An Affair to Remember (19 page)

Clarrie, grimacing, swallows her pride; she’s needed, she must go. “Of course, darling, heavenly to see you again, do come in and help me dress. I’ll get Juan to bring us up some champagne.” Philippa came, looking, to Clarrie’s surprise, a little distraught.

“Clarrie darling, bliss to see you too, of course, but I think we’d better forego the champagne. There’s something rather odd happening downstairs…”

*

Sam too had slept heavily that afternoon, awaking with aching head, dry mouth, hands that wouldn’t stop trembling and a strong wish that he were dead. From the amount of liquid left in the bottle beside his bed, he must have drunk at least a third of it before dropping off to sleep. He remembers dreaming, but the dreams were merely a jumble of pictures, places and people, which although vaguely familiar, he can’t put a name to. He does distinctly remember one face though, that of a young man with cropped blonde hair and an arrogant, not to say supercilious, expression and although in the dream Sam had no idea who the young man was, he had been aware of a feeling of hatred for him such as he had never experienced before.

Christ, nearly half past five, he’d better pull himself together and have a shower. Then he’d take the cup over to Brown End, and try to explain to the Woodheads what had happened. A walk would do him good; he couldn’t drive after all that whisky. Emmie must be home by now, so perhaps a quick mug of tea with her before he went. Opening his bedroom door, the little cup safely in his jacket pocket, he’s surprised how quiet the house is. Emmie must still be out; you always knew when she was in, either the TV or radio would be on full blast. The shop closed at six o’clock, Karen would be going home soon. Putting his head round the door to make sure she’s still there, he’s horrified to see Josh Bogg’s mum in full spate.

“Afternoon, Major, feeling better?” It’s plain she suspects something’s up and is determined to find out what.

“Yes, thank you,” he says stiffly, “just a slight headache, that’s all.”

Mrs Bogg tries again. “A lot going on up at Browns,” she says, packing groceries in her basket, “but I expect you know that. I was just telling our Karen, Mrs Woodhead’s taken to her bed, Mr Woodhead and that secretary have gone off to see me husband’s granny, why they should want to do that the lord knows, and someone spent the night digging holes under them trees by the barn. Proper mad house the place is, what the colonel would have said –”

But Sam can stand it no longer. “I’m afraid that’s the phone,” he says, desperate to escape, “it’s probably my wife, she seems to have got held up somewhere, but nice to see you Mrs Bogg.” And with a vague, valedictory gesture he’s gone, shutting the door behind him.

“That weren’t no phone ringing, or we’d have heard it,” Mrs Bogg says, looking after him. “It’s my opinion your boss ‘as had a drop too much.”

Karen’s eyes are big with excitement. “Something odd’s going on here too, Aunty May. The major’s been like that all day, wouldn’t eat no lunch, just went off up to bed, and Mrs M.’s went out in the car eight thirty this morning and still not back. It’s plain as the nose on your face she’s gone off with that Jack Fulton.”

Mrs Bogg looks grave, picks up her basket. “If I were you, dear,” she says, “I’d start looking for another job. Something’s going to blow here, what’s more sooner than later, you mark my words, and better for you if you’re ain’t around when it does…”

Sam sprints down the garden and makes for the hills. He has to get away, can’t stay a moment longer in the house with those gabbling, gossiping women. What had he done with his dagger; he’d used it this morning for cutting up that stag, then… Oh God, what was he thinking about now? He’d never owned a dagger, let alone cut up a stag.

Panting, he takes the field path to the river, crosses the rickety footbridge, and after one more field comes out on the road leading up the hill to the Grove. Emerging over a style he’s nearly run down by a green Volvo; going, in his opinion at least, much too fast for safety, in the direction of the village. It passes him with inches to spare, and as it does he’s amazed to see Emmie in the driver’s seat. There’s a man beside her, but he can’t see his face; Emmie herself is clinging to the wheel as if her life depended on it: she stares straight ahead, an anxious expression on her face, and he’s pretty sure she hasn’t recognised him.

So that’s why Emmie was so often absent from the shop, frequently, it had seemed even to him, preoccupied as he was with his own problems, with an insufficient explanation as to where she’d been. She had a lover! Who the lover was, heaven knew, but good for her and he hoped it had made her happy. As he continues up the hill towards the Grove, to his surprise he becomes aware of a feeling of relief, even finds himself smiling; not the most normal reaction of a husband discovering his wife’s infidelity, but this wasn’t a normal situation, was it. As guilt at his treatment of her, seemingly having been with him for so long, begins to dissolve; relief she’d found someone to replace him becomes overwhelming.

The shadows are lengthening as he reaches the Grove, but the sun hasn’t yet disappeared behind the hill beyond Brown End; and out of breath and still a bit shaky after all that whisky, he decides to take a short rest and have a cigarette. He always feels at home up here; somehow or other it seems to be his place. Perhaps Brian, the man who’s cup he has in his pocket, felt the same. The grass being dry, he seats himself down under one of the ash trees that encircle the Grove, and reaches in his pocket for his cigarettes. As he does so he sees a small, glittering object in the grass beside him and, picking it up, recognises it as one of the charms from Emmie’s bracelet. A so-called lucky horseshoe made of gold, purchased, so she told him, on her first honeymoon. The honeymoon had been spent on the Isle of Man, and unlike her second, the weather had been marvellous throughout – they’d been able, she’d said, a note of reproach in her voice, to sunbathe every day.

Poor old Emmie, she’d had a rough time and, God help him, a lot of it had been his fault. Carefully putting the tiny charm in his wallet, he lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. He’ll be interested to see her face when he gives it back to her. Goodness knows why, but after the cigarette he begins to feel sleepy again and must have dropped off, waking a few minutes later to find the sun had disappeared behind the hill and there is a distinct autumnal chill in the air. If he doesn’t get a move on he’ll find the Woodhead household at dinner…

*

“And what, for Pete’s sake, am I going to tell the wife?”

“That you’ve done your back in, of course. There’s no law against it as far as I know.” Jack Fulton and Emmie Mallory are seated on a bench in the A&E Department at Belchester Hospital; Jack, who’d somehow managed to do his back in, waiting to be called; their day a disaster.

“I’ll see if I can get some tea, love,” Emmie says, trying to sound conciliatory, although she has to admit she doesn’t feel it. Had someone up there got it in for her? It certainly felt like it. Men! They were such babies too. You’d think by the fuss he was making Jack was dying, and hadn’t just put his back out. She was only here because she felt in part responsible, and a lot of thanks she was getting for it!

“No tea for me, pet, I don’t feel up to it.” Jack, whose eyes had been closed, opens them and puts a hand on her arm. “Anyway, tea might not agree with the drugs they’ll be giving me. Hope to God they won’t keep me in.”

“OK then, you wait here while I get myself one.” She hurries away in search of a tea trolley, glad to escape. What had possessed her to suggest they went up to the Grove again? She must have been mad; what with one thing and another that place was haunted, she was sure of it. But the fracas over breakfast seemed to have cleared the air between them, and Jack had appeared only too happy to accept her rather grudging olive branch. So much so they’d had lunch together, after which, as he had no calls that afternoon, she’d suggested they made it up to the Grove one last time. Jack was due back in Barnsley in a couple of days and didn’t know when he’d be in Suffolk again, and what with that, finding he’d been carrying on with someone else, and trying to cope with Sam’s increasingly weird behaviour, after a lot of soul searching she’d made the decision to call it a day and bring their affair to a close. One last fling up at the Grove seemed a good way of ending things.

The afternoon had been fine and sunny; they left the Volvo in the usual place, both of them, after a pleasant lunch and a couple of glasses of vino apiece, in good spirits, and Jack, his usual randy self, was soon on the job. Then it happened. A sudden yelp of pain and there he was, writhing in agony on the grass beside her. She’d coped of course, people like her always did cope, didn’t they, she thinks gloomily, as she makes her way down the hospital corridor looking for what seemed increasingly like a non-existent tea trolley. She’d managed to induce Jack to stop jerking about making himself worse, calmed him down a bit, pulled his trousers up and eventually succeeded in getting him to his feet: bent nearly double of course, but they made it to the car. The nearest place to get help was Belchester A&E, and of course she had to drive. She’d never driven a Volvo before and what with Jack moaning about his back and wincing every time she changed gear, their journey, like everything else that day, turned out to be a bit of a nightmare. On arrival at the hospital someone had helped Jack out of the car, and here they were, waiting to be seen to. What was happening at the shop, and what Sam was getting up to heaven knew, and of course she should have been back hours ago. Perhaps she should give tea a miss – it didn’t look as if she was going to find any anyway – and look for a phone instead. After further searching and then waiting ages in a queue for what seemed the only public phone in the hospital, she gets through to Karen.

“I’d like a word with my husband, please.”

“He ain’t here, Mrs Mallory, haven’t seen him since lunchtime, and that Mr Woodhead keeps ringing. He wants you to ring him back, he says it’s urgent.”

“I’d better have his number then. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“But Mrs Mallory, it’s time I went home, what about –?”

“Just lock up and go. I can’t talk any more now or I’ll run out of change…”

She dials the Brown End number and Sel answers immediately; he must be sitting by the phone. “Mr Woodhead, Emmie Mallory here. What’s all this about my husband?”

“I need a word with him dear, rather urgently. Your Karen said –”

“Yes, I know what she said, and I’m worried sick. What with one thing and another…”

“No need to upset yourself, dear. If you could just ask him to ring me when he returns from… from wherever he is, that would be –”

“The trouble is Mr Woodhead, I’m not at home myself, I’m ringing from the hospital. A friend’s been in an accident, we’re waiting at A&E.”

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Well the thing is your husband, I have to say, has been behaving rather oddly. He was round here last night digging, and this was not the first time.”

“Digging! Digging what? I know he hasn’t been himself, but it’s the first I’ve heard of digging. Please make yourself plain, Mr Woodhead, I can’t stand much more of this.”

“Well, dear, you see –”

“I’m afraid the pips are going and I’ve no more change. I’ll ring again when I get home…”

Not far off tears, Emmie returns to where they’d been sitting to find Jack’s already in seeing the doctor. Thank God for that! Twenty minutes later, accompanied by a very pretty nurse – did he have to lean on her quite so heavily – he re-appears, seemingly more or less himself.

“Strained the old back a bit that’s all,” he tells her jovially, “and we know how, eh.” The doctor had apparently given him a load of painkillers, told him to return to his hotel and keep quiet and they’d see him again in the morning, but he should be OK if he’s careful and doesn’t drive for a week or two. If all was well he’d return to Barnsley by train tomorrow and get the office to collect his car.

Back at the hotel they kiss goodbye. Awkwardly now, neither of them knowing quite what to say; both aware their affair is over. Emmie, to her annoyance, finds she has to fork out a fortune to collect her car from the car park. And that’s that. Things could have been worse, she tells herself, as she negotiates the necklace of roundabouts encircling Belchester, but not much.

Meanwhile, following his unsatisfactory phone call from Emmie, Ron Head still upstairs and Pippa ministering to his wife, Sel pours himself another drink, tries and fails to think what to do next. Until the bloody major turns up, what can he do? Bugger all! He wanders over to the window. There’s that damned rook again; it was no good, he’d have to get rid of the rooks, their perpetual intrusive presence was beginning to make even him, a man he liked to think noted for his unflappability, feel on the jumpy side. Lighting yet another cigarette he becomes aware of a rather pleasant ambience in the room, a slight aroma of – was it incense or something else? Whatever it was it appeared to make one sleepy…

“Any luck with the phone call?” Pippa, in the doorway with his wife, jerks him awake.

“Not yet, I’m afraid, dear.” He turns to Clarrie, smiling a little blearily, holds out his arms. “My love, you have recovered, what a brave, good girl you are.” It works. Clarrie comes towards him, buries her face in his chest.

“Oh Sel…”

“Look, people,” Philippa, her voice a little strident, stalks over to the drinks cabinet and pours herself and Clarrie a drink, “it may have escaped your memory, but I was called down here at short notice, as I thought to help Sel make sense of the current scenario. I have now been here several hours, but apart from the briefest of briefs following which I have to say I am none the wiser, no one appears to have done anything about anything. To date, the secretary, after smashing up the office, has had some sort of a fit; my colleague, Ron, far from being of any assistance has simply bottled out; and a mad so-called major, in all probability dangerous, is roaming the countryside under the impression he’s some kind of love-sick Ancient Brit. Would it be too much to ask you both to stop canoodling, get your fingers out and apply your minds to implementing some sort of plan of action. If you can do without my help that’s fine by me; I shall be only too happy to return to town first thing in the morning and let you get on with it.” Two spots of anger have appeared on Philippa’s cheeks; she feels slighted.