21

Cora wearily hauled her way up the long drive carrying a string bag laden with emergency supplies. As for biscuits, all the village shop could come up with were chocolate bourbons, pink-iced wafers, custard creams and Jammy Dodgers; an insult to Lady P who always had a class selection from Fortnum’s. Above the sound of her own heavy breathing she heard a benign rattling and turned to see an old Morris Minor slowly grumbling up behind her. When its even older driver emerged she recognised him as Father Joseph, the Proudfoot’s parish priest. ‘Front door’s on the catch, Father,’ she called. ‘Go on into the drawing room.’

She carried on, making for the tradesman’s entrance, but then… What on earth! Timothy was leaning against the walnut tree with his chin on his chest and Roger Fuller was standing beside him and… oh, how disgusting! Today was a serious day of mourning, and there they were, in broad daylight, touching each other up! Fat lot they cared about decorum, and thank the Lord Father Joseph hadn’t seen them. She put the bag down and attempted a version of jumping up and down on the spot.

‘Timothy,’ she yelled, crossing her arms like an air traffic controller and bawling full megaphone. ‘Father Joseph’s here. I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Steady the Buffs, Tim,’ Roger ordered. ‘Leave this to me.’

In smiling public relations mode he guided Timothy firmly into the drawing room, but was knocked sideways, both physically and mentally, when Timothy rushed forward, dropped to one knee, kissed the priest’s hand and began to recite an intense prayer.

‘My Jesus, by the sorrows Thou didst suffer in Thine agony in the Garden, in Thy scourging and crowning with thorns, on the way to Calvary, in Thy crucifixion and death, have mercy on the souls in Purgatory, and especially on those that are most forsaken; do Thou deliver them from the terrible torments they endure; call them and admit them to Thy most sweet embrace in paradise. Amen.’

The priest crossed himself and, after dropping stiffly down to join Timothy on the floor, intoned a Latin response. Clutching each other, they rose to their feet (completely ignoring Roger), sat down on the sofa and began a long philosophical discussion concerning the possible meanings of Marina’s last words.

‘Father Joseph, her last words were “Hat trick.” Surely that was a reference to her death being the third in the family? I’m convinced she knew at the exact moment that God was with her, and he was taking her to join Pa and Morgana. I must have reassurance that this means she received absolution to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Roger, forced into the uncharacteristic role of silent observer, had no choice but to listen politely to a conversation he found as baffling as astrophysics. Even when Cora broke the intensity by bustling in with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of the nursery biscuits, they didn’t seem to notice. ‘Perhaps you could be Mother, Mr Fuller?’ she suggested.

Roger looked at his watch for the fortieth time in five minutes. Nearly one o’clock and Father Joseph was seriously outstaying his welcome, but to his relief there was another welcome tap on the door from Cora.

‘I’ve made some sandwiches for your lunch,’ she announced, ‘but I’m afraid they’re not up to standard. All I could get at Mr Bhatti’s was a tin of tuna and some yellow plastic they’ve got a cheek to call cheddar.’

Timothy rose. ‘Thank you so much, Cora.’ He then turned to the priest and extended the invitation to his guest. ‘Would you like to join us, Father? You’d be most welcome.’

The priest beamed. ‘How kind, how kind.’

The polished mahogany table in the dining room was set with three places, and the low-grade lunch stretched out on several Worcester plates. ‘A glass of wine, Father?’ enquired Timothy.

‘How kind, how kind. But I don’t drink red. I find it rather indigestible.’

Roger was despatched to get a bottle of white and a lowly supermarket chardonnay was found at the back of the fridge. When most of it disappeared down the clerical throat, Roger went to the wine-cellar and brought up a worthy red, carefully ensuring that he drank most of it himself. To his fury the religious conversation endured, and after a further half-hour he leapt to his feet, looking theatrically at his watch, ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry, Father, but we really have got to get on, you know. Arrangements and all that.’

The doddery old man nodded sagely and hauled himself to standing. ‘Perhaps one last prayer, then? Our Father, which art in Heaven…’ More delays followed that involved a trip to the lavatory and (the real purpose of the visit) the receipt of a cheque large enough to immunise several hundred African children. (‘How kind, how kind.’) Roger, on the point of screaming, steered the old bore to the Morris Minor, pressing him down into the driver’s seat before a stroll around the garden could be mooted.

Cora cleared the table, wiped it down with a waxy duster and rattled the Ewbank, sadly reflecting that the day had lost its focus and energy. She’d expected, if not a party atmosphere, at least a show of village solidarity. Was an infuriating old priest all they were going to get? From the end of the corridor, to add to her annoyance, she heard the raised voices of two grown men who had no more idea of managing themselves than two spoiled toddlers.

‘…your fucking fault.’

‘…not my fault at all.’

‘…if you hadn’t…’

‘…I didn’t…’

‘…fucking Sainsbury’s.’

‘…you promised.’

‘…bollocks I did.’

‘…that horrid dog.’

‘…then we’ll both go. Right.’

The doors of the Mercedes banged shut and the car leaped away, throwing up a skid of shingle and leaving a deep, muddy gouge. Ten yards later there was a shuddering emergency stop that caused an even deeper furrow. A red-faced Roger stomped out of the car and opened the tailgate so a seriously confused Wolfhound could jump in. In full throttle he sped down the drive and sheered left, with squealing tyres, into Manor Lane. ‘Slow down!’ Timothy screamed.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Roger bawled back. ‘We’re doing exactly what you want to do, remember.’ But, as he slewed the car around the next junction into the village high street, he failed to notice an approaching motorbike. The biker, being forced sharply onto the other side of the road, lost control, skidded for fifty yards, mercifully lost speed and slithered into the empty car park of The Dog and Duck.

‘Blind cunt!’ Roger yelled, gesticulating the V sign and flattening his foot on the accelerator.

As Roger drew into the drive of The Dower House he felt like a sailor returning to harbour. Swathes of scarlet tulips stood like soldiers in the warm sunshine, anemones and primroses covered the borders and the copper beech tree on the front lawn was beginning to burst forth its shiny bronze leaves; the beech that had been planted by his grandfather, Lord Wilfred Sandridge, on 6th June 1956 to celebrate the publishing house of Sandridge Fuller he’d just formed with Alex Fuller, the man who had just married his daughter. It was the first time that Roger had ever felt any nostalgia for The Dower House. It was just his family house, but it held no happy memories of his childhood. The continuous rows concerning his father’s serial infidelity. Boarding school from the age of nine, and returning in the holidays to see his domineering father bullying his sad, plain mother. His mother getting sadder and plainer and, eventually, with the death of his grandfather, becoming paramount as the company’s major shareholder. Thereafter his parents’ pantomime of truce, resolved only by his father’s premature death. Then, on his marriage, being bequeathed the house by his mother and moving in with his glorious, redhaired young wife.

Sally’s car was missing. ‘She’s out,’ Roger said. ‘Are you coming in or are you going to sit there with a face like a sow’s chuff?’

‘I don’t think Sally would want me in the house.’

‘Sod what Sally wants. She’s got it all, or had you forgotten that I’m signing the house over to her? Just to remind you, petal, that’s well over a million quid’s worth. I live with you now, you ungrateful bugger, so just try and remember what I’ve given up for you.’

‘I’d rather sit out here. Listen to my breathing. I’m having an asthma attack.’

‘Bollocks! You’ve never had an asthma attack in your life. God, you’re such a drama queen.’

‘I’m not like that. You know I’m not like that.’

‘Well, you are today. Shift your arse and give me a hand.’

Roger slammed the car door shut and walked to the front door. Timothy followed; his face showing a tight, pained expression, and holding a hand to his chest. Thirty seconds later, on walking into the kitchen, Roger found Sally’s goodbye note. ‘She’s left me!’ he yelped. ‘Gone. No address. No nothing. Wants an instant divorce. And she’s going to sell up right away. She can’t just piss off!’ He flopped down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, waiting for Timothy to console him or at least pour him a drink, but Timothy, obsessed with his own problems, was anxiously pulling on his lungs.

‘I’m going to collapse, Rog. It’s like a vice round my chest. It’s even worse in here. I must be allergic to Finnegan. This place just reeks of him.’

‘Then go in the garden and get some fresh air. And don’t be so bloody rude about my house. It does not reek, thank you very much. The Manor might be a sanitised little palace, but my house is a real home, where real people live. It seems very convenient to me that my dog gets slagged off big time and you live with that ghastly cat’s crapbox in the boiler room.’

‘It’s Fuller’s Earth. It doesn’t smell.’

‘Ha! It ronks to high heaven, but I’ve never been so honest as to mention it.’

‘I’m really ill, Rog. We’ll have to go home.’

‘Well, that’ll have to be the royal we. I’ve just told you, Sally’s fucked off. I can’t leave Finnegan here on his own, can I? For God’s sake, go outside and take some deep breaths.’ But at that moment, Roger chanced to look out of the kitchen window and noticed a large charred heap in the middle of the lawn. ‘What in the name of…?’

On reaching the garden Roger immediately came full face with the sodden remains of the bonfire and various fragments he recognised as his clothing.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ! She’s burnt my stuff! Look, Tim. Oh, the bitch! Oh, the cow!’ He turned and rushed inside the house, but was back within thirty seconds. ‘Wardrobes empty. Nothing left. Not a stitch. She’s burnt every bleeding item of clothing I own. Even my shoes.’

Timothy wasn’t listening. He was leaning against the garage wall, making a dry sucking noise and holding his mouth.

It was into this scene of angst and disorder that two uniformed policemen walked around the corner of the house. Please could they speak to the owner of ROG 666 in connection with a recent traffic accident involving a motorbike? Seconds later a breathless and green-faced schoolboy appeared.

‘Where’s Mr Fuller?’ the schoolboy puffed. ‘A lorry’s just splatted his dog.’