David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Page 5

  Their share of the converted school and its grounds was roughly two-thirds, and the expanse in front of him had once been the playing field. Now, beds of tulips and daffodils lay on either side of a smooth lawn, and young trees had been planted to provide shade.

  Lalage came through the doors behind him, with a clinking of ice against glass. She put the tray down and joined him on the bench. “This is the life! Another month or so, and we’ll be able to have supper out here.”

  “Yes, I was just thinking how peace—”

  Behind the fence to their right a door opened suddenly, and raised voices drowned the end of his sentence. “Of course I didn’t think of it—why should I?” The Parrishes looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Mrs.—Dexter, wasn’t it? In the background her husband’s voice, though equally angry in tone, was undecipherable. Then hers again, clear and shrill.

  “Well, it was your fault for leaving it out... What ‘should I have known’? That no one in this hateful place can be trusted? It’s all right for you, swanning off every morning... Yes, it is relevant! I was glad to have someone to talk to, if you must know. Just as I was today, with Mr. Carey. And that’s what this is really all about, isn’t it? The fact that he took me to Lethbridge and we spent the afternoon together. Well, it was more than you were prepared to do, so you’ve only yourself to blame.”

  There was a sound of something being dropped into a dustbin and the crashing of its lid, followed by the slam of the back door. Then silence.

  “Well, well!” Lalage said softly. “That was a bit of an eye-opener!”

  “Particularly as it’s the first squeak we’ve heard from them. She’s always seemed such a quiet little thing.”

  “It sounds as if the solitude’s getting to her. I don’t blame her; I’d go nuts if I had to stay here all day.”

  “I wonder what Carey was doing taking her to town?” mused Giles.

  His wife laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know! Come on, let’s move inside. It’s getting a bit chilly now and there’s a programme I want to watch on TV.”

  She went back through the open doors, but her husband stood for a moment gazing reflectively at the fence before picking up the tray and following her.

  CHAPTER 4

  Easter Monday, and, surprisingly for a bank holiday, it was still sunny. Which, Alison reflected, would probably mean quite a crowd at the House this afternoon. Usually she looked forward to holiday weekends, when the family could be together. However, Jonathan had gone to Paris for Easter with a group of friends, and, with her mind in a turmoil, Neil’s presence round the house was a constant irritant. She glanced at him across the breakfast table, his nose buried in the paper. Beside him, Pippa tapped unenthusiastically at her egg.

  “Anyone any plans for the day?” Alison asked with forced brightness.

  Neil merely grunted but Philippa looked up, her large brown eyes mournful. “We were going to the point-to-point, but Rick’s got to visit his grandparents. I was really looking forward to it, too.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Alison volunteered, feeling her spirits lift. The perfect solution.

  “Will you really, Mum?” Pippa brightened visibly. “That’d be great!”

  Neil lowered his paper. “Does that mean I’ll be left alone yet again?”

  “You can come too,” Alison said blithely, knowing he wouldn’t. Her love of horses, which Pippa had inherited, was definitely not shared by her husband.

  “If I’m to be bored rigid, it might as well be in comfort.”

  “Never mind, Daddy—only one more day, and you’ll be back at work!” Pippa winked mischievously at her mother. “We’ll need a picnic lunch,” she added. “What have we got?”

  “Cold chicken and apple pie from yesterday. Don’t worry”—as Neil moved protestingly—“there’ll be plenty left for you. And if you’re stuck for something to do, dear, there are several trays of bedding plants needing attention.”

  “But what about the Opening?” Neil objected. “Shouldn’t you be here?”

  “Public openings are not my concern,” Alison reminded him. “Old Mr. Barlow will be on the gate as usual. I saw them putting up the kiosk before breakfast.”

  “Well, all I can say is it’s been a damn-awful weekend!” he said forcefully, pushing his chair back and scraping the wall. Alison looked after him as he strode from the room, aware that any guilt she might have felt had been expunged by Daphne’s revelations. Then, with a little sigh, she went to help Philippa pack their lunch.

  ***

  At Coppins Farmhouse, too, there was an air of tension. Carol closed the lid of the children’s suitcase, fighting back tears. She didn’t want them to go camping; she wanted them here with her, company for the next two weeks. But it was all arranged now, and there was nothing she could do about it. Furthermore, after the row with Stewart last night she’d opted out of driving up to his sister’s with them. Now, she regretted it. At least it would have got her out of the house for the day. But she had never got on with Rachel, and in his present mood, she didn’t want Stewart’s exclusive company on the way home either. Oh, damn everything! she thought miserably, and before she could stop herself, wondered what Mr. Carey was doing today.

  “Mummy!” Jenny’s impatient voice sounded from the hall. “Is the case ready? Daddy says it’s time we were going.”

  Carol brushed her hand across her eyes. “Just coming.” Normally Stewart carried the luggage downstairs, but today he was leaving it to her. Gritting her teeth, she staggered down with it and dropped it with a thud on the hall carpet. James slid his hand inside hers.

  “I’d rather stay here with you, Mummy,” he said in a small voice. She bent quickly and pulled him against her, squeezing her eyes shut against the renewed threat of tears.

  “You’ll have a lovely time, darling, and you can tell me all about it when you come home.”

  “Come on, then.” Stewart lifted the case and went with it out of the front door, on which the faint outline of the face was still discernible. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back,” he added over his shoulder. “Depends on the traffic, and whether or not I’m expected to stay for supper.”

  She wouldn’t beg him to hurry home. She wouldn’t. But if he’d turned at that moment and asked her to go with them, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Instead she stood alone at the front door, waving to the two little figures at the rear window until the car turned out on to the road and disappeared from sight. It was ten-thirty, and from what Stewart had said, it could be twelve hours before he returned. She knew he was still angry with her and wouldn’t hurry on her account.

  “What’ll I tell them?” he’d demanded, when she had stated her intention of remaining at home.

  “Whatever you like. Say your boss is coming for dinner tomorrow and I’ve things to prepare. It’s true, anyway.” And that, she thought determinedly, was what she would do. She’d clean the house from top to bottom, she’d have another go at removing that odious outline from the front door, and then she’d start on the pastry-making and marinating. Somehow the hours would pass. She turned and went back into the house, carefully locking the front door behind her.

  ***

  “There’s a great deal of traffic all at once,” Edith Irving remarked from the window. “That’s the third coach that’s gone past in as many minutes. Where are they all going?”

  “Beckworth House, I should think,” Gina replied. “It’s open this afternoon. Shall we wander along?”

  Bob said with a grin, “As long as it doesn’t give you ideas above your station!”

  “I’d like to see the gardens; I need a bit of inspiration for that back bed.”

  “It’ll be very crowded,” her mother observed, “judging by all those cars. I’m not sure I want to be jostled from pillar to post.”

  “Well, if you’d rather I could go with you another time. It’s open on Wednesdays too, which are probably less crowded.”

  “And someone will have to stay in for t
he boys,” Edith added reprovingly.

  “No need for that,” Bob countered. “They have their keys, and we can leave a note saying where we are. So, are we going or not?”

  Gina hesitated, torn as always between her own wishes and consideration for her mother. “I would like to—”

  “Then let’s go. How about you, Ma?”

  “No, I think I’ll wait till Wednesday, thank you.”

  “Nice to have you to myself,” Bob remarked, as they strolled down the road. “It’s like a half-holiday from school!”

  “I hope she doesn’t mind being left alone.”

  “She had the choice, but she never agrees to anything without an in-depth study of the pros and cons. The opposite of impulsive, your mother.”

  Another couple of coaches overtook them and turned into Tinker’s Lane. Just inside the open gates of the House a wooden barrier had been erected, blocking access except for a narrow opening alongside a small kiosk. At its window, Gina recognized the old man in the wheelchair whom she’d seen around the village.

  “House and gardens or gardens only?” he asked.

  “The lot, please. Two.”

  “Like a brochure as well?”

  “Yes, please,” Gina said.

  “Extortion!” Bob commented, handing her the brochure. “Why do you want that?”

  “It’ll give the family history and a plan of the House. We can use it every time we come. Look at these fantastic photographs. I’d no idea it was so lush inside.”

  They followed the stream of people up the winding drive, Gina reading snippets from the guide book as they went. “The Dukes of Hampshire have lived here for five hundred years,” she stated, “though the original house was destroyed by fire in 1680. The present building is an early example of England’s great Palladian country houses. The ceiling of the Great Hall—”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Bob said, “but if we hurry we can tag on to the end of the tour that’s just starting. Otherwise we have to wait for half an hour.” And, taking her arm, he hurried her over to the small crowd grouped in front of the House.

  ***

  The noise level which assaulted Joe Barlow as he entered his kitchen caused a spasm of actual pain in his ears. Darren and several of his cronies were lounging on all the available furniture, cans of beer in their hands, while they shouted at each other above the excruciating noise of the transistor. Joe strode into the room and switched off the set. The silence was almost as deafening, throbbing in his head in a blessed cessation of sound.

  Darren straightened aggressively. “Why’d you do that, Dad? We were listening to it.”

  “So was half Beckworth, I should think. This is a private house, not a disco. Mrs. Evans next door must have been vibrating in time to that lot—it’s a wonder we haven’t had people knocking on the door. Not,” he added drily, “that you’d have heard them if they had.”

  “OK, so we’ll turn the volume down.” Darren uncurled himself from the sofa and moved towards the set, but his father forestalled him.

  “Hang on a minute. What are you all doing here anyway?”

  “We came back when the pub shut. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  Joe sighed. The boy’s aggressive attitude was hard to stomach, but he’d no wish to give him a dressing-down in front of his pals. “At least you could go to your room—”

  But even as he spoke, Joe saw the hole he had dug for himself.

  “My room?” Darren jeered. “I can hardly fit into it myself, let alone with anyone else. And this is my home, isn’t it? Where else should I take my friends?”

  “Where are your mother and Mavis?” Joe asked, evading the question.

  “Don’t know. The place was empty when we got here.”

  Joe looked helplessly round the room. There was nowhere for him to sit, even if he’d wished to stay. And he’d been looking forward to a relaxing afternoon at home.

  “It’s not my fault if you want to live in a matchbox,” Darren went on belligerently. “But if I’m not welcome I can always go back to the Whistle Stop.”

  “All right, boy, that’s enough. As you say, it’s your home. Just don’t destroy it with that ghetto-blaster.” And, turning on his heel, he left the house again, though not before he had caught the self-satisfied smirk on his son’s face.

  But the boy was right, he thought grimly, trudging back up the Lane. There wasn’t enough room for them all at Number 17, even without Darren. And when the baby arrived, probably crying in the night and disturbing them all, it would be even worse. Yet he couldn’t have turned Mavis out when she married, and of course her husband should be with her.

  What was wrong with the world, he wondered helplessly, when folk couldn’t afford homes in their own villages? The last few years had been disastrous for Beckworth, first the shop closing, then the school. They’d been the heart of village activity; now, all that was left was the pub. Ten years ago, there’d have been a good job here for Darren and he’d never have got in with that bad Shillingham crowd. Was he still on drugs? Joe wondered uneasily. Lord, what a mess everything was. If only they hadn’t had to leave Coppins. But it was no use thinking of that now.

  He crossed the road opposite the car-park—nearly full, he noted—and turned the corner by the gates of the House. People were still streaming into the drive. With a nod at his father, busily at work, Joe moved the barrier aside and slipped through, replacing it behind him. Might as well fill in his time with a bit of gardening. It usually soothed him when his nerves were frayed.

  Branching off among the trees, he made his way to the tool-shed.

  ***

  Carol, too, had been aware of the flow of traffic to Beckworth House. As she polished the sewing-table in the window she watched the coaches rolling past, lined with curious faces which peered over her fence. They’d be a mixed bunch, these sightseers, she thought uneasily. Perhaps from their elevated viewpoint they were considering which houses would be worth burgling. What was it Mr. Carey had said? You get all kinds of weirdos.

  Determinedly she dismissed them from her mind and, the cleaning done, moved into the kitchen to prepare for the dinner party.

  It was four-thirty when she next glanced at the clock, and by then the traffic had long since dwindled to a trickle. There’d still be about an hour, though, before the House closed. She stood for a moment, considering, then reached a decision. She was bored with her own company, and she’d done what she set out to do: the house was gleaming, and everything which could be prepared in advance for the next evening had been completed. She would go and have a look at the Stately Home.

  Pulling off her apron, she draped it over the back of a chair, picked up her handbag and, since the day had clouded over, slipped on her raincoat. There was time for a quick look round, and perhaps, if Neil Carey saw her pass his windows, he might come out and join her.

  A group of late sightseers was filing through the gates as she reached them, and she joined on the end of the line. Then, slipping her admission ticket into her pocket, she set off up the drive, against the general tide of people who were already making their way back to the gates.

  Because of the time factor she’d paid only to visit the gardens, but at the top of the drive the House came into view and she paused to study it, admiring the gracious façade, the arched windows and mellow stone.

  From the plethora of signposts pointing in all directions, it was clear that an entire day could be passed pleasantly here. Idly, Carol read a few of them: Gift Shop, Antique Market, Walled Garden, Lily Pond. Which one should she follow? As she hesitated, she caught sight of a familiar figure disappearing round a bend in one of the paths. Her decision made for her, she quickened her footsteps and hurried after him.

  ***

  Although Summer Time had started, it had been dark for over an hour when Stewart Dexter turned off the M4 at the Shillingham exit, and he felt a twinge of guilt. There was no need to be this late and it was particularly unfair when Carol was so nervy.
But he’d been embarrassed at having to explain her absence to his sister, whose knowing look confirmed that she suspected a family row. True, there had been one; but looking back, things hadn’t been right between them since they came to Beckworth. Carol was continually on edge, though he was damned if he could see why. She’d never worried in London, even when he’d had to go abroad on business for weeks at a time. He couldn’t imagine why she’d not settled in the village. Damn it, they’d done up the house exactly as she wanted, and it had cost enough.

  Admittedly she hadn’t any friends there, but she’d not tried to make any. On the contrary, she’d refused pointblank to go to tea at the vicarage, even though he’d assured her she wouldn’t be immediately press-ganged into the Mothers’ Union.

  With a sigh, he turned off the Lethbridge road and started to climb the hill. It was very dark under the trees, and he turned up his headlamps. A pair of bright eyes shone in their glare, then disappeared. Unaccountably, he shivered. God, he was as bad as Carol! He put his foot down, taking the winding road dangerously fast.

  Young James had been tearful when he left, and he remembered the child’s sudden clinging to Carol that morning. It struck him for the first time that she might have welcomed the children’s company during the holidays. It was decent of her to have raised no objection to the trip. Bless her, he thought uncomfortably, that might well have been the cause of her jumpiness this last week. He should have been more understanding.

  The road opened out and he was glad to have left the trees behind. Lamps glowed welcomingly along the road and he was able to dip his headlights again. He’d open a bottle of wine, he thought suddenly, to make amends. An apology would probably be in order, too. Full of good intentions, he swung the car into his drive, then stared disbelievingly at the house. It was in complete darkness.

  Immediately his irritation returned. She must have gone to bed early; but hell, she could have left the hall light on. The headlights lit his way into the garage, but he had to manoeuvre the front-door key into the lock, since any light from the street was obscured by the high fence. As he pushed open the door, the air felt warm and he detected a lingering smell of herbs and garlic. Preparations for tomorrow, no doubt. So that hadn’t been only an excuse. He switched on the hall light.