Chapter 3 #2
“No, you are not going for a bloody walk! It’s Mrs. Penton’s day off, as you’d know if you took any interest in running the place, and you can bloody well stay here and help clear up for once. Your farmer’s daughter will just have to wait!”
The two visitors looked at each other with raised eyebrows and grinned; the ancient shook his head forebodingly; the newly arrived couple paused, taken aback, then the man shrugged and said, “We’ve booked rooms,” and turned to the porter.
At the same time, Daisy heard George Enderby’s placatory voice within, but not what he said.
His wife’s response was all too audible. “Oh yes, I know about her. You didn’t really imagine I didn’t, did you? And she’s not the first, by a long way!”
On the other side of the street, a plump young woman with a shopping basket had stopped, turning an aghast face towards the hotel. Now she hurried on, her head bowed so that her expression was hidden by the brim of her hat. Oh dear, Daisy thought, another victim.
“Oh, I’ve given up caring about them,” came Mrs. Enderby’s strident voice again.
“The poor fools were taken in just like I was. They soon find out how much your sweet talk is worth, don’t they?
As long as you pull your weight, I don’t give a damn any more.
But you’ve started to skive off and leave the work to the rest of us, and I’m not
putting up with it. The Schooner’s still in my name, remember. You do your bit or you can pack your bags! I—”
At that point, the nearest window slammed down.
Several people who had been transfixed, all agog, stirred into shamefaced life, including Daisy.
The dismayed couple from the ferry shepherded their children into the lobby, nervously sidling from the frying-pan into the fire.
The porter carried their bags after them.
The old man, cackling, hobbled away down an alley.
The two men he’d been talking to exchanged another glance, their faces red with suppressed sniggers, and strolled towards the harbour.
Daisy crossed the street, realizing too late that Mrs. Hammett was standing on the opposite side.
“There, what did I tell you?” she said with all too obvious satisfaction. “Scandalous, I call it, washing their dirty linen in public. There ought to be a law against it. I’ve a mind to complain to the licensing authorities.”
“I rather doubt they’d be interested,” said Daisy, and hurried on, wishing she’d let the blasted woman fall, eggs and all.
After tea, Belinda and Deva were so exhausted from their busy day that they were more than happy to lie on a rug on the lawn reading the library books. Mrs. Anstruther suggested giving them an early supper and sending them early to bed.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Daisy was quite tired herself. “As long as it won’t make too much work for you?”
“Not at all. I can put together a shepherd’s pie in half a tick. Children usually like that. And there’s the rest of the plum tart for afters.”
“Perfect. I don’t suppose you’d be able to sit down with me and Mr. Baskin for dinner, would you? Not that I think he’s another George Enderby, but gossip does seem to fly in this place. It would be more comfortable, if you can manage it.”
“I could,” Mrs. Anstruther said hesitantly, “if he doesn’t mind. And if you don’t mind me getting up to clear and fetch between courses, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Not at all. I’ll give you a hand. Just don’t ask me to cook or you’ll regret the results!”
Donald Baskin returned from his day-long ramble just in time to change into his flannels, now pressed, for dinner. “No room for a dinner jacket in my rucksack,” he apologized. He professed himself delighted to have the landlady dine with them. “But what about the girls?” he asked.
“They’re already fast asleep,” Daisy told him. “You won’t have them inflicted on you this evening.”
“Oh, but I enjoy them. I’m a schoolmaster, as I think I told you. After hordes of little boys, it’s very interesting to spend some time with two little girls.”
Over cream of mushroom soup, followed by fresh-caught mackerel and then lamb cutlets with new potatoes and peas from the garden, they talked about Baskin’s school and what he’d seen on his walks about the countryside.
Mrs. Anstruther introduced the subject of Daisy’s writing, which interested him.
But over the summer pudding, he reverted to a topic the ladies would much rather have avoided.
“The Schooner seems like a friendly pub,” he said. “It was full of both local people and visitors when I dropped in last night. Have the Enderbys owned it long?”
“Nancy’s grandparents built it,” said Mrs. Anstruther, “and her father left it to her when he died, her being the only child. To tell the truth, I think she found it a bit much to cope with on her own, before she married. It was getting a bit run-down.”
“When was that? They’ve had enough time to do it up very nicely.”
“A couple of years ago. No, three. He came on holiday that summer, and next thing we knew they were married. Quite a surprise, it was. She hadn’t known him more than a week or two.”
From the way Cecily Anstruther spoke, the look on her face, Daisy suspected George Enderby had not come to Westcombe on his own.
“He just turned up out of the blue?” Baskin asked. “Where did he come from?”
“Do you know, I’ve no idea. That’s odd. He never talked about his past, except for a scar—a wound he got in the War.”
“Where?” Baskin flushed. “I mean, where was he fighting? What unit was he with?”
“In Belgium when he was wounded. Wipers, he said—that’s what the soldiers called Ypres, isn’t it? He was in a tank, but I think they started as a cavalry unit. Would you like some more pudding?”
Where was the scar? Daisy wondered. She hadn’t noticed one.
Somewhere only a lover would see it, no doubt.
Mrs. Anstruther obviously didn’t want to talk about it, as Baskin realized at last. He accepted a second helping and told them funny stories about his War service in Mesopotamia, then took himself off to the Schooner for his pint.
Just what was his interest in George Enderby? It seemed to Daisy more than idle curiosity. The obvious deduction was that here was another deceived husband, in search of his erring wife’s betrayer. But what did he hope to gain from finding him?