CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As Canny had anticipated, Alice Ellison wanted to ask him about the possibility of moving back to Cockayne. She didn’t barge in immediately when he began to make the rounds of the garden, the way she would probably have done at thirteen, but she was quick enough to take an opportunity of talking to him when it arrived. Presumably, she no longer thought of him as a stuck-up public schoolboy who needed to be taken down a peg or two, but she hadn’t yet begun to think of him as a lord of the manor who ought to be regarded with awe and spoken to in hushed tones.

After some of the conversations Canny had forced himself through, it was rather a relief to be faced with someone with whom he had once exchanged childish banter in a comfortably mischievous fashion.

“I know you’ve probably got a waiting-list a mile long,” Alice said, apologetically, “and I haven’t exactly been a regular visitor since I moved down south, but I have missed the old place—more and more, actually, as time’s gone by. Martin and I are thinking about starting a family, and I’ve always told him that Cockayne is the perfect environment in which to bring up kids.”

“As it happens,” Canny told her, “you might be in luck. I think I can probably manage to persuade the elders that Martin would be an asset, even though he’s not in an honest trade. There’s nothing vacant at the moment, and I doubt that I’d be able to move you to the very top of the queue, but I think I might be able to steer them in the right direction without seeming to be trying to throw my newly-acquired weight about. You’re a Proffitt, after all—your Mum and Dad are pillars of the community, and Jack and Ellen’s shop is the second most important gossip-well in town, after the Eagle.”

“That’s very kind of you, Lord Credesdale,” Martin Ellison said.

“Not at all,” Canny assured him. “I really am interested in your field of study, and I’d certainly like to talk to you about it some time. Are you working on a new book?”

“Of course. It’s about popular superstition. Alice has....”

“Do you really think you can swing it, Canny?” Alice put in. “can I still call you Canny, now you’re the earl?”

“You might have to work locally to keep the elders sweet, at least for a while,” Canny said. “Would you mind that?”

“Actually,” Alice said, “I was hoping to curry favor in a slightly different way. My degree’s in history, and I’ve been doing some post-grad work. How would the elders take it if I approached them with a proposal to write a book about the early history of Cockayne? How would you feel about it, given that I’d need access to your records?”

“I think they’d like it,” Canny said, after a moment’s thought. “I think I could see my way clear to giving you access to some of the documents in the library—not the secret ones, of course, but the ones that relate to the village. Perhaps you could both come over for dinner in a fortnight or so, so that we could talk about it. Do you have a card with your telephone number, Dr Ellison?”

“Martin, please,” Ellison said. He fished out his wallet and extracted a business-card from it. “Printed them out on my PC just the other day. We only moved up a few weeks ago—we’re hoping that our present accommodation will only be temporary. The university’s excellent, of course, but after Canterbury....”

“The neighborhood’s a bit of a shock,” Canny finished for him. “A stroll along Woodhouse Lane isn’t quite the same as a morning constitutional in the Garden of England. I’ll do my best to make sure that it is temporary. I’m looking forward to talking to you about the Oedipus Effect.”

“You really have read Martin’s book, haven’t you?” Alice said, in a slightly puzzled tone.

“Of course,” Canny told her. “I suppose you’re surprised because Ellen’s told you that I’m a playboy—a wastrel with the brains of a flea and morals to match.”

Alice blushed crimson. “Oh no,” she said swiftly. “Ellen’s always said that you were really nice—she wouldn’t ever say a word against you. She’s always spoken up for you when....” She stopped abruptly.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Canny said. “She and I have always had a certain rapport, ever since she showed me her knickers when we at primary together. Must have been the other gossips, then—I suppose the funeral set them all off. Pooer owld Lord Cre’esdale—real gemmun, not like that son of his, allus off down t’Riviera.”

Alice burst out laughing at his preposterous parodic accent. “Even I can do a better one than that,” she said, “an’ ah bin ’obnobbin’ wi’ t’gentry in Canterburry these last se’n year’n’mooer.”

“Obviously, you can’t,” Canny said. “But I appreciate the gesture. Actually, nobody in the village seems to be able to do it properly any more. Too much TV, I suppose. The BBC gets to us all in the end.”

“Well,” said Martin Ellison, evidently deciding that it was time to move on before the tone of the conversation began to plumb unacceptable depths of irreverence, “I’m delighted to hear that you know my work, and I’ll be delighted to talk to you about it some time soon. I’m sorry for your loss.”

As Martin watched them move away, his mother homed in on him again. “Who is that girl, Can?” she asked.

“The youngest of the Proffitt sisters, Mummy,” Canny said. “Married, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint you. They all are—all the Proffitt sisters, that is. I dare say you’ve taken care to invite a few Tadcastrians who aren’t.”

“Don’t be silly, Can.”

“I’m sorry, Mummy. I thought you’d come over to interrogate me as to whether I’d interviewed any of Bentley’s suggested bridal candidates yet, and whether I thought any of them were up to the job.”

“We can stop pretending now, Can,” she said, “Daddy’s gone. I don’t care what you do—it’s entirely your own business. Have you invited that Chinese girl to stay the night?”

“I don’t think she’s Chinese, mother, although she can speak fluent Mandarin. No, I haven’t had a chance to invite her, yet. Will you mind terribly if I do?”

“It’s your house now, Can. You can invite whomever you please.”

“Oh, stop it Mummy. I’m sorry I made the joke about the Tadcastrian debs. Anyway, I’ll have to go to London in a few days, and I’ll probably be spending a lot more time there than Daddy did. You’ll be Lady of the Manor till the day you die, which won’t be for a long time yet, and you can run the place however you like. Unless, of course, you were thinking of remarrying?”

“That’s cruel, Can,” she said—but there were no tears in the corners of her eyes.

“Sorry, Mummy. A reaction against the strain of having to be so polite to everyone else, I guess. At least Ellen Proffitt was prepared to act naturally, although I don’t think her husband approved. Even Alice is a bit subdued, although that might be because she’s mellowed since she was thirteen. She wasn’t overawed, though, the way some of the others are pretending to be.”

“You’ll never overawe the Proffitt girls,” Lady Credesdale observed. “They knew you when you were in short pants.”

“So did practically everyone in the village over the age of thirty,” Canny pointed out. “And not one of them has forgotten. That’s why so many of them are pretending so hard to be humble forelock-tuggers, although they seem to have done their fair share of complaining about my wayward lifestyle while I was away. Too much imagination by half, I fear. The crowd’s thinning out quite nicely now, wouldn’t you say.”

“Nicely enough,” she agreed, looking around the gardens with a sternly calculating eye. The result of her calculations obviously included a note of anxiety, but Canny guessed that she was merely wondering what Jebb would have to say in the morning about the tragic state of his lawns.

“I’ll tell Bentley to make sure that the booze-supply dries up fairly soon, although there’s bound to be a handful who won’t take the hint. You’ll have to take care of your side of the family, though.”

He was being slightly cruel again, but Lady Credesdale didn’t have an opportunity to complain because Stevie Larkin was coming over. He was unaccompanied now; Lissa was still in hiding inside the house.

“I’ve got to get back to the folks on the other side of the moors, Lord C,” he said, apologetically. “It was nice to see you again—hope it’s in happier circumstances next time. I’m not expecting to be in Milan much longer—my agent reckons I’ve done my time in the sun and ought to head home again, and it’s easier to get picked for England if you’re actually in England. Liverpool or Blackburn would be nice, or even Man City.”

Canny deduced from the slightly wistful tone of this list that Stevie’s real ambition was to play for Manchester United, but that he didn’t think it likely that they would be making him an offer. “Thanks for coming, Stevie,” he said. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Well,” said Stevie, “it’s like Lissa says—fate threw us together that night. Did the cops ever find out who mugged you?”

Canny raised an eyebrow at that, slightly surprised that Lissa had told him. “I didn’t have time to call the police,” he said. “It was no big deal. I think the casino’s security people managed to identify the inside man who tipped off the mugger. He won’t be operating out of their premises again.”

“Well, that’s something,” Stevie said. “G’night, milord. Hope it all goes well for you. Never liked funerals myself, I’m afraid—way too much symbolism in the ashes-to-ashes stuff.”

“What was he talking about?” Lady Credesdale demanded, as soon as the footballer had turned away.

“Symbolism, Mother,” Canny retorted, deliberately misunderstanding. “Sportsman that is born of woman hath but a short career, and time’s winged chariot is always hovering on the touchline. The poor guy’s seven or eight years younger than me, and already he’s worrying about his legs letting him down. He’s no fool, though—he’s probably put away a very healthy nest-egg by now. He’ll be okay, even if he doesn’t collect many more England caps and ends up at Man City.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

Canny sighed. “I was mugged, the night I flew back home. As I said to Stevie, it’s no big deal. I just handed over the money, and that was that. End of story.”

“Does—did—your father know?”

“Yes he did—but he didn’t think it was a big deal either. I’m sorry Stevie let it slip.”

His mother shook her head, but she made no further complaint about not having been told. “You have to be careful, Canny,” she said.

“It won’t happen again, Mummy. I won’t be tempting fate like that in future. No more casinos at four in the morning for me. As I told Maurice Rawtenstall, I may have neglected my homework in the past but I’m determined t catch up as soon as I can—and from now on, I’ll keep my money in the bank, where it belongs.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Can,” she said. “I’m just your mother. You’re the earl now—you can be as reckless and secretive as your father was, and never confide in me at all. Just treat me like part of the furniture. I’m used to that.” This time, there were tears in the corners of her eyes. Canny would have hugged her, if he had thought that it would do any good.

“Come on, Mummy,” he said, instead. “We’ve got a fair few goodbyes still to say. No rest for the wicked, eh?”