Chapter Twenty-four
From the Thirsk and Ripon Green Fingers Gang Facebook Page:
It’s best to water first thing in the morning or late at night, as when the sun shines on water it can act like a magnifying glass, burning the leaves below. And remember that hosepipe ban! Watering cans only, folks!
Thelma was sitting at her kitchen table.
Once again, set before her were the books and prompt cards of the Highway Code and her laptop was open showing two androgynous purple cartoon characters promising an Easy-Peasy Guide to Highway Awareness.
From the windowsill Snaffles regarded the two figures with grim, determined purpose.
Focus! She needed to forget – or rather put to one side – the complexities of the afternoon’s events and concentrate on the complexities that represented the Highway Code.
She took a determined breath. Speed – that seemed a relevant place to start … There were sections in both books on the subject, plus a whole swathe of prompt cards. She picked one up.
What is the speed limit for cars towing a trailer on a single carriageway road?
She sighed bleakly. No idea! But then did she need to know that? They hadn’t had a caravan in tow since that disastrous week in Alnwick some thirty years ago.
She looked again at the mosaic of facts that lay before her.
So many! Just like with Neville Hilton – so many facts, both contradictory and unresolved …
The fact that someone was shouting at Neville Hilton about Pity Me school and the fact that no one from Pity Me school could have actually been there.
And then Caro’s urgent insistence that Chloe had gone straight home after the service.
What was it again? She’d seen the car on her way to a PCC meeting – and then again on the way back.
Thelma frowned. The way Caro’s hand had clasped almost absent-mindedly round the knife … Her words – I wonder if he really ever knew the pain he caused.
A knife … glittering in the dishwasher … that jumble of plates …
She shook her head. Come on, Thelma, focus on the job in hand.
Taking a deep breath she said a prayer. ‘Father, you say your word is a light for my feet. Make that light shine brightly now and show me the bits of the Highway Code I need to get my head round before tomorrow.’
Her phone rang. Thelma felt a pang of irritation.
She had to make headway with absorbing at least some of these facts before Teddy came in, she wanted a quick supper so that she could have another go before she got too tired.
She shook an impatient head at the ringing phone – it was probably Verna asking her to change shifts at the charity shop.
But it wasn’t Verna.
‘Thelma Copper?’ The accented voice was familiar. ‘Am I speaking to Mrs Thelma Copper?’
‘This is Thelma Cooper,’ said Thelma cautiously.
‘Mrs Cooper, this is not a cold call. This is Oorja Kaur. I’m nurse to Annie Golightly.’ An image of a plait waving determinedly between the shoulder blades of a marching figure appeared in Thelma’s mind’s eye.
‘Oorja,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You can’t help me,’ said Oorja. ‘I’m fine. It’s Annie. I’m ringing on her behalf; she gave me your number. I have a message from her. She wants to see you.’
‘She wants to talk to me?’ The distance between College Gardens and Newton-under-Roseberry spooled out remorselessly in Thelma’s mind. ‘Can I call her?’
‘No.’ Oorja was emphatic. ‘She has to see you – face to face. I think she’s too weak to speak on the phone, my poor angel.’
‘Would some time tomorrow be convenient?’ She could always ask Teddy to rearrange his deliveries again.
‘No.’ Again the voice was emphatic. ‘I would not leave it that long. You need to come now!’
‘Now?’ Thelma could feel the panic swelling at the thought of the long drive. Could she maybe call Liz or Pat? But how long would it take for them to get here?
‘Yes please,’ said Oorja. ‘I fear time is short for my lovely woman.’
‘Have you any idea why she wants to talk to me?’ she asked.
‘All she said to me several times was: “I have to see Thelma Cooper. I need to speak to Thelma.”’
Although way down the sky, the sun still hammered relentlessly on the back of Liz’s neck as she cupped her hands and peered through the glass frontage of the Old Barn.
‘It’s the milk see.’ Sidrah hovered anxiously behind her.
‘Delilah – she’s the lady as brings the milk – she said the milk she left yesterday hadn’t been touched, and had gone off so she left some more.
Only when I was out doing the watering just now, I saw it was still there …
I thought maybe Ffion had gone away but the car’s sitting on the driveway, and there were lights on last night … ’
Liz peered into the dim hallway. Should she ring the bell again?
She took a step towards the study window but paused.
Knocking on a door was one thing, looking through windows quite another …
She steadied herself and peered in cautiously remembering that figure framed in the glass on the CCTV.
The study looked very much as it had that last time she’d seen it – no, hang on …
She leaned in closer until her forehead was touching the warm pane.
There was something different about the drawers.
Whereas before they’d been flush with the unit, now they were slightly pulled out, and stuffed paper could be seen in the gap – as if someone had pulled paper out and then stuffed it back in again.
‘D’you think everything’s okay in there?’ asked Sidrah worriedly.
Liz moved back to the front door and gave a smart double ring accompanied by a sharp rap on the iron-studded wood, again expecting the appearance of an angry Ffion breathing smoke and ire.
But no one came.
‘I’m getting a really, really bad feeling about this,’ said Sidrah.
Liz frowned, worry overtaking her trepidation at once again upsetting Ffion.
Where was the woman? Was she even inside?
She considered the options. Calling the police at this stage very definitely felt like overkill.
But on the other hand, walking away didn’t feel right either.
If only Hollinby Quernhow were different!
She thought of the Old Police House, the deconsecrated church, the converted pub – all hubs of activity where one could have gone for help and advice.
All now a series of anonymous holiday lets full of oblivious strangers.
‘Is everything all right there?’ Liz turned at the sharp interrogative tones and felt a wave of unexpected relief at the sight of Zippy Doodah accompanied by the ludicrously small shape of Buddy Dog.
It was just after seven thirty when once again the mussel-blue Corsair pulled up on the wide brown verge in front of Bretton.
More parched leaves were drifting down, giving the lane an autumnal atmosphere, eerie in the baking afterglow of the day.
Thelma turned off the engine and the air-conditioning.
For virtually the whole drive from Ripon, her mind had been turning over and probing the same question – what could Annie Golightly possibly have to say that was so important that it seemed to amount to some sort of death-bed confession?
There was obviously something very important she wanted to share.
Could she somehow be the person who had confronted Neville that night?
Fired up by the memorial service, driven at implausible speed from Pity Me to Hollinby?
Mind still turning Thelma got out of the car, feet crunching on the scattered leaves and all at once she was struck by the stillness of the early evening’s advent, the peace as tangible as the fading heat of the day.
The fierce sun had mellowed into something more tranquil, sweeping the early evening sky with strokes of lilac and tangerine, bathing the bulk of Roseberry Topping and the surrounding patchwork of fields.
She locked the car, breathing in the scents of cut grass and cow parsley – and all at once the thought hit her—
I drove here … !
She had driven the thirty-five miles from Ripon with barely a thought of unease or insecurity.
It was as if the whole crippling doubt and lack of confidence of the past few weeks had broken like a fever.
What on earth had she been making such a fuss about?
But then, she reflected, how many, many times in life the mind built fears up, and equally how many times the feared realities proved to be so much less than the dark imaginings one had?
‘Father,’ she said, ‘thank you. Thank you for easing my fears – and give me grace and wisdom to respond to whatever it is Annie has to tell me.’
She turned to walk up the lane to the five-bar gate of Bretton Hall – and stopped.
With a surge of déjà vu, she saw the powder-blue Mini parked in by the bus stop, brown leaves dotting the bonnet and windscreen.
Had Chloe Lord not even moved her car since their encounter a few days ago?
With some trepidation she scanned the lane beyond – and sure enough there on the bench by the bus stop was the slight figure with white-blonde hair ruddy in the lengthening rays of sun.
Chloe Lord was sitting, head bowed, face pressed into her hands.
This time the sheath dress was an emerald green and the spiky tattoo was muted under the redness of the skin on her upper arms. Thelma approached and she looked up, face puffy and blotchy and so very tired.
As Thelma sat down beside her, Chloe began scrabbling self-consciously in a crammed and jumbled bag, presumably for tissues.
Thelma’s bag, benefitting from forty years more organisational skill, was considerably more accessible.
Before the older woman had fully sat down, she was able to offer the younger one a pack of tissues.
‘Ta.’ Chloe tore out a tissue and opened it out. ‘Annie said she’d asked you to come.’
‘You’ve been to see her? How is she this evening?’ asked Thelma.
For an answer Chloe shook her head, burying the tissues into her sore eyes.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ said Thelma gently. ‘I know how much you care for her.’
‘She believes in me.’ Chloe’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘She’s the only one who does.’
‘I don’t think that’s true at all,’ said Thelma, but still in the same gentle tone.
‘I mean as a teacher,’ corrected Chloe rather hoarsely. ‘Her and of course Davey – he believed in me.’
‘As do your class,’ pointed out Thelma.
‘My class?’ Broken as she was, Chloe sounded puzzled.
‘Of course, your class,’ said Thelma. ‘Those thirty-odd children you teach. They believe in you, that’s very obvious – both Liz and I noticed it straight away, when we saw you in school that day.
That castle with the shields and flags – and that wonderful dragon.
The children were all totally absorbed.’
Chloe shrugged. ‘They’re a good class,’ she said grudgingly.
‘Believe you me,’ said Thelma. ‘Even the very best group of children can and will run amok if they don’t believe in or respect their teacher. Annie believes you’re a good teacher because you are.’
Again Chloe shrugged and finished wiping her face. As she did Thelma prayed that her words had lodged and would in time take full root. She was wondering whether to get up and continue on with her visit to Annie when Chloe spoke.
‘You don’t know everything,’ she said in a sad, small voice.
It was the sort of comment that equally may or may not lead to something more, some revelation or confession.
Thelma recognised such moments from of old, and knew they were as fragile and unpredictable as soap bubbles.
She breathed in the still, scented air and waited.
‘It’s all my fault,’ said Chloe eventually.
‘What is?’ asked Thelma.
‘The inspection!’ The words came out in an anguished sort of bark. ‘The Ofsted. It’s my fault the school’s been shut down.’
Accompanied by the substantial presence of Zippy, Liz felt a lot more confident knocking on doors and peering in windows; even the prospect of being confronted by an angry Ffion didn’t seem as bad.
She pressed her face against the Clichéd Stunning kitchen window. It was looking less stunning than before; fast food cartons and a couple of empty Prosecco bottles were scattered about, clutter on clutter all but obscuring the granite worktops.
‘Fookin’ hell,’ said Zippy. ‘That’s a tip and a half.’
‘Denby plates though,’ said Sidrah in awe. ‘Lush.’
The living room curtains were pulled, leaving only the narrowest of gaps through which Sidrah, Zippy and Liz all peered.
‘OMG! That rug!’ exclaimed Sidrah. ‘I’m sure that’s Orla Kiely.’
But neither Liz nor Zippy were paying any attention to the rug.
They were looking at the pair of feet, unmoving at the end of the sofa.