Mortal Remains

‘She’s been a widow for some years,’ Shearman added. ‘Her husband served in the army during the war.’ He mentioned the name of Vaile’s regiment which had fought more than once alongside their own.

Harry was immediately interested, he would like a word with Mrs Vaile. Shearman took him over to where she sat alone, drinking tea. She was pleased to see them. Harry sat down beside her and began to chat in a friendly fashion. He asked about her late husband, told her he would be delighted to do anything he could for her, as the widow of a man who had been – more or less – an old comrade-in-arms.

Before long she was telling him the saga of the last few difficult years, how she had at last decided to sell her house and move into a home. As she talked Harry grew even more interested. He began to ask questions; she answered freely. A gleam appeared in his eye. His questions became more inquisitorial, the gleam in his eye brighter.

Over supper Jill inquired how her grandfather had found Cyril Shearman.

‘He’s in pretty good spirits,’ Harry told her. ‘He introduced me to a new resident, I had a long talk with her.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A very interesting talk.’

‘Oh?’ Jill said idly. ‘What was so interesting about it?’

Harry looked knowing. ‘That’s what Tom Mansell’s going to find out.’

‘Mansell?’ Jill echoed. ‘What has this old woman got to do with Tom Mansell?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘I’m going to tackle Mansell about it in the morning,’ he declared with relish. ‘I’ll sort him out properly this time.’

Jill laughed. ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t put the world to rights by now, you’ve been sorting folk out for long enough.’

He pushed his cup towards her for a refill. ‘I’d better make some fresh tea,’ she decided. ‘This isn’t too hot.’ She went along to the kitchen.

‘I’ve got Mansell well and truly by the tail this time,’ Harry couldn’t resist saying to Norman. ‘He’s not going to find it so easy to wriggle out of this one. I’ve had my suspicions once or twice before that there was something going on, a nice little band of brothers operating. I’ve a pretty good notion of the kind of tricks some of these johnnies get up to, given half a chance. But I could never get my teeth into anything solid.’ He thrust out his lips. ‘I’ve got hold of something good and solid this time and I’m not letting go.’

‘What is it you fancy you’re on to?’ Norman asked with interest.

Harry tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never you mind. I’m hardly likely to give you the details, you’re Mansell’s man.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Mansell still hasn’t given me the rise I’m entitled to. We’ll see how he likes what I’ve got to say tomorrow.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ Norman asked in amusement. ‘Some ploy to get your rise? You want to have a word with Lester Holroyd, he’ll see you right. That’s what you should have done in the first place instead of shouting the odds at Mansell. You could hardly expect him to take kindly to that. What boss would?’

Among Lester Holroyd’s varied responsibilities was the general oversight of the yard office, though its day-to-day running lay in the capable hands of a middle-aged woman who had worked for Mansell for a number of years; she had the help of two part-timers, young married women.

On Monday morning Lester reached the office earlier than usual. He had woken well before the alarm was due to ring, his head buzzing with ideas churned up by his father-in-law’s announcement at the end of Sunday lunch. He was sorting through the mail when Mansell drove into the yard with Stuart beside him. A minute or two later Mansell put his head round the office door.

‘I want to catch Norman before he goes off out.’ He broke off at the sound of an incoming vehicle and glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, that’s Norman now.’ He went off to where Norman was getting out of his van; Stuart followed. ‘I want a word with you,’ Mansell told Norman.

And I want a word with you, Norman answered in his mind.

‘You’re not on the carpet,’ Mansell assured him with a grin. ‘You’re going to like what I’ve got to say unless I’m very much mistaken.’

I very much doubt you’re going to like what I’ve got to say to you, Norman responded inside his head.

Mansell began to tell him about his plans for the new yard, the likelihood of a place in the new set-up for Norman, carrying some responsibility.

Over in the office Lester glanced out of the window and saw the trio standing by the van: Mansell smiling, talking, gesticulating; Norman looking pleased and stimulated, nodding his head; Stuart close by, not joining in but listening, observing.

As Lester watched he saw Harry Lingard’s little van drive into the yard. Harry got out but he didn’t go off about his duties, he remained where he was, his vehicle screening him from the other three. He stood looking intently across at them.

Lester went on watching. Mansell stopped talking, he clapped Norman on the arm in a gesture of friendly encouragement and turned to go. Norman’s pleased expression vanished. He began to talk rapidly, with a serious look. Mansell’s face changed. He stood arrested, half-turned away, frowning down at the ground; Stuart listened with keen interest.

Norman’s flow ceased, Mansell turned to face him. He appeared to fire a series of questions, some of which Norman seemed to deal with at once, others he met with a movement of his shoulders or a slow shake of his head, as if signifying he didn’t know the answer to that one.

The exchange ended. Men were moving about the yard. As Mansell went striding off with Stuart following, Harry Lingard stepped out from the shelter of his van to intercept them. Mansell halted, regarding Harry with a face of steel. Norman Griffin, on his way across the yard, glanced back and saw the two men in fierce altercation, with Stuart a silent onlooker. Norman halted for a moment, then continued on his way.

The office door opened and one of the female clerks came in. She greeted Lester and at once raised a query about an office matter. As Lester turned from the window to speak to her the phone rang. The day had begun in earnest, there was no more looking out of windows.

It was Jill Lingard’s intention to call in on her grandfather on her way home from work on Thursday evening. In the event she left York House a little later than usual, missing the bus she normally caught. It was a raw evening, with a stiff breeze. She decided not to stand waiting in the cold for the next bus but to walk along to the stop by the college, where there was a shelter.

As she approached the college she saw a bus pull up at the other side of the road and passengers alight. Several crossed over towards the college; among them she spotted Mrs Holroyd carrying some books. She was wearing the grey-blue tweed coat Jill had sold her – and a suède beret, she noted with professional interest. I was right about the beret, Jill thought with satisfaction, it goes beautifully with the coat.

Mrs Holroyd saw her, they smiled, exchanged a word of greeting. How well she looks, Jill thought, better than she ever remembered seeing her. Under the street lights she seemed to wear a bloom of health and happiness.

When Jill arrived at her grandfather’s she found him despatching a hasty meal before starting out on the first of his freesheet trips. ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she told him. ‘I won’t delay you. I’m going over to Gareth’s tomorrow evening, straight from work, I’m staying with them for a few days.’ She was using up what was left of her annual leave. ‘I rang Gareth and fixed it.’ She was going by train, Gareth would run her back on Tuesday evening. ‘He said he’d like to look in on you for an hour or so after he’s dropped me,’ she added. Gareth worked long hours, it was some time since Harry had seen him. ‘He wants to know if you’ll be in around eight o’clock on Tuesday.’

‘I’ll make it my business to be in,’ Harry responded with energy. ‘Tell him I’ll be delighted to see him. Give my love to Anne and the children.’

She let herself out into the chill air. She wouldn’t be seeing Norman this evening; she was staying in to wash her hair, pack her bag, get an early night.

Friday evening was overcast and blustery, and though the rain held off it was cold enough to keep the strollers from the common.

Mrs Griffin had a good hot meal prepared for Norman, as she had every evening. By the time he had washed and changed she had it ready for him on the table in the kitchen, cosy from the warmth of the stove. She wore a housecoat, her hair was in rollers. She had just had a bath, and would be dolling herself up to go out as soon as she had cleared the table after Norman finished eating. Friday was one of her social club evenings; she went along to the club two or three evenings a week. She always went by bus but could usually rely on getting a lift home. She enjoyed every visit to the club but Friday nights were special, that was when they had the olde-tyme dancing. Tonight she must get there early, there was going to be a little ceremony before the dancing started, the presentation of a retirement gift to the club secretary.

Norman sat down before his piled-up plate and attacked it with a hearty appetite. His mother hovered about, cutting bread, pouring tea. She ran an eye over what he was wearing: his new trousers, good jacket, smartest shirt. ‘You going out?’ she asked.

‘Might go along to the pub,’ he said between mouthfuls. She gave a little nod. He liked a glass of beer with his mates, more to be sociable than anything else, no harm in that; she never ceased to be thankful he didn’t drink the way his father had done.

By seven she was dressed, ready for the evening. She stuck her head round the door of the little workroom opening off the kitchen where Norman was fiddling with his old radios – they had been his hobby since schooldays. ‘I thought you were going out,’ she said.

He didn’t look up. ‘I’ve decided not to bother. Might as well make use of the time while Jill’s away, it’s a chance to get on with this.’

‘You should change out of your good clothes, ’ she advised. When he made no response she let it go. She very rarely pressed a point with Norman, she had learned long ago that it didn’t pay.

He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll miss your bus,’ he warned.

She was galvanized into motion. ‘Right, then, I’m off. I’ll be back around half-twelve or one.’

In the early hours of Saturday morning the force of the wind greatly increased. It blew strongly all day, driving clouds before it, tossing branches of trees on the common. Late on Saturday night it began to slacken in strength. By breakfast time on Sunday it had fallen calm again.

The day was bright and sunny. Householders emerged to wash their cars, tidy their gardens. In the ground-floor flat of a converted Victorian house on Whitethorn Road, Miss Tarrant, a middle-aged spinster, supervisor of the typing pool in a Cannonbridge firm, woke late: gone half past nine, she saw by the clock.

She got out of bed and drew back the curtains. She wouldn’t bother with lunch today, she’d have a good breakfast and then get on with the hundred and one jobs awaiting her. She had recently bought the flat and was currently in the process of doing it up, furnishing it, tackling the garden.

In the kitchen a little later she discovered to her annoyance that she’d forgotten to buy bread yesterday. Fortunately the corner shop across the common was open on Sunday mornings, she could nip out and get a loaf.

She put on her coat and went out into the sparkling sunshine. She walked briskly up the road, crossed over on to the common. As she drew near Fairbourne she heard the sound of shears. She glanced in as she passed the front gate and saw Mr Holroyd at work a few feet away. She had some slight acquaintance with him in his official capacity; before she bought her flat she had been a council tenant. She called out a friendly greeting. ‘Much better weather today,’ she added. He looked up, gave her a few words in reply.

She halted as a thought struck her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have finished with your copy of the Bazaar? Mine doesn’t seem to have been delivered. I like to read the small ads, I’m still on the lookout for things for the flat.’

Edgar shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. My copy hasn’t been delivered either.’