It's Raining Men (22 page)

In bed, Clare switched off her bedside light, closed her eyes and visualized herself in a floaty dress walking through a wood, the sun picking out motes flying in the air, the
ground smooth underfoot and full of violet bluebells. In the distance was Val Hathersage spreading a blanket on the ground, setting two champagne glasses on it, pulling plates out of a basket. Then
he saw her and came running towards her and she didn’t have enough time to say hello because he pushed her against a tree and began kissing her, furiously, hungrily. His hands, at first
gallantly on her waist, strayed upwards to her breasts and she gasped as he fondled her and his lips sank to her neck nipping it with exquisite force. Then she felt his fingers pulling up her
dress, stroking her thighs, slipping into her silk knickers, tantalizingly soft as they found what they were looking for and circled, tickled, rubbed until the feeling shuddered through her body
and she screamed out his name wantonly, whoreishly, as she asked him to do all manner of things to her, on the blanket, in the bluebells, risking discovery.

She felt as if, tomorrow, she would be diving into life at last and it would be the same feeling as diving into the lagoon.

Gladys walked into the study, immediately saw Joan seated at the desk reading the huge familiar ledgers, and, with a heaving bosom and a pinched mouth, she retreated and
marched up the stairs to find Edwin Carlton. She discovered him in the upper corridor where he was straightening a picture of his father Gilbert – the one who had started it all. The picture
had tipped itself to the side overnight. Gladys was one hundred per cent convinced it was an omen.

‘Sir, I need you to come immediately and see what’s happening downstairs.’ She wouldn’t have dared, even after all these years, but she was itching to grab his sleeve and
pull him at a rate of knots into the study.

‘What is it, Gladys? Have we been invaded by aliens?’ He seemed amused. He was wearing that stupid smile again, the one he had acquired of late. It was part of that
spring-in-the-step lightness that usually accompanied a spring in the heart. Gladys wasn’t daft – she’d been in love a few times herself and wasn’t too old to recognize the
signs of someone in the early stages of being besotted.

‘Joan is looking through the ledgers,’ whispered Gladys through clenched teeth, after a cursory check behind her that no one was eavesdropping.

‘I know,’ said Edwin. ‘I asked her to.’

Gladys’s eyes sprang open so far her eyeballs were in danger of pinging out of their sockets.

‘You can’t let her see those,’ she said, concentrating a shout into a hiss.

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Edwin, displaying impatience in his voice. ‘I need help. The accounts are a mess and the succession of little old ladies you’ve brought
in to assist me over the years, Gladys, have given me many a sleepless night.’

‘But what about Lawrence?’ Gladys’s anger was changing now to desperation.

‘He’s eighty-two now, Gladys. Blind in one eye and the other isn’t much better. As an accountant his sight is a required commodity, I would have thought.’

‘His junior—’

‘Has left,’ Edwin interrupted. ‘Who can blame him? We can’t keep the young men here any more. It’s not fair to try, Gladys. It’s just a matter of time. The
world is shrinking as we breathe. There are no women here, the village is dying.’

Gladys opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. What Edwin was saying was true. The end was nigh. Gladys dropped her head into her hands. She hadn’t sobbed since she became a widow
twenty years ago, but she was dangerously close to it now. She felt Edwin’s arm slide around her shoulder. It was the first time he had comforted her, the first time he had needed to.

‘There’s nothing in the books but names and lots of numbers, Gladys. The estate is in trouble, my dear. A fresh pair of eyes on things can’t do any more harm than Lawrence has
done in the past few years. I’m afraid he made some bad decisions for us, investment-wise. Poor chap, not as on the ball as he was in his younger days. He’s struggled on too long, as we
all have.’

Taking advantage of the drop in his guard, Gladys turned her mouth as near as she could to Edwin’s ear.

‘I don’t trust Mrs Hawk, it has to be said. No one knows of her in Wellem.’

‘Wellem is much bigger and far more spread out than Ren Dullem so the residents wouldn’t all know each other,’ said Edwin, dropping his arm away from Gladys. ‘And, as she
herself said, Mrs Hawk was only a small child when she left.’

Gladys knew that whatever she said, Edwin would have a stronger counter-argument, but she couldn’t stop the warning slipping from her lips: ‘Be careful. All those years will mean
nothing if it comes out.’

‘I know, Gladys, but you don’t have to worry,’ he replied stiffly. ‘Enough now. Remember our recent conversation? I won’t have discord in this house.’

Edwin turned from her and back to nudging the painting into its proper place.

Gladys wiped her eyes and returned to her duties downstairs whilst thinking that any warning Gilbert Carlton might have been giving out by tilting his portrait on the wall was long overdue. If
he’d only stuck to dry land that day, none of it would ever have happened.

Clare didn’t get up until half-past ten. She found Lara fast asleep on the sofa wrapped up in the throw and looking snugger than the proverbial bug. She checked on May,
who wanted to stay in bed and sleep. Her headache was gone but she felt washed out. Clare brought her some fresh iced water and then went into the bathroom to prepare herself for her picnic with
Val. She couldn’t have been more excited had she been sixteen and on her first date with the school sports hero. She bathed, shaved her legs and underarms, washed her hair, put on her best
pushup bra and nice knickers. She applied just enough make-up to look fresh and understated.

She didn’t have a floaty dress as she had worn in her fantasy, but she had a nice summery cream skirt with small blue flowers on it and a matching blue T-shirt which showed off her
generous bust very nicely. She hadn’t brought any perfume with her so she nipped into Lara’s room to steal a squirt or two of her Rain, giving herself a light spray on her hair, behind
her ears and up her T-shirt, but not on her neck in case Val Hathersage gave it any attention with his lips.

Clare studied herself in the huge mirror in Lara’s room. This was the most reckless she had been ever. Then again, what was she doing wrong? She was single and merely going for an innocent
picnic in the woods. But if everything was so innocent, why were there butterflies leaping about in her stomach and flittering their wings around her nether regions?

At ten to twelve she slipped quietly out of the house and took a very, very slow walk down the hill. She didn’t want to appear too keen. She practised looking casual and laid-back even
though her heart was thundering in her chest. When she checked her watch she saw that it was now eight minutes to twelve – had her watch stopped? She idled outside Gene Hathersage’s
drive for a moment and studied the view that he had from the windows in his gable end. Ren Dullem, despite having a totally rubbish name, was a beautiful spot. At least it would have been had the
sun been able to cut through those weird clouds that looked as solid as dumplings. She imagined how the whole sea might sparkle if the skies cleared, like the water in the lagoon. She intended to
swim in there later and climb the second staircase to see where it led.

There was no sign of anyone coming up or down the road at twelve. She walked further down the hill, looking in the windows of the row of abandoned cottages, wiling away another five minutes.
Then she strolled slowly up the hill again, checked in the woods – no one was there. She walked down the hill again, her excitement segueing into annoyance. Ludwig would have cut off his own
legs rather than be late for a date.

Ah, but this isn’t Ludwig and that’s why you are here,
said her subconscious, wagging its finger at her.
You are now playing a different ball game, lady.

After the fourth time of wandering up and down the hill, Clare huffed loudly and her stride picked up pace. She was going back to Well Cottage. Val Hathersage could go to hell. She walked past
the woods without even a glance.

‘Hey, you, witch lady,’ called a voice from behind her. She twisted round to see a man with fair waves of hair and a lopsided grin. He was holding a Tesco carrier bag in one hand. He
made no apology for his lateness as he fell into stride with Clare and together they silently walked into the heart of the wood.

Joan cross-referenced the rough notes she had made so far with the mighty ledger on the desk. However many times she looked at the figures, they didn’t tell her what
could be going on. The Carlton estate had apparently been financially supporting the whole of the village like some private benefits office since 1928. At first glance it appeared that everyone in
Ren Dullem had been blackmailing the Carltons and extorting money from them. It had started with Gilbert Carlton and was still going on with his son, Edwin. Some ridiculous financial investments
had whittled away at the estate capital, causing it to be only a small fraction of what it once was, and yet payments were still haemorrhaging out of bank accounts.

The door creaked open and Edwin made a smiling appearance with a china cup of tea which he set down beside Joan, on its saucer.

‘Just as you like it, my dear,’ he said.

She could smell the infatuation on him, mingled with a heavy application of old-man cologne. Had no one told him that stuff stank?

‘You smell nice,’ she said, giving him her best practised smile.

‘Oh, do I? Thank you. Alas I’ll never be as fragrant as you, dear lady.’

Joan released her best tinkly laugh. Edwin’s wife looked down on them from the artwork on the wall and Joan could have sworn she looked more disapproving than usual. Joan now wore her hair
in soft curls and tucked behind her right ear, in the same style as Mary Carlton.

‘Edwin, I don’t understand what all these costs to the estate are.’ Joan tapped the pile of ledgers with her pen.

‘Oh, they aren’t important,’ he said, dismissing them with one wave of his hand. ‘I just need you to double-check that they are all still being paid by the bank and the
balance sheets are correct.’

‘But what are they for?’

‘Just costs.’ Edwin nodded. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘Why would you pay—’

There was a knock on the door followed swiftly by the entry of Gladys. It was she who should have been called Hawk, thought Joan. She hovered constantly around her these days. And gone was the
smiling trust; she knew that Gladys detested her presence in Carlton Hall.

Tough.

‘Patrick has arrived to cut your hair, sir.’

‘Has he? It doesn’t need doing, does it? You shouldn’t have booked him so soon after the last cut, Gladys.’

‘I didn’t. You did.’ Gladys felt a twinge of panic. Edwin was becoming more and more forgetful these days. Senility was a pattern in the Carlton men; but none of the others had
a Joan Hawk in their presence to take advantage of it.

‘Oh, did I? Just tell him that I’ll be along in a moment, Gladys, would you, please?’

Gladys didn’t rush to leave and Joan smirked. The housekeeper really didn’t like her being alone with Edwin and it seemed to have something to do with these ledgers. Joan’s
radar began to twitch and flash and she felt a kick of excitement in her veins. If Gladys didn’t want her reading those ledgers, there must be a reason.

‘Edwin, how would you like me to cook you dinner this evening in the cottage?’ said Joan, when the door at last closed behind Gladys. ‘To say thank you for being so kind to
me.’

‘Oh my dear, you don’t have to do that,’ said Edwin.

‘No, I don’t have to,’ said Joan, ‘but I’d like to. I do an excellent chicken casserole.’

Edwin clapped his hands together. ‘My favourite.’

‘Really?’ But Joan already knew it was his favourite. She had done her homework.

‘I’ll have it ready for seven o’clock, is that okay with you?’ It was Gladys’s afternoon off. She usually left Edwin a plated cold supper on Friday.

‘What a treat!’ Edwin smiled. ‘I’ll tell Gladys not to make me anything.’

‘Yes, you do that.’ Joan wished she could be a fly on the wall when Edwin told Gladys. She’d instantly know why and spend the night panicking that Joan just might find out what
was going on at Carlton Hall, because sure as hell something was.

Val brought no blanket to spread on the ground, nor were there any crystal glasses waiting to receive iced champagne, only a can of warm Chardonnay and a bottle of beer to
drink, some prepacked sandwiches that looked like they had come from a garage and an already opened packet of McVities chocolate digestive biscuits.

‘Thirsty?’ asked Val, pulling on the ring pull of the wine can and handing it to Clare. She took a throatful of it and winced inwardly. She was sure it would strip gloss paint in one
application.

Next, Val offered the sandwiches. ‘Any preference? Got roast beef or egg mayo? Or shall we have one half of each?’

‘I don’t mind,’ replied Clare, though she was a bit funny about beef. She hated fat on her meat.

‘One of each it is, then.’ He handed a triangle of each flavour to Clare, who was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, then sat down beside her and gobbled his egg mayonnaise sandwich in
two clean bites.

‘Just come back from Wellem,’ he said. ‘Picked these up on the way. Didn’t have time to do the proper picnic thing with the basket and sausage rolls. Sorry.’

‘What were you doing there?’ asked Clare, softened by his apology. ‘Work?’

‘Work?’ He seemed amused by that prospect. ‘Well, I suppose you could call it that. Dropping something off for someone. They paid me to do it. Best ask no more
questions,’ and he touched the side of his nose with his finger.

He made whatever he was doing sound secretive and exciting. She bet it wasn’t dropping off hanks of wool for the local knitting shop.