The Seventh Link Read online

  He put the sandwich down at the edge of the bench. There was a picture of the tank on the lid of the kit box and, like the one in the museum, the Matilda was painted in a strange camouflage configuration. The intention, he had discovered, was not invisibility but to make the tank look like something else, facing a different way. Heavily armoured and impervious to most enemy anti-tank weapons of the time, rotating turret armed with a two-pounder and ninety-three armour-piercing rounds, as well as a Besa machine gun and smoke grenades, the Battle Maiden, Matilda had proved her worth in the mud of Europe, the sands of North Africa, the jungles of the Pacific and the snows of Russia. Her heavy armour plating slowed her down but, on the other hand, she crossed trenches and difficult terrain with ease. Her only fault, it seemed, was a somewhat unreliable steering mechanism.

  The Colonel opened the box and unfolded the instruction leaflet. It was written in twelve different languages and he studied the English section for a moment. Diagrams showed the steps to follow and every part had a number. The plastic parts were sealed in a bag and moulded on to trees, to be cut off in turn and sanded smooth. The trick, apparently, was to get the sub-assemblies glued together first. He started with Step One and the wheel units.

  TWO

  The fiddly task absorbed him so completely that he was oblivious to time passing and he was about to move on to Step Five – fitting the track around the main gears and wheels – when there was a tapping at the shed window. He looked up to see Naomi’s face peering at him through the glass. She was brandishing something that looked like a jar of jam. When he glanced at his watch he saw that it was well past six, which accounted for Naomi’s arrival, with or without the jam.

  He abandoned the tank track, tugged the sacking across the windows and went to unlock the door. Naomi, he knew, would be there in a flash but he had become adept at exiting and closing the door behind him in one quick movement so that she had no time to see inside. He was already relocking the door when she came round the corner.

  ‘There you are, Hugh!’

  He smiled at her as he dropped the key into his pocket. ‘Yes, indeed, Naomi. Here I am.’

  Like the Major’s wife, her customary clothing had changed radically with the hot weather. Instead of a tracksuit, she was wearing some kind of flowing ankle-length purple garment with a gentleman’s broad-brimmed panama hat on her head. However, she still wore her white moon-boot trainers on her feet.

  ‘I’ve brought you some of my raspberry jam.’ She waved the pot at him. ‘My own raspberries.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Naomi.’

  It was. And he appreciated all the neighbourly kindnesses that she had shown him since he had moved in: help and advice with taming the wilderness he had taken on for a garden, simple recipes for simple meals that he had learned to cook for himself, chicken soup when he had gone down with a bad bout of flu, pears from her pear tree, plum jam from her Victoria plum tree, jars of home-made chutney. And gossip. She knew about everything that went on in the village and he rather enjoyed listening to her talk because the gossip was never malicious. She merely reported. It was extraordinary, he discovered, what went on beneath the surface of what appeared to be a totally stagnant pond.

  He took the pot of jam from her. ‘Thank you so much.’

  There was a label stuck crookedly on the front and Naomi had scrawled on it in green biro: Rasberry Jam. She was a wonderful gardener and an excellent cook, but hopeless at spelling. The jam, he knew, would be delicious however its name was spelled.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  He always did, though. Naomi was particularly fond of his Chivas Regal whisky and they had drunk many a glass together beside his sitting-room fire in winter and now, in summer, out on the flagstone terrace at the back of Pond Cottage which she had encouraged him to have built. He wondered, sometimes, if her motive had been entirely altruistic.

  He went indoors to fetch the drinks. Thursday was sitting in front of his bowl in the kitchen, waiting with feigned indifference for his supper to be served. Unlike dogs, cats never lowered themselves to beg or grovel. The Colonel served up tinned sardines, mashing them up in consideration of the old cat’s missing teeth. Then he went into the sitting room where the whisky decanter was kept on the sideboard and carried it out on a tray with glasses and a jug of water.

  Naomi was already sitting in one of the chairs on the terrace, waiting for service like Thursday, but without the feigned indifference. He added the required splash of water to her glass and sat down with his own. No water for him – he took it straight – and no ice for either of them. Ice, in Naomi’s opinion was a complete waste of space and, as far as he was concerned, it got in the way of tasting a good whisky. Naomi seized her glass.

  ‘Cheers, Hugh. Down the hatch.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Aaaah … that’s better.’

  ‘Bad day?’

  She fanned herself with the panama hat. ‘Can’t stand this heat. It’s as ghastly as Australia.’

  Naomi’s only son and his family lived in Brisbane and her one visit out there had not been a great success.

  He said, ‘Well, you’re looking remarkably cool in that very nice gown.’

  ‘It’s not a gown, it’s a kaftan.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you bought it in Dorchester?’

  ‘Good lord, no! I found it in the trunk in the attic. Belonged to my mother. She got it in Turkey years and years ago.’

  The trunk in Naomi’s attic had already yielded up a number of gems from the past – a wolfskin hat of possible Cossack origin, her grandfather’s Canadian lumberjack’s cap, a magnificent Edwardian flower, feather and straw creation belonging to her Great Aunt Rosalind – and now the exotic Turkish kaftan.

  ‘What about the panama?’ He’d had one himself once though God only knew where it was now. Maybe up in his own attic?

  ‘My father’s.’ She tweaked the wavy brim. ‘It was near the bottom so it’d got a bit squashed. Jolly useful in this weather. Keeps the sun off.’ She slapped it back on her head and tilted it forward over her eyes. ‘Garden’s looking good, Hugh.’

  She was being kind again. Personally, he thought it was looking rather dusty and tired. The August heat was taking a toll; the colours fading, the green not nearly so fresh.

  He said, ‘The delphiniums have been a bit of a disaster.’

  The deep blue ones he had planted with such high hopes towards the back of the border had been beaten down by a spell of heavy rain in July and seemed to have given up altogether.

  ‘They can be tricky. You’ve got to stake them properly or they’ll keel over.’

  ‘I think I might take them out and get something else.’

  She wagged a finger at him. ‘Give them a chance, Hugh. Nature can’t be rushed. I’m all in favour of getting rid of total failures but you’d be surprised how some plants rally. Did you talk to them?’

  He had, in fact, admonished them rather than delivering the sort of encouraging pep talk that Naomi had in mind.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You must, Hugh. It works wonders. People always think Prince Charles is crackers to talk to his plants but it’s perfectly sane. I see you cut the white lavenders.’

  ‘Yes, I remembered.’

  Eight, eight, eight was the golden rule that she had drummed into him: cut them on the eighth day of the eighth month down to eight inches and in a hedgehog shape. He had done so dutifully but doubtfully.

  ‘They’re looking a bit shocked, don’t you think?’

  ‘They’ll get over it. You don’t want them going all leggy on you, do you?’

  ‘If you say so, Naomi.’

  ‘I do. Lavenders need a firm hand. The Veronicas are doing well.’

  ‘They don’t seem to give any trouble.’

  ‘They must like being where you put them. The right plant in the right place – that’s the secret. I gave a talk on that subject for Ruth at
the Manor the other day. It went down rather well.’

  Ruth had inherited Frog End Manor when her late mother, the unpopular Lady Swynford, had died last summer. She had, in fact, done more than just die. She had been murdered during the village fête. Smothered with a pillow upstairs in her bedroom at the Manor while the brass band played on merrily in the garden below – possibly during their spirited rendition of ‘The Dambusters March’. There had been a police investigation but the Colonel had made his own deductions. In the end, the murderer had confessed.1

  Ruth had since married the nice young local doctor, Tom Harvey, and the Colonel had been very touched to have been asked to give her away at the wedding. Ruth had given up her job in London and started a small business growing and selling plants at the Manor, which was proving a real success. He had bought a number of plants there and found it a very satisfying experience. Few garden centres seemed to have staff who knew anything about their bought-in plants, whereas Ruth could tell you all about hers because she had raised them from scratch. She knew which ones would suit his garden, where to plant them, how much water to give, when to prune, and so on, and she grew unusual varieties that he had never heard of. From time to time Naomi gave a talk at the Manor, booming out instructions and golden rules while drawing big diagrams with shrieking chalk on a blackboard. The talks were always packed out.

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry I missed it.’

  ‘Forgot to tell you about it. Sonia Finsbury’s giving one on peonies and irises the week after next.’

  He wasn’t sure about the peonies but the irises were certainly a draw.

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘She knows her onions.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He had seen Mrs Finsbury in action on the Village Hall Committee.

  Naomi took a swig of her whisky. ‘By the way, I think Ruth might be in the family way already.’

  ‘Oh. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Her eyes. You can often tell from women’s eyes. They look funny. I’ll keep you posted.’

  He had no doubt that she would. Not much would escape Naomi, or anyone else in Frog End. There was village surveillance network that put the Russian KGB to shame.

  Naomi said, ‘Did you hear about our happy-clappy vicar’s latest brainwave?’

  He said cautiously, ‘Which one?’

  ‘Not content with trying to foist that ghastly modern church-speak on us, twanging his guitar and wanting everyone to make signs of peace to each other, he’s now cooked up some lunatic scheme of getting rid of the old pews and having stacking chairs instead. The man’s an idiot! Does he really think the Diocesan lot would allow it?’

  ‘It seems unlikely, I agree.’

  ‘There’s to be a public meeting so that everyone can say what they think and they won’t mince their words. He’ll be shot down in flames.’

  She hadn’t mentioned the underfloor heating or the Purbeck stone and he felt it was wiser not to either.

  Fortunately, Naomi was off on another tack.

  ‘You should get a proper greenhouse, Hugh. Much more use to you than a shed. Can’t think why you spend so much time shut up in there. What on earth do you do?’

  He had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. ‘I like it in there, Naomi.’

  ‘Well, I’ll never understand men and their sheds. Cecil was just the same.’

  Cecil was Naomi’s late and unlamented former husband. He had gone off with his secretary and then died, leaving Naomi a widowed divorcee – if such a thing were possible. In any case, Naomi always described herself as a widow tout court which, she said, had a far better image. The widowed were always viewed with sympathy and respect.

  Thursday had finished his sardine supper and walked across the terrace towards the lawn. He ignored them completely. Naomi, who frequently ejected him from his winter spot on the end of the sofa closest to the fire, did not meet with his approval. Also, Naomi was a dog person and she had two Jack Russell terriers, Mutt and Jeff to prove it. Not that they had ever given Thursday any trouble, having too much respect for his sharp claws.

  Naomi said, ‘Thursday’s beginning to show his age a bit. Whatever it is.’

  The Colonel had no idea what it was. Somewhere approximating to his own age in cat years, he imagined. Or perhaps more. He watched the cat making his way across the lawn – a little stiffly perhaps, but that was all.

  ‘Do you think so? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Hugh. He’ll go on for years. Cats like him don’t give up easily.’

  He remembered the time when Thursday had gone missing while he had been away and he had feared the worst. Naomi had come round to feed him in his absence but Thursday had demonstrated his disapproval of the arrangement by going away too. In the end, he had come back, but it had been a worrying few days.2

  He said, ‘Perhaps I ought to take him to a vet for a check-up?’

  ‘Has he ever been put in a cat basket?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Well, I doubt if he’d take kindly to it, or to the vet either.’

  ‘No … probably not such a good idea.’

  Thursday had reached the pond and sat down at the edge to gaze into its depths. The attraction, of course, was the goldfish – unless he was admiring his reflection in the water which seemed unlikely, given his battle-scarred looks.

  He said, ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Naomi, whether you know of a good cattery – somewhere where I could leave Thursday for a few days? An old friend has asked me to visit and I’d rather like to go if I can.’

  ‘I’ll always feed him for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Naomi, but you know what he’s like. He’d almost certainly go off again, like the last time. The only safe thing to do is to lock him up in a cattery – if I can find a good one.’

  ‘He’ll hate it. I put Mutt and Jeff into kennels when I went to Australia and they were miserable.’

  ‘It would only be for a few days.’

  ‘Well, I met some woman the other day at the WI who runs a cattery just outside Dorchester. She was dotty about cats. Has five of her own as well as the paying guests. You could go and take a look. See what it’s like.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I can’t remember, but the place was called “Cat Heaven”. I laughed when she told me, then I realized that she was perfectly serious.’

  ‘I’ll look it up in the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘Where does your friend live?’

  ‘Lincolnshire.’

  ‘Bomber county,’ Naomi said. ‘That’s all I know about it. Masses of RAF bomber stations during the war, weren’t there? An uncle of mine was a pilot and I remember he was stationed in Lincs. Awfully nice chap. He used to come and stay with us sometimes when he was on leave and tell us gory stories. He was one of the lucky ones to survive.’

  ‘A lot of them didn’t.’

  The casualty figures were shocking. Of all the British armed services, Bomber Command had come off worst. He admired the men who had fought entombed in tanks during the Second World War, but the bomber crews had faced an equally horrible end up in the skies.

  ‘Is your old friend anything to do with the RAF?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Army?’

  ‘Not that either. He worked for one of the big banks, but he’s retired now.’

  He and Laura had come across the Cheethams while they had been in Singapore. They had met at the Tanglin Club, played bridge and tennis together and become good friends. When the Cheethams had gone back to England they had kept in touch. Then Laura had died and Anne had been killed in a car accident and, two years ago, Geoffrey had remarried and moved up to Lincolnshire.

  He said, ‘I’ve never met his wife. His first one died. It’s a second marriage.’

  ‘Always a risky step.’

  Unlike himself, Naomi took a jaundiced view of marriage.

  ‘It’s been rather a success, so far
as I know. They run a Bed and Breakfast.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anything worse. Strangers in your home, sleeping in your beds. Having to cook those awful English breakfasts that the English never actually eat. What do you have for breakfast, Hugh?’

  ‘Usually a piece of toast and a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Same here. Except mine’s tea.’

  ‘Well, they seem to be doing very well.’

  Geoffrey had sounded hale and hearty when he had phoned, as though his new life was suiting him. The house in Lincolnshire had been his new wife’s childhood home and they had taken it on when her parents had died. Heather, he had gathered, was considerably younger than Geoffrey and full of energy, which was probably just as well. The Colonel rather agreed with Naomi about running a B & B.

  ‘When will you go?’

  ‘They’ve asked me for the weekend after next. Apparently, there’s some kind of RAF Reunion going on that they thought I might find interesting.’

  ‘It’ll do you good, Hugh. Make a change. Let’s face it, Frog End’s not the most exciting place in the world.’

  He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Naomi. There always seems to be plenty going on.’

  Cat Heaven, he learned from the Yellow Pages, was situated on the other side of Dorchester. Expert care and attention given by a lifetime lover of cats. Luxurious and spacious accommodation, heated throughout the colder months. Individual needs and preferences catered for and veterinary expertise always on hand if necessary.

  When he rang the number given, the woman who answered sounded calm and reassuring. He explained the problem and Thursday.

  ‘I’m very used to cats requiring special care,’ the voice told him. ‘I take all sorts. Would you like to come and see Cat Heaven for yourself?’

  He drove over to make the inspection. The cattery was at the rear of an unassuming house on the outskirts of Dorchester and there was a painted sign of a very happy-looking cat by the front gate. The owner, Mrs Moffat, was a middle-aged woman with a beehive of dyed blonde hair and wearing something akin to Naomi’s kaftan, but in black. He followed her round the side of the house to the cat hotel that had been built in the back garden. He saw at once that this was five-star accommodation. Each cage had two floors with a connecting ramp. The lower level provided a cushioned chair and a view out and the upper floor had a door for peace and privacy as well as a basket furnished with a heating pad. The view featured a well-stocked bird table providing a constant cabaret for the guests. And it was all spotlessly clean.