Jigsaw (2 page)

‘Go on.'

‘Well, each would be complete in itself, but taken together they'd be a record of the town from its earliest beginnings – its architecture and how it developed, the foundation of the school and its slot in the development of education generally. Like a giant jigsaw really, starting with a handful of jumbled pieces and fitting in the different bits to make a complete picture. As far as possible, I'd like it to be people-based, concentrating on interesting or eccentric inhabitants over the centuries and their effect on the town.'

‘Yes,' he said slowly, ‘I like the sound of that. How many articles do you envisage?'

‘That's up to you. I could start with half a dozen, and see how we go. I thought we might do them as a central pull-out and offer a binder or something, so they could be kept as a souvenir.'

‘Good thinking. You'd need photos, of course. Then and now.'

She nodded. ‘The “then” will be in the archives, but I'd like to borrow Andy for the modern stuff, if that's OK?'

‘Sure, no problem. It'll be good to have you back on board.'

Taking that as dismissal, Rona retrieved her bag from the floor. ‘How's Dinah?'

Barnie grimaced. ‘Up to high doh about the expected grandchild.' The Trents' only daughter, who lived in the States, was awaiting her second baby.

‘Of course, it must be getting close now.'

‘Still eight weeks off, but Mel's blood pressure's causing concern.'

‘That's bad luck,' Rona sympathized. ‘Look, why don't you come to dinner, for a bit of light relief? We've been meaning to ask you for ages.'

‘Sounds good.' He gave a lopsided grin. ‘I take it Max will do the honours?'

‘Very definitely.' Rona fumbled in her bag for her diary. ‘Let's make it a Friday, so we can all relax. Next week?'

Barnie leafed through his appointments book. ‘I'm free, but I'll need to check with the boss.'

Rona replaced her diary and stood up. ‘I mustn't take any more of your time.'

‘Keep me posted on the articles, and I'll come back to you about Friday.'

She'd burned her boats, she thought, as she ran down the stairs. Now there was no going back, no more procrastinating. It was high time she put the traumas of the biography behind her and embarked on a new project. And this, she thought, her spirits rising, should be just the one.

‘I have a proposition for you,' Rona told Max, when he phoned that evening.

‘Sounds promising.'

‘How would you like to go to Buckford for the weekend?'

‘What a let-down! You're going ahead with those articles, then?'

‘Yes, I saw Barnie today and he's in favour. I'd like to have a look round and get the feel of the place. It's ages since I was there.'

‘I thought the anniversary wasn't till next year?'

‘It's not, but plans are already under way, and if I time it right, the articles should extend into the new year.'

‘You'll have a fair bit of competition, love; there'll be any number of people wanting a piece of the action.'

‘I know, but mine will be slanted differently.'

‘That, I don't doubt!'

‘Seriously, is the weekend OK? Up on Saturday, back on Sunday?'

‘Fine, if that's what you want.'

‘Oh, and I've invited Barnie and Dinah to dinner next Friday.'

‘OK. Anything else you've let me in for?'

‘No,' she answered serenely, ‘that's all for the moment.'

He laughed. ‘I must go. The class starts in ten minutes and I still have things to prepare. Love you.'

Max Allerdyce replaced the phone and went up the open staircase to his studio, his mind still on his wife. It seemed that at last she was getting back on her feet, he thought with relief. He'd been surprised it had taken so long, when initially she'd appeared unscathed – on a high, perhaps, from unearthing facts the police had missed. Of course the loss of the contract was a blow, but she'd always bounced back before. In fact, it had been her supreme self-confidence that first attracted him, and though at times it could irritate, it was still the quality he most loved in her. And to be fair, he conceded as he set up the easels, it was hardly surprising she'd suffered some reaction, when she'd twice narrowly escaped death herself.

The front door bell interrupted his musings and, whistling softly to himself, he ran down the stairs to let in the first of his students.

The following day was a Friday, and Rona spent it at the local library, going through archives and old newspapers and making numerous photocopies.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that, almost guiltily, she fast-forwarded a century or two, to reports of the murder Lindsey had mentioned. It was, as her sister had said, part of the town's recent history, but Rona admitted to herself that her own brush with murder had left her with a morbid curiosity.

The story she read was a tragic one: four-year-old Charlotte Spencer had been knocked down and killed by Barry Pollard, whose blood/alcohol level was found to be just over the limit. His drinking – apparently totally out of character – had been a direct result of receiving his divorce papers, and he had broken down in court, overcome with guilt and remorse. His relatively light sentence caused predictable outrage, and within days of his release, he was attacked outside a pub and stabbed to death. Charlotte's father was convicted of his murder.

Rona's heart contracted as the child's photograph appeared on screen, a curly-haired little girl laughing at the camera. Abruptly she switched off the monitor, collected her papers, and went out into the warm sunshine.

‘I invited both girls to Sunday lunch,' Avril Parish said flatly, ‘but they don't want to come.'

Her husband lowered his newspaper. ‘I'm sure they never said that.'

‘Oh, they made excuses, of course. Lindsey's expecting Hugh –
again –
and Rona and Max will be up in Buckford.'

‘What are they doing up there?'

‘Rona's taken it into her head to write about the town for its eight-hundredth anniversary, which, mind you, isn't till next year, so I don't know what the rush is. You'd think they could have put it off for a week.'

‘Well, the invitation was rather short notice, love,' Tom said placatingly. ‘They'll have made plans.'

‘That's right, take their side, as usual.'

He sighed, took off his reading glasses and polished them. If this was a foretaste of retirement, he'd rather stay on at the bank. Trouble was, he hadn't the option. The heart attack he'd suffered a few months back had sapped his strength and he still tired easily. Though he'd fought against it, it had been decreed that early retirement was the sensible course, but as the weeks remorselessly ticked past, the prospect filled him with increasing dread.

What would he
do,
for God's sake? It wasn't as though he'd a host of hobbies he was longing to indulge in. He wasn't much of a golfer, nor particularly interested in stamp collecting, though he still had a few albums he'd embarked on in his youth. For nearly forty years his life had been intrinsically bound up with the bank, involving daily interaction with a host of people, many of them coming to him for help or advice. He revelled in its bustling activity, the challenge of meeting targets, discussions with senior staff – in short, holding a position of authority; unlike at home, where he was frequently made to feel useless and in the way.

And that, he admitted to himself, as he replaced his glasses and retreated once again behind his paper, was the crux. How would he and Avril get on, when they were thrown together all the time? As it was, the weekends were more than enough, and, to his shame, by Sunday evening he was longing to escape back to work.

He glanced surreptitiously at his wife, who was flicking through a magazine with patent lack of interest. How had they come to this? he wondered sadly. They'd been in love when they married and, as far as he remembered, for quite a while after. There had been happy family holidays with the twins, evenings when they booked a babysitter and went out for meals or to the theatre. But over the years, without really noticing, they'd drifted apart. For a long time now their love-making had been practically non-existent and they no longer seemed to have anything to say to each other. His illness had briefly brought them closer, but as soon as it was clear he wasn't going to die, she'd retreated again. It occurred to him, with a jolt, that Avril might be dreading his retirement just as much as he was.

Laying aside his paper, he went to look at the photographs arranged on the corner table. Almost obscured at the back was their official wedding group and he reached to pick it up, experiencing a welter of emotions as he looked down at his radiant bride, and at his younger self, smiling nervously and holding tightly on to her hand.

‘What on earth are you doing?'

He jumped. ‘Looking at our wedding picture.'

‘Why?'

To remind himself of past happiness? He answered obliquely, ‘We were two different people, weren't we?'

‘A couple of innocents,' she agreed acidly, ‘who believed in Happy Ever After.'

He turned to face her, the photograph still in his hand. ‘And haven't you been?'

For a long minute she held his eyes before turning back to the magazine. ‘Oh, you know what they say: “Into each life some rain must fall.”'

‘
Are
you happy, Avril?' he persisted, suddenly, urgently, needing to know.

But she wouldn't be drawn. ‘What's happy?' she asked rhetorically. ‘I reckon we've done as well as most people. At least we're still together.'

‘When I retire,' he said on impulse, ‘we should do something really special. Go on a world trip or something.'

She looked at him in amazement. ‘Tom Parish, what has got into you today?'

‘Seriously, would you like to? It's ages since we did anything – exciting.'

‘That's true enough.'

‘So?'

‘So we'll wait and see what your package is before we decide how to spend it.' And, ending the discussion, she determinedly picked up the magazine.

Dispiritedly he replaced the photograph and returned to his chair.

Mum really didn't need to be so negative all the time, Lindsey thought irritably as she turned on the shower. Pops was a saint to put up with her.

The thought, taking her unawares, gave her pause. It had never occurred to her to analyse her parents' relationship; they were simply themselves, unchanging over the years while she and Ro had grown from babies to schoolgirls to wives. And ex-wives, she added ironically. Men may come and men may go, but they went on for ever. Except that they didn't, of course. Pops's heart attack had been an indication of that. They were mortal, and one day, unthinkable though it might be, they would die. So – eat, drink and be merry, and all the rest of it.

She was thinking in clichés this evening, but nevertheless, now that she considered it, there didn't seem much merriment in her parents' marriage. Soaping herself vigorously, she examined this new and disturbing idea. Of course they were
fond
of each other; look how Mum had panicked when Pops was ill. Perhaps it was just that they took each other for granted. Perhaps, after a certain number of years, all married couples did; she wasn't in a position to know.

But Mum always seemed so discontented these days, making no attempt to look her best. It was years since she'd worn make-up except on special occasions, and without it her pale skin and colourless brows lacked definition. Nor did she dress smartly any more; all her blouses and skirts looked the same, and she simply flung an old duffle coat over them to go out.

Admittedly, her mother's latest grievance, and the cause of all this analysis, was at least understandable: namely, that instead of dutifully going home for Sunday lunch, she'd be spending the weekend with Hugh. Lindsey conceded that she had a point; she herself knew, better than anyone, that she was playing with fire in taking up with him again. Their marriage had been a disaster, a see-sawing emotional maelstrom from which, at the time, she had been thankful to escape. He had a furious temper that could spring up from nowhere, and though he'd never actually hit her, he'd come close to it several times. The only reason she'd stayed so long was the strength of the physical attraction between them, and it was that same attraction, infuriatingly undiminished, that made it so hard to withstand him now.

When they split up, he'd arranged a transfer to the Guildford branch of his accountancy firm and there had been no further contact between them until, earlier this year, he had written to say he'd made a mistake and wanted her back.

She lathered shampoo into her long dark hair, massaging her scalp and lifting her face to the stream of water as she recalled the panic she'd felt, the determination not to let him back into her life. But events had overtaken them, giving him the opportunity to gain a foothold which, so far, she'd been unable – or unwilling – to dislodge. One thing was certain, though: she didn't want him transferring back to Marsborough. As she'd hinted to Rona, the present situation suited her well enough, though she accepted it could not continue. Ro was right; it wasn't fair to Hugh to let him rearrange his professional life, and then shut the door in his face. She owed it to him to make plain there was no future for them, and to do so before he achieved a transfer.

She stepped out of the shower, towelled herself dry and padded through to the bedroom. Still, there was no time to plan any speeches now, she told herself, switching on the hairdryer; there was still the pastry to make, and he'd be here in an hour. Time enough to work it out on Monday – which, as she ruefully admitted, was what she told herself every week.

Max was cooking the meal, as he always did when he was home.