Every Second Thursday

Seventy miles away in Lowesmoor a church clock struck three quarters. Gerald Foster paused for a moment and glanced at his watch, then he resumed his careful pacing of the building site, the third of four he had driven over to see.

He always inspected and assessed on his own, couldn’t tolerate an agent at his heels, interfering with the keen flow of calculation through his brain.

Gerald considered Lowesmoor a vigorous, thrusting town, poised for expansion, definitely a place to invest in. He left the site and climbed a small eminence nearby in order to view the terrain from above. No insoluble problems, no difficulties with access, altogether satisfactory.

He went back to his car and drove slowly about the district, gauging the tone and character of the neighbourhood. When he was satisfied, he found a phone kiosk and rang the agent’s office. It was now almost half past five.

‘I’m ready to talk terms,’ he told the agent. ‘What about dinner at my hotel this evening?’ Tomorrow was already mapped out and Gerald wasn’t a man to watch with any pleasure the long hours of evening slip unprofitably away in idle recreation.

‘Good idea,’ the agent said, and they arranged a time. The agent was a bright young fellow, a bachelor, still under thirty.

He pondered for an instant the possibility of suggesting to Foster a visit after dinner to one of the local night spots. There was a new place of which he’d heard encouraging reports, dim lights and bright girls. But after a moment’s reflection he dismissed the idea. Foster didn’t strike him as the type to welcome the suggestion.

‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘The lounge of the Falcon. A quarter to eight.’

At eight o’clock Alma Driscoll and her friend Rosie Trewin left Rosie’s little terrace house and went along to the local pub for an hour or two while Rosie’s husband obligingly kept an eye on the baby.

At half past ten Alma caught the last bus back to Abberley and made her way along the lane to Pinetrees. She looked in on the old couple, made them hot drinks, settled them down for the night and went off to bed, well pleased with her day.

Next morning she was awake early; she never slept late. By a quarter to seven she was washed and dressed, had tidied her bedroom and was on her way downstairs to make tea and take it up to the old folk.

She wasn’t required to make breakfast or help them to wash and dress. A woman came in from the village at half past seven on alternate Friday mornings to see to all that and to keep an eye on things till the housekeeper returned on the mid-morning bus.

Alma carried the tray up to the main bedroom and knocked softly on the door. They were already awake, looking forward to a cup of tea.

Promptly at half past seven the village woman arrived and Alma was free to go back to Lynwood.

It was a fine morning, clear and mild, with a slight rustle of breeze. She met no one as she walked along the road, but the village was already stirring. She could hear the engine of a farm machine starting up, the lowing of cows, someone calling a dog across the fields.

She rounded a bend in the road and came in sight of Lynwood. The tall mass of the house was sharply outlined against the pearly blue sky. How well it looks standing up there, Alma thought, as she often did, admiring the elegant proportions, the lovely classic lines.

The lights were on in the front bedroom; no other lights showed in the house.

She quickened her pace. Mrs Foster was probably lying awake, restless after a poor night’s sleep, finding time dragging till the door opened and someone carried in a welcome tray of tea.

Not much hope of the poor lady getting an early cup from Miss Jordan, Alma reflected; Miss Jordan was not the earliest of risers. It was usually eight o’clock before she showed her face downstairs, though always neat and trim when she did appear.

Alma reached the Pritchards’ cottage, the nearest dwelling to Lynwood. Ned Pritchard was a retired farmworker, a widower, living with his son Bob who worked as a relief milker in the area. Ned still did a certain amount of work as a jobbing gardener and regularly put in a couple of days a week at Lynwood.

As Alma went past the cottage Bob Pritchard came out of an outhouse, carrying a bucket. He raised his hand and called out a greeting. She waved in reply and gave him a casual friendly word.

She went on up to the house and let herself in. Everything was quiet, no one stirring. She attended first to the cooker, glancing in at the oven to make sure the porridge was nicely done, but clicked her tongue in irritation when she found the porridge wasn’t there.

Oh well, never mind, she thought after a moment. A nice pan of rolled oats wouldn’t take long to cook on top of the stove, Mrs Foster wouldn’t have to mind for once.

She set the pan on the stove, then put the kettle on to boil. She laid a tray and then at last took off her outdoor things. Mrs Foster’s shampoo, she remembered, and put it on the tray beside the milk jug.

A few minutes later she carried the tray quietly up the back stairs. No sound from Miss Jordan’s room – she must still be sound asleep.

As she approached Mrs Foster’s bedroom she caught the sound of the radio, playing music. The poor lady had probably been lying awake goodness knew how long, with only the make-believe jollity of the disc jockey for company.

She knocked at the door. No reply. She knocked again, more loudly. Still no reply. She frowned, knocked again, even more loudly, without result.

She put her mouth against the door panel and said, ‘Mrs Foster – it’s me, Alma. I’ve brought you some tea.’ Only the sound of the music came back to her, light and lilting. She tried the handle but the door was locked.

She set down the tray on a nearby table and went rapidly along the corridor into Mr Foster’s room. She crossed to the connecting door and tried the handle but it resisted her.

She rapped forcefully on the panel, calling out loudly and recklessly, ‘Mrs Foster! It’s me, Alma! Are you all right?’ Still no reply. The music ceased and a man’s voice began to speak, crisp and cheerful.

She ran out of the room and along the corridor, down a few steps and round a corner, to Miss Jordan’s room. There was no sound from within. She rapped loudly and without ceremony, calling out, ‘Miss Jordan! Are you awake?’

There was a stir from inside and Miss Jordan’s voice called back sleepily, ‘Is that you, Alma?’

Without more ado Alma went in. The curtains were still drawn together. In the half-light Miss Jordan began to raise herself from the pillows.

‘There’s something wrong,’ Alma said urgently. ‘Mrs Foster – I can’t make her hear. Her door’s locked.’

Miss Jordan came fully awake. She flung back the clothes and sprang out of bed. She dragged on a dressing-gown, thrust her feet into slippers.

‘I don’t like it,’ Alma said rapidly. ‘I can hear the radio playing. I knocked and knocked but she doesn’t answer.’

They left the room at a run. ‘I tried to get in,’ Alma said, ‘but the doors are locked. Both doors.’

They reached Mrs Foster’s room. Miss Jordan rattled the door handle, calling out, then she ran into Mr Foster’s room, followed by Alma. She tried again.

‘She tried to do something once before,’ Alma said. ‘Years ago. Before I came here. She took a lot of tablets.’

‘Is there another key?’ Miss Jordan said urgently. ‘To either door?’

Alma frowned fiercely down at the floor. ‘I can’t think of one. I can’t remember a spare key.’

‘Then we’ll have to get help. Someone to break the door down.’

‘The Pritchards,’ Alma said at once. ‘Down at the cottage. You go, I’ll stay here.’ Miss Jordan, slimly built, would be able to run a good deal faster than Alma.

Alma stayed by the bedroom door, keeping up the fruitless calling and knocking. It seemed an age before she again heard the sound of running.

Young Bob Pritchard came racing into view along the corridor. ‘Stand away!’ he ordered as he reached the door.

He sprang back against the opposite wall, then leapt forward at the door, striking it with his raised foot. The door creaked. He went back to the wall and sprang again with all his strength. This time the panel gave.

As he struggled to get the door open Alma saw his father, Ned Pritchard, still quick and active at seventy, appear round the bend in the corridor, with Miss Jordan behind him. A smell of burning oatmeal floated up from the kitchen. The porridge, Alma registered – it’s boiled over.

‘You’ve managed it, then,’ Ned called out as the door gave way. Alma followed Bob at a rush into the bedroom.

The lights were full on, the curtains drawn together. Beside the bed the radio played and sang.

Ned and Miss Jordan reached the door and came breathlessly in.