat and tied a scarf round her head. ‘I’ll be off then. See you in the morning.’ She pulled on her gloves and picked up her bag. ‘I hope Mrs Bond turns up after all.’ She jerked the door open and let herself out into the icy air.
‘Preferably something she hasn’t got in her own shop,’ Arnold said rapidly, realizing with a stab of panic that he was now alone with Mrs Fleming and anxious only to buy something, anything at all, and clear out.
Linda narrowed her eyes in thought, running over in her mind the contents of drawers and cupboards. It occurred to her that it would have been far more sensible for Mr Pierson to have visited an entirely different kind of shop for his sister’s present, one that bore no resemblance whatsoever to Underwood’s. Flowers, chocolates, books, there were a hundred and one gifts he might have chosen without any difficulty about picking something Miss Pierson might have in her own stock. It suddenly struck her that the birthday present might be merely an excuse, that he had some other reason for propelling himself through her door. A half-formed notion rose in her brain: could it conceivably be that he fancied her?
The idea startled her, flinging up all at once into her mind a vision of Pierson holding her in a fierce embrace, bending his head to hers. She had an almost physical sensation of his arms around her, of the warmth of his face against her cheek. She shook her head with a small, abrupt movement, with difficulty blinking away the disconcerting image.
‘I see your point.’ She tried to smile at him and found to her surprise that her lips were trembling slightly. He was looking at her so intently that she was seized with a feeling that he might at any moment stride round the counter and take hold of her. ‘It would never do to buy her something like gloves or—’ She broke off; she had been about to say, ‘or a handbag’ when she remembered that it was a handbag he had bought at Christmas. Miss Pierson’s stock surely held dozens, hundreds of handbags. So his last visit had also, in all probability, been a pretext.
‘Or a cardigan.’ She finished her sentence, still contriving to maintain an air of casual ease. ‘We must try to think of something a little different.’ She was briefly aware that her tiredness had vanished; she felt alive, stimulated, no longer irked by the threat of the chores relentlessly awaiting her as soon as he had gone. She turned and surveyed the shelves. ‘Now let me see—’ It certainly wasn’t Iris who had drawn him to this quiet street; he hadn’t so much as glanced at the girl, had scarcely seemed aware of her existence.
Inspiration struck her. ‘I know!’ She raised a hand. ‘I’ve just remembered.’ She threw him a triumphant look. ‘There’s some pottery, hand-made, quite good pieces, ornaments, vases, book-ends. I took it over with the rest of the stock. It’s in one of the store-rooms, at the back.’ She jerked her head towards the curtained archway. ‘Would you like to come through and take a look at it? I’m sure you’d find something your sister would like.’
Arnold saw the precipice yawn before him. Another step and he would be plunged into a void of rushing darkness. He tilted his head back, knowing the door behind him. He had only to smile and say, ‘I’m afraid not, Sarah doesn’t really care for pottery, I’m sorry to have wasted your time–’ and he could be at the other side of the door, drawing a breath of relief, alone, unthreatened . . . and headed back towards the bleak and solitary wastes of freedom.
‘Thank you, I’d like to see the pieces. If you’re sure I’m not keeping you too late.’ He was astounded to discover his heart had steadied itself. In place of the black chasm he had an impression of sunlight, birdsong, green and blue spaces, the cradling warmth of idle summer air.
‘Not at all.’ She smiled at him as if she really didn’t mind, her voice seemed to hold a note of genuine pleasure. ‘But I will just secure the door.’ She came round the end of the counter. ‘In case anyone else wants to come in.’ She snicked the catch and the sense of alarm that always invaded him when a key turned or a bolt barred his way, faded almost as soon as he recognized its customary thrust. He was aware instead of a delicious feeling of being shut in with her in a pleasant and gentle world.
She led the way through the arch, along a narrow passage and into a store-room.
A couple of long rails holding dresses veiled in transparent covers; brown-paper bundles tied with string; cardboard boxes, bales of knitting-wool. ‘I’m afraid it’s not very tidy, I haven’t had time to go through everything properly yet.’ She opened a cupboard to disclose rows of vases, bowls, figurines. ‘I haven’t made up my mind what to do with all this. It dates back a good many years, to when it was a fancy-goods shop. I thought I might try a few pieces in the sale. If they don’t go, I might sell the whole lot to one of the stores with a china department.’ She began to lift out jars and dishes, setting them down on a table.
‘Let me help you.’ He came and stood beside her. She caught the damp moorland smell of his tweed overcoat; his sleeve brushed against her arm as he reached among the shelves. ‘Yes, I like this. Good shapes and colours.’ He ran a hand over the fine glaze of an oval platter decorated in soft greens and browns, touching it delicately and caressingly.
She watched the slow movement of his fingers and a strange sensation crept over her, an agreeable, dreamy feeling as if all her cares were being soothed away, as if she were being gently lulled to sleep by the touch of a hand stroking her shoulders, the back of her neck.
Somewhere in the town a church clock struck the quarters. She drew a little sighing breath, with an effort forcing away the insidious image. She took a couple of steps towards the door.
‘If you’d like to look over the rest of the pottery, I’ll make a cup of tea. It won’t take long.’ He was standing with his back to her; he said nothing, merely nodded to show he’d heard. ‘But please don’t feel in any way obliged to make a choice. If you don’t find anything really suitable, just say so.’ He nodded again and she walked briskly away to the kitchen, relieved to find an everyday normality return to her.
She put the kettle on to boil and went through into the little sitting room to take cups and saucers of flowered china from the glass-fronted cabinet. On a side table her dead husband smiled at her from a holiday beach enclosed in a silver frame. She levelled a long look at the handsome face arrested in perpetual youth while the eroding years hurried her remorselessly forward to the desert of middle age.
She set the china on a tray and carried it back to the kitchen. Milk and sugar, teaspoons, a small plate of fancy biscuits. She dropped into a chair and sat with her elbows propped on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, staring at the row of green and white canisters on the dresser but seeing in the recesses of her brain Owen Yorke getting to his feet behind his desk as she came into his office at the factory. Holding out his hand, a look of pleasure on his face.
A successful man, clearly ambitious still of further success, by no means old, a position of some consequence in Milbourne, no son or daughter to be taken into account . . . though surely a man in Yorke’s position, whether naturally fond of children or not, might wish now he had an heir to succeed to the business he had fostered with such unremitting toil.
And Zena Yorke . . . fat and faded, gone to seed . . . Linda had never clapped eyes on Zena but Emily Bond was as fond of gossip as the rest of her kind while growing yearly less fond of Mrs Yorke with her chronic ill-temper and nagging criticisms. ‘Can’t think why Mr Yorke puts up with her,’ Emily had said, leaning on her mop in Linda Fleming’s kitchen. ‘He’ll up and leave her one of these fine days, mark my words, and no one’d blame him.’ She plunged the mop-head into the soapy water, frowning, pursing her lips. ‘If she doesn’t kill herself first, that is.’
‘Kill herself?’ Linda had turned in the doorway, startled.
‘Digging her grave with her teeth.’ Emily thrust the mop at the red-tiled floor. ‘Eating and drinking all day long. And her with her complaint. Sugar in the water.’ She lifted the mop and squeezed the cotton tufts with aged fierceness. ‘Beats me why that Doctor Gethin don’t make her see sense.’ She slapped the mop into the bucket. ‘Not that I’d have him for my doctor.’
‘Why? Is he no good?’ Gethin was no more than a name to Linda.
Mrs Bond raised her shoulders. ‘Good enough in his day. But he’s past it now. Don’t know why he hangs on, ought to retire. Doesn’t really care any more.’
The thought of Mrs Bond jerked Linda back to the present moment and the recollection of the cleaning still to be done. She got to her feet with a last lingering memory of Owen Yorke and the pressure of his fingers, a little longer, a little stronger than altogether necessary. ‘Only too happy to advise you,’ he’d said, his tone edged with implication. ‘I’ll look in on you when I’m passing.’
The kettle was still some way from boiling; Linda clicked her tongue in momentary irritation at the lowness of the gas-pressure. She went along to the store-room with rapid footsteps. Arnold was contemplating three items he had separated from the others.
‘I like these best,’ he said as she came in. ‘I find it difficult to choose between them. Which do you prefer?’
‘Oh, the dish,’ she said at once, not wishing to prolong the discussion, already regretting her offer of tea, hoping he would say he couldn’t wait any longer, would take himself off with his disturbing presence, allow her to forget that curious moment when she had stood beside him. ‘It has beautiful lines.’
‘Very well then, I’ll take the dish.’ He didn’t pick it up so she was compelled to move forward and reach out for it. There was a long moment in which they stood side by side. ‘There’s a theatre in Milbourne,’ Arnold said suddenly. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been to it yet, it’s supposed to be rather good.’ He had never set foot inside the Milbourne theatre. The last time he had seen any kind of stage performance had been in the dispersal camp at the end of the war.
He had sat in his misery and wretchedness under the glittering stars, islanded by guilt and bitter self-reproach, unable to join in the defiantly cheerful singing, to applaud the antics of a line of half-starved troopers decked out as chorus-girls with simulated bosoms and costumes fashioned from the rags and tatters of survival. He had never, until this moment, felt any desire to enter a theatre again.
‘There’s a comedy thriller on at present.’ He mentioned the name of the play; he had no difficulty in recalling it, he passed the theatre every day. He was almost certain Linda would smile and accept his invitation. He had felt the current flow between them as they looked at the ranks of ornaments. ‘I think it would be easy enough to get seats.’
For an instant he allowed himself to nurse the wild hope that it would be possible one day to lay his head in her lap and tell her the whole story of that searing time. Every last scarring detail, holding nothing back, purging himself totally and finally of the corrosive poison that ate away his peace of mind, prevented him from walking under the wide skies in easy acceptance of life and all that it might bring.
He clenched his fists and slackened them again, letting the mad notion of absolving confession fall from him. Once and only once in the long silent years he had given way to the urge to speak, but that once had been more than enough; he had regretted it bitterly ever since.
It was not very long after he had begun to work for Owen Yorke in the new factory. He had felt for a brief period the shadowy possibility of a fresh start. And he had met Zena again. She had been the beautiful goddess of his boyhood, she had tolerated his youthful worship, allowing him to dance attendance on her till the third year of the war had swept him up and away from Milbourne. Owen Yorke had escaped military service; some minor physical incapacity that hadn’t prevented him from working energetically for Ralph Underwood. Most of the eligible young men vanished from the town but Owen remained. Zena had married him–for what was more natural? Passionately in love with her, indispensable to her father and above all, always there.
By the time Arnold came back to Milbourne after the war she had grown a little bored, more than a little restless. Her cherishing parents were now dead, Owen was absorbed in his schemes for expansion, her brother had been conscripted for National Service. In the running of her home and management of the shop she was hedged about with the frustrating restrictions of austerity; the social life of Milbourne had dwindled almost to extinction.
And Arnold had changed. He had grown into a silent rock of a man with a suggestion of suppressed forces that she found immensely intriguing. It had amused her in those idle autumn days, gusty with spattered rain or melancholy with blue-grey smoke drifting from careful bonfires, to puff a delicate breath into embers that looked greyly dead.
Arnold, struggling to orientate himself in a post-war Milbourne at once reassuringly familiar and alien with bewildering change, like the landscape of home glimpsed in a nightmare, had felt the devouring heat of the flames. He had flung open his arms, his heart, his soul, to Zena, believing for a brief delusive season that he had broken out of the terrifying vacuum that had enveloped him for so long.
He had kept nothing back from her; the savage horrors of that inhuman questioning that had gone on and on, the torrid nights slipping unperceived into scorching days–even now the mere mention of the word interrogation had power to pierce his mind with terror. He had opened his mouth at last and told his captors what they wanted to know. He had no actual memory of the words he’d used; consciousness had come and gone in clouds of pain. But the beatings had ceased abruptly; he had been carried back to the hut and dumped among the others, to recover as best he might.
Two days later word had filtered through the camp, B Company taken by surprise at night, three-quarters of them wiped out. Men he had known, had joked with.
No one had connected the news with himself; there had never been a look, a word of accusation, spoken or unspoken. He had been his own judge and warder, serving ever since his unending sentence of isolation, knowledge, remorse and guilt.
Now he stared straight ahead with a fixed look, not seeing the crowded rails and high-stacked shelves of Linda Fleming’s store-room, remembering with a bitter thrust of emotion how Zena had inclined her head, had listened, had put out her hand and taken his with a gentle touch that had seemed to offer both healing and a promise.
‘I’m not all that fond of thrillers,’ Linda said in a casual tone. She began to wrap the dish, swiftly, neatly. ‘And I don’t get a great deal of spare time at the moment, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’
Arnold made no reply; he didn’t appear to have heard her. The lines of his face were harshly set, his eyes maintained their rigid gaze. A faint ripple of apprehension moved across her consciousness.
‘It’s very kind of you to invite me.’ She hesitated, undecided whether to add a conventionally polite reference to some other evening. Better not, instinct warned her; let things lie. ‘I hope you enjoy the play,’ she added lightly.
Arnold jerked his attention away from his mental picture of Zena. Some mechanism in his brain sprang into action, playing over at once its faithful recording of Linda’s utterance, allowing him to register the fact that she had refused his invitation. He smiled at her without reproach.
‘I quite understand.’ He wasn’t overwhelmingly disappointed, recognizing now with habitual acceptance that he had never really expected anything else.
Linda held the parcel out to him. In spite of the gentler look that still turned his mouth up in a half smile, he seemed to her a man capable of anything, violent action, a sudden release of pent-up forces–even heroism.
‘I hope your sister likes the present.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she will,’ Arnold said abstractedly. He felt the walls of the room begin to advance upon him as they sometimes did in palpitating nightmares even now, more than a quarter of a century after he had turned his head and looked for the last time at those miserable ranks of prison huts.
‘If you’d like to come into the shop—’ Linda walked smoothly and swiftly into the passage and through the arch. ‘The dish is three pounds,’ she said with impersonal pleasantness.
He drew a five-pound note from his wallet and laid it on the polished wood, withdrawing his hand immediately. Another man, Linda thought suddenly, taking the note and ringing up the till, any other man who had just made a pass at her, would have seized the opportunity to touch her fingers. But this man no longer even looked at her.
A sense of his absolute loneliness struck at her, his acceptance of rejection as normal and customary; she was all at once aware of the effort it must have cost him to ask her out. She stood, briefly irresolute, washed over by a flood of compassion. And then she sighed and gave a tiny shake of her head. There was simply no place for him in the pattern of her life.
‘But I’ll take off ten per cent because of the sale,’ she added.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was brisker now, he could breathe more easily in the wider spaces of the shop. He took the change and turned to go.
‘I’ll lock up after you.’ Linda came round from behind the counter and followed him to the door. ‘Good night. And a happy New Year to you.’ Even as she uttered the words she thought he looked like a stranger to happiness or even the notion of it.
‘Thank you,’ he said again. He strode off into the icy evening without a backward glance. No hat, no scarf, his coat blowing back. He drew a long cold breath of freedom, savouring the misty solitude of the streets.
Linda looked after him with a flicker of regret. In the distance the church clock struck the hour, its tones muffled by the heavy air. Six o’clock–and no sign of the charwoman. She drew a long breath of exasperation, closed the door with a firm snap, turned the key and thrust home the bolts.
‘That Mrs Bond!’ she said aloud with irritation. ‘I’d like to wring her neck!’
