Spar carried the new box of fish pellets out to the pond in his back garden. He’d already got the fish in – nice they were, very peaceful. The plants looked good as well. A half-opened water lily like a brilliant lemon yellow flare reached up towards the sunlight.
Across the garden, through the shed windows, he could see the new breeding tanks, their filters plopping and hissing gently in the balmy air. A cloud of fish fry glinted and spiralled in the watery currents.
Summer was finally nudging spring aside. He stretched luxuriously, master of all he surveyed. Two rolled-gold koi broke the glittering surface of the pond and executed a perfect synchronised turn.
‘Where do you want this new pond liner, then?’ asked Milo, struggling up the path behind him. ‘I reckon maybe we ought to have bought one of them little fountains as well. I like fountains. We could build a wall up round the back of the first pond, stick this one in behind it and have a waterfall. Buy some nice rocks and stuff. It’d look great. What d’ya reckon?’
Spar threw a handful of pellets into the crystal clear water. Hungry mouths bubbled up and snatched them off the surface.
‘Not in this man’s army,’ he said. ‘Maybe a bridge, though, and one of them little pagoda things like the Japanese have. Over there, by the wallflowers.’
Milo nodded and eased the unwieldy black plastic pond shape down onto the grass. ‘Whatever you say. Do you want me to get the rest of the stuff out of the car?’
Spar nodded. ‘If you don’t mind.’
Alicia Markham stood on the terrace of her home, watching her gardener spray the roses for black spot. She glanced down at her watch. It was nearly twelve o’clock. From inside, through the open French windows, she could hear the tinkle of cutlery as the waitresses added the final touches to the buffet table. It appeared they had embraced her order for complete silence without question.
Very soon, Fairbeach’s triumphant new Conservative MP would be arriving for lunch. Alicia was hosting a little thank-you celebration for all the campaign workers for their efforts.
Alicia turned to glance at her reflection in the glass doors, and smoothed an errant curl back into place. Perhaps some of the decisions she had made regarding Guy Phelps hadn’t been altogether sound, maybe she had been misguided, but ultimately, she assured herself, she only had Fairbeach’s interests at heart.
The house boy guided Parliament’s newest member out onto the terrace to join Alicia for a pre-luncheon sherry. Alicia painted on a perfect smile.
‘Caroline, how wonderful to see you, darling. How’s Westminster treating its latest arrival? I want to hear all about it.’
Caroline Rees, Jack Rees’ widow, grimaced.
‘It is a complete dump. I’ve got to share an office and the traffic –’ She peered at the tray the house boy was waving under her perfectly powdered nose. ‘And no, I don’t want a bloody sherry, haven’t you got any scotch?’
Alicia smiled graciously. ‘Of course. Why don’t we all go into my office?’
Persuading Guy Phelps to resign had not been difficult, though Alicia had had to improvise about what the photos of Tom Fielding contained, inferring, hinting and then blatantly lying so that Guy believed he was in at least one of them. Ill health had been the reason he had come up with for the selection committee.
It was hardly original, but, by that time, rumours of the events at Ben Frierman’s Christmas party had seeped into the ether. The committee’s words of regret had been tinged with more than one sigh of relief.
Caroline’s clearance through the selection procedure had been remarkably swift, and, with Tom Fielding out of the picture as well, her election victory a landslide. It appeared that the Fairbeach electorate thought being married to a local hero was recommendation enough.
Colin Scarisbrooke, Caroline’s agent, hovered uneasily in the doorway, fingers wrapped tight around his sherry glass. He and Alicia had barely spoken a word more than necessary since the day he had brought a busload of tramps home for lunch.
‘Hello, Alicia,’ he said in a pointedly neutral tone. ‘How are you?’
Alicia nodded her welcome. ‘Hello, Colin. Why don’t you join us?’ she said, extending a conciliatory hand. ‘Have a glass of something decent for a change? I’d like to talk about what we intend to do for the Fairbeach farmers during the next session. Oh, and we must sort out the times for Caroline’s surgery. We’ve had several calls at party office already.’
Lawrence Rawlings sat at his desk and carefully removed the buttonhole from the lapel of his best suit. It had been an odd sort of day. A beginning and an ending. A whisper of confetti fluttered onto his desk alongside the photograph of Sarah, Calvin and the girls.
He didn’t really like register office weddings, though Lillian had looked wonderful in a confection of cream satin and gold lace. Apparently, she had met his old friend Bob Preston on the night of the Spring Ball, introduced by the president of the students’ union, who, it seemed, worked for Bob’s firm as a Saturday boy.
While Lawrence had been grovelling on his knees looking for photographs and proof and an end to his pain, his old friend had been asking Miss Lillian Bliss out to lunch and she had graciously accepted.
Lawrence looked at his watch. Very soon, the happy couple would be boarding a plane for Tenerife, heading for a new life in a pale pink villa, with swimming pool, and a starburst of bougainvillaea around the patio.
Lillian, bright-eyed and ecstatically happy, had promised Lawrence she would send him some of the wedding photos. At least now he would be able to have a photograph of her and Bob alongside the others on his desk and no-one would ask him why.
He had considered sharing his thoughts with Lillian, particularly as Bob had brought her to Sunday lunch on several occasions since their first date, but in the end Lawrence had decided to leave well alone. Remarkably, Lillian genuinely did seem to be in love with Bob Preston.
When Lawrence had tactfully enquired if Bob had any idea what sort of girl Lillian was, Bob Preston had smiled beatifically.
‘Does it really matter? Didn’t I say I wanted to go out with a bang? Lillian makes me happy, Lawrence. Don’t worry, just wish me well. I think, to be perfectly honest, she is looking for a father figure.’
The irony had not been lost on Lawrence as he had watched Lillian, snuggled up in the crook of Bob’s arm, when they had cut the wedding cake.
Across the desk, Sarah smiled back at him from inside her silver frame. While on his crusade to decide whether the truth needed to be told, Lawrence had tried to broach the subject of Calvin’s infidelity.
It had been on one sunny Sunday morning when Calvin had had an assignation elsewhere. Sarah had smiled and slipped her arm through his.
‘Daddy, I do know what you’re trying to say, but don’t underestimate me, I already know about Calvin. The thing is, he really does love me and the girls – in his own way.’ She looked at him pointedly. ‘Just like you loved Mummy.’
Lawrence had stared at her, completely dumbfounded, wondering when he had given himself away to his daughter. At what point in her childhood had she realised that he lied too? Was the fault all his, after all?
He had reviewed his will, but what was there he could do, other than trust his canny daughter to keep Calvin’s avarice in check? He’d send a handsome cheque as a wedding present to Lillian, saying it was what Jack would have done had he lived.
He picked up the confetti and stared at it before consigning the bright fluttery petals to the bin. They actually made quite a handsome couple; the ex-rugby-playing ex-mayor and his beautiful blonde bride.
That girl, the reporter, Josephine Hammond from the Fairbeach Gazette, had been at the wedding too. She’d taken photographs and interviewed the happy couple, though during the reception he had overheard her telling someone that she had just got a job on a national newspaper.
Stiffly, Lawrence got to his feet and looked out of the open window. Amongst the greenery in the orchard, in stunning contrast to the verdant growth and the nubile swelling apples, two magpies watched him, button-black eyes staring up towards his study.
Lawrence sighed, feeling fatigue sweep through him like a cold wind. Suddenly, out of the void, he heard a song thrush, its voice as keen and strong as a choirboy’s. The bird was nowhere in sight, but it trilled and swooped defiantly through its virtuoso performance, ending on a climax of pure unadulterated pleasure.
Without a backward glance, the magpies took off in unison, rising up like smoke signals into the new blue summer sky. Lawrence smiled. Come the winter he might just fly out to see his old friend Bob and his new wife after all.
Beside Dora, the intercom buzzed more insistently, followed closely by a thin high-pitched voice through the speaker.
‘Dora, are you up there?’
Dora pushed the swivel chair away from the desk and yawned.
On her desk was Calvin’s latest proposal. He’d finally found a buyer for a children’s story she had written when her daughter, Kate, was small. Some guy in America was very interested in securing the film rights. Would she consider flying to California to discuss it?
Dora tucked the letter back in her in-tray.
‘Dora, are you up there?’ Sheila repeated.
It was extremely tempting to say no. Instead she pressed the call button.
‘Come up. Sheila, it’s unlocked.’
She padded into the kitchen, scratching and yawning deliciously with every step. Oscar and Gibson, the resident tom cats, mewled the lament of the wildly over-indulged and leapt onto the cooker while she plugged in the kettle and lit a cigarette. Opening the fridge, Dora prised a carton of milk off the shelf and sniffed it speculatively.
A few seconds later. Sheila pushed the kitchen door open. She peered around and sniffed, looking rushed. Sheila inevitably looked rushed.
‘Oh, you’re in here, are you? I thought you told me you’d stopped smoking? You’ve left the street door on the latch again. Don’t know why you’ve bought that security thing, anyone can just walk up –’
Dora hunted around for the teapot. ‘I nipped across to the shop first thing.’
Sheila’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not like that, surely? You’re not ill, are you?’ She picked her way across the kitchen and stood a wicker basket on the table amongst the debris of breakfast letters and open books. Oscar headed towards the cat litter tray.
Dora glanced down at the grey dressing gown she was wearing and shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been up for hours. I’ve been working on the computer this morning. I’m working on a new book. Lillian Bliss may have gone, but Catiana Moran is still going strong.’
Sheila looked at Dora and tipped her head accusingly to one side. ‘What are all those boxes doing in the hall? Are you moving out? I did wonder if you would after all the thing with the burglaries. It makes sense really.’
Behind Sheila, the kitchen door opened to reveal Jon Melrose, fetchingly attired in a white towelling bathrobe. He grinned at Sheila, whose face had frozen into a tight mask of astonishment.
‘No, actually I’m moving in, until Dora and I can find a house to buy together,’ he said. He glanced at Dora, hovering by the teapot. ‘Any chance I can have a cup?’
Dora nodded. ‘My pleasure. Why don’t you sit down. Sheila, you’ve gone really pale.’