33

At 8.00 a.m. sharp, Cora Feather arrived at the back door of The Manor holding two plastic bottles of milk she’d picked up from Mr Bhatti’s. ‘How’s the patient?’ she demanded, rolling up her sleeves. ‘I’m used to all this, you know. I do two afternoons a week at the Sinking Sun Nursing Home.’

‘Tim’s not had a very good night, actually,’ said Roger briskly. ‘He had a bit of a nightmare and I had to call Dr Gibson out, but fortunately he calmed down and went back to sleep. Obviously I’m hoping he’ll be fit enough to attend his mother’s cremation tomorrow. Once we’ve got that out the way, I feel sure he’ll pick up.’

Cora gaped. ‘Are you telling me I’ve only got twenty-four hours to organise a funeral reception?’

‘Nothing to do, Mrs Feather, nothing to do.’

‘What do you mean, nothing to do? There’s caterers to organise and a buffet to choose and glasses to hire…’

‘None of that nonsense needed. Tim won’t be up to it anyway, so any mourners who want to pay their last respects can gather at The Dog and Duck.’

‘The Dog and Duck! I beg your pardon, Mr Fuller, but The Dog and Duck won’t do at all. Lady P was a brave and gracious lady what deserves a proper, refined send off, and if you think…’

‘I don’t actually care a tuppeny toss what you think, Mrs Feather. I shall ring Trevor Frogett and book the taproom at the back. It can accommodate thirty at a push, so it should suffice. I’d be grateful, though, if you can spread the word. It’s at ten-thirty at the Crem on Three Mile Hill.’ Cora stood stunned and open-mouthed while Roger slipped on his jacket. ‘I’ve agreed with Dr Gibson that I’ll give work a miss today, but your services are still required, at least for this morning.’

‘You promised me double time until seven.’

‘Did I really? Well, there’s been a change of plan. I’m off home now to answer my emails and attend to my post. Tim knows you’re coming, and he’s very pleased. You’ll find him in his mother’s bedroom. He’ll need a bath, and then make sure he has a shave and gets dressed. I looked in on him two minutes ago and he’d gone back to sleep, so it would be a good idea if you got his day going quite soon. Oh, and by the way, there was some nonsense talked last night about him wanting to talk to a priest. Just a spur of the moment panic, but it’s all sorted now. If a Father Ewan rings, can you politely explain that his services are no longer required?’ With that, Roger strode out of the kitchen, heading for the front door.

Cora fizzed. What appalling manners from them what were supposed to be the elite of society! What did he think she was? Some sort of curtsying servant? If it weren’t for him upstairs, she really would walk out, and never come back. Mind you, much as she had respect for dear Lady P, all this baloney was probably her fault for spoiling the little toad. In her opinion, he hadn’t been given enough smacked bottoms, and as for sleeping in his mother’s bed… There was something very iffy about that!

At that precise moment Andrew Gibson phoned, and Cora, in high dudgeon, ear-blasted him with a verbatim report of Roger’s appalling manners and her serious disapproval of The Dog and Duck as a venue. ‘It’s outrageous!’ she fumed. ‘Now he’s swanned off home.’

‘Bear up, Cora,’ said the doctor. ‘He’s got to attend to some urgent business, so I’m terribly grateful you’re there. A motherly presence is exactly what Tim needs. What’s he doing now?’

‘Still in bed. His Nibs says I’ve got to get him to have a bath, and get dressed.’

‘If you can achieve that it’ll be an excellent result. I’m very anxious to see him eating normally as well. Tim’s suffering from a very peculiar condition I suspect is something called post-traumatic stress disorder. You might find his behaviour’s more than a bit odd, so once he’s up and about try and get him to concentrate on simple things. Perhaps a look at the morning paper, or listen to Classic FM, but no TV in case something upsets him. Maybe he could pop down to his greenhouses for a recce and get some fresh air. Anything to continue his normal routines. I’ll call in as soon as I’ve finished morning surgery, but do ring the Health Centre if you’re at all worried. Oh, and you’ll be getting a phone call from Father Ewan, Marina’s special priest. He’s coming down later on to give Tim some counselling.’

‘Mr Fuller said that was all off.’

‘Oh? Perhaps Tim’s changed his mind, then. Can you find out and let me know sharpish? No point in dragging the poor man all the way down here if he’s not required.’

Cora set-to to prepare Timothy a tasty breakfast, but a search in every nook and cranny could only turn up one cracked egg, stuck to the box, and two stale crusts skulking in the bread bin. Cora tightened her mouth like a buttonhole. Obviously a certain person had sat on his fat arse all weekend and hadn’t been to Sainsbury’s. Oh, well. Her kids had gobbled up egg-bread, so egg-bread it would have to be.

She carried the tray upstairs and set it down, but when she drew the curtains and Timothy slowly turned his head, she caught her breath. He was hardly recognisable. Dark bags hung below bloodshot eyes, he had a two-day growth of beard and an angry rash had broken out on his forehead. His pallor was jaundiced and he had the expression of a zombie.

‘Nice pot of tea and some egg-bread,’ she said, ‘and you’re lucky to get that. There’s still not a crumb in this house, but the swing-bin’s full up with wine bottles and them silver takeaway boxes. Your friend doesn’t stint himself, and neither does he know how to wash up.’

‘Not hungry,’ Timothy said flatly.

‘Nonsense. It’s a fair bet you’ve had nothing since I left on Saturday. Now come on. Be a good boy and eat up.’ Timothy slowly managed half a slice and sipped the tea. ‘I hear the cremation’s arranged for tomorrow, dear,’ she said, attempting something that might pass as normal conversation.

‘Is it? Are you coming, Cora?’

‘’Course I am. There’ll be a big village turn-out, too.’

‘We’ll all be there, won’t we? Me and you, and Pa and Morgana, and Roger.’

‘Oh, I expect so.’

‘I really wish I knew where to find Patrick. I know Mumma would like him to be there.’

‘Who’s Patrick?’

‘He was my friend. He used to live with us, but I can’t actually remember him being there. When I was little Mumma talked about him all the time. She always laid a place for him at the table, and if we went shopping, we would buy him a comic. And when I said my prayers we always remembered him and sent him our love. Perhaps Father Ewan knows about him. He’s coming to see me later on today.’

‘Mr Fuller said that if he rang, I had to tell him he was no longer required.’

Timothy shot forward in the bed, spilling the remains of the cup of tea. ‘Well he is required! I need him! He must come!’

‘All right, ducky. Don’t upset yourself. I know just the thing to calm you down. How about a nice bath? It’ll do you the world of good.’ Cora moved into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the taps, confirming the benefits of hot soapy water as an aid to recovery.

‘Put in some of Mumma’s Body Shop Strawberry Bubbles,’ he called out languidly. ‘Then will you give Roger a shout? I want him to come and wash me.’

‘’Fraid it’s only little old me you’ve got,’ Cora said, coming back into the bedroom. ‘Your friend’s gone home.’

‘You’re a liar!’ he shouted. ‘A terrible liar and God will strike you dumb. He wouldn’t go out and leave me. If he’s not here, he’ll have gone to Sainsbury’s.’

‘Oh, yes. So he has. I forgot. I get so muddled up in my old age. He’s gone to Sainsbury’s, and he’ll be back in the shake of a lamb’s tail.’

‘Then will you wash me?

‘Don’t be daft. You’re a grown man, and grown men can wash themselves.’

‘Please, Cora. You’ve got such big strong hands. When Roger washes me, it’s just blissful.’

‘I don’t understand the likes of all that,’ she said. ‘Not that you can’t do what you want behind closed doors, but I’m glad your dear Mum never knew. Saved her a lot of heartache, I’ll be bound.’

‘There was lots she didn’t know about me. She came back in the night and sat on the bed. I tried to tell her my big, bad secret, but I just couldn’t find the courage.’ Cora sighed. Came back in the night, did she? Her and Elvis Presley, that would be. He certainly was cracking up.

‘Pop yourself in the bath, dear. There goes the phone. It might be that Father Ewan.’

When she returned, Timothy was lying back in the pink sudsy water with his eyes closed. ‘That was him,’ she said. ‘He’ll be down around six. He said he’s praying for you.’

Timothy smiled contentedly. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Cora. He’s coming to hear my confession. I know he’ll tell God to forgive me, and then we can talk about the Kingdom of Heaven. By the way, did you manage to make the fairy cakes?’