Peril in the Parish, page 8
‘Mr Crawley!’ Sophie had rarely, if ever in her life, spoken so sharply. ‘This foolishness is all in your imagination. I have absolutely no romantic feelings towards you. Take your children home this minute, or I’ll fetch a policeman. I just saw one around that corner.’ She pointed to their left. ‘He won’t have gone far.’
There had been no such sighting; she was counting on the threat to bring out Mr Crawley’s usual timidity. Instead, the smile that had hovered tentatively at the corners of his mouth widened and his eyes took on a glow.
‘I know she’s made you feel guilty, but you see the sort of women she is, using her children to tear us apart. That should tell you what’ve I’ve had to put with over the years. You can’t let yourself feel sorry for her. Think of it! The prospect of starting our new lives together!’
‘There is no prospect!’ Sophie knew she should not stand there going back and forth with him. But if she walked away, what would he do about the children? Abandon them in order to follow her?
‘Australia! We could make a wonderful life there. Mother always wanted to emigrate. It would be taking her blessing with us.’
‘She don’t want you, Pa!’ Sam yelled. ‘First I thought like Ma did, she’d led you on. I worked her up in m’mind as rotten to the core. She didn’t look like it; wasn’t painted up to the nines, still I wasn’t going to be taken in, and then I got to wondering why someone that was young and pretty would look twice your way. The more we was with her more stupid it seemed. Told the others she in’t a bad sort at all. It’s you, only you, that’s rotten. What if Ma goes and sticks her head in the oven before we gets ’ome? Thought of that, ’ave you?’
Sophie didn’t hear what if anything Mr Crawley responded. Her heart hammered. If she hadn’t been close to fainting before she was now, but she couldn’t be that much of a coward. Forcing a steadying breath, she clutched Sam’s arm. ‘I’ll take you all home. You just have to tell me where you live.’
‘No, no, my dearest!’ Mr Crawley snuffled. ‘You can’t let that woman get her clutches into you.’
‘That woman is your wife!’
‘Bleedin’ hell he’s crying again.’ Sam’s disgusted voice was interrupted by a delighted outcry from the other children. Turning sharply Sophie saw them charge, pushchair and all, towards the opposite corner. Mrs Crawley was hastening towards them; next moment she was hunched down, arms around them as far as they could reach.
Sophie didn’t give Mr Crawley the chance to open his mouth. She was already backing away, bumping into a woman with a shopping basket. ‘If you follow me, I’ll scream,’ she said.
‘Well, I like that!’ exclaimed the woman.
Without an apology, Sophie took an opening in the traffic as impetus, raced across the road and zigzagged left, down an alleyway between two shops and on to a side street. No sound of pursuit, but she kept up a quick pace until she had rounded a couple more corners. Time to think when everything made a little more sense. Boarding a bus as it pulled up at a stop, she was about to drop on to a seat, when the thought seized her that Mr Crawley might have got on at the stop outside the estate agent’s. A nervous glance round proved this fear groundless. There were few passengers besides herself and he was not amongst them. He wouldn’t have gone upstairs if he wanted to spot her getting on. By the time she disembarked and walked the short distance to her lodgings she had pulled herself together and conceived a plan of action. It was not ideal; there was one particular negative, but she wasn’t going to dwell on that. If it didn’t work out, she would have time to reassess her situation. Her immediate undertaking would be to face a justifiably outraged landlady.
The doughty Mrs Blount must have been at the front room window, because the door opened as Sophie approached it. Though her face was no longer puce and she wasn’t panting like a volcano about to erupt, her gaze did not suggest that the offer of a cup of tea was forthcoming. ‘Well …’ She ushered Sophie into the hall, now restored to its natural state, prior to the onslaught of the children. ‘Didn’t sweep you into his arms and carry you off to parts unknown then?’
Sophie almost responded, ‘Obviously not.’ The impetus to be rude was alien to her nature, but she was drained, frayed and anxious to be alone.
‘He’s the last man on earth …’
‘Clearly he didn’t see it that way. Took back his children, I hope, or did you have to drop them off at the police station?’
‘He wasn’t receptive, looked right through them, but then his wife came along and gathered them up. They may be home by now; I don’t know how far away they live. I’m so very sorry, Mrs Blount, for all you’ve been put through. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go upstairs and pack.’
‘A good thing your rent’s paid up till the end of the month. Good for you, I mean.’ Mrs Blount’s voice lost a fraction of its bite. ‘Starting over you’ll need every spare penny.’
Was it a reminder that additional recompense was owing? Sophie couldn’t blame her. ‘You must let me know the value of that vase that got broken. I know there’s no replacing it from a sentimental point of view, but I hope you can find another just like it.’
‘Never mind that. My late husband’s sister gave it to me. Said she’d paid the earth for it, then come to find out she’d got it off the market; if she paid five bob for it that was generous.’ A pause with some puffing to it and a rise in colour. ‘Went round things in my mind while you were gone. First, I thought, who’d have believed it of Miss Dawson! Her and a married man! Well, like they say, still waters do run deep. Then I got to thinking what if you’d been telling the truth about having no idea he was keen on you. And so I’ve come to feel,’ she concluded magnanimously, ‘that in all Christian charity I should hear your side of the story.’
Sophie didn’t want to talk about Mr Crawley ever again, but she offered up no resistance when Mrs Blount led her into the front room and indicated she should seat herself in an armchair. It was not a welcoming room. She had only been in it once before; that was three years ago when she had come in hope of renting the bedsitting room. She had felt then that it resented any intrusion into its virtuous gloom, in the manner of a querulous invalid who desires only to be left in silence. A gouty invalid. The chairs and occasional tables had gouty legs. Mottled wallpaper mimicked a mottled face. The veining of the marble fireplace suggested veiny hands.
At this moment she would have liked to sag back in the chair. It, however, encouraged no such liberties. Even to have rested her elbows on its arms would have been an affront. But, despite the lack of a fire in the grate, Mrs Blount appeared to be warming up, either because she was curious to know more about the sorry saga, or because sympathy was stirring beneath her mountainous bosom.
She even went so far as to open a glass-doored cabinet and produce a bottle of brandy. Pouring some into a glass she handed it to Sophie, then with a larger measure for herself, she sat down in a facing chair.
‘Drink that down. It’ll steady your nerves.’
‘Thank you.’ Sophie took a dutiful sip; she hated brandy. Dr Maitland had insisted she drink some on the day Uncle Henry had died and when Mr Kent had arrived shortly afterwards, he’d pressed another glass on her. Kindly meant, of course. One couldn’t refuse kindness, especially when offered so affectionately by two men she’d known much of her life. And now Mrs Blount was doing her best to be supportive.
‘So what’s this man like?’ the lady enquired. ‘Attractive, or just full of himself.’
‘Neither. He’s colourless. The sort who fades into his nondescript clothes, washes out into the background, with a personality to match. Maybe I should have guessed that just by listening to him about his colds and his mother that I could be giving him the idea I was interested in him in a personal sort of way.’
‘Well, Miss Dawson, that can be the way of it when you go feeling sorry for a man.’ Mrs Blount swallowed down a second brandy, set down the glass and sighed windily. ‘I got myself in a similar pickle some years back.’
‘You did?’ Sophie strove to sound interested and in other circumstances she would have been deeply, but now the fear that Mr Crawley might follow her here, edged further into her mind. Returning on the bus she’d convinced herself he wouldn’t risk doing so for fear of creating a scene that would certainly rile her beleaguered landlady into summoning the police. Now she was no longer convinced.
‘I can tell you’re surprised,’ Mrs Blount was saying. ‘There was this man, a neighbour a couple of doors down that lost his wife. And her only forty! About my age at the time. Terribly sudden it was, dropped dead while hanging out the Monday wash. Some sort of seizure or stroke. Luckily no children; less for the husband to cope with, but even so the loneliness had to be awful, coming home from work to an empty house. No hot meal on the table. “Might as well be dead himself,” said Mr Blount, so I asked him what he thought about me cooking some extra of what we were having for our dinner and taking a plate over to the poor fellow two or three times a week. And do you know what he said?’
‘What?’
‘That it was just like me always being so thoughtful when most stopped bothering once the excitement of the funeral was over.’
‘What a good husband.’
‘No woman had better. He even offered to do the delivery, but I wouldn’t have it. He always enjoyed reading the evening paper after we’d eaten and then having an hour’s snooze and well deserved, always working so hard to give us a decent life. Well, the first time I went along the man – I won’t sully my lips saying his name – kept me on the step, but the next evening he invited me to step inside. I didn’t stop above a couple of minutes that time, but then it got to be a little longer. He seemed so grateful for a bit of company and with Mr Blount reading his paper and having his snooze it didn’t seem right to rush off home. Not when his was empty most of the time.’
Mrs Blount’s voice flowed on. Evenly when describing the man’s admiration for her macaroni cheese, yes, he’d been very fond of anything with cheese, so one evening she took him a Welsh rarebit. Rising when he began praising her other charms. Sophie tried to stay focused; it really was good of Mrs Blount to confide her tale of Man at his Worst, but she was on pins and needles to be able to leave this house. It wouldn’t take her half an hour to pack her suitcase.
‘It was just little compliments at first. About how much I seemed to get done in a day. But then it was that I was so full of life it was a joy to be around me; I should’ve taken exception to that, but there, like I’ve said I was sorry for him and that evening he’d been particularly pleased with my cheese and spinach pudding. Everyone said he’d been devoted to his wife. A thin, scrimpy creature she was, but some men like that sort of figure …’
Again Sophie lost the thread. On reviewing her plan of escape, if she got to make it without Mr Crawley’s reemergence, uncertainty loomed. Was she selfishly imposing herself on someone whom she’d never met, even if only asking for help in securing a job?
‘Turned out he wasn’t. Well, Miss Dawson, I didn’t much like it when he said she hadn’t been much of a cook. Seemed a bit disloyal, with her not in the ground long enough to stir up daisies, but I suppose I’d got into the way of making excuses for him. He had a way of looking at me as if I’d slipped down from heaven, especially when we were having a sherry together. I wouldn’t have accepted anything stronger.’ Mrs Blount set down her thrice emptied brandy glass on the table beside her chair. ‘Sherry always seems so respectable. It’s the clergymen’s drink, so I’ve heard.’
‘Is it?’ Sophie wondered vaguely if the only clergyman she had herself known drank sherry. Cups of tea, that she knew about; he had drunk at least two every time he came to spend an hour or so with Uncle Henry.
‘Yes, I was taken in … led astray. One evening he turned on the gramophone and suggested we waltz around the room. That was too much. I told him I wasn’t that kind of woman and made for the door. He laughed. The most horrible laugh! Then he said the words that are seared in here.’ Mrs Blount pressed a hand in the general region of the heart. ‘They make me flame with mortification to this day. “Oh, come on you lovely bit of cuddle. Don’t pretend you’ve been coming over for the pleasure of hearing me praise your left overs. If you only knew how sick I am of cheese”!’
Sophie forgot her own problems. ‘Oh, Mrs Blount what a brutal thing to say, when you’d sincerely endeavoured to be a good neighbour in every sense of the word.’
‘There was worse! He said my husband couldn’t be much of a man if I was happy to leave him of an evening for greener pastures. I never told Mr Blount that; it would’ve broken him. I never said a word to him of any of it. Best to pull a veil. But the next time he talked about how England was going downhill fast, I agreed that truer words were never spoken. I’ll admit to you, Miss Dawson, there were times when I wondered if I was at fault for not spotting what he was sooner. That glass of sherry has haunted me over the years. But, there now, he was a fiend. A spawn of the abyss! Whether that’s the case with this man you’re dealing with, I won’t hazard a guess. Maybe he needs to see his doctor and take some tablets that’ll put him right as rain. But we can’t count on that happy outcome, now can we, Miss Dawson?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Sophie rose from her chair.
Mrs Blount did likewise. ‘I wish I could let you stay on; you’ve been a good lodger, and I hope in sharing that dreadful episode in my life I’ve let you know I’m prepared to take you at your word that you did not, at least intentionally, do anything to bring this trouble upon yourself. But I can’t risk another scene like the one this morning, it could be he who shows up at the door next time.’ Her complexion again showed a propensity to puce. A gasp escaped her. ‘This past half hour and that thought didn’t enter my mind, but now that it has …’
You can’t get rid of me fast enough, thought Sophie with a rush of relief.
‘If he’s a true mental case’ – Mrs Blount picked up the glass of brandy Sophie had barely touched and swallowed it down – ‘there’s no telling what he might do if he finds you here! The commotion he’d create! Whatever would Miss Willis and Miss Irving have to say about that? They’ve lodged with me longer than you have, Miss Dawson, and both so used to my ways! To have them walk out! To have to look for new occupants for their rooms …’
Sophie wasn’t sure if she’d responded to any of this. It didn’t matter, Mrs Blount wouldn’t have heard a word anyway. At last! she thought on reaching the top of the stairs. Moments later she had two suitcases out from under the bed, placed on it and opened up. Into one she piled her clothing, sponge bag and other daily essentials. Leaving a couple of cardigans on the bed. She then raced around the room, gathering up her personal possessions to go in the other. Books, some she’d had since childhood, her maternal grandmother’s walnut writing case, Uncle Henry’s desk clock, her tortoiseshell dressing table set, the pincushion that had belonged to her mother, the photos in their silver frames, one of her parents and the other of Uncle Henry. She used the cardigans for wrapping the fragile items.
From the writing case she had taken a couple of sheets of writing paper, two envelopes and postage stamps and put these in her handbag. These for the two letters she must write and send before catching the train. One of apology to Mr and Mrs Euwing, saying she had appreciated working for them, but circumstances forced her to leave their employment. There’d have to be more, of course. A fabricated summons from an ailing relative. The second to Mary, along the same lines as to reasons, coupled with the request that she say nothing to the Euwings about her showing up that morning saying she had Mr Crawley’s children outside. However agog with curiosity Mary might continue to be, she wouldn’t spill a bean.
Anything else? Sophie’s eyes were searching the room for any overlooked items when Mrs Blount came puffing into the room.
‘All done?’
‘I think so … yes.’ The room indeed now had the impersonal look it had worn when she had first seen it.
‘Here you are then.’ Mrs Blount handed her a greaseproof-paper-wrapped package and a small Thermos. ‘Tea and cheese and tomato sandwiches to keep you going till you can get yourself a proper meal.’
‘How very thoughtful.’
‘Set your mind to where you’ll go?’
‘I have a relative, a cousin of my mother’s; I’m not going to land myself on her, but she lives in a small place and I’m hoping she may be able to advise me about where to find a job.’
‘Well, you’re young and healthy …’ Mrs Blount’s voice trailed away, she was looking at her wristwatch. ‘I do hope you’ll let me know how things turn out so as to put my mind at ease.’
‘Of course I will.’ It was a relief to be parting on terms that would have seemed impossible earlier in the morning.
‘Those suitcases don’t look like they’ll be too much for you to carry. Hopefully you won’t have too much walking to do. I went next door and asked to use their phone so I could ring for a taxi. I said you’d tell the driver where you want to go, but thought it would probably be the station; they said he’d be here in ten minutes’ – Mrs Blount glanced again at her watch – ‘which only gives us a few ticks to get you downstairs and out the door. There, that sounds like him now.’
A breathless rush and Sophie found herself out on the pavement, saw her luggage stowed into the back of the vehicle and herself seated behind the driver endeavouring to gather her scattered wits. Better that way; no room for any of the likely emotions, regret, anxiety as to what lay ahead, or relief that Mr Crawley was gone from her life. Never to return.
NINE
The stranger’s visit to the Dog and Whistle had resulted in a restless night for George Bird. He had jolted awake every hour so to replay the episode in his mind. Had he been a fool to swallow the man’s story about his sister’s death. Had such a person even existed, let alone been secretly buried at dead of night, out of a desire to shield her memory from the shame of suicide. Or had he merely been a man, forced by the fog to halt his journey, wherever it was to take him, and pull the leg of a village pub keeper. George would doze and surface again to a further drumming of questions. What did the envelope, left by the stranger before he disappeared into the night, contain? Was it, as he’d claimed, a statement written to Inspector LeCrane, providing an honest account of the event now twenty years in the past? Or were the folded sheets of paper blank, except perhaps for one on which were scrawled a few words such as: ‘Fooled You!’.
