38

Within ten minutes of leaving The Manor, Cora was powering a shopping trolley round the air-conditioned aisles of Sainsbury’s. Now, unloading at the checkout, she stood boldly with self-congratulations. Spare staff were summoned to pack and the village taxi was loaded up by an acned youth with far less strength than Cora. She looked at her watch. ‘Good timing, Mac. Wagons roll. You’ll come in for a cuppa, won’t you?’

As the taxi reached the top of The Manor House drive she slapped the sides of her seat so strongly old Mac was forced to swerve, narrowly missing a lamppost. ‘Ha!’ she shouted. ‘Meladdo’s back, and not before time.’ Roger was observed removing several very large Marks and Spencer’s bags from the back of his car. At first she was compelled to forgive him for being absent. He’d been shopping for food after all; she’d jumped the gun and judged him too quickly. But it was soon obvious that his bags were much too large, and not full enough to contain food – the soft and swingy variety that held clothes. There were at least ten bags and even a zipped suit-cover over his arm. Cora could contain her fury no longer, and struggled inelegantly from the car.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ she yelled. ‘That poor troubled soul upstairs, going from crisis to crisis, and all you can do is swan off. He was acting up so queer I had to call out Dr Gibson. He was extremely concerned, Mr Fuller. Extremely concerned, and none too pleased that you’d done the disappearing act. The only thing he could do was get him back to bed and knock him out with some pills. Some friend you are.’

Roger placed his purchases on the ground and squared up to her.

‘Mrs Feather, Andrew Gibson was fully aware that I had urgent things to attend to. In any case, it’s absolutely none of your blasted business what I do or where I’ve been.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ she bellowed. ‘It is my business. It’s my business to tell you that you’re a selfish sod. There wasn’t a scrap of food in the house, but did you care? Did you buggery. You’d have been better off going around Marks with a food trolley instead of treating yourself. I’ve just been to Sainsbury’s to make sure the poor boy doesn’t starve, and don’t think I give a monkey’s what happens to you.’ She then turned and shouted to the taxi driver. ‘Get the boot open, Mac.’

A red-faced Cora, who was near to tears, snatched out each bag of groceries and threw them down on the drive for maximum impact and damage, underlining her attitude by giving them firm angry kicks across the shingle. She scrambled in her handbag for the till receipt and stuffed it on top of some bananas. ‘Right. Now get me what you owe me, Mr Fuller. That little lot was a hundred and thirty-six pounds, 68 pence, plus Mac’s fare of twenty with the tip, and while you’re at it you can pay me the eighty quid what you told me I’d earn today. That makes a grand total of a two hundred and thirty-seven to my reckoning. Then I’ll be off, and I won’t be back. At least while you’re still around, I won’t be.’

‘Mrs Feather,’ seethed Roger, ‘that’s the best news I’ve heard in my entire life. You’re a vicious old cow who assumes far too much importance in this house. I’m delighted to see the back of you.’ He produced his wallet and counted out two hundred and fifty pounds in crisp new notes. ‘Here you are, with interest. Any unpaid wages will be sent to you, and I’m sure Tim will be pleased to supply you with a basic reference, despite your numerous shortcomings.’ He walked forward and stuffed the money in her hand. ‘Now piss off and good riddance.’

As the taxi retreated down the drive, Roger’s heart beat fast, his breathing was laboured and the smell of fresh sweat radiated from his armpits. His fury was such that he could have cheerfully swung a cricket bat round the old trout’s head, and been grateful to see her felled to the gravel in a bath of blood. Fucking bitch! Now he was faced with the humiliating task of clearing up the drive. As he wearily picked up the first food bag, it split from underneath. The contents fell out covered in tomato ragout, with a broken glass jar showing the red-stained face of Lloyd Grossman. Not one food bag out of twelve had escaped being plastered with damage, ranging from broken eggs, washing up liquid, salt, flour and yoghourt.

It was a full ninety paces from the front of The Manor House to the hinterlands of the scullery door, and carrying the detritus through the house was not an option. Feeling hot, clumsy and exhausted, Roger carefully placed his personal cargo in the portico by the front door and went to find a wheelbarrow.

On his return his spirits sank even further to see a visitor had appeared. ‘Father Joseph,’ said Roger, with a tight-lipped attempt to hide his rage. ‘You’ve called at a very inconvenient time. Tim’s sound asleep and I’ve got my hands full, as you can see.’

‘Well, many hands make light work, Mr Fuller. Let me help.’

‘That’s very decent of you. Thanks very much.’

Together they loaded up the wheelbarrow and trundled it around to the back of the house. Once inside, dishcloths were found and taps run. Items beyond saving were thrown away, and the rest were washed, dried and packed away in the larder or the fridge. The weariness Roger felt was overwhelming, and all he wanted to do was to sit down completely alone and pour a glass of something large and alcoholic, but he was obliged to offer the old man a reward. ‘Amontillado, Father? I think we both need one.’

‘How kind, how kind.’

Roger took the bottle from the pantry, glugged out two large sherry glasses and opened a packet of delicate cheese straws that had miraculously come through the assault perfectly intact.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, lifting his own glass and sinking half of it. ‘I’ll go up and see if Tim’s awake yet,’ but within a minute he was back. ‘He’s deeply asleep. He’s actually been rather distressed this last couple of days, and I think Dr Gibson’s medicated him.’

‘That’s why I’m here, Mr Fuller. I had a phone call from Father Ewan McEwan. You must have heard the family speak of him. He’s quite a star of the priesthood. He’s coming down later to counsel Tim, and he rang me to ask if I’d pop up to keep a weather eye on things.’

‘With the greatest of respect, Father Joseph, the famous star won’t be needed. Could you contact him to that effect? If you’ve got his mobile number I’ll do it myself.’

‘Sorry, Mr Fuller, but I’ve no contact number at all. I suppose you could always ring the Abbey, but I know he had an appointment in London this afternoon.’

Roger swallowed another large draught. ‘Look, Father, this is all getting out of hand. I’ve got to get Tim through the cremation tomorrow. I take it you’ve been informed?’

‘I’ve been informed, but I’ve also been told by Arthur Fullylove I’m persona non grata. Lady P left strict instructions that I was unwelcome to officiate.’ He shrugged. ‘I was never very popular with the lovely lady, but I still have a duty to Tim. I just can’t walk away.’

‘Well, I can’t risk any interference from grief therapy. He’s in a bad enough way without all that nonsense’

‘Mr Fuller, you’ve absolutely nothing to fear. I can guarantee that any therapy will have a miraculously calming effect, and there’s no one more apt to steer Tim through things than Father Ewan. He’s a truly wonderful practitioner. After the family tragedy I was convinced that Lady P was going to disappear into permanent melancholy, and I was the one who recommended she should consult with him in the first place. I’m delighted to say he was solely responsible for keeping her spiritually nourished and sane. I’m sure you must have heard of his book, Hand in Hand with Your Inner Self ?’

He nodded. ‘My wife treats it as her bible, but I’ve never read it.’

‘Well, you must. It’s a life-changing classic. Rest assured, Mr Fuller, Father Ewan’s a latter day saint.’

Roger slumped his shoulders, knowing he was defeated, and looked at his watch. ‘What time’s he coming?’

‘Around six. In the meantime, I’ll hang on to support Tim when he wakes up.’

‘Father,’ Roger said, restraining himself with great difficulty from grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and physically ejecting him. ‘I hardly slept last night, and Mrs Feather has just been hideously unpleasant. I need something that’s known these days as a little head space.’

‘But I assured Father Ewan I would stay in attendance until he arrived.’

‘Well, I’ll be here. He won’t be abandoned. Why not pop back around four.’

The priest looked dejected and sighed wearily. ‘As you will, Mr Fuller.’

As soon as the old man was on his feet, Roger steered him firmly by the shoulders up to the front door. Again, Roger felt like swinging the cricket bat and leaving another corpse lying in the drive alongside the Feather cow. As the old Morris chugged away he vowed that Saint bloody Ewan would be the third.