Chapter 49
Joyce
When Elizabeth arrived, Bernard had already fallen asleep, which I think was a blessing, because he does get worked up. He had looked tired when I had knocked for him this morning. I don’t think he’s sleeping at night.
Elizabeth and I went to see Donna and Chris, collecting Ron on the way. He was looking in the pink, which was nice to see. While it is still fresh, this is everything I remember after that.
Donna does something with her eye shadow and I always mean to ask what it is, but I haven’t yet.
Anyway, it was DCI Hudson doing the talking, and he was quite impressive in his way.
He was saying such and such to Ian Ventham.
Ian Ventham said he wanted us all out of the way, and had the paperwork to back it up. Which seemed fair.
DCI Hudson said he wanted to talk to the residents, and Ron told him to talk to him (Ron) instead.
Ron also said that Ian Ventham could stick his paperwork up the proverbial.
Which is par for the course for Ron, as you know.
Donna then suggested that DCI Hudson perhaps should talk to me. As a level head, of all things.
So DCI Hudson explained the legal niceties to me, and warned that he would be forced to arrest anyone who blocked the diggers. I said that I was sure he wouldn’t actually arrest anyone, and he agreed that this was true. So there we were, back to square one.
Ron then asked DCI Hudson if he was proud of himself, and DCI Hudson replied that he was an overweight fifty-one-year-old divorcé, and so, by and large, no, he wasn’t.
This made Donna smile. She likes him—not like that, but she likes him.
I do too. I was going to say to him that he wasn’t overweight, but he actually is a bit, and as a nurse, it’s best to never sugarcoat things, even when your instinct is to be protective.
Instead I told him he should never eat after six p.m.—that’s the key if you don’t want diabetes—and he thanked me.
That’s when Ibrahim joined us and suggested that DCI Hudson might try Pilates, and Donna said that was something she would pay to see.
Ian Ventham didn’t want to join in the fun, and told Donna and DCI Hudson that he paid their wages.
Donna said in that case could she ask him about a pay rise, and that’s when Ventham started shouting the odds about this, that, and the other.
People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny. But that’s an aside.
Anyway, Ibrahim, who is very good with this sort of thing—conflict and inadequate men and stalemates and so on—stepped in and offered to “thin the crowd out” to give everyone a bit of breathing space. It was agreed that this was the thing to do.
Ibrahim walked over to the barricade picnic, which was in full swing, and suggested that anyone who didn’t want to be arrested should perhaps move their chairs off the path.
This shifted a few of the fairweathers. Colin Clemence led the charge.
When Ibrahim reassured the rest that they only had to clear the path, and they were very welcome to stay out and watch the action, there was a proper exodus.
Though not a quick exodus, because you know that getting out of a garden chair at our age is a military operation.
Once you are in one, you can be in it for the day.
Eventually the scene was as follows. The barricade, with the gate firmly locked behind it, was the stage, and the crowd, happily back in their chairs, was the audience.
And who was on the stage? There was Maureen Gadd, who plays bridge with Derek Archer (and not just bridge, in my opinion, but that’s not to be repeated), Barbara Kelly from Ruskin, who once walked out of Waitrose with a whole salmon and pleaded dementia (my foot, but it worked), and Bronagh something, who is new and on whom I have no further information.
I have seen all three of them on their way to the Catholic Mass on Sundays, then hours later, trudging back.
They were padlocked to the gate like bikes on railings.
And in front of them? The barricade had disappeared, leaving just one man.
Awake now, sitting to attention, unmoved, unbowed, terrific posture: Bernard.
Unlike him, I suppose, but he must feel strongly about the graveyard.
You should have seen him. The last guard, like Henry Fonda, or Martin Luther King, or King Midas.
This was too much for Ron, who grabbed a chair and sat right next to him.
Whether out of solidarity or a desire for attention, who knows?
But I was glad that he did. I was very proud of them both, my stubborn boys.
(I don’t mean King Midas, by the way; I mean King Canute.)
Ventham had gone back to his car for the time being, with Donna and Chris.
I poured Bernard and Ron cups of tea and settled down myself, assuming the fun was about to end.
Which was when the taxi arrived and the fun really began.
Forgive me, my doorbell is ringing. I’ll be back in a moment.