7 Sorrow on Sunday (21 page)

Lois looked at her watch. It was nine o’clock, and she had to meet Cowgill at ten. One more call. “Morning, Mrs. Smith. Just calling to see how Darren is.”

“He’s fine, Mrs. Meade, thanks. We had a chat with Mrs. Battersby in the street, and he seems calmer now. Even talking about gardening again!”

“D’you think he’d like to come for another drive? I’ve got to take Jeems to the vet this afternoon, and could pick him up on the way back. We could take Jeems for a walk by the river.”

“He’d love that! What time?

“Three o’clock-ish. Good. I’ll see you then. In a bit of a dash now, so I’ll see you this afternoon.”

With the crowing cockerel on her mind, Lois went into the kitchen where Gran was ironing. “Know anybody who wants a cockerel with a loud voice?” she said.

“Are you daft? Nobody in their right minds would want a flaming cockerel. Useless things. You tell me what they’re good for? Chickens don’t need them to lay eggs.”

“If you’re a breeder, you’d need one.”

“Yeah, and as eggs seem to have more cockerels than hens in them, breeders can easily hatch their own. They prefer it. Keeps the breed pure.”

“How do you know so much about chickens? We never had any on the Churchill estate in Tresham.”

“I was a girl once, y’know. Had an aunt—you remember Aunt Polly—who lived on a farm. We went there for holidays, and I helped with the chickens. So there, Miss Lois! Anyway,” she added, “haven’t you got any work to do? No idle housewives to interview?” Gran punished one of Derek’s best shirts with a twist and a shake, and then began ironing it with her usual dexterity.

“I’m here in the vain hope that my dear mother might make a quick coffee for me. I have to go out in a minute or two.”

“Then make it yourself, dear daughter. You can see I’m busy.”

Lois smiled, and put on the kettle. “I expect you’d like one?”

Gran nodded. “Thanks. Only one sugar. I’m cutting down.”

“It’s contentment makes you fat—not that you’re fat,” she added hastily. “But supposing you had a crowing cock outside. Awake at dawn, waiting for the next piercing blast, that’d soon get the weight down. I’ve got to do something about the tenant in Tresham, so keep your ears open for somebody living in the middle of nowhere, with a fondness for chickens. Now,” she added, draining her coffee mug, “I must get going. Back for lunch. Thanks for your help.”

Gran watched Lois drive off at speed, and wondered how to take her last remark. Could have been a rebuke, or the reverse. Lois always was a tricky one, just like her father.

*   *   *

C
OLONEL
B
ATTERSBY WAS IN HIS DEN WHEN THE CALL
came from Joe Horsley. “Horace? Joe here. Looks like it’s going to be OK. The old bat is still alive—just—and her sister Evelyn . . . Oh, you know her? Well, she’s offered to
help out the Meade woman until Dot revives. What? Oh yeah, there’s very little chance of that. The lads did a good job. She’ll have got the message all right! So I’ll get to work on Evelyn and keep you posted. What? Margaret? No, she doesn’t know much. And I don’t want her involved. Got that? Right.” He rang off without saying goodbye, and Horace Battersby shrugged. His affair with Margaret had ended long since, and he would have thought that fool Joe would’ve got over it by now. Still, as long as he did what he was told, all would be well.

Blanche came in with a request. “When will it be convenient for Floss to clean in here?” she asked. “Now, for instance?” That sharp little extra shocked Horace. She would never have spoken like that to him before. But before what? What had changed her into this really quite uncooperative person? Dot Nimmo. That one visit from Dot Nimmo had done it. Wretched woman!

He stood up and faced Blanche. “Why not?” he said. “I’ll have a walk round the garden and Floss can call me when she’s finished. Nice to see her back, isn’t it?”

Blanche, who had been waiting for the explosion, nodded and turned to go out. One up to me, thought Horace. Then Blanche stopped, looking out of the window.

“Come here, Horace! Look—isn’t that Darren? He’s come back!” she said, and rushed out of the room. She called to Floss that she could clean the study now, and added that she was going into the garden to speak to Darren.

He was in the walled vegetable garden, weeding an empty bed ready for planting. Blanche approached slowly, giving him time to see her coming. He straightened up, and smiled at her. “Doing gardening,” he said. “Lovely morning, Mrs. Battersby.”

Blanche could have wept, she was so pleased to see him, gentle and confident again. “It
is
a lovely morning, Darren. Nice to have you back.” She knew she must tread warily. It would be very easy to frighten him away again. Still, it had not been she who had frightened him before, and so she chatted to him about the weeds, and what they
would plant there, and whether he would like a coffee now or later.

As she walked back towards the house, she saw Darren’s mother hurrying up the drive. “Mrs. Battersby!” she said, hoarse and out of breath. “Have you seen Darren? He’s gone missing again!”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Blanche quietly. “He’s in the garden, weeding. He’s humming, like he used to, always the same tune. He seems very happy again.”

“Grand Old Duke of York?” Mrs. Smith subsided on to a garden seat and put her face in her hands. Blanche sat beside her for a minute, saying nothing. Then Mrs. Smith gave a long sigh and looked up. “Sorry, Mrs. Battersby,” she said. “I was terrified, I don’t mind telling you. Terrified he’d gone again and this time wouldn’t come back. Anything could happen to him, you know, when he’s on his own. When he was little, one Sunday morning we’d left the front door open, and he went out in his pyjamas and bare feet, and disappeared. I was frantic. My husband—he was still at home then—just said he’d come back sooner or later, but I went mad.”

“What happened?”

“I rang the police, and they said, well, fancy that, there was a little boy sitting on the low wall outside the police station in his pyjamas and a policewoman was on her way to collect him. It was Darren, thank God. I’m not a religious woman, Mrs. Battersby, but I reckon God was looking after him that day.”

“Maybe today, too,” Blanche said gently. “Are you happy to leave him here, then?”

Mrs. Smith nodded. “I shouldn’t say this, Mrs. Battersby, but could you keep the Colonel out of his way? Darren calls him ‘the big man,’ and seems very frightened of him. I am sure there’s no reason,” she added hastily, “but if it’s possible . . . you know . . .”

“I’ll see what I can do, and will warn my husband to be very quiet and kind to him if they do meet. Goodbye then. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll be round to get him about one o’clock, if that’s all
right. Mrs. Meade is taking him for a drive and a walk around three o’clock.” Mrs. Smith patted Blanche on the hand and added, “Thank you, my dear.”

Tears came to Blanche’s eyes, and she brushed them away before going in to use all her tact in telling Horace to keep well away from Darren.

“He seemed quite his old self,” she said to her husband reassuringly. “But we’d better handle him with care. That nice Mrs. Meade is taking him out for a drive this afternoon.”

“What time?” Horace asked idly.

“Around three o’clock. Why do you want to know?”

“No reason,” he replied casually. “Just wondered.”

L
OIS SAT IN THE VET’S WAITING ROOM, HOLDING
J
EEMS ON
her knee. The little dog was always well behaved, unless there was a cat in a basket, when the red mist came down and she was frantic to get at it. No cats today, so far, but just as the nurse called her in for treatment, the door opened and a snarling cat came in. It was in an old box, carried by a boy who was not more than seven years old. The lid of the box was flapping open, and in one bound the cat leapt clear. Jeems pulled away from Lois, and was on it in seconds. Two girls behind the desk rushed out, and the noise was terrifying. One of the vets—the young, keen one—came out into the waiting room, grabbed Jeems and squeezed the end of her nose hard. A terrier will instinctively lock its jaws and its victim cannot get away, but Jeems was forced to let go in order to breathe.

Lois turned to the small boy, thinking he would be in a panic. She was wrong. He obviously thought the whole thing was great entertainment. Order was restored and she helped the boy put the cat back in the box. It was unhurt, fortunately, but Jeems had a deep scratch on her nose. Lois was forced to admit that it served her right.

When she arrived to pick up Darren, she told him and his mother the story. “That boy,” she said, “was laughing fit to bust.” Mrs. Smith laughed too, but Darren looked anxious.

“Jeems OK now?” he said, glancing out at the van.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Lois said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly now. It’s only cats that get her going. Are you ready then, Darren?”

Lois had decided to take him to Long Farnden, park the van and go for a walk in the water meadows. The river was always interesting, and Jeems could run around off the lead. Mrs. Smith had told Lois that Darren did not like enclosed spaces. He panicked and tried to escape, so the open meadows should be fine. Then they could go back to Gran’s chocolate cake and a cup of tea.

Walking with Darren was oddly peaceful, Lois thought, as they strolled along the river path. He did not speak unless spoken to, and the conversation was brief. She allowed her thoughts to wander, and was pleased when she felt Darren slip his arm into hers.
He must trust me
, she thought. She began to see what a huge responsibility it was for parents and siblings to care for the Darrens of this world. Such innocence and vulnerability would be hard to protect.

When they reached the road and turned for Lois’s house, she put Jeems on her lead. Darren released her arm, and took hold of the lead. “Hold Jeems?” he said. They walked back in silence, Darren beaming with pleasure. “Better than horses,” he said, as they turned into the gate.

Lois stood still. “What do horses do?” she asked.

“Run away,” he said, his hands twisting on the lead. “Run away fast, and Darren can’t get off.” He began to back away, and Lois caught his arm.

“No horses here,” she said. “Only Jeems. And Gran, with nice chocolate cake.”

Darren stopped his desperate struggle to get away. “See Gran?” he said, so quietly that Lois could hardly hear him.

She nodded. “Gran’s waiting for us,” she said, and gently persuaded him to walk with her and Jeems into the house.

*   *   *

F
LOSS HAD FINISHED AT THE
B
ATTERSBYS AND GONE
home for a quick sandwich and a lecture from her mother about not doing too much. “I’m young and strong, Mum,” she said. “Worst possible thing for me is to lie in bed, bored to tears. I’m off now to Mrs. T-J’s, and shall be back
about five. She’ll make a fuss of me. Don’t know why, but I reckon I’m the only person she likes.”

“It’s the way you were brought up,” her mother said smugly.

“After tea,” Floss continued, “I’ll be going for a ride, and a cleaning and grooming session with Maisie. Ben might join me there if he gets off early enough.”

“I suppose it’s useless for me to suggest an early night?”

“Quite useless,” Floss laughed, and was gone.

As she had prophesied, Floss was immediately made to sit down and have a cup of coffee and a chat with Mrs. T-J before she started work.

“Are you absolutely certain, my dear, that you’re fit enough to be back at work? These flu bugs are very debilitating, you know.”

“I’m fine. Really, Mrs. T-J. It wasn’t that bad.” She decided to change the subject, in order to avoid an account of the various flu viruses Mrs. T-J had suffered in a long and active life.

“Have you heard how kind the Battersbys have been?” Floss continued. “They’ve given me a lovely horse for my own, and said I can keep it in their stables. No room in our garden! I shall be going over after tea. She’s a very gentle mare, and I love her already.”

This was Mrs. T-J’s world, and they had a gratifying conversation about horses, horse shows, point-to-points, good and bad farriers, and the price of hay.

Finally Floss looked at her watch and jumped up. “I must get on! Mrs. Meade will be on my track. She has no time for idlers!”

Mrs. T-J smiled. “Runs a good business, your Mrs. Meade. I believe my friend Blanche Battersby is very pleased, even with the cleaner who filled in whilst you were ill.”

“But didn’t you know?” Floss began, about to tell her about Dot’s accident. Something stopped her, and she dropped a tin of polish as a distraction. “Shall I start upstairs, as usual?” she said.

The phone rang, and Mrs. T-J went off to answer it. Floss ran lightly upstairs and began to clean the bathroom. The telephone was in the big hall, and the sound echoed up to the first floor clearly. Floss did not deliberately eavesdrop, but heard Mrs. T-J say in her strong, fluting voice, “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m sure he’s doing nothing of the sort. Buck up, do, and I’ll be with you shortly.”

Floss raised her eyebrows. Who had rattled the old duck’s cage this time? She worked on with a will, thinking of the time when she could greet Maisie with a fond pat and a kiss on the nose. And much the same for Ben, should he show up.