Christmas At Thrush Green (29 page)

Once they were in the car, and seat belts fastened, Dimity turned to her old friend. ‘Now tell me, what did he say?’

‘Bloody awful.’ Ella sat slumped back in the seat, staring out of the side window. Then she gave a huge sigh, and said in a small voice, ‘He said there has been a rapid deterioration’ - she paused, and gave one of her short laughs - ‘I could have told him that for free. Possibly there’s been a bleed - a haemorrhage which won’t have helped . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Oh, Ella, I’m so sorry,’ Dimity said, touching her friend’s arm. ‘What happens next?’

‘You mean, what does the future hold for me?’ said Ella bluntly, turning to face her.

Dimity nodded.

‘Mr Cobbold said the good news is that it won’t be painful, and I won’t go totally blind.’

‘Well, that’s something!’ exclaimed Dimity.

‘I should have enough peripheral vision to get around, and most people can keep their independence.’ Dimity began to say something, but Ella raised her hand, stalling her. ‘That is, if they’ve got someone else living with them - a husband or daughter, that sort of thing. I could continue to live at the cottage on my own, but he says not for long. Not safe, apparently. I’ll probably start hallucinating soon.’

‘Hallucinating!’ exclaimed Dimity.

‘Yes, seeing things. I’ve already seen patterns on the walls that I am pretty sure aren’t there, but apparently this could get worse. Gargoyles and monsters, that sort of thing.’

‘Ella, that’s awful,’ said Dimity.

‘If I’m lucky, he said I might see flowers out of the corner of my eye rather than monsters. And I’ll probably lose all sense of colour.’

Dimity didn’t know what to say. Ella’s future seemed dire.

‘And there’s worse,’ Ella said.

Dimity turned in her seat to face Ella. ‘What?’ she said in a tiny voice.

‘Mr Cobbold has said that I should . . .’ she paused, and then said, ‘You’ll be pleased about this, Dim.’

‘Pleased?’ said Dimity faintly. ‘I don’t think that’s possible. What else?’

‘He says I should give up smoking. He doesn’t think it helps.’ And as if to confirm the specialist’s advice, she went into a paroxysm of coughing. When she had spluttered to a stop, she fumbled in her jacket pocket, wound down the car window and tossed the battered old baccy tin out onto the concrete forecourt. ‘Bye-bye, ciggies. Nice knowing you,’ and then she burst into tears, drumming her good hand on the dashboard in frustration.

Dimity touched Ella’s knee. ‘Let’s get you home. We can talk there,’ and she started the car. For once, Ella didn’t argue about whose home.

 

On both the Saturday and Sunday evenings, Derek Burwell had insisted on leaving the sitting-room curtains ajar. The room - which was both over-cluttered with knick-knacks and over-heated - looked out over the front garden and the drive. Even when they were playing bridge with their friends the Jervises on Saturday, he had insisted on always sitting so he faced the windows and could keep a beady eye on the gap in the curtains. So long as he could see the continuous glow from the uplighters, he knew they weren’t under attack.

When the Burwells waved their guests goodbye at the end of the evening, the uplighters with their new bulbs were still shining in the dark, and they were, too, on the following evening.

‘I think it probably was the Cooke boys, and that Shoosmith has put the fear of God into them,’ Derek said as he locked up on Sunday night.

‘I expect they’re busy damaging someone else’s property,’ said his wife.

On the Monday afternoon, Derek spent some time in his workshop attached to the garage. He was one of those people who liked to boast about ‘my workshop’, where expensive tools and gadgets were hung in rows, all neatly labelled and mostly unused. He did occasionally take down a drill or a hammer, but if there was anything awkward to be mended, he’d invariably call in the local handyman.

It was just after four and was almost dark. It had been a cloudy, overcast day and lights had been on in his and neighbouring houses for some time. Despite the weather, a thrush was singing his final evening tune from somewhere near. Derek went to the door of his workshop and looked around to see if he could locate the sweet songster.

He walked a little way into his drive and then looked back at his house but the bird wasn’t on the chimney or the roof ridge. The song had temporarily ceased, and Derek was just going back into his workshop, ready to pack up, when the bird began to sing again, repeating its flute-like phrase again, and then again.

Derek turned and this time located the bird - perched on top of his lion’s head.

‘Hey, bird, shoo!’ he said, marching towards the gateway. He knew what birds did just before taking off from a perch, and he didn’t want his lion sullied. The thrush didn’t wait to be told twice, and took off quickly, flying into the neighbouring garden.

As he reached the gateway, Derek heard a shout of laughter from the road, and then a cacophony of hooters. Three figures on bicycles roared past. Two were definitely the Cooke boys. Attached to their bikes were klaxons emitting the most awful noise - one sounded like the New York police in full cry after a Mafia mob, another resembled a demented donkey, while the third cyclist, a little in the rear, had a hooter that rang out with a discordant wolf whistle. Derek shook his fist after the retreating cavalcade and shouted, ‘You ruffians! You’ll pay for this,’ but his words were lost to the wind that was rustling in the nearby trees.

He saw red lights shining a hundred or so yards down the road then the flickering lights returned towards him. He stepped out into the road to try to stop the noisy youths and reprimand them, but they swerved either side of him with jeering laughs.

Derek Burwell was furious. He marched back to his workshop, grabbed his jacket that he’d discarded, turned off the light and then returned to the gate. He was absolutely certain that the Cooke boys were responsible for vandalizing his uplighters and Christmas wreaths, and he was determined to catch them at it should they dare try again.

He walked up the dark drive to just short of the gateway, then crossed onto the grass, and turned his back so the wall and a beech hedge were between him and the road. He was willing to stay there and guard his property - or, better still, catch the culprits red-handed - for as long as necessary. He pulled his jacket closer round him and stamped his feet up and down. It was damp and it was cold.

A car passed in the road, followed by another. For a while, all was quiet. A motorbike was approaching, but it throttled down and Derek assumed it had turned off into a drive. Silence again. Suddenly there was some shouting from down the road, followed by the noise of klaxons approaching. Derek stepped back into the beech hedge but the crackling of the dried leaves still on the twigs made him hastily step forward again. He tensed, listening as the noisy gang of youths grew closer, but they didn’t stop, just seemed to give their klaxons an extra squeeze as they roared past. The hidden man stood stock-still to see what would happen next. The klaxons faded away down the road. Silence. Derek was about to move when a wolf whistle pierced the night air. More laughter then it faded away, and all was quiet once more.

The secret watcher remained where he was. Having stood out here this long, he didn’t now want to reveal himself should one of the raucous gang return, intent on damaging the lights yet again. Three minutes, four minutes passed. A few cars drove by but it appeared the Cooke boys had gone.

Derek was about to move when he heard a different sound out on the road - the sound of a slightly squeaky set of brakes. He tensed, stood absolutely still. Then he heard what he was sure was a bicycle being leaned against the curved wall of the gateway. Suddenly there was the noise of a boot kicking hard against what Derek assumed was one of his uplighters. Yes! The light onto the drive changed as the assailant once more kicked in the light.

After a pause, there were more sounds of boot against uplighter and Derek quickly made his move. With surprising agility, he ran quietly across the few yards of grass, onto the drive and had pounced on the figure before his quarry had time to register there was someone there.

‘Got you, you scoundrel!’ Derek shouted, getting a firm grip on the collar of the person who was squirming and wriggling in an attempt to get away. ‘No, you don’t! You’re coming with me, and then we will ring the police.’

‘No, please,’ quavered a voice.

‘Yes, yes,’ responded Derek Burwell and marched his trophy down the drive towards the house and light.

J
oan Young was sitting at the table in her kitchen, going through the shopping list she would take into Lulling in the morning, when the front door bell rang. She listened for a moment to see if Edward would answer it and when she heard the study door open and his footsteps cross the hall, she continued checking the list. However, raised voices soon made her lay down both list and pencil and she went to see what all the noise was about.

In the hall, with a firm grip on her son’s shoulder, was Derek Burwell.

‘He’s a wanton criminal,’ he spluttered. ‘He’s cost me nearly thirty pounds in new lights, not to speak of what it’s done to the wife’s nerves!’

‘What’s happened?’ Joan cried in alarm.

The man swung round to her. ‘He’s the one who’s been kicking in my lights. He’s the one who’s been wrecking our Christmas decorations. He’s just a common criminal!’

Joan put her hand up to her mouth in horror. Her son - a criminal?

Edward was torn between admiration for his son, and fury that he had been caught doing something he would dearly have liked to do himself. However, he knew he had to take a strong parental line.

‘Paul,’ he demanded fiercely, ‘is this true? That you’ve damaged Mr Burwell’s lights?’

The boy shuffled his feet a bit then looked up at his father with pleading eyes. ‘Yes, Dad, but—’

‘But nothing,’ cut in Edward quickly. He didn’t want Paul to have to explain why he had done such a thing because he had a pretty good idea what lay behind the boy’s actions. ‘You must apologize to Mr Burwell this instant, and of course repay the cost, the full cost, of the damage.’

‘Apologies aren’t good enough,’ Derek Burwell shouted. ‘Nor the cost of replacing the lights. The boy’s a dissolute lout, and needs disciplining - and since he obviously doesn’t get it in this house, then we’ll see what the police have to say.’

Joan gasped and cried out, ‘Surely—’ but Edward flapped a hand at her to be quiet, and she stopped.

Edward realized with dismay that he was going to have to crawl to this odious man. He took a deep breath. ‘Paul, will you please apologize to Mr Burwell, and then go to your room. I will deal with you later. I would like to speak to Mr Burwell alone.’

Paul mumbled, ‘Sorry, Mr Burwell.’

‘That’s not good enough!’ snapped his father. ‘Say you’re sorry properly.’

‘I am sorry, Mr Burwell, that I damaged your lights,’ said Paul, and then through gritted teeth added, ‘I won’t do it again.’

Derek Burwell harrumphed, which Paul took as acceptance of his apology and scurried up the stairs.

‘Let us go into my study, Derek,’ Edward said, ‘and talk about this.’

As he shepherded the man through the door into his study, Edward threw a look over his shoulder at Joan, who was twisting her hands in her apron in agitation. The look said quite clearly, ‘Heaven help us from little men!’

‘Do have a seat,’ Edward said, indicating a chair, and then swivelled his own office chair round so it was facing his visitor.

‘Don’t think you can sweet-talk me out of this,’ said Derek, still purple in the face. ‘The boy’s no better than the estate kids that break windows and pull old folk’s plants out of their window-boxes. In fact,’ he said triumphantly, ‘he’s no better than the Cooke gang.’

That stung Edward. To have his son compared to the Cooke boys was appalling. Somehow, he thought, he had to find a reason for Paul to have done this without revealing what he was sure was the truth.

‘Paul is an adolescent, Derek, and all lads of that age have growing pains. I don’t for a moment condone what he has done, but I would ask you to reconsider your threat to report him to the police.’

‘It is not a threat, Edward,’ Derek replied. He was rubbing his hands together almost as though he were really enjoying making Edward squirm. ‘It is exactly what I’m going to do. Wouldn’t you do the same if someone had hurled a brick through your window?’

‘Yes, but it isn’t quite the same. A brick hurled through a window could hurt someone walking past that window at just that time. While what Paul did was undeniably wrong, he wasn’t causing any danger to anyone else. You see, it is different.’

‘All right, but that doesn’t change the fact that what he did was’ - Derek paused, and leaned forward for effect - ‘wanton criminality!’