Comfort Zone

Maurice and his wife Judith were close now. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Hughes. I need to speak to—’ Justin turned swiftly and, calling to Maurice, said, ‘Oh, the very man, I need to have a word with you …’ Thus he escaped from a fellow he was beginning to think was probably mad and dangerous. But Hughes still had something else he wanted to say. ‘Oi, Reg!’ he called. ‘I hear as you wrote a book once.’

Justin looked back, exasperated. ‘No, never, you are thinking of my friend, Tony Kenny. He has written many books.’

Hughes lapsed from an aggressive stance into something more abject. ‘I thought about writing a book once. My life would make a good novel.’

‘Come on,’ said Maurice to Justin. He ventured to take Justin’s arm. They hurried on.

‘You look a bit shaken,’ said Judith, ‘I don’t wonder. What a horrid man. How on earth did you get to know him?’

‘I’ve just had to listen to a quotation from Ezekiel.’

‘Yes, come and have a sit down, Justin. A cup of coffee,’ said Maurice. ‘Ezekiel is a real visionary, isn’t he?’

Rowlandson, that was their name. Pillars of the church, he remembered. And, like Hughes, dotty about Ezekiel! He took a quick look back down the Croft before they turned the corner. Hughes was still standing there in his ill-fitting jacket, looking at the backs of Justin and his friends. One hand remained raised, as if he had forgotten it. The Rowlandsons lived nearby, in The Court, a grand house towards the end of the Croft. Justin was glad to sink on to their sofa. Maurice assumed his friend had been about to be attacked. Justin said that Hughes was unbalanced. But he had told Justin that he was too old to be hit, or words to that effect; Justin laughed as he admitted it, though indeed he did not find it particularly amusing. ‘I can’t help feeling sorry for the fellow. Well, not exactly sorry … He said he was a regular churchgoer.’

Judith entered with a coffee tray in time to catch this last remark. ‘You’re not religious, are you, Justin? At least, we never see you in church.’

He said that as a boy he had prayed silently and constantly throughout the day. He then regarded himself as almost a saint, and certainly praying afforded some comfort. Only when he was older and looked back on an unhappy boyhood, did he see he had not been religious but neurotic. He smiled at Judith apologetically. ‘Nowadays, I’m neither religious nor neurotic.’

‘You would find a great deal of strength in Jesus,’ said Maurice, kindly.

‘He died for our sins, I understand,’ said Justin. ‘Rather presumptuous, I always thought.’ Silence fell as they drank their coffee.

As Justin was leaving, Judith thrust a small book into his hand. ‘It’s the Book of Ezekiel, with charming pictures done by a Mr Heath Robertson. I think it may be a comfort for you, dear Mr Justin.’

One of Justin’s lady friends, Mrs Wendy Townsend, drove him to the Manor Hospital for an appointment with his cardiologist. ‘It’s not so warm today, Justin, sweetie. You should have worn your scarf.’ He had a feeling Wendy was slightly moving in on him since Kate was away so much.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘And you are still taking your furosemide like a good boy?’

‘Of course. I love it. And the other stuff Dr Reid put me on.’

‘The spironolactone.’

‘Yes. Exactly. Spironolactone. Pretty name, isn’t it?’ Professor Kenneth Fellows, the cardiologist, did not keep them waiting for long. He ushered them into his consulting room and made sure they were comfortable.

‘You’re looking better than when we last met, Mr Haydock. I want you to have an ultrasound scan, just so that we can check your kidneys. Nothing to worry about. We want to see that all’s well below, and that the prostate is not too enlarged. Are you sleeping any better now?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Good. And do I see you are losing a bit of weight?’

‘I’m losing bodhisattvas.’

Wendy Townsend said, ‘We have suppers with plenty of vegetables. No pork pies these days! We’re doing very well. I tell Justin that he should be eating sensibly but he mustn’t starve.’

‘That’s excellent. And asparagus is just coming in.’

‘I love asparagus.’ She told the consultant how she had been up early the previous Sunday and driven to Gray’s Farm. She got there just after nine, when there were no more than five people picking the asparagus; but by the time she left before ten the field was crowded with people. So she invited Justin to supper, she said, and they enjoyed fresh asparagus served with a fried egg on top. Justin liked it that way. When she was a little girl, the family had grown asparagus in their back garden. Her father had been a well-known accountant. Cocking her ear on one side, she enquired, ‘Mr John Townsend? No? … Well, never mind.’

Justin knew Wendy was talking too much. Part of the moving-in-on-him business. He showed his embarrassment by staring fixedly at the floor, hands clasped. The professor nodded. ‘Well, good to see you both, and keep taking the warfarin regularly, Mr Haydock. The secretary will give you a date for your next blood test.’ He filled in the requisite form and handed it to Justin.

In the car on the way home, Justin said, ‘I can’t believe how much blood they have extracted from me over the last month.’

‘They only take a tiny amount, love,’ Wendy said, patting his knee. He reflected that his knee was among his most valuable possessions.

Wendy stopped the car by Justin’s front door. He turned his face to hers and they kissed before he climbed out. He would have been embarrassed not to do so, knowing she expected it. Leaving and entering cars were major difficulties. He had little control over his legs, particularly with regard to lifting them. The birds sang under the street lamps. He found the front door unlocked. Either his mind must be going or Maude had returned. He was glad to be back in No. 29. The builders were not there. The house was quiet but oddly unwelcoming.

‘Anyone there?’ he asked. He thought there was someone in the front room. He went to look. No one was present, but he remained disturbed.

‘You’re there, are you?’ came Maude’s voice.

‘Maude? Hello? Like a cup of tea or a coffee?’ A prolonged silence. Then came her voice. ‘Tea, please.’

In the kitchen, Justin brewed two cups of tea. The tea bag was one of Marks & Spencer’s extra-strong teas. He carried the tea into the living room, placing his Carlisle mug on a mat before sitting down in his favourite armchair and calling Maude. But had someone just looked through the doorway and then swiftly withdrawn his head? He got up and went to look in the hall. No one was there. He could hear nothing. ‘Old age,’ he told himself. ‘Going bloody daft.’ He scanned the printout Professor Fellows had given him in the consulting room. His INR was 1.4. He was to take 3 mg of warfarin every evening at six. He immediately fell into sleep; it was indeed a steep fall. He became asleep without warning. When he roused, his tea was barely lukewarm. He had the impression that someone or something had been standing over him. He dismissed the idea. Justin sat where he was, leaning back, relishing his lethargy, missing Kate.

‘You’re awake at last!’ He was startled. Maude was sitting by the door.

‘How long was I asleep?’ he asked.

‘Justin, I must tell you something.’ She spoke in a low grave voice. ‘I resolved to tell no one, but someone ought to know, in case a crime has been committed.’

He stared at her. She was certainly pale and worried. When he asked her what the matter was, again she paused. ‘Let me get you another cup of tea – that one’s stone cold.’

‘No thanks, Maude. What’s up?’

Then she spoke. She had gone round to the summerhouse for her lesson in Muslim ethics as usual. She admitted for the first time that these sessions were held in the Fitzgeralds’ summerhouse, where the Fitzgeralds had given shelter to a refugee. ‘She was not there. Of course I was surprised. There was a note on her side table.’ Maude fiddled in her jacket pocket, to produce a sheet of lined paper, possibly torn from a notebook. Without speaking, she handed it over to Justin. The note simply read:

I must leave here. Thank you. Blessings.

3 (#u36681651-24e5-5adc-bb89-cdc3153e3797)

Flying Iran Airways (#u36681651-24e5-5adc-bb89-cdc3153e3797)

Justin scowled at the message in puzzlement. ‘She’s gone? Left the village? Why so sudden? Is it a question of rent?’

Maude shook her head. ‘Has she just run off? Or was she abducted and forced to write this note? The more I think about it, the more worried I become.’

The phone rang. Justin picked it up.

‘Can I speak to Mr Haddock, please?’

‘Justin Haydock speaking, but I’m not in a buying mood. What do you want?’ He preferred the name Haydock, which was what he always used on his TV scripts. And not only there. Since his boyhood days, he had hated being called after a fish.

‘So sorry, Mr Haydock. We are not trying to sell you anything. We just happen to be in your area. We wondered if we could offer you a free modern-design kitchen. It comes—’

‘Sorry, no, I do not want a free kitchen. Bugger off!’ He put the phone down.