An Affair to Remember (30 page)

Izzy Moss, lizard-like in his wrought iron chair, watches the exchange with interest, not to say a certain amount of amusement. “My dears,” he purrs, shutting his notebook, as the two combatants briefly pause for breath, “may I remind you that the episode we find ourselves currently caught up in, such as it is, is not yet over. Any threats and recriminations should perhaps be postponed for a later date, do you not agree? Meanwhile…”

“Oh, go to hell.”

“
Clarrrie
, my darling Clarrie, I didn’t mean it that way, you know I didn’t.” Sel, having found his wife lying face downwards on her bed, tries putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t shake it off, which seems a good sign.

“I know you didn’t,” she says into the pillow, after a long silence, “it’s just, well, those two, Pippa and Izzy, they’re like vultures.”

Sel plants a kiss on the back of her neck, “My darling, to a certain extent everyone in our business is. Where did the money that paid for this house come from, for example? You know as well as I do, and whether you like it or not you’re part of it. All my life I’ve lived off my God-given ability to exploit the idiosyncrasies of my fellow creatures. I try to do it in as kindly and sensitive a way as possible, but I do it. I don’t say that when the chips are down I’m proud of what I do; however, I can live with it, and anyway it’s too late to change. You knew this when you married me. You know it now. Sam and Beatrice are good, decent people, caught up in circumstances none of us really understand; they’re not our kind, they never will be, but you know I’ll do my best for them. You do know that Clarrie, don’t you? Come, look at me – you do?”

Clarrie sits up; through a tangle of hair, looks at him. Nods. Finds a screwed up handkerchief; blows her nose. “I love you Selwyn Woodhead,” she says, giving him a brief peck on the cheek, “goodness knows why, must be your money I suppose, and you’re a persuasive bastard when you want to be.”

“So they tell me,” he says, giving her a proper kiss. “Have you recovered sufficiently to face our guests?”

“As much as I ever will,” she throws back the duvet and gets out of bed, “it’s just there’s something about those two; Ron’s okay, more or less; but the others. Normally I can put up with them, I suppose it’s being preggers – it seems to make one a bit intolerant…”

A sharp intake of breath from her husband. “You’ve heard?” Why hadn’t she told him? Would he ever understand her?

“Yes, I’ve heard. I know I should have told you before, but I felt I needed to mull things over for a day or two first. And what with all this other business… I’m sorry, darling. Actually, I’ve been mulling over names. I know it smacks a bit of fiddling while Rome burns – joke, Sel, lighten up – but I was always one to dwell on trivialities. What about Julius if it’s a boy, then we could have Julia if it’s a girl. They’ve a nice Roman ring to them, don’t you think, and under the circumstances…”

“Anything, my darling, anything…” Aware of an unexpected feeling of joy, Sel nods enthusiastically; she can call it anything she damned well likes – at a pinch Horace, even Percy, although that would be pushing it a bit – his/her existence was all that mattered.

“That’s settled then,” she says briskly, as having donned a T-shirt and pair of jeans, she expertly rearranges her ponytail and puts on a dab of lipstick. “While we’re on the subject, though, there is one more thing before we return to the fray.” Her eyes, questioning, meet his in the dressing table mirror. “I don’t think whoever it was who you allege gave you the snip can have done a very good job, do you?”

*

Eleven am and the party, their differences for the time being forgotten, gather in Sel’s office for a progress report on his trip with Josh. Through the window behind Sel’s desk, the sky, in stark, almost savage contrast to the scene of desolation in the yard beneath, is now a cerulean blue, a sprinkling of small, white clouds scudding across it in the gentle breeze. While waiting for Sel’s return Ron and one of the Bogg boys have cleared the gateway into the lane and made a start at sweeping up some of the debris, but in daylight, it has to be said, the great yard at Browns probably hasn’t looked like this since some time in the 1540s, when the then owner, one Thomas Willingcote, having made a pile out of wool, hops and a spot of black market trading in the stuff from the broken up monasteries, decided to dazzle his neighbours by building a super barn.

“Gather round children, and take a pew, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that is mission accomplished.” Eyes alight with purpose and an enthusiasm which, to be absolutely honest, he’s far from feeling, Sel addresses his somewhat unenthusiastic flock. Pippa, looking sceptical, takes the only other decent chair, Izzy, looking half asleep, takes the other; and there being only two, Ron, who could do with a drink, but feels it’s a bit too early to ask for one, remains standing. Clarrie herself perches on the desk beside her husband.

“I hope this won’t take long,” Pippa says, lighting her fifth cigarette that morning; and she’s supposed to be giving up, “that bloody pair have been on the run several hours now, you know – surely our first priority is to organise a search party?”

Sel looks at her with distaste, wonders for the nth time what possessed him to invite her down. It wasn’t as if she’d been any help, and whatever the outcome of the present mess, she would, by dint of manipulation, fabrication or any other means available, succeed in making a bomb out of it. That’s showbiz, though isn’t it, he tells himself. Or is it? Clarrie squeezes his hand, and he remembers their secret. Who cares anyway?

“Of course, darling, of course,” he says, smiling sweetly at the bloody woman, “but I’m sure you’d agree a brief update is necessary before we do anything too drastic?” There’s a murmur of assent from the others and Pippa, closing her eyes, prepares to be bored.

The journey on Josh’s tractor, he tells them, had apparently been a hazardous one, initially at least. But after viewing the various unpromising options open, they’d finally made it to the main road by taking to the fields instead of using the lane; after which it had been plain sailing. Bypassing the village and making for the small market town of Puddington a few miles along the main road from Belchester to Ensworthy, had been Josh’s idea. It turned out to be a good one, as Puddington appeared relatively unscathed by the storm. Not only had he managed to do the phoning, and a bit of shopping, but get a decent breakfast in the local pub for himself and Josh as well. He’d given the police a full description of the errant couple; they’d promised to do their best, but said he’d have to appreciate they currently had their hands full with accidents and damage caused by the storm, and dealing with these would have to take priority over everything else.

“In other words they won’t do a bloody thing!” Philippa interrupts yet again, “I sometimes wonder what we pay our taxes for.” Clarrie gives her a look, and Sel, raising a hand for silence, continues.

He’d managed to get through to the guy at the local rag, who’d promised to alert the rest of the Press of the cancellation – “He said only two of their people, both of whom lived near the town centre, had managed to make it into the office so far, but that it looked as if our area was the worst hit. He’d just come off the phone to a friend in Fleet Street, who said he’d made it into work without difficulty. There was a bit of disruption, but on the whole things weren’t too bad.”

“We certainly seem to have upset the powers that be. One wonders what else they have in store – a plague of frogs.” This time it’s Ron who interrupts. He appears to have gone broody again as, hands in the pockets of his parka, he looks soulfully out of the office window. He’s almost sure there’s a rook perched on a branch of that oak tree on the far side of the lane. If he’s right and there is, could it be trying to tell them something? At least the cup was safe, though. He can feel it, snugly wrapped in cotton wool in the pocket of his parka. Just to make sure, he pulls it out and, removing the wrapping, holds it up to the light. “Well, whatever happens at least we have this…”

“Surely it should be in the safe, I mean anyone could…” Pippa again, this time with a snort of disapproval, but Ron isn’t listening, no one is. They’ve heard the sound of a car coming up the lane from the direction of the river. Slipping off her perch on the desk, Clarrie hurries over to the window; opens it. The others gather behind her; no one speaks. Now they can see the car, a beat-up Mini, bright red in colour and seemingly crammed with people. They watch in silence as it sidles in through the yard gate, and plainly unable to proceed any further, pulls up beside a pile of rubble.

“My God, it’s them!” With cries of excitement the party, jostling one another in their efforts to be there first, follow their leader out of the office, down the passage to the kitchen, where Juan has already opened the back door.

Sylvia is the first to emerge from the car and pick her way through the rubble towards them, followed by Tris, who’s obviously been driving. From the back seat, after a moment’s scuffle, emerge first the vicar, then Sam and last of all Beatrice. Allah be praised, Sel whispers to himself, then wonders if he should not have invoked a more appropriate deity. He hurries towards them, one hand raised in benediction.

“Darlings, where on earth have you been?”

Beatrice, radiant, wearing a duffle coat streaked with mud, several sizes too large for her, her hair in rats’ tails, breaks away from Sylvia and the two priests; who, horrified, are looking about them at the wreck of the great barn; and taking Sam by the hand, runs forward to meet him. “Oh Sel, I’m so frightfully sorry about everything, I know I’ve been a dreadful nuisance, and I’m sure you wish you’d never employed me, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my entire life.”

Sel, aware of a slight roughness at the back of his throat, as usual does the right thing. He takes her in his arms and kisses her. Clarrie, behind him, looks over their heads at Sam, her eyes questioning. Unnoticed by the others, he gives the thumbs up sign. Clarrie grins. Mission accomplished, indeed…

Epilogue

That was it, really. Clarrie was right. Mission had indeed been accomplished. No one was ever able to say quite how, but as far as anybody was aware. the unquiet ghosts of Tavey, Brian and his formidable mother were, at long last, laid to rest.

As was to be expected, after the red tape connected with his and Emmie’s bigamous marriage had been sorted out – Emmie was given a suspended sentence, so it wasn’t too bad – Sam and Beatrice were duly married. The ceremony, on Mrs Roper’s insistence, was quite a grand affair, taking place in her local parish church, followed by a reception in a specially erected marquee on the Roper lawn. They’d wanted a quiet wedding; it was not to be; but as far as Beatrice was concerned, anything that kept her mother quiet was fine by her.

Initially, a little sniffy about her future son-in-law’s background – Kitchener Road and the local Comprehensive – Mrs Roper soon came round, and the fact that in the course of his army service Sam had attained the rank of major helped smooth his way into her good graces. His apparent possession of certain occult powers could not of course be disguised, but these she took in her stride. Apparently Beatrice’s father, Marcus, had also possessed them, and far from being a disadvantage they added, in her opinion, a much needed spice to married life. Of Sam’s disastrous liaison with Emmie it was thought best to keep her in ignorance.

Inevitably a certain amount of publicity had surrounded the wedding, but as it took place several months after the much bowdlerised version of the dig had appeared in the Press, it was comparatively low key. The presence at the ceremony of such TV personalities as Beatrice’s father, Marcus Travers, who gave her away (“Darling I couldn’t resist it – should one, one wonders, sport a toga?”), the two Woodheads, plus an assortment of media hangers on, did attract a certain amount of interest, but Mrs Roper, despite complaining to friends about the fuss of having to cope, not only with her ex-husband – ‘such an embarrassment, darling’ – but ‘that dreadful TV man and his wife as well’, was not wholly averse to a bit of showbiz razzmatazz, and after the ceremony even agreed to pose with Sel outside the church, although she drew the line at being photographed with his arm round her.

As to Sam and Beatrice, after a blissful honeymoon spent somewhere in Scotland recovering from their ordeal and disentangling themselves from their alter egos – happily already becoming a distant memory – they made the decision to sell the shop in Kimbleford, and with the proceeds buy a house in the area, which despite the bizarre events of the past few months, perhaps even because of them, they had come to love. Ignoring Emmie’s somewhat half-hearted protests (he was learning the masterful approach was best) the shop was snapped up by Sid Parfitt, who knew a bargain when he saw one, before it ever went on the market, and after a prolonged search during which they stayed at Brown End, Sam supervising re-building operations, while Beatrice continued as Sel’s secretary, they at last found what they wanted; a smallish Victorian house with a large garden in the village of Pen a few miles up the valley. The building work completed, Sam found himself a job as personnel officer in a factory making hot water tanks in an industrial estate on the edge of Belchester, and with Beatrice already three months pregnant with their first child, they settled down at last to what – both being not only fed up, but worn out by the vicissitudes of their previous lives – they most wanted; namely a happy, uneventful married life.

And the others?

Granny Bogg died on the night of the storm. Found by a frightened carer the following morning lying on her back in bed staring at the ceiling, the expression on her face one of vengeful fury. Her funeral, a few days later, was the most impressive seen in Kimbleford for many years, only outclassed by that of the innocent victims found under Tavey’s tree.

Inevitably perhaps, the latter internment, despite the efforts of all those who had been in any way involved to keep it low key, was somewhat of a media event and indeed attained nationwide publicity. After considerable, and in one or two cases acrimonious, discussion, it was decided to mark the infants’ burial site in Kimbleford churchyard by a single stone on which was carved in a suitably Roman looking script, the words: