The Judgement of Strangers (10 page)

We shook hands. I realized that he was a little older than I had thought at first – perhaps in his middle or late twenties.

‘This is my sister Joanna.’ Toby turned back to her. ‘Jo, come and say hello to the vicar.’

I looked up at the terrace. There was a flurry of limbs in the other deckchair. A young woman stood up. She wore a baggy T-shirt which came halfway down her thighs and – I could hardly help noticing as she scrambled out of the deckchair – green knickers. Short hair framed a triangular face.

‘The vicar,’ she said and giggled. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t laugh. Not funny.’

I held out my hand. ‘It’s the dog collar. It often has that effect on people.’

Her eyes widened with surprise. I guessed she was a year or two younger than her brother.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ Toby said. ‘We were just going to make some.’

‘Thank you. If it’s not too much trouble.’

Toby tapped Joanna’s shoulder. She trailed through the French windows into the house. Toby settled me in one of the deckchairs and went to fetch a third. He sat down cautiously.

‘I don’t trust these chairs,’ he said. ‘We found them in the old stables. They look as if they came out of the ark.’

‘I brought you a parish magazine.’

‘Thank you. You must put us down for a regular copy.’

We chatted for a few minutes. Toby’s appearance was misleading, I decided: he had decent manners and knew how to keep a conversation going – indeed, he was rather better at it than me. While we talked, I wondered how best to introduce the subject of his parents. Did they or did they not exist?

‘Who’d have thought it could be so quiet on the edge of London?’ Toby said. At that moment, a jet roared low across the sky towards Heathrow Airport. He snorted with amusement. ‘Some of the time, anyway.’

‘What are your plans for the house?’ I asked. ‘By modern standards, it’s pretty big.’

He looked at me, a swift, assessing glance that was at variance with his earlier smiles, his light conversation and the way he sprawled so casually in the deckchair. ‘In the long run, I’m not sure. But in the short term, Jo and I need somewhere to live. And we both like having lots of space.’ He leant towards me and lowered his voice. ‘Between ourselves, Jo needs a little peace and quiet. She’s not been well.’

I abandoned subtlety. ‘So it’s just the two of you?’

Toby nodded.

At that moment Joanna returned, carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee, a half-used bottle of milk and a packet of sugar. She was still wearing the T-shirt, but she had pulled on a pair of jeans. Soon the three of us were sitting in a row facing the overgrown lawn, each with a mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

‘God, I’m hot,’ Joanna said.

‘It’ll be better when we’ve got the swimming pool fixed,’ Toby said. ‘A man’s coming round tomorrow.’

‘Will it be difficult?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think the Bramleys have used it for years.’

‘I can’t swim,’ Jo said.

Toby waved his cigarette impatiently. ‘You’ll soon learn. Having a pool in your back garden makes all the difference.’

‘Talking of your back garden,’ I said, ‘I have a favour to ask.’

Toby smiled but said nothing.

‘It’s the church fete. The Bramleys used to let us borrow your paddock as our car park. I wondered if you might be kind enough to do the same.’

‘A paddock?’ Joanna giggled. ‘We’ve got a
paddock
?’

‘I’ve never known horses to be kept there,’ I said. ‘I imagine the name goes back to a time before the Bramleys. It’s the field beside the churchyard.’

Toby nodded. ‘When is this fete?’

‘The last Saturday in August.’

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t. It’d be a pleasure. Wouldn’t it, Jo?’

His sister said nothing.

Soon afterwards, I levered myself out of the deckchair and said goodbye. Toby ushered me through the shrubbery and back to the drive. On the fringe of the shrubbery, though, I turned back, intending to wave at Joanna. She was still sitting in her deckchair. She was staring at me with great concentration, her face not so much sullen as serious. She did not wave at me and I did not wave at her.

I had taken only a few steps down the drive when I realized that my Panama hat was still beside the deckchair I had been sitting in. I went back through the shrubbery. Toby was speaking in a soft, pleasant voice. I could only just make out what he was saying.

‘You’ve got to pull yourself together, Jo. We want the natives to like us.’

She said something inaudible in reply.

‘You’ll do as I say,’ he said. ‘You’re not in fucking Chelsea now.’

I could have telephoned Audrey with the good news about the paddock, but I decided that it would be better to go and see her. I could spare twenty minutes. I tended to forget that she was a person and treat her as a convenience.

The front door of Tudor Cottage stood open. Inside was a square hall several feet below the ground level outside. The place was cool, even on a warm day in August. The smell of damp lingered beneath the scent of the potpourri in the bowl on the oak table. The ground floor of the cottage was almost entirely given over to the café. The long room on the left of the hall, which stretched the depth of the house, was the tea room itself. The kitchen was at the back of the house, overlooking the walled garden where, on fine days, they put out tables and chairs. On the right was the small panelled room which Audrey used as an office.

I looked into the tea room. At the table in the window, two women with three toddlers in tow were talking in shrill voices. Judging by the bags around them, they had done their shopping at Malik’s Minimarket. Charlene Potter was sitting by the till, listlessly polishing a selection of the numerous horse brasses which hung around the fireplace and dangled from the beams. She was a fat girl, with wiry yellow hair, a spotty complexion, and a mouthful of grey fillings. She looked up as I came in and smiled. She had one of the warmest smiles I had ever known, the sort that makes you feel that the person smiling is actually pleased to see you. The two women and the three toddlers stopped talking and stared at me.

‘If you want Miss Oliphant,’ Charlene said, ‘she’s in the office.’

‘Thank you. By the way, how’s your father?’

Again, the smile flashed out. ‘He’s got himself a job. Working down the gravel pits. Like a new man.’

‘Give him and your mother my best wishes.’

Charlene’s mother Doris was a regular communicant, which was one reason why Audrey had offered her this job. The other reason was that Charlene’s mother helped to look after Lady Youlgreave. The family lived on the council estate and Audrey had entertained grave doubts about Charlene’s suitability. But her mother’s piety, the Youlgreave connection and the absence of other candidates had tipped the scales in her favour.

I tapped on the office door and Audrey called me to come in. She was sitting at a roll-top desk and turning the pages of a red exercise book. When she saw me, her face coloured. With sudden violence, she shut the book, snatched off her glasses, pushed back her chair.

‘David – how nice. I’ll get Charlene to bring coffee.’

‘Not on my account, please. I’ve just had some with the Cliffords.’

‘What are they like?’

‘Very pleasant; and they say we can use the paddock.’

Audrey wanted more than this. I told her what I knew. She would like Toby, I guessed, despite his louche appearance, but I was less sure how she would react to Joanna.

‘It’s a very respectable surname,’ she remarked when I had finished.

I wondered if Audrey were fantasizing aristocratic connections for the new inhabitants of Roth Park.

‘Roth Park – a private house again,’ she went on. ‘I can hardly believe it. It really could make a difference to the village. To the whole feel of the place.’

The two women and their children were leaving, and the sounds of their voices penetrated from the hall.

Audrey winced. ‘There’ll be crumbs all over the floor. And the last time those two were in, I found jam all over one of the chairs.’ A wistful expression settled on her face. ‘It would be so pleasant to have some
nice
customers.’

‘Are you feeling all right now?’

She put her hand to her forehead. ‘A slight migraine. I don’t think this heat agrees with me. And then there were the louts last night.’

‘The louts?’

‘A whole gang of them in the bus shelter. I could see them quite plainly from my sitting room window. Smoking and drinking. They had a girl in there, too. I closed the windows, but I could still hear them. And then …’ Her voice trailed away, her cheeks were pinker than before. ‘I hardly like to mention it. I – I noticed a puddle spreading across the floor. It looked black in the streetlamp.’ The flush deepened in colour. ‘And suddenly, I realized that one of them must be urinating.’

‘They hadn’t spilt their drink?’

‘Oh no. Sometimes that bus shelter smells like a public lavatory. Anyway, I telephoned the police and frankly they weren’t very helpful. They said they’d send someone down, but if they did, I didn’t see them. Sometimes I despair at this place. I just don’t know what the village is coming to.’

I stayed with Audrey for a few minutes, trying to calm her down. At one point I thought I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath, which surprised me. I knew she sometimes had a sherry before lunch, but it was not yet midday. I tried to distract her by steering her thoughts towards the church fete. James Vintner had offered to do a barbecue for us. Audrey was instinctively against innovation, but James had persuaded her into agreeing on principle. By the time I left her, she was in a happier frame of mind.

Charlene intercepted me in the hall.

‘Do you think she’s all right?’ she asked.

‘Why?’

Charlene led the way outside and said in a low voice, ‘Seems a bit hot and bothered, I suppose. Them kids last night upset her. And Lord Peter wasn’t in for breakfast, and that always upsets her.’

‘He’ll be all right. That cat always lands on his feet.’

‘I’m not worried about the cat,’ Charlene said. ‘I’m worried about Miss Oliphant.’

In the late afternoon, my daughter Rosemary came home. Since the end of term she had been staying on the Isle of Wight with the family of a schoolfriend.

Vanessa was still at work, but Michael had returned from the Vintners’, so I took him with me to meet Rosemary. He and Brian seemed to have enjoyed each other’s company – they had arranged to go to the cinema tomorrow afternoon. I had a vague hope that Michael and Rosemary would entertain each other. I should have realized that there might not be much common ground between a seventeen-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy. Especially, perhaps, between this girl and this boy.

There was little conversation on the drive back from the station. Rosemary sat beside me; she was grave-faced and beautiful, and she answered my questions with a series of monosyllables. She was not rude: it was merely that she had withdrawn into a private place inside herself. I knew that because I was inclined to do the same thing myself when under stress. I thought that I knew the reason: her A level results were due in a few days’ time.

Michael was sitting in the back. Every now and then I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. He was always staring out of the window.

Rosemary was beside me in the front of the car. She opened her bag, produced a small mirror and examined her face. Her absorption excluded me – excluded everyone but herself. I glanced in the rear-view mirror at Michael’s face, as rapt as Rosemary’s. For them both, I was no more than a mechanical contrivance driving the car. Each of them might have been alone in the world.

We reached Roth and parked in the drive of the Vicarage. Vanessa’s car was not there – she had promised to leave work early, in honour of Rosemary’s return, but she was unlikely to reach Roth before 6.30 p.m. Rosemary glided into the house. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door closing. Michael helped me carry in the luggage. The boy looked at a loose end so I suggested he put the kettle on.

I went back outside to lock the car. My heart lurched when I saw a familiar figure waving vigorously at me from the other side of the stream of traffic. Audrey darted across the road and scurried into the Vicarage drive.

‘I’ve got them,’ she announced. ‘I really have.’

‘Who have you got?’

‘Those louts, those wretched louts. Someone had to blow the whistle. Give them half a chance and they would try to get away with murder.’

My mind filled with an improbable image of one of those overgrown children running berserk waving an axe. ‘But what have they been doing?’

‘What they always do.’ Audrey’s face was now a dark red verging on purple. ‘They’re no better than animals. When the Queen’s Head closed at lunchtime, a whole group of them trooped into the bus shelter. I knew what they were up to. Filthy, degenerate beasts.’

‘Audrey, why don’t you come inside and sit down? We were just about to make some tea.’

‘I won’t tell you what I found in there this morning. Too horrible. They’re no better than animals.’

I wondered what she meant. A contraceptive? Excrement?

‘Anyway, they were in there this afternoon, and I happened to see a police car turn into Vicarage Drive. Aha, I thought, I’ll settle your hash. So I popped out there and made the two policemen come with me to the bus shelter. You should have seen the faces of those hooligans. There were five of them. Two of them were girls, would you believe? I told the police I wanted to have them prosecuted to the full rigour of the law.’

‘But what were they doing?’

Audrey waved her hand. ‘Smoking. Drinking. You could tell where it was going. That sort of person is only interested in one thing.’ Audrey’s face suddenly changed, as though an invisible sponge had wiped away the anger and the agitation. ‘Why, Rosemary. How lovely to see you. I didn’t realize you were coming home today.’

When I went to lock the church that evening, I found a surprise waiting for me. It was not late – a little after seven o’clock. I had left Vanessa preparing supper in the kitchen, with Michael sitting at the table peeling potatoes. Rosemary was having a bath, and had been for some time.

I let myself into the churchyard by the garden gate. The sky was grey, and a breeze ruffled the long grass among the graves. I walked round the east end of the church to the south door. Before locking it, I went inside to check that the church was empty.

It was as well that I did. A figure was standing in the chancel.

I cleared my throat. ‘Good evening.’

The figure turned and I saw that it was Joanna Clifford. I walked up the church to join her. Her arms were folded across her breasts as though she felt cold. She was looking at the floor.

‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled, ‘me coming in here?’

‘Of course it is. This is your church.’

‘I must be going. Toby will be wondering where I am.’

I remembered what Toby had said about Joanna having been ill. I walked with her to the door. When I had met her this morning, I had taken away an impression of sullenness. Now I thought she was more likely to be shy than sullen. I opened the door for her and followed her into the porch.

‘Where were you living before?’

‘We had a flat just off the King’s Road.’ Joanna watched me locking the door. ‘It’s so quiet here.’

I turned to face her, and for the first time I noticed her eyes. I was standing quite close to her, in the archway dividing the porch from the churchyard. For an instant her eyes reminded me of sunlit seawater trapped in a rock pool. They were not large but their colour was unusual: a mottled greeny-brown, their vividness accentuated by small pupils, and by a black rim which separated the irises from the whites. She was smaller than Vanessa, the top of her head barely above my shoulders.

‘I must get back,’ she said.

‘You must have a lot to do.’

She looked up at me, her eyes startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s always a busy time, isn’t it? Moving into a new home.’

‘Oh – that. Yes. Well, goodbye.’

She darted away from me towards the small gate in the west wall of the churchyard, which led directly into the grounds of Roth Park. I watched her go. What an awkward child, I thought – except she wasn’t a child at all: she was probably well into her twenties.

I walked slowly home. All evening, the memory of Joanna Clifford stuck on the back of my mind like a burr on the back of my jacket.

At Vanessa’s suggestion, we tried to make Rosemary’s first meal at home something of a celebration: we ate Coronation Chicken and drank a bottle of white Burgundy. Michael had half a glass of wine and became sufficiently relaxed to tell us an interminable joke involving an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman.

Part way through the meal, Vanessa said, ‘You’ll never guess who phoned me today.’

Michael and I looked expectantly at her. Rosemary stared at her plate.

‘Lady Youlgreave’s cleaner. Mrs Potter, isn’t it? She phoned the office this morning. Lady Youlgreave wants me to go and see her.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘To talk about Francis Youlgreave. She said something about wanting to get the family papers catalogued. And she wondered if I was serious about wanting to publish a biography of Great-Uncle Francis.’

‘Are you?’

‘Oh yes. As long as there really is new material. That notebook she showed us looked promising. If I could find the time, I wouldn’t mind writing it myself.’

‘Who would want to read about him?’ Rosemary said. ‘Most people have never heard of him.’ She stared challengingly around the table. ‘It’s not as if he was a real poet, after all.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ Michael said.

We all looked at him, and he blushed.

‘What have you heard?’ Vanessa asked.

‘He was mad. He preached a sermon about how there should be women priests. And he used to cut up animals and things.’

‘You
are
well informed,’ Vanessa said. ‘How did you learn all that?’

‘Dad told me. There was something in the paper about the Methodists having women ministers, and Dad said it would soon be the Church of England’s turn. And Mum laughed, and said it was just like Francis Youlgreave said it should be. So I asked who Francis Youlgreave was.’

‘He used to cut up animals?’ Rosemary said. ‘I never knew that. Did he do it here?’

‘Mainly in Rosington,’ I said abruptly. ‘He was a very sick man. He had delusions. This business about women priests was one of them. Another was some sort of mumbo jumbo about blood sacrifices.’

‘Plenty of classical precedents,’ Vanessa said. ‘And Old Testament ones, too, for that matter.’

‘Why?’ Michael said. ‘What were blood sacrifices
for
?’

‘In those days, people thought the gods liked them – they were sort of presents to the gods, I suppose.’ I did not want to get too involved in this subject. ‘The idea was that if the gods liked your present, they’d be nice to you.’

‘Or they’d be nasty to your enemies,’ Rosemary added. ‘Which came to much the same thing.’

‘But that was the Old Testament,’ Michael said. ‘Francis Youlgreave was quite modern.’

‘He was mentally ill,’ I said. ‘He was –’

‘Mad,’ Rosemary interrupted. ‘Or maybe a genius. “Great wits are sure to madness near alli’d”,’ she added smugly. ‘Dryden.
Absalom and Achitophel
.’

There was a stunned silence. And into that silence came the ringing of the telephone.

‘Oh
no
,’ said Vanessa to me. ‘I wish they’d leave you alone. Just for an evening.’

I pushed back my chair and went into the study. Perhaps the wine had loosened Vanessa’s tongue, as it had Michael’s. I picked up the phone.

It was Audrey Oliphant and she stumbled over her words as though someone were shaking her as she was speaking. Lord Peter still had not come home and someone had thrown a stone through the window of her office at Tudor Cottage.