Remembrance Day

‘To forget what?’ Ruby asked.

‘I’ve forgotten,’ Bridget said. Ruby had often repeated the joke, even when she suspected Bridget had borrowed it from a TV comedy. Perhaps the joke also expressed something unconfiding in Mrs Bligh’s nature. She had a grown-up son, Teddy, who worked in the shop on occasions, but nothing was ever heard of husbands or lovers. For this reserve, Ruby had much respect.

At ten minutes to eleven, about the time when Bridget produced cups of coffee, Ruby glanced out of the window and saw, further down the street, a man she recognized. It was Noel Linwood, white hair stirring in a slight breeze. He had climbed slowly from his ancient car and was gesticulating to someone sitting in the passenger seat; Ruby could just make out a female with a shock of black hair.

Whatever Noel Linwood’s exhortations, they failed, for he slammed the car door and began to walk, shoulders hunched, along the street towards the shop. The sight of that curious mottled face brought a feeling of panic to Ruby and she rushed into the back kitchen, clutching Mrs Bligh.

‘It’s that old chap, Noel Linwood. I think he’s coming in here. Please go and serve in the shop – I can’t face him. Ray told him we were Muslims …’

Bridget surveyed her coolly. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a relation, dear.’ But she went into the shop as requested.

A minute later, the door opened, the bell tinged, and Noel Linwood marched in, showing his large teeth in a smile.

‘Good morning, Mr Linwood, and what can I do you for? Cream horns are nice today.’ Ruby cowered behind the refrigerator as she heard Bridget’s pert voice. Most of the traders in Fakenham knew the elder Linwood, and his reputation for being in the money; although there were dissenters who, having seen the dilapidated house in Hartisham, claimed he hadn’t two brass farthings to rub together.

Noel looked about him short-sightedly, came to some sort of decision, and said, ‘I’ve got my sister in the car. Give me a dozen cream horns. Got to feed the bitch.’

When Bridget had arranged the cream horns in a cake-box and he was paying, he said in a sharp tone, ‘So where is Mrs Tebbutt? I understood she worked here. Is my information correct?’

‘No, dear,’ Bridget said, handing over his change. ‘There’s no such person works here. Oh, hang about, though. Would it be Ruby Tebbutt you’re asking after? Rum-looking little woman? Yes, she did used to work here, that’s true. Not no more. Can I pass on a message for you?’

‘Certainly not.’ He stood by the door, nursing his box of cream horns. A female assistant from the nearby chemist came in, bought a sandwich and left. Still Noel Linwood hesitated on the threshold.

Bridget leaned over the counter and spoke in a confidential way. ‘I don’t know if this Ruby Tebbutt is a friend of yours? Tell you what, frankly it was men. Men all over the show, like nobody’s business … Once she turned Muslim there was no stopping her. I mean, you’d think at her age … Well, what was I to do? I’m sorry, but if you keep a cake shop, you’ve a reputation to keep up, so it was Off she went …’

The elder Linwood regarded her with some distrust. ‘I met such cases during a long career in the Middle East. However …’

Giving her a savage frown, he left, slamming the shop door behind him. From the vantage point of her window, Mrs Bligh watched him return to his venerable car, parked on double yellow lines. It appeared that as he climbed into the driver’s seat, he and his passenger started an energetic dispute. Then the car pulled away in a series of jerks.

Ruby burst forth from the kitchen, stifling her laughter in a handkerchief.

‘How dare you?! “Rum-looking” – look who’s talking. As for my reputation … You’re as bad as Ray.’

The two women had a good laugh together, controlling themselves only when the next customer entered the shop.

‘Wonder what on earth he wanted,’ Ruby said later, over their cups of coffee. ‘But you didn’t have to make up that crazy story …’

And the more Ruby thought about it, the more she worried. The mere sight of Noel’s approach had triggered all the fears awakened by Ray’s problem at the garage two days ago. Her first notion was that he had been coming to complain – perhaps to say that they should not have lent his irresponsible son money.

On reflection, and increasingly as the morning wore on, she cursed herself for hiding from him. Who knows, perhaps Noel had come in to repay the debt. It was not inconceivable that the old boy would regard it as a social slur to be beholden to people like the Tebbutts.

Or he might have intended to drop in a message from Jean. Jean counted as a kind of friend. The Tebbutts had few enough friends in their exile in this strange part of the world. Possibly Jean was angry with Mike for imposing on Ray; it seemed likely.

And another thing. Bridget’s joking deception might have unpleasant repercussions. If Jean were told that she, Ruby, had been sacked because of affairs with men, that rather strait-laced lady might not wish to associate with the Tebbutts any more – might, indeed, even use this false knowledge as an excuse not to pay back the three hundred pounds.

It was a worried Ruby who caught the bus and dragged her old bicycle out of the hedge that evening. As she cycled home to put the kettle on, she said aloud, free-wheeling down the lane, ‘Ray’s going to be mad at me.’

Their back garden was one of her refuges. After she had dealt with her mother, Ruby went out into the sunshine.

July was almost over and the raspberries were coming on so fast she could not resist, as she passed along the row of canes, reaching under the netting to pick a few fruits. In case the overripe ones, cushiony crimson under sheltering leaves, fell at a touch into the grass and spoiled, she kept her other hand cupped below the clusters. As the fruits eased away, they left little mottled white noses behind on their stems.

Savouring the sweet fruit, she unlatched the gate into the goat’s enclosure. She was bringing the animal the tribute of a stale slice of bread. Tess had a soothing effect on her jangled nerves. She loved the lines of the nanny, its bumps, its curves, its sharp angles. She stroked its white coat lovingly. The goat looked interestedly at her with its inhuman eyes. It knew Ruby meant well.

As she entered the back porch, the phone rang.

She thought immediately that Ray must have run into trouble. But it was their daughter Jennifer on the line.

Jennifer’s voice was always a delight to Ruby, so clear was it, so calm and untroubled, so – what was the word Jenny would have used? – together. Today there was a trace of excitement in that clear voice. Jenny was driving up to Norfolk for the weekend with a young man.

‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ Ruby said, looking hastily round the living-room and thinking how shabby it was. Bolivar had sharpened his claws on everything in sight. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll introduce him when we meet, Mum,’ said the clear voice, possibly with a trace of mockery. ‘He happens to be foreign.’

‘Coloured?’ Ruby asked, and could have kicked herself for letting the word slip out. So unsophisticated of her.

‘Not very coloured. He’s a Czech – from Prague, you know? We are going to stay on the coast, so we shan’t be a burden to you, but we’ll look in for tea on Sunday on our way, if that suits. How’s Father?’

‘Well, Jenny, he’s very upset just at present—’

‘I am sorry, give him my love. See you Sunday.’ And the clear voice was replaced by a dismal whirring tone. Ruby put the receiver down, frowning.

Czech? She’d have to give the cottage a bloody good clean before Sunday. Czech. Presumably he would speak a bit of English since, as far as she knew, Jennifer spoke no Czech. If only the window-cleaner would buck up and come. She’d have to get in another pint of milk. Chocolate biscuits, of course. Perhaps she should bake a cake.

Ruby started to go round in circles, slowly, lighting a ciggy as she did so.

Czech? What on earth did Czechs eat on Sunday afternoons? Ginger biscuits? Something savoury? Perhaps she could ask Bridget Bligh, whose sister had once been married to a Finn. She didn’t want to let her daughter down. It wasn’t as if they saw her all that often these days.

‘I shall get the palpitations,’ she told herself. She went out to the garden to finish her cigarette in the company of Tess and Bolivar.

Friday came. The hot anti-cyclonic weather continued. Ray Tebbutt was working as usual in the garden centre. At lunchtime, he sat under the poplars, resting in their shade and eating a pasty from Mrs Bligh’s shop which Ruby had provided for him.

Gregory Yarker came over, grinning under the brim of his hat, his deep-set eyes in shadow. He was wearing Wellington boots, jeans, and a tattered old multi-coloured pullover his wife had knitted. ‘His looks are against him,’ Tebbutt always loyally proclaimed.

Yarker plonked himself down on the bank beside Tebbutt, saying, ‘How’re you going on? You’ve got something on your mind, that I know. Your wife hasn’t left you, has she?’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Tebbutt, laughing at the idea.

‘’Cos if so, I’ve got a nice piece of crumpet lined up over in Swaffham.’

‘No, no. Thanks all the same.’

‘I shall have to see to her myself, no doubt of it. What’s up with you, then, Ray? It’s nothing catching, I hope.’

Ray took a swig from his can of Vimto. ‘It’s nothing catching, Greg. It’s just I’ve been a bloody fool. I lent someone some money and he isn’t inclined to give it back.’

‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘Perhaps we could creep up on him one dark night and sort of incline him.’

‘It’s an idea.’