Hartsend (3 page)

Of course Lesley might decide the house was too big and move.

Outside, the coloured Christmas lights were still up, strung between the lamp-posts, Santa and his reindeer swaying in the wind. Had it been a Happy Christmas? Better than some. Her son-in-law had taken Wee Chrissie and the new bicycle out, so there had been an hour of peace. She'd only had to do the one course, roast ham, since no-one liked turkey. Too much food, of course. She saw her shape reflected in the glass and wished again that there had been a dark coat in her size. It was a good coat, and a bargain; she knew what it would have cost new.

The cards of hair ornaments on the wall were all pink or purple, too sparkly, all too young for her now. She had plenty of hair but it was fine and flat. She should have worn it up, but she kept losing the clasps, or else they broke. She sighed. She was silly to think about being attractive now, at her age. That was long gone.

Remembering that she'd given Ryan money the night before, she checked to see what was left in her purse. Ryan was her only boy, the only one still at home. He was eighteen, but still she waited up till she heard him come home. She couldn't help it.

‘‘Who was that?'' she would ask when another girl phoned to speak to him.

‘‘Nobody.''

His mobile was always set to the answer machine, and if they called the house phone when he was still in bed, or doing something he wanted to keep doing, he refused to come to the phone and she had to take messages for him.

She missed her daughters. They would blether on and tell her all the latest gossip, although maybe not all that they'd been up to themselves. Better not to know, she'd told herself. And they'd had their share of screaming matches, of course, them being teenagers and sharing a bedroom, but at least there had been conversation in the house. This one might as well not have learned to talk.

She worried about him, more than she ever had about the girls. All the junk he ate instead of food, all those chips from Big Sam's, eaten between the bus stop and the house. He'd been such a good eater when he was a wee boy, now he never touched a vegetable. One time when her back was playing her up she'd had a notion for home-made soup, and, both girls being at work, had tried to get him to go down to the Co-op. Her Nan had made proper soup, soup that was good for you, with butter beans and peas, and long strips of boiled beef and big lumps of potato and wee lumps of yellow turnip. Tear up a slice of bread to float in it, and you had a whole family meal for pennies. Her mouth watered at the thought of it.

‘‘And a leek. Make sure it's a good big one.''

‘‘What?''

‘‘With lots of white on it. A good sized one.''

‘‘I don't know what they look like,'' he'd said.

Tonight's tea was sausage and egg, the butcher's own square sausage, he would likely eat that. Or if not, there was fish fingers and baked beans.

‘‘Duncan, didn't you say you were going into the village to get some bird seed, dear?''

Duncan's pen halted on the Radio Times. The bird seed was simply a valid reason to go out. Mail order was far cheaper than the village pet shop.

‘‘I was waiting till the rain stopped,'' he said, not looking round at his mother.

‘‘Well, I would like to get these thank-you letters off, dear, but of course it doesn't have to be today, if you're busy.''

‘‘I'll go out before twelve,'' he said, twelve o'clock being collection time.

She put a small stack of letters down on the desk and tiptoed out of the room.

Duncan stared out at the garden, drawing tiny circles on his cavalry-twilled knee with the capped end of the ballpoint. The previous day's brief snow had been washed away. The climbing hydrangea next to the window was thoroughly sodden, heavy drips gathered along its naked branches. Had it rained so much last December? It had been dry at New Year, certainly, as some of their visitors had walked up the hill rather than coming by car. He wondered if Lesley would come this year, now that she was on her own.

He circled some more radio programmes for the week ahead. He might or might not listen to all of them. He circled the Vivaldi recital. The Scottish Chamber Orchestra was generally acceptable, though in the last year or so he had come to prefer the authenticity of early music specialists. He had, in fact, been in Venice during the night, walking in his dream ahead of his mother and several of the Christmas Eve mourners down narrow streets where all the turns were at right angles, making it impossible to know if they led anywhere at all until the turning point was reached. The responsibility of leading the group was heavy on his shoulders. Why was he in charge? They assumed too much, these people. He did his best to read names and numbers on walls and doors but the words on the ceramic tiles were printed in tiny cramped letters, too small to read. Abruptly they had come upon a stretch of water. The waves were rough and the line of gondolas, deserted, made irregular slapping sounds against the water. When he turned, Lesley was watching him. She was holding out her hands. Did she want help, or was she offering it? As he moved towards her, a man of about his own age appeared, catching him by the sleeve. ‘‘I believe I am your long lost brother,'' the man began, and Duncan knew at once that it was true. With that he'd woken, his first, immediate thought being how on earth he was going to ask his mother about the other child. It took him a few moments to remember that he was the only one.

If he told Mrs Fleming about the dream, she'd most likely enquire how many cups of coffee he'd had the night before. Mrs Fleming was the most recent addition to the staff at the Library. Half his age, with a face covered in freckles, and a small bald baby that her husband brought with him when he came to collect her on late nights, Mrs Fleming was very concerned about his coffee consumption and kept trying to wean him onto something she believed to be healthier. She brought in various fruit teas. He'd tried peppermint to please her. It tasted like hot mouthwash.

‘‘And what are you doing at Christmas, Duncan?'' she'd asked.

‘‘Oh, just the usual. Just the two of us. We like a quiet Christmas. We have people in at New Year.''

It occurred to him that she might be about to invite him to the party he knew they were having. She had talked about it a lot, a Murder Mystery Evening, with the guests coming in costume. Not something he'd greatly enjoy, he thought, but he pictured himself in his father's old Navy uniform, preserved untarnished in its dust covering in one of the spare bedrooms. Duncan considered that he had been very kind to Mrs Fleming, changing shifts to suit her, listening with a smile to her chatter about the baby, generally helping her to find her footing. The husband didn't appeal to him particularly, with his leather jacket and untidy hair, but still, he thought now, he might have gone, if invited.

As he stood waiting for the bus, which was more than a few minutes late, Duncan fingered the folded paper in his raincoat pocket. He glanced somewhat sternly at the masculine-looking woman with razor-short hair who was standing beside him in the shelter and whose child was alternately sniffing loudly and coughing without a hand over his mouth. This, Duncan had long since concluded, was a circumstance absolutely to be expected. Although he had a car, it was hardly used. Far more responsible to travel by bus, which was good for the environment, but not quite so good for one's own health. He had solved the problem of keeping his clothes clean by wearing his old navy Barbour, but the thoughtlessness of most individuals, combined with limited ventilation, inevitably resulted in a soup of seasonal viruses which all passengers were compelled to sup, whether they would or no.

It was extremely annoying, but there was nothing one could do. If
he
had a bad cold, and here he stared ineffectively at the woman again, he would travel by car. Had any medical research been done on the effect of bus travel on public health? He made a mental note to run a search when he was back at the library.

His destination was the delicatessen in the next village. Many of the ingredients for his mother's New Year gathering had been mail-ordered as they were every year; the salmon pinwheels and smoked duck mousse from an Aberdeenshire smokehouse had already arrived, along with oatcakes and small biscuits for cheese, while the various cheeses themselves had come from Ayrshire. Tesco would deliver basic items, but still there were some small things that only a delicatessen could provide. For these specialities, one had to go from Hartsend to the neighbouring township, which was more middle class and provided more for middle class needs. It had more or less the same number of shops as Hartsend, but they differed significantly in nature. There was no betting shop and the florist sold only flowers, not fruit and vegetables as well. There was an optician's and an independent shoe shop. There was also a small but very exciting second-hand bookshop, where Duncan had sometimes found poetry first editions at remarkable prices. It troubled his conscience that the owner seemed unaware of the value of his stock, so he always put something in the RSPCA tin on the counter, which seemed to him rather a noble deed since he was not over fond of cats or dogs.

Deep in pleasurable if somewhat anxious anticipation – for the shop might be shut, the owner was erratic as well as unenlightened – Duncan didn't at first realize that his name was being called. The speaker, inside a small black car, tried again.

Stooping, peering in, he recognised the parish minister, disguised in a shabby blue sweater and denim jeans. There was a young girl in the passenger seat.

‘‘I'm only going to Carbennie,'' Duncan said, adding several thankyous and smiling in case his refusal might seem ungracious.

‘‘That's on my way, jump in,'' said the minister.

‘‘I'll go in the back, Dad,'' the girl said, getting out quickly, before Duncan could speak.

His hand thus forced, and constitutionally unable to be rude, he got into the front passenger seat. He felt that his dislike of the man was irrational. In theory, they had a great deal in common. They were possibly the only two in the village who could read both Greek and Latin. More importantly, they were both on the side of decency, both hopeful of improving themselves and the world. But perhaps this was where the problem lay. He himself firmly believed in doing good by stealth. Not letting the left hand know what the right was doing, as it were. To make a living out of this, as ministers of religion did, was, in Duncan's eyes, to make the whole business rather more public and presumptuous than it ought to be. Moreover he had been told that this particular clergyman was happy to quote, in his sermons, from newspapers predominantly left of centre. Today's denim trousers served only to confirm his doubts. The man was, after all, only a few years younger than himself.

‘‘Still on holiday, Duncan?'' the minister began as they drove off.

When had they reached first name terms? Feeling something under his feet, he bent down, hoping he hadn't trodden on anything valuable, but it was a brown paper bag, with the words ‘‘Burger King'' on it. That would account for the rather odd smell then. He left it where it was.

‘‘The college closes for the whole two weeks, but I have some extra days,'' he replied. He wanted to ask if they might drive a little more slowly, the lane being narrow and the hedges high, but politeness forbade.

‘‘And how's your mother keeping?''

‘‘She's very well, thank you.'' He gripped the side of the seat as inconspicuously as he could. Was this the right answer? Perhaps if she was ‘‘very well'' she might be expected to come to church? She had not forgiven the previous minister for remaining on holiday when Captain Crawfurd died, meaning that the man from the next parish, a stripling in his twenties, had had to conduct the service. She still gave money regularly, of course and she had not transferred her lines, but she didn't attend. He himself went faithfully to Communion three times a year, and to Remembrance Sunday.

The girl in the back seat was just visible in the side mirror. She was exceptionally pretty, and fair-haired like her father, but her face was spoiled by something Duncan could only describe as a disdainful expression. Not an easy child, he decided.

‘‘And your friend, Miss Crosthwaite. I tried to call in the other day, but there was no reply. She hasn't gone away, has she?''

‘‘No, I don't think so.''

Duncan felt a pang of guilt. He should have called in himself. Or at least dropped in a card. His mother had sent one, but he should have done something himself.

He hated visiting the sick. It was more than twenty years since his father died, but he still remembered vividly the hospital foyer where they'd sat day by day in that final week, waiting for visiting hour to begin: olive green fake-leather benches, a sludge-coloured carpet, potted artificial plants on either side. In the excessive warmth, he'd felt he was suffocating at the bottom of some murky pond, surrounded by underwater weeds.

He'd been shocked to see how drawn and pale Lesley was at the funeral. Black didn't suit her at all. He'd fully intended to speak to her but she was constantly with someone or other, and when he caught her eye, she seemed not to recognise him. Besides, he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. It was so easy to say the wrong thing in such situations where conversations jumped and jittered around so.

The minister was talking about his son, home from university apparently, and how they couldn't get him up in the mornings. Duncan felt for the sheet of paper in his pocket. There were very specific items on the list. Puréed lemon grass. Pastry shells. Rösti potato mix and raclette cheese. Those very small Belgian chocolates in the shape of Christmas puddings.

Days of servants were of course long, long gone, but Mrs Flaherty would attend the day before the party to help clean and set things out, and on the day after she would come to clear, load the dishwasher with all that was dishwasher proof, and carefully hand rinse the good china. She would be generously reimbursed, and would take leftovers home with her.