Deadlock

Slowly the band began to tighten. Across the fields a fresh burst of shooting jerked her up in fright. She managed to steady herself again, bent once more to her task.

A few moments later a wounded pigeon dropped out of the sky at her feet in a sprawl of blood-stained feathers. She sprang back in terror. Tears spilled from her eyes. She threw down her fork, tore off her gloves. She fell to her knees beside the dying bird, gently stroked its head, crooned softly to it. It looked up at her with an expressionless eye already filming over. A moment later she saw that it was dead.

She jumped up, snatched her gloves, the tools, and raced back to the shed, her heart pounding, leaping in her throat. With trembling fingers she restored everything to its place, then she turned and fled back to the house, along glinting gravel paths where leaf shadows quivered in the sunlight, past bushes festooned with spiders’ webs, in through the back door, along the passage, into the haven of the sitting room.

She flung herself down on the sofa, shuddering. From the mantelpiece her own likeness – a framed photograph, head and shoulders – looked down at her with a wide smile of happiness.

Around her forehead the band grew vice-like in its grip. A surge of terrifying thoughts rose in her brain, threatening to overwhelm her. She looked in agony at the clock. Another hour to be lived through before the next dose of the pills that would beat back the thoughts. David had made her swear to stick to the prescribed times and amounts. Every day she strove to keep her word, she never let him know of the many times she failed.

She turned her head in the direction of the kitchen. A beaker of the hot chocolate she loved, strong and sweet, that might soothe her through the next hour. She got up and went from the room.

Twenty minutes later found her back in the sitting room, pacing to and fro, the effects of the hot chocolate already evaporated. She tried to distract herself with the radio, the television, but they served only to jangle her nerves still further.

She looked again at the clock. She would not fail again. She lay down on the floor and closed her eyes. She went religiously through her tense-and-relax exercises, she massaged her forehead, her scalp, the back of her neck. Still the taut muscles refused to slacken. Still the plaguing thoughts bedevilled her brain.

She opened her eyes and looked yet again at the clock. Barely ten minutes had crawled by. She could struggle no longer. She got to her feet and went along to the bedroom for the capsules, the pills and tablets. She washed down the prescribed dose with water, then she stood hesitating, eyeing the bottles. Double the quantity would produce the longed-for relief twice as quickly.

After another brief, guilt-ridden struggle she swallowed a second dose. She went back to the sofa and lay down again. Soon she felt a blissful peace begin to steal over her. A little later she felt a slight resurgence of cheerfulness; later still, a burst of buoyant energy.

She sat up, smiling. She yawned, stretched luxuriously. She went along to the bathroom, washed her face, tidied her hair. She would make a start on preparing supper.

As the hands of the kitchen clock approached six she was putting the finishing touches to an artistically arranged platter of salad. A delicious savoury smell filled the room. She glanced in at the oven, lifted the lids of pans simmering on the stove. She felt joyously serene. Her mind was now clear and untroubled. She hummed in tune with the music from the radio.

A sound reached her ears: David’s car turning in through the gate. Her face broke into a delighted smile. She darted to the mirror, primped her hair.

She ran out of the kitchen, along the passage, into the hall, snatched open the door into the porch. As David came hurrying round from the garage she flew out to greet him, threw her arms round his neck. He embraced her warmly, gave her a tender kiss.

Later, as they finished clearing the supper things, he put his arm round her shoulders. ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said in indulgent tones. ‘Something to show you. I’ve arranged a wonderful surprise for you.’ Her face lit up like a child at Christmas. He squeezed her shoulders. ‘I know you’re going to love it. Come and sit down, I’ll tell you all about it.’

CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_2e7348cb-771d-5980-8c04-7e30d700de96)

A dark Monday morning, October 23rd. The birds not yet awake, only the occasional mournful cry of an owl.

On their smallholding, two miles from Ferndale, Bob and Irene Garbutt had been up since five; always plenty of indoor jobs to be done before sunrise.

At six-thirty Garbutt came out of the warm kitchen into the chill air, bending his head against the whipping breeze. A tall, broad-shouldered man, lean and solidly muscled. He had been a regular soldier, both his sons were in the Army.

As he crossed the yard a cock crowed shrilly in the distance. A lively cackling erupted from the wire-fronted sheds housing the geese. Garbutt glanced at his watch – he was due at Ferndale at five past seven to pick up David Conway and drive him to Oldmoor station, a regular booking since April, one Monday in four. Garbutt supplemented what he made from the smallholding by running a one-man hired-car service locally.

He went into the cold store for the box of fruit Conway had ordered for his wife. Garbutt had selected the fruit with particular care the previous evening: sweetly-smelling Cox’s orange pippins, prime Comice pears.

He carried the box out to his car and stowed it away in the boot. He went back into the house and stood washing his hands at the sink. Irene came into the kitchen, carrying a jar of her newly made damson jam. Still a pretty woman, with bright blue eyes and a ready smile.

She set the jam down on the table. ‘You can take this for Anna, a little present to say I hope she’s feeling better.’

Garbutt ate a piece of toast and drank a mug of tea; time for a decent breakfast later. Promptly at ten minutes to seven he got into his car. He prided himself on punctuality and reliability. No need to allow for delays; scarcely any traffic on these rural roads at this time of day, this season of the year.

The sky showed the first signs of lightening as he turned the car towards Ferndale; birds began to twitter from the hedgerows.

The front of the bungalow was in darkness when he pulled up by the recessed porch but a light shone out from the kitchen, round to the left. He tooted his horn and Conway appeared a minute or two later, switching lights on as he came. He found Garbutt standing by the open boot of his car, lifting out the box of fruit.

‘Anna’ll be delighted with those,’ Conway exclaimed as he cast an appreciative eye over the unblemished skins. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘No need to bother with that now.’ Garbutt set the box down inside the porch. ‘Leave it till this evening. We can settle up then.’ Conway was travelling to Dunstall – home of Zodiac’s factory and head office – for the four-weekly sales meeting. Garbutt usually picked him up again at Oldmoor station at a quarter to one but today was the firm’s silver jubilee, to be marked, following the sales meeting, by festivities lasting well into the afternoon.

Garbutt handed over the jam, along with his wife’s message. ‘That’s very good of Irene,’ Conway said with pleasure. He carried the fruit and jam inside and Garbutt got back into his car, out of the wind.

A few minutes later Anna came out into the shelter of the porch. She wore a blue woollen dressing-gown and bedroom slippers.

‘The fruit’s lovely,’ she told Garbutt with a warm smile. The porch light threw shadows over her face and hair. She reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her lips. ‘And please thank Irene for the jam, it’s very kind of her. Damson’s one of my favourites. Tell her I’m feeling much better.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Garbutt responded heartily. ‘You can start eating the Coxes any time but I should give the pears another day or two. You’ll want to keep your eye on them, catch each one just right, when it’s sweet and juicy.’

‘I’ll remember.’ She thrust her hands into her sleeves for warmth, like a Chinese mandarin.

‘Not long now till your holiday,’ Garbutt commented.

‘November 2nd, a week on Thursday.’ Her tone was pleased and lively. ‘I’m really looking forward to it now.’

Conway came back, wearing a short tweed overcoat. He carried a briefcase and a pair of gloves. He caught the tail end of their conversation.

‘I’m driving Anna down to Southampton,’ he told Garbutt. ‘I’m meeting her there again when the ship docks.’ Anna looked up at him with a loving smile. ‘We’re going shopping on Wednesday,’ Conway added. ‘To buy her some gorgeous clothes for the trip. I’ve fixed it so I’ve got the whole afternoon free. We’re going into Cannonbridge.’ He named a large department store. ‘We’re taking it easy, doing it all under one roof, breaking off for tea in the cafe halfway through, so she won’t be worn out at the end of it. I intend it to be a pleasure, not an ordeal.’

Anna turned her head and smiled at Garbutt. ‘I’m really being spoiled, don’t you think? I shall enjoy choosing the clothes, though I’m not going to be too extravagant.’

Conway put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her tenderly. ‘Don’t stand out here in the cold. I’ll be home around a quarter to seven. And don’t go wearing yourself out, doing too much housework. You’ve got the place looking spotless already.’

‘No, I won’t.’ Her mouth opened suddenly in a deep yawn and she put up a hand to cover it. ‘I’ll make sure I get plenty of rest. There’s a film on TV this afternoon I’m going to watch, it should be good. And I might go out for a stroll if the wind drops.’ Conway smiled approval.

But she didn’t go back inside at once. She kept her gaze fixed on her husband as he got into the passenger seat.

Garbutt switched on the ignition. His watch showed seven-fifteen. Anna stood smiling and waving as the car reversed and drove out into the lane.

The instant it vanished from sight the smile left her face, her hand dropped to her side. She shivered, pulled her dressing-gown closely round her. She sent a long, lingering look round the shadowy garden, the dark trees, the paling sky. Then she reached out and switched off the outside light. She turned and went slowly back into the house, closing the door behind her.

Oldmoor station lay one and a half miles from Ferndale on a stretch of line closed thirty years ago, later rescued from vandalism and dereliction by a preservation society which raised funds, laboured to restore it, acquired and refurbished old rolling-stock, repaired the buildings.

Now, fifteen years after the first rejuvenated steam train rode the rails, the society operated – with the aid of extra income from occasional filming and TV commercials – a successful and established schedule, highly popular with local travellers as well as holidaymakers and steam enthusiasts. The line linked up with the main railway system at Sedgefield Junction where a fast train would carry Conway on to Dunstall.

‘A shame to get Anna out of bed so early,’ Garbutt remarked as he negotiated a bend in the road.

‘She would get up to speak to you,’ Conway said. ‘I told her there was no need, I could pass on her message, but no, she must thank you and Irene herself.’

‘It’s good to see her so much brighter. And ready for her holiday.’ Garbutt slid a glance at Conway. ‘The holiday must be costing you a bob or two, new clothes and all.’

‘If it helps to get her really well again, it’s worth every penny.’ Conway grimaced. ‘When I think how she was, back in the summer – some days she didn’t get up out of bed at all. She wouldn’t even bring the milk in from the back door or the newspaper from the front porch.’ His tone echoed the anxiety of that distressing time. ‘I’d know as soon as I drove up in the evening if it had been one of her worst days. The paper would still be on the bench in the porch.’ He shuddered briefly. ‘But we’re well past that now, thank God. Dr Peake’s been very good to her. And she’s tried very hard herself, I must give her that.’

‘Occupation,’ Garbutt declared with robust conviction. ‘That’s the answer. Look at Irene. Lots of women her age, children grown up and left home, they get to feeling sorry for themselves. They sit around moping, swallowing pills or taking to booze, I don’t know which is worse. Irene hasn’t got time to invent worries for herself. She’s busy from morning till night, she loves every minute of it.’