14

At 8.30 a.m. Cora Feather trudged up the long, sweeping drive of Monk’s Bottom Manor with a strong sense of purpose. She didn’t usually do Saturdays, but this was above and beyond the call of duty. She owed it to dear Lady P to pitch in and help Timothy (who else was there anyway?), and it was going to be a very difficult day for him, what with the phone going all the time and people calling round to pay their respects. She envisaged that she’d be indispensable, but as she rounded the bend by the ancient oak and the façade of the house was revealed, her enthusiasm turned into full-scale fury. As she suspected, Roger Fuller’s car was parked smack bang at the front door. Her hackles rose. Say no more. Dear Lady P not even cold and Mr Big had swanned in with his toothbrush. Well, he could sling his hook. She wouldn’t be laying out the red carpet for the likes of him and his pompous swank.

On reaching the back door she shaded her eyes from the sun to see Timothy moving about on the edge of the lake, doing something with the weed pole. ‘Oh well, Cora,’ she sighed. ‘Go and say your piece, but it won’t be easy.’

Over the years she’d evolved a decided fondness for Timothy, even though village opinion had declared that he was a bit of a nerd; innocent, introverted and with the social skills of an earthworm. On hearing that Marina Proudfoot was terminally ill, a wave of profound sorrow had circulated the community, followed by a second round for Timothy. ‘Poor bugger,’ they all said. ‘What’s his life going to be like without his mother? How on earth will he cope?’ It was fair comment. The only window the shy bachelor had to the outside world was the modest market garden he ran from the vast grounds of The Manor, and his only regular visitor was Roger Fuller, an old Monks Bottom pal, who helped out in the greenhouses as a respite from his stressful publishing career. There wasn’t an inkling of suspicion or innuendo as to the true nature of their relationship; in fact, some commentators referred to Roger’s presence in terms of social work, being his only real friend and supporting him steadfastly since (mouthed silently) ‘the tragedy.’ If only they’d known the truth.

Cora had sussed the situation many moons ago. It had been a terrible shock, but as a lifetime reader of the tabloids, she knew such things went on. It was the one case of ‘the wine glass under the bed and the watch under the pillow’ about two years ago that had given the game away. Monday mornings she did the bedrooms. All nine, with proper wax polishing. None of your slovenly Mr Sheen on the antique mahogany. She knew Timothy slept on the right-hand side of his double bed. His silk Harrod’s pyjamas were always neatly folded beneath the right-hand pillow and the adjoining bedside cupboard was adorned with his things: an alarm clock, a gardening encyclopaedia, a beaker of pens, a notebook, a pencil torch, a wooden bowl to hold his small change and several family photographs. That morning she’d swept up the fancy brocade valance to hoover and there it was! An empty wineglass tucked underneath the left-hand side of the bed. Lady P was off at that retreat place, keeping her gob shut and bobbing about with the monks, so that had to be the evidence. Timothy had a secret lady friend! Who’d ever have guessed? Then, on lifting the pillow on the same side to change the pillow case, she found a watch. A fancy man’s watch, and it certainly wasn’t the one Timothy wore. Her legs nearly gave way. No doubt it had been taken off and slipped underneath the pillow before… Oh, my good Gawd… But apart from seeing a picture of Timothy and whoever it was sitting up in bed like Morecambe and Wise, she couldn’t have been more convinced that a bit of rumpy-pumpy had been going on. She slipped the watch into her apron pocket and later produced it with careful indifference.

‘Timothy, I found this in the downstairs cloakroom. Is it yours?’

‘Oh, Cora,’ he beamed. ‘It’s Roger Fuller’s Rolex. He’s been looking for it everywhere. He even had the whole of the compost heap out. He’ll be sooooooo thrilled you’ve found it.’

Cora had gone hot and cold. Surely not that Roger Fuller! He was so big, so manly, and the dead spit of his father who could never keep his hands off anything in a skirt. And what about his lovely wife and daughter? Did Sally Fuller know what he was up to? But her lips were sealed. It was too embarrassing to repeat anyway, but with the art of a natural voyeur, Cora kept her eyes open. Their full dirty weekends always coincided with Lady P’s absence, and the wheely bin contained the confirmation. Beer cans, wine bottles, boxes that had held super-whammy-king-sized-thick-crust pizza Margaritas or endless tin foil take-away cartons. In Timothy Proudfoot terms (who had no other life apart from his mother and his vegetables) this was decadence indeed.

As she approached Timothy she noticed the Fuller’s famous Wolfhound was bounding around. Its size terrified her, but thankfully the mad animal caught sight of a rabbit and shot off like lightning, its body motivated by a hound’s thrust and complete lack of grey-matter.

‘That’s Roger’s… er, Mr Fuller’s dog,’ Timothy said, by way of a halting explanation. ‘He, er… stayed here last night. Moral support and all that.’

Despite Timothy being gifted with a male version of his mother’s beauty, he looked wrecked. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffed, and his mouth dropped down like a dead salmon.

Cora pursed her lips, looking serious and gimlet-eyed. ‘Your mother was a truly wonderful and courageous woman,’ she said, moving forward to pat his hand. ‘I’ve come up to get you through the day, and to start planning the funeral reception. Chin up, ducky. You can rely on old Cora. I was here for you all those years ago, and I’m here for you now.’

Timothy, stifling back tears, thanked her with a flowery sentence. Cora thanked him for thanking her, but when she got back up to the house she wished she’d saved her breath. What a mess to walk in to! Kitchen table a complete schlitter of cracker crumbs and dirty knives. Glasses and empty bottles, of course. Had to drink their fancy wine, didn’t they? As much as she had sympathy, this would not be tolerated. If this was a signpost to the future, she would say ta-ta.

A small bunch of orange rosebuds sat in the sink, no doubt the first of many floral tributes that would arrive, so she placed them in a glass tumbler and gathered up as many vases as she could find, in readiness. She then contemplated doing the washing-up, mulling over an excuse of extenuating circumstances, but decided that she had to make a stand – it was a Manor House tradition that the family always loaded up the dishwasher themselves, and that was certainly the way things would stay. She’d get on with the ironing while she had the chance and went to fetch the laundry basket, but was incensed to find the hideously spoiled cat stretched on top, playing the femme fatale card. Its blue eyes opened languidly, trying to convey hardship, but a broad hand gave it a firm order to scram.

In the room directly above Cora’s head, Roger stood at the window, watching the exquisite figure of Timothy twirling the weed pole in the lake; a job they traditionally spent the whole of the Easter weekend doing together. He looked normal enough, so it was fingers crossed for a speedy recovery. Strange that he hadn’t heard him get up. Pity. He was feeling more than a smidge randy and a good hard ruck would have set him up for the difficult day ahead. He moved to the adjoining bathroom, peed with the resonance of Shire horse and headed jauntily down the back staircase to the kitchen.

As he bounded into the room, Cora stared, but unlike most women, the sudden sight of a naked man didn’t faze her. She looked him up and down as if he were for sale.

‘Mr Fuller,’ she said. ‘I’d be grateful if you could cover yourself up, and don’t be long about it. I think there’s the little matter of a table for two to clear up from last night.’ Roger, stunned like a rabbit in the eye of a poacher’s lamp, had automatically crossed his hands to hide his accoutrement and made to flee, but at that precise point, Timothy walked into the kitchen, preceded by four bounding legs dripping with muddy sludge.

‘Not in here!’ Cora shrieked, flattening herself against the sink, but Finnegan was dancing in anticipation of his breakfast. Seeing Roger, he imagined it must be somewhere close at hand, and leapt about, smearing a marl of toe-shaped splodges on the pristine cream walls.

‘Sorry, Mrs Feather. He’s a bit confused,’ Roger said, but with both hands fully engaged, he was unable to attempt any practical restraints.

‘Well, I’ve got a darn sight more to do than clear up after disturbed dogs,’ Cora expounded. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, go and get some clothes on. And you, Timothy, capture that animal.’

There was a flurry of activity. Roger fled from the room and Timothy shooed Finnegan back out into the garden. The traumatised dog shot off, squealing from the attentions of a hissing cat, who was beginning to realise that all normality was draining from her life. In accompaniment to the pandemonium the front door bell rang, with three short bursts. The undertakers had arrived.