The Lifeline Page 8

  ‘She might not think it was a very good idea.’

  ‘It’s not for her to say. I’ll do it if you want.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Johnny. I’m very grateful. If you brought something for lunch, you could eat it in here in the stables. Mrs Carberry usually does that and I’m always coming in and out to see to customers, so it’s all quite busy. You might enjoy it.’

  ‘I’d get in people’s way.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. There’s plenty of room for us all.’ She smiled at him again. ‘So, that’s settled, then.’

  ‘Are you sure, Johnny?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I just thought you might find it a bit tiring.’

  ‘Stop treating me like a child, Mum. I know what I can and can’t do. And Mrs Harvey needs extra help.’

  One part of Sheila was thrilled for him, the other part afraid. The watering had been going well, so far as she could tell – though he never talked about it – but to spend the whole day at the Manor might be a different matter. It could go all wrong, instead of all right, and the door that had opened for Johnny might slam shut again.

  ‘Mrs Harvey? I’m Joyce Reed. Your husband’s patient. They told me I might find you here.’

  Alan’s golf widow was standing at the entrance to the stables. The one who, according to Hugh, was thinking about doing a little gardening therapy. Ruth wondered if she had reached any decision.

  ‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Reed. Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘If you have time, I’d like to see the gardens.’

  ‘I’m free at the moment so I can show you round.’

  She gave her the grand tour – the lawns, the herbaceous borders, the rose garden, the pool garden, the lavender beds, the fig walk, the kitchen gardens, the greenhouses, the orchard. On the way they passed Lawrence, Tanya and Johnny at work. Jacob, of course, had made himself invisible.

  Ruth said, ‘I hope you and your husband have settled into your flat, Mrs Reed.’

  ‘We’re finding our feet.’

  ‘It takes time, of course.’

  ‘My health isn’t very good, unfortunately.’

  ‘I’m sure my husband will do everything he can to help.’

  ‘Who were those people? That man and woman and the young man in the wheelchair?’

  ‘They’re patients of my husband, Mrs Reed, like yourself. They come and work in the gardens whenever they feel like it. I would have introduced them to you, but they were rather busy. Would you be interested in joining them?’

  ‘I have a bad back.’

  ‘We could find some very light work that might suit you. And perhaps your husband would be interested, if he’s retired?’

  ‘My husband isn’t interested in anything except golf, Mrs Harvey.’

  ‘I met your golf widow today, Tom. She called by to see the gardens. At least that’s what she said, but I think she just wanted something to do. She’s probably lonely.’

  ‘So are a lot of people, unfortunately.’

  ‘I suggested she might join the volunteers but her back is still a problem, apparently.’

  ‘Only in her mind.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve thought of the very job for her if it does get any better.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Dead-heading the roses. It would keep her busy for the rest of the summer.’

  Word of the golf widow had reached the Major’s ears via the bar in the Dog and Duck. He had been airing his views on the prime minister’s shortcomings, to general agreement, and the conversation had turned to the latest arrivals at the Hall who had moved into Flat 2.

  The Major knew all about the flat. Lois Delaney had lived there, and though he had never actually seen inside it, he could imagine how it must have looked when occupied by a famous actress. A glamorous stage set. Nothing less would do for the beautiful woman he had seen act many times in his far-off youth. He’d become a devoted fan and something of a stage- door Johnny, always going round to wait for her to come out after a show. Once, he’d given her a bunch of red roses and she’d given him a wonderful smile in return. She’d actually spoken to him. He could never remember what she had said, but it had been something jolly nice. Tragic the way a woman like that had come to such a sticky end.

  Anyway, apparently, some people called Reed had now moved into the flat. The talk was that the husband played a great deal of golf while the wife was left to her own devices.

  The Major had pricked up his ears. Widows of any description were of interest and the golf kind might be worth investigation. In general, the widows of Frog End fell sadly short of his benchmark. Mrs Carberry was an encouraging exception, of course, but it was always a sound idea to hedge one’s bets.

  It seemed that the Colonel had already called on the newcomers, though, which was annoying. Trying to steal a march most probably. Damned unfair, in fact. The Colonel had all the advantages – rank, height, more hair and no Marjorie. The only thing to do was to pop round himself and find out the score. After all, people still called on new arrivals these days, though not like in the old days when it had been a whole palaver of silver trays and cards.

  He took some trouble with his appearance – best blazer and regimental tie, handkerchief arranged perfectly in pocket, the remains of his hair carefully smoothed into place, a generous splash of aftershave. When all was said and done, he reckoned he could still hold his own.

  In his mind, he pictured how the golf widow might look. Not in the first flush, obviously. A mature woman. But they could be damned attractive in his view. What’s more, they knew a thing or two. As he walked up the driveway to the Hall, he built up an image of Mrs Reed. Not too tall, he hoped. On the slim side and with decent legs for a change. Marjorie had legs like the Shangri-La gate posts that she had scraped many times with the Escort. Actually, he was an ankle man himself. Always had been. They were the most important part, so far as he was concerned. The rest didn’t matter so much. If the ankles were good he sat up and took notice.

  He quickened his pace. The luxury apartments at the Hall had cost a bob or two, so she was bound to be well-dressed, even elegant, and with a cad of a husband who neglected her. Definitely promising.

  He had expected to run the gauntlet of a caretaker at the front door but his luck was in because it had been left ajar. Flat 2 was easy to find. He paused to adjust his tie and smooth his hair again before he rang the bell.

  The woman who opened the door was grey-haired, dowdy and so far from the image in his mind that he thought she must be someone else. A companion, perhaps – if such a thing existed any more? A housekeeper?

  ‘Is Mrs Reed at home?’

  ‘I am Mrs Reed.’

  She looked at least ten years older than he had expected. His expectations had been shattered, but there was nothing for it but to carry on. To bow and smile with all the charm he could muster.

  ‘I’m Major Cuthbertson.’

  He had been passing by, he explained, and would like to welcome her and her husband to Frog End. He held out his hand. She took it without enthusiasm.

  ‘You’d better come inside.’

  He did so reluctantly but with some dregs of hope. At the very least, she might offer him a drink?

  He followed her into the sitting room and found himself blinking at a large and brightly illuminated display cabinet, full of well-polished silver cups and plates.

  ‘My husband’s trophies,’ she said. ‘He’s a golfer. Out playing golf, as usual.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I hope you’ll both like Frog End. Not a bad sort of place, once you get to know it.’

  He was invited to sit down on an uncomfortable chair and took a look round. Dreary sort of room, he thought. No resemblance to any stage set he’d ever seen unless it was for some modern rubbish and no sign of any sort of a drink anywhere. Nothing to oil the wheels, as it were. Mrs Reed was watching him closely, waiting for him to say something. He fell back on a safe subjec
t.

  ‘Warm weather we’re having.’

  She didn’t think so. It was rather cold in her view. At least she and Marjorie would agree on that, if they ever met. He searched desperately for another topic but before he could find one, she spoke again.

  ‘I appreciate your calling, Major. I have very few visitors. It can be quite lonely here, you know. I spend a great deal of time on my own.’

  He clutched at the chair arm. Was she tipping him the wink? Giving him the nod? Surely not! Not at her age and looking like she did.

  ‘Good idea to get out more,’ he blustered. ‘Lots going on in the village. I’ll get my wife to fill you in.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were married, Major.’

  ‘Rather!’ How many years was it? He’d forgotten but it seemed like forever. ‘Marjorie will soon have you doing things.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Harvey at the Manor has asked if I would consider lending her a hand in the gardens occasionally – on a voluntary basis.’

  ‘Splendid! Just the sort of thing.’

  ‘The trouble is my health’s not up to it, and I have a bad back.’

  ‘She’d give you something easy to do. Never say die, Mrs Reed.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘And my name’s Joyce.’

  She poured him a thimbleful of sweet cream sherry which he hated but it would have been rude to refuse. It was another half hour before he could make a decent escape. At any moment he had expected the husband to return and demand to know what the hell he was doing there. Golfers, he knew, were very good at taking a swing at things.

  ‘Come and see me again, Major. Any time.’

  ‘Rather!’

  As the door closed behind him, he mopped his brow with his immaculate handkerchief. Damned tricky situation! He’d pass the word on to the old girl about finding the woman something useful to do and he’d make himself very scarce in future. No offence, but the Colonel was more than welcome to her. And she’d had hideous ankles.

  SIX

  The baptism of Alan Henry Harvey took place in Frog End village church at the end of May. The Colonel had not attended many baptisms during his life but he had always found them a moving experience. There was a small gathering round the invariably ancient font of parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends, together with the all-important godparents, who were there to make solemn promises on behalf of the infant who was to be admitted to a rather special lifelong club.

  ‘Dost thou, in the name of this Child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same …’

  He had no problem with any of that and his godson, dressed in a very handsome long lace family robe, seemed perfectly happy about the proceedings. The Colonel watched as Tony Morris, the nice young vicar, who had fortunately left his guitar behind and whose modern, innovative ideas about replacing the church’s pews and flagstones, as well as the service words, had been forgiven, if not forgotten, trickled water carefully over Alan’s forehead and signed it with a cross.

  ‘… In token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified and manfully to fight under his banner, against sin, the world and the devil; and to continue Christ’s faithful soldier and servant until his life’s end.’

  Stirring words, the Colonel thought, whether you believed in them or not, and spoken in one of the most expressive and beautiful languages on earth.

  After the service they trooped outside and stood in the sunshine. Photographs were taken of the Colonel and his fellow godfather on each side of the godmother who cradled their godson expertly.

  After a moment, the godmother said to him. ‘It’s your turn now.’

  He found himself left holding the baby. He had made some promises that he could and would keep for the child and some that he could not. He hoped that Ruth had been right about the ground rules being the most important.

  She came over to the rescue. ‘I’ll take him now, Hugh. And thank you.’

  ‘There’s nothing to thank me for.’

  ‘Yes, there is. Whatever you said to Mrs Reed did the trick. She’s finally decided to join us for one day a week. She’s going to be dead-heading roses. Nice and easy. Tom thinks it will help her.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  ‘Apparently, the Major called on her too. I can’t think why but he’d better watch out for the golfing husband.’

  Tanya Carberry was eating her lunchtime sandwich in the old stables. Ruth had been there for a while, dealing with a customer and now she had gone off again, wheeling Alan away in his pram. It was nice having the baby around. He was very little trouble, unlike her own who had been exhausting – always crying, always wanting something, always difficult. She hadn’t enjoyed motherhood at any stage and it had been a secret relief when the children had grown up and left home. She and Paul had been alone together again, which they had guiltily enjoyed.

  She thought that Ruth’s baby looked a lot like his father, and it occurred to her suddenly that if ever she had a grandson, he might look like Paul, and what a wonderful thing that would be. But neither of her children was married, or even living with anyone, and they were so far away that she would hardly ever see a grandchild. After Paul had died, people had told her that she ought to move to America to be near the children, but the idea of leaving England was unthinkable.

  She was halfway through the sandwich when Johnny wheeled himself into the stables. He didn’t see her at first, and when he did, he started to wheel himself out again.

  She called after him. ‘Come and join me, Johnny. I could do with some company.’

  ‘I’ll be in your way.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ She patted the tabletop. ‘There’s lots of room.’

  He hesitated, hands over the chair’s wheels, and then propelled himself slowly towards the far end of the table.

  His sandwiches were very neatly wrapped in cling film and foil – undoubtedly the work of his devoted mother. Tanya had watched Mrs Turner when she brought Johnny in the mornings and when she came to collect him later and she had seen how much she cared about her son, how hard she tried not to fuss over him and how angry it made him if she did.

  ‘Those look good, Johnny. What are they?’

  ‘Cheese and tomato.’

  ‘With pickle?’

  He nodded and started eating in silence.

  I must do better, she thought. Make an effort. Only I’m so out of practice.

  ‘How are you getting on with the hedges?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Mrs Harvey told me that you’re better than all right. She said you’ve got a gardener’s eye. I know I don’t have one but she puts up with me. She’s very kind. So is Dr Harvey, don’t you think?’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Only all right?’

  ‘He does his best. It’s Mr Deacon who’s a real bastard.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s horrible to Jacob. He makes fun of him as though he’s a complete moron, which he isn’t. Jacob’s just different and he knows a whole lot more about gardening than the rest of us.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Mr Deacon will get at me, too, whenever he can – telling me I’m doing everything wrong when I know I’m doing it right. I wish he’d go home and die.’

  Shocked, she said, ‘You don’t really mean that, Johnny.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  It had been a motorbike accident, she knew. Ruth had explained to her briefly. One moment Johnny had been a strong and healthy young man with a boundless future, the next he’d become a wheelchair cripple, his life in ruins. No wonder he behaved as he did. And the Manor gardens, nice as they were, couldn’t be much help or comfort.

  Another customer came into the stables, carrying a plant. ‘Can I pay you for this?’

  Tanya said, inspired, ‘Could you possibly deal with it, Johnny? I’m in the middle of eating my
sandwich.’

  For a moment, she thought he would refuse. Then she watched as he wheeled himself over to the biscuit box, took the money and gave change. The customer, like so many of them, wanted advice. Shade or sun? A lot or a little water? Would it need pruning? Feeding? Protection from frost?

  To her amazement, Johnny had the answers. He gave them without any grace, let alone a smile, but he gave them and, what’s more, they sounded convincing.

  When the customer had gone off satisfied, she asked, ‘How did you know all that?’

  ‘I listen to Mrs Harvey and I watch what she does, and what Jacob does. I might as well learn something while I’m here.’

  ‘I think that’s very sensible of you, Johnny.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have much choice, do I?’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she said. ‘So do I. We’re in the same boat. We can give up on life or we can make something of what we’ve got left.’

  What a prig I sound, she thought. I wouldn’t blame him for taking himself off.

  He didn’t, though. He stayed and finished his sandwiches and when another customer came in he went over again to take the money and give change from the biscuit tin.

  ‘Did you have a good day, Johnny, dear?’

  He shrugged. ‘All right.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘The usual. Watering, clipping, hoeing.’

  The hoeing was something new, but, of course, hoes had long handles so Johnny would be able to reach from the wheelchair.

  ‘Hoeing must have made a nice change.’

  ‘It’s boring.’

  Sheila set off down the Manor driveway. Pushing the chair gave her blisters but she’d found an old pair of cotton gloves to wear which made things better.

  ‘Mrs Harvey says you’re a great help to her.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Mum. How can I be?’

  ‘She meant it.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. She’s just sorry for me.’

  They went on down the driveway in silence.

  After a moment, he said, ‘Some woman started asking me a lot of questions today.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘She’d bought a plant. She wanted to know how to look after it.’