Chapter Fourteen
From the Hambleton Amblers Not Ramblers Facebook Page:
Please be aware that due to the extreme heat, today’s Abbey-to-Abbey Saunter has once again been postponed, this time until next month. Keep putting on that sunblock, Amblers!
‘How about now?’ The light behind Liz’s head flared whitely, reducing her to a spectral silhouette.
‘We can hear you fine,’ said Pat. ‘It’s just the light.’
‘The sun’s all wrong in here,’ said Liz crossly. ‘Derek’s in his study. I can’t sit in the conservatory; it’s like a sauna. The kitchen is the only place left with decent Wi-Fi—’
‘As long as we can hear you,’ said Thelma placatingly, but Liz wasn’t listening. The picture juddered crazily, tilted, froze and unfroze showing blurred, tipped images of her hallway, stairs and landing. Finally, the picture settled and resolved, showing an expanse of white candlewick bedspread.
‘I’m in the spare room,’ announced Liz tetchily. ‘Hang on whilst I pull the curtains.’
Pat could sympathise with her friend’s frustrations.
This Zoom ‘debrief’ had been urged by Thelma as an alternative to the garden centre, bearing in mind the temperature was forecast to, once again, nudge the forty-degree mark.
Both Pat and Liz’s reaction to her idea had been along the lines of ‘so what?’ but Thelma had been so grave, so insistent that the simplest thing had been to go along with the suggestion.
The picture of the candlewick bedspread shuddered, tipped and finally settled to reveal Liz in front of the drawn spare room curtains, pink with the sun behind them.
‘Can you see me now?’ she demanded in an irritated voice, which implied she’d rather face the heat than do battle with this means of communication.
Both her friends responded in the affirmative and neither mentioned that in plain view behind her was an airer draped with Derek’s powder-blue boxer shorts.
‘So where were we?’ said Pat. Behind her was a virtual backdrop showing one of the chateaus she and Rod had visited earlier that year.
Not because she had any drying underwear to hide, but her kitchen counter was set up with an arrangement of fat, lavender candles, which Tiffany was planning to photograph, and Tiffany-Jane was a subject she wanted to keep her friend’s thoughts all the way away from.
There had been more raised voices last night after Justin had got home, following which she’d seen neither her son nor his girlfriend – not even ducking in and out the bathroom.
‘The A171,’ said Thelma. ‘I was wondering just where Davey Fletcher was driving to when he had his accident.’ Behind her could be seen the sober, olive-green tones of her living room, with Snaffles the cat eyeing them fixedly from a patch of sunlight.
It looked the epitome of tidiness and order, but to move the laptop slightly to the left would reveal a whole stack of Teddy’s parcels waiting to be entered in his WAMMP app.
‘The A171,’ said Liz in brisk, business-like tones. ‘I’ve been checking. I reckon the poor lad would have been heading to Whitby or Scarborough, or even Bridlington – anywhere round those parts. Any place else and he’d have taken the York road.’
‘Did he have to be going anywhere?’ said Pat. ‘Maybe he just wanted to drive?’
‘In a blizzard?’ said Liz, incredulous.
‘Maybe,’ said Pat. ‘If he was upset.’ She thought about her own periodic sojourns to the lay-by above Borrowby when life got fraught. ‘It was the day before the Ofsted report came out, remember.’
‘He crashed at a place called Wentworth Bank,’ said Thelma.
‘A bit of an accident black spot apparently. Hang on.’ Deftly, she operated the screen share and a page from the Cleveland Herald appeared showing an image of a stretch of snowy road, taped off with a number of attendant police vehicles parked at angles.
WENTWORTH BLIZZARD CRASH. LOCAL TEACHER KILLED.
HOW MANY MORE? SAY APPALLED RESIDENTS. Pat and Liz read the brief summary of the crash, the fourth in sixteen months, plus a police appeal for careful driving in bad weather.
‘It doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t know,’ said Pat.
‘I wonder,’ said Liz, ‘why Neville Hilton was writing to complain about the same road.’
‘If it was the same road,’ said Pat. ‘You said yourself you only got a quick look.’
‘A171,’ said Liz stubbornly. ‘I remembered the 171 because that was my code for the photocopier.’ There was a momentary respectful acknowledgement of this from her former colleagues. Evidence of this nature was, Pat and Thelma both felt, as watertight as it got.
‘It’s a long road, the A171,’ said Thelma. ‘Some fifty-odd miles.’ She killed the sad image, and the three faces appeared once more on the screen. ‘It doesn’t have to have been that particular bit.’
‘Well, one thing’s certain,’ said Pat, ‘it wasn’t Davey Fletcher who was in Hollinby Quernhow shouting the odds at Neville.’
‘No,’ said Thelma. ‘The question is who could it have been?’
‘Caro Miranda,’ said Liz promptly. ‘Hold on.’ There was a pause as she shared a picture. The first attempt showed her Prime page (low-sugar salad cream), but the second showed the lady herself, smiling a rather glacial smile. ‘It’s from the school website.’
‘So, you think it’s the Reverend Nemesis in the Snuggery with the attitude,’ said Pat. ‘Dreamy Pete said how hostile she got. She certainly looks as if she’s got an axe to grind.’
‘Maybe,’ said Thelma neutrally.
‘Come on,’ said Liz. ‘You saw how she was. Really angry. You can’t discount her just because she’s a vicar.’
‘That’s nothing to do with it,’ said Thelma shortly. ‘Like you, I saw an angry, upset woman. But it doesn’t necessarily follow she was angry and upset enough to track Neville down to his house and confront him.’
‘Talking of confronting,’ said Pat. ‘There’s that Chloe you met. She sounds a right piece of work.’
‘She was really upset,’ said Liz, sounding slightly defensive. ‘Sticking up for her friend who hadn’t been given a job.’
‘She was still angry,’ said Pat. ‘And by the sounds of it angry enough to have a go at Nev.’
Thelma said nothing. She was remembering that glinting kitchen knife in the dishwasher in amongst the jumble of plates and serving tureens. Those plates – three plates … Why three?
‘I’ve been wondering about Davey’s Son,’ said Liz, breaking into her thoughts.
‘His son?’ said Pat. ‘I didn’t know he had any kids.’
‘No,’ said Liz. ‘His partner – his name is Son. Hang on.’ Pat sighed as Prime appeared yet again (sugar-free madeira cake) to be rapidly replaced by an image of fluffy clouds and pink and purple sky.
Over this were Comic Sans letters in a bold tangerine colour: Are you the best you that you can be?
(Pat had to read this through twice before finding the correct phrasing.) To one side of the screen was a picture that Thelma recognised from the montage at school.
Despite all the advantages of posed studio photography, Son Masters still retained that air of slightly androgenous amiability.
‘He does these talks,’ said Liz. ‘Self-help stuff.’
‘There’s one today,’ noted Thelma. ‘Seven steps to success. Ingleby Barwick library, wherever that is.’
‘Remember, it was a woman that Judy Whats-her-face heard,’ said Pat. ‘Not that I don’t think he had a good reason to be mad with Neville. But from what Dreamy Pete was saying, this Son person was more into hugging. At least on the surface.’
‘I think he looks rather sweet,’ said Liz. ‘Harmless.’
Pat clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Liz Newsome, what are you like?’ she said. ‘It’s not about how people look. Remember Jason Riley in my class? Mr Butter-wouldn’t-melt himself. We lost half our tadpoles thanks to him.’
‘The thing to remember,’ said Thelma, ‘is that the nicest people, the most well-meaning of us – well, we’re all capable of doing the most terrible things.
And just because someone has done something terrible, it doesn’t automatically make them a terrible person.
Sometimes they’re just as good and principled as ever they were. ’
‘So, what are we going to do?’ asked Pat. There was a slight tumbleweed moment, one that made her feel frankly irritated. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘Victoria called us detectivators – we might as well detectivate.’
Thelma coughed slightly. Here we go, thought Pat half considering doing a drum roll on her coffee table. Just spit it out.
‘I’ve had an email,’ said Thelma, once more sharing the screen. The email was brief.
Dear Mrs Cooper, it read, I understand from Caro Miranda you visited Pity Me Infants school yesterday.
I wonder if you would have the time for a conversation very soon?
We could speak on the phone or via Zoom.
Alternatively, we could meet face to face, although due to ill health I am unable to travel very far.
I live near Middlesborough in a village called Newton-under-Roseberry.
King regards,
Annie Golightly
‘Who,’ said Pat impatiently, ‘is Annie Golightly?’
‘She’s the head teacher at the school,’ said Liz, mildly reproachful. ‘The one who’s been ill.’
‘So, are we going to see her then?’ said Pat.
‘I am,’ said Thelma with a slight emphasis on the first word. ‘I’m going later on.’
‘Today?’ said Liz. ‘Don’t you need someone to drive you? With your arm?’ If there was a certain ironic inflection on the last part of this sentence, Thelma ignored it.
‘Teddy’s taking me,’ she said. ‘I don’t think going in mob-handed is such a good idea.’ There was another bit of a tumbleweed moment, this one more pronounced.
Quite how the exchange would have played out was unclear; however, at that moment Snaffles the cat decided to assert his authority by walking casually across the keyboard, treating Liz and Pat to a flash of bottom. By the time Thelma had removed him the call had timed out and ended.
Pat shut the laptop with feelings of vague irritation.
Mob-handed? What was that supposed to mean?
Like she and Liz were going to barge in shrieking with laughter and start wrecking the joint?
Larson, seeing that she was done with the call, nosed hopefully round her ankles in that way he had when announcing he was about ready for his walk.
Pat was just reaching for her sun hat when the door to the kitchen opened to reveal Justin, dressed for work in short-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts, leather satchel over his shoulder.
It was the first time she’d seen him in two days.
‘Hey, Ma,’ he said, walking purposefully to the back door.
‘Never mind, “hey, Ma”,’ said Pat, standing up. ‘I want a word with you—’
‘Just heading off to work, can’t stop,’ said Justin with a dazzling smile.
‘I wanted to say I was sorry about Newcastle.’
The smile flickered, but only briefly. ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘Plenty more nets to shoot.’ He started to move but with the ease of experience, Pat transposed herself adroitly between her eldest son and the back door.
‘Justin,’ she said.
‘Ma! On a deadline here!’
‘What’s going on?’ she said firmly. ‘With you and Tiffany?’
‘Er – nothing!’ Justin’s tone was an upbeat, sunny blend of the questioning and mocking.
When there was something wrong with her eldest son, he’d invariably present his parents with one of two faces: either bright and chirpy or abandoned misery.
His sunny appearance now didn’t fool Pat one jot, having seen it used over the years to mask exam disasters, a stolen credit card and any number of weeping girlfriends.
On the whole Pat preferred abandoned misery.
‘Justin,’ she said firmly. ‘Why have you two been rowing?’
There was a pause and Larson pointedly absented himself from the room.
‘Okay.’ He let out a breath. ‘Okay, I’m really sorry – and I’m sorry on behalf of Tiff as well.’ He made to move, as if this explained everything. Pat, however, did not shift.
‘Ma, we were just having a bit of a head-butt. Like you and Pa used to have.’
The attempt to widen out whatever was going on into an inevitable fact of existence was another of Justin’s tried and tested tactics, one that also failed to cut any ice with his mother.
‘What about?’ said Pat standing her ground. ‘This bit of a clash – what was it about? And don’t be saying “nothing”.’ The direct approach was always the best way with Justin; at least that way she could tell if he was lying.
Justin sighed, ran his hand through his hair in the way that reminded her so strongly of Rod.
‘Okay, Mother,’ he said. ‘So we’re both working really hard to make this thing work.
Losing the job, the apartment – it’s not been easy – not that we’re both not massively grateful to you for letting us stay here.
But we’re both busting a gut to get things back on track.
And it’s bound to generate – a certain amount of friction. ’
So, lying then.
At the back door he paused, as a warm gust of air and light flooded in from the baking morning.
‘Mum,’ he said seriously. ‘Promise me – promise me you won’t say anything about this to Tiff.’
Watching him bounce out into the hard light, satchel jauntily over his shoulder, Pat felt her heart break just a little bit more.
Wearily she sat back at the table. What on earth was going on?
Had one of them been unfaithful? Tiffany-Jane?
She thought of her that day in Leeds, bare face set.
Where had she been going? She didn’t look as if she was going to – or coming from – any sort of lover.
Pat found herself remembering Thelma’s words: Just because someone has done something terrible, it doesn’t automatically make them a terrible person.
She opened the laptop to turn it off and found herself looking at the amiable face of Son Masters.
Amiable he might look, but was there also a shrewd, almost watchful quality to that gaze?
Jason Riley – Mr Butter-wouldn’t-melt – and something else, something lurking at the back of her mind …
What was it about that face that chimed off a faint chord of something?
A nudge on the ankles announced the presence of Larson, lead in his mouth.
‘Two minutes,’ she said focusing on the laptop. Where was that seminar again? Ingleby Barwick library? Where was that when it was at home? Pat brought up Way Finder on her phone … There was another, more pointed nudge.
‘Hold your horses,’ she said to Larson. ‘We’ll go for your walk, but it’ll be a quick one. I’m going on a bit of an expedition later on.’
She studied the route flashing up on the screen. Thelma wasn’t the only one who could take herself off detectivating.