‘ARE YOU SERIOUSLY trying to tell me,’ says Mungo, ‘that Ralph Stead is buried in the orchard? Look, I’m sorry, I can’t get my head round this.’
He turns away from Philip, hands bunched in his pockets, unable to grasp what Philip has just said. Philip doesn’t move. He leans against the dresser, arms folded, waiting. Mopsa watches them from her basket whilst Mungo wrestles with a whole variety of reactions: disbelief, shock – and an odd and reprehensible desire to burst out laughing. This is risible. Ralph, whom he’s loved and missed and raged against all these years, is just down the lane in the old orchard.
‘So you left here,’ he says, repeating Philip’s story, ‘ran Ralph over when he turned up, drove to Newton Abbot to provide an alibi should it be needed, and then you and Billy came home and planted him in the orchard.’
Just for a minute he can visualize the scene. The vicious twist of the wheel, Ralph’s horrified expression caught in the beam of the headlights, the inexorable slide of the Land Rover …
‘But why didn’t he jump clear when you began to skid?’ he asks. Surely that’s what would happen? He can see it clearly in his head: Ralph leaping to one side, out of the path of the moving vehicle. That’s how he would direct it.
‘The wheel just wouldn’t respond and he seemed to disappear underneath,’ says Philip. ‘Perhaps he lost his footing, slipped on the ice and was knocked off balance. It just went straight over him.’
Mungo paces, assembling the facts. ‘No ambulance?’
‘No point,’ says Philip bleakly.
‘But why didn’t you report it? It was clearly an accident.’
‘It wasn’t that simple. I hated him. When I swung the wheel I was just trying to scare him but somewhere deep down I’d’ve been glad to see the back of him. The way he treated Izzy. You’d hit him just minutes earlier, damn it! It would all’ve had to come out, wouldn’t it? Izzy and the baby, the way he was walking out on her and going to America. It wasn’t just me. It was all of us. Even though it was an accident, it was as if we were all implicated in it and I was afraid. It happened so quick. I kept thinking about Izzy and how she looked that weekend. Like Billy said, there would have been people asking questions, poking their noses in, digging the dirt. You and she were just getting famous by then. It would have been disastrous. That’s what it felt like back then. Surely you can remember how it was?’
Oh, he can remember all right. The arguments, the tears, the pleadings. Izzy wanted him there as advocate, friend, persuader: but nothing moved Ralph.
‘What shall I do?’ Izzy asked desperately. ‘Help me, Mungo.’
He invited them down to the smithy as a last resort, a reminder of those happier times when friendships were developing into something much stronger and durable, hoping to soften Ralph, to appeal to his loyalty. It didn’t work. Ralph’s underlying cruelty, which Mungo found rather exciting to bring out and work on in direction, grew more destructive. He delighted in mocking Izzy’s pathetic attempts to resurrect times past, to rekindle the love that had been between them. The weekend slid into disaster.
‘I warned you,’ Ralph said to Izzy. ‘I told you not to plan a future around me. I told you I’m not that kind of guy. It was very silly of you to take such a chance.’
‘I didn’t plan it.’ Izzy’s face was pulpy with tears; she was drenched in them. Mungo had never seen such anguish. ‘You know I wouldn’t. Please, Ralph, don’t go. Don’t leave us and go so far away. It’s not just about our baby. I can’t believe you were just going to walk out without telling me.’
His smile was wolfish. ‘Well, now you can see why. I get enough theatricals on the stage. I don’t need it in my private life. It’s over, Izzy.’
‘Then you can get out,’ Mungo said. ‘I’ll ask Philip to give you a lift to the train.’
‘In that case I’ll go and pack,’ Ralph said cheerfully. ‘And let’s try to be civilized with our farewells, shall we?’
But when he came back into the kitchen it all started up again. Izzy pleading, tear-stained; Mungo trying to beat down his own pain in the face of Izzy’s desperation. He’d wanted to reach out to Ralph, to hold on to him. Instead, he hit him.
‘Anyway,’ Ralph said, leaning across the table, ‘how do I know it’s my child? It might be Mungo’s. After all, you’re very versatile, aren’t you, old chap?’
There was a freeze-frame of silence; two heartbeats, maybe three. Then Izzy fled from the kitchen and he hit Ralph. It was a long stretch but Mungo’s speed and accuracy, and the surprise of the blow, unbalanced Ralph. He staggered backwards with his hand to his jaw, and for the first time that weekend his face wore a genuine expression: shock and admiration.
‘I didn’t think you had it in you,’ he said.
Then Philip came bursting in and it was all over.
‘You see?’ Philip says. ‘It wasn’t so simple, was it? The newspapers would have had a field day. Even so, it’s my responsibility. I killed him. For years I used to wake up sweating with terror, listening for a knock at the door, terrified at the sight of a police car. But what good would it have done to anybody to know the truth?’
Mungo knows he’s right. It would have been a catastrophe.
‘But why are you telling me now?’ he asks.
‘Something Mags said. She saw Archie and said he was looking his age, that he might want to sell up or develop some land. She said if he got planning permission he’d get quite a few houses in the orchard. He could do just that, couldn’t he? It’s not actually part of the farm.’
Mungo frowns. Archie has spoken to him of selling up, downsizing, though Camilla is fighting it tooth and nail. Supposing he were to decide to do some development to raise some money? So what? The orchard is the obvious choice, of course … And then he sees it. He imagines the diggers moving in, turning the earth, the cries of discovery, the scandal.
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’ Philip is saying.
Mungo tries to quieten his heartbeat, to be rational and cool.
‘Let me think about it,’ he says. ‘Give me time to take it all in. It’s been a shock.’
‘Has it?’ Philip’s look is quizzical, hopeful.
Mungo stares at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
Philip shrugs. ‘Dunno. Just always had a feeling that you knew something. Guessed, perhaps.’
‘No.’ Mungo stands up. ‘I promise you, Philip, I had no idea that Ralph Stead was buried in the orchard.’
He feels confused, nervous, but Philip smiles at him complicitly.
‘Secrets,’ he says. ‘Dangerous things, secrets.’
Friendship stretching back for a lifetime flows between them. Mungo holds out his hand and Philip grasps it in a strong grip.
‘Billy said you’d understand,’ he says simply.
‘Billy,’ snorts Mungo. ‘I bet that old bugger was behind it all, wasn’t he? I can see him.’ His eyes widen, remembering his last conversation with Billy. ‘Is that what he meant? “First he walked all over her and then she walked all over him.” My God.’
‘He used to enjoy the joke. He was very fond of Izzy. We all were, weren’t we?’ Philip pauses. ‘What happened to the baby?’
‘She lost the baby. You know that.’
‘Yes. I know that. See you later.’
He goes out, leaving the door open to the warm night air. Mungo stands quite still, grateful that Kit has not yet returned from her date with Jake, thinking about Philip’s extraordinary story. How poignant it is, this little history; death coming for Ralph one icy February night, and for his unborn child, a few weeks later on a cold wet March morning with Izzy alone at her flat.
What happened to the baby?
Secrets. Dangerous things, secrets.