Mortal Remains

He smiled as he drank his tea. He would deeply relish the challenge of setting about cutting himself a second slice of the cake. He would move Lester over to take charge of the new branch. Lester would do well there, he had a good head on his shoulders. He had never traded on his position as the boss’s son-in-law, had always pulled his full weight, he had more than earned his promotion. And he might very well find a spot in the new set-up for Norman Griffin. A useful and loyal henchman, the right stuff in him, the backbone to start taking on a bit of responsibility.

He stood up and went to a wall map. Pins and flags marked current developments, projects still under discussion, sites of possible future interest, and, most mouthwatering of all, likely locations for the second yard. He studied the map closely, then he moved on to consult the calendar – his own trade calendar, expensively produced, beautifully photographed, portraying the best of the firm’s work over the previous year. It bore the correct name of the firm, Dobie and Mansell, though the business was known everywhere these days simply as Mansell‘s.

Dobie was now retired, living abroad. The firm had been started by Dobie’s father after the First World War, Tom Mansell had come in fifteen years ago. Dobie had taken no active part in the management since his retirement. As long as his share of the steadily increasing profits kept rolling in, he didn’t bother his head about what went on in the business.

Mansell fingered back the glossy pages, considering dates: September . . . October . . . November . . . His face broke into a smile, he jabbed a finger down. ‘That’s it!’ he said aloud. Sunday, November 11. He’d have them all here together for a slap-up lunch, Lester, Diane, Stuart, he’d make his announcement then.

It pleased his fancy to choose the anniversary of the day he had taken over sole active control of the firm. Dobie had left the yard for the last time thirteen years ago, on November 10, at the end of the working day. Early next morning, before anyone was about, Mansell had driven into the yard. He had walked about the entire place with a great grin on his face, knowing it was all before him, tasting the powerful sweetness of the moment.

He picked up one of the framed photographs ranged along a shelf, one he particularly liked: Diane and Lester, strolling in the rose garden here, holding hands, smiling at each other. He’d taken the photograph himself one Sunday afternoon when they’d come to tea, not long after they’d got back from their honeymoon.

He gazed fondly down at the smiling pair. How right he had been to encourage the match – in spite of the opposition from that brother of Lester’s. Edgar always struck Mansell as a dry stick, though still a couple of years away from forty. His thoughts were briefly side-tracked by a vision of Claire, beautiful and elegant. The question rose in his mind, by no means for the first time: Whatever could have persuaded a woman like that to marry such a man?

He dragged his thoughts back to Diane and Lester. No sign yet of starting a family. He drew a deep sigh. Time enough, Diane always told him whenever he raised the matter with her. Another year or two, she’d said the last time he’d brought it up, then I really will settle down to it.

He replaced the photograph and picked up another, more recent, more formally posed: Stuart on his eighteenth birthday. It was like looking at a portrait of himself as a young man. I suppose it might not be all that many years before we have Stuart thinking about getting married, he told himself with a lightening of his spirits. Not that Stuart had any steady girlfriend as yet. Mansell fervently hoped that when the time came his son would have the sense to find himself a girl with old-fashioned ideas of a home and babies, not some hard-nosed modern female with her sights set chiefly on a career.

He put the photograph back and returned to his desk. He sat staring ahead, lost in thought.

Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, they were what gave life and substance to it all, made the whole shooting-match more than a dance of shadows on a flickering screen. The unbroken line of one’s own flesh and blood stretching into the misty centuries ahead, that was what took away the sting from the stabbing thought of one’s own mortality, that must in the end prevail, struggle against it as one might.

Over in Fairbourne, Edgar Holroyd’s day didn’t begin quite so early. At six-thirty precisely he opened his eyes in the spacious front bedroom looking out over the common. Never any need for an alarm, he always woke at the same hour, winter and summer; he had trained himself to that useful habit long ago, as a lad.

A still morning, little sound of traffic as yet. Pale streaks of light stole in around the edges of the curtains. From the trees screening the garden the collared doves murmured their ceaseless calculation: Thirteen six, thirteen six.

He glanced across at the other bed. Claire lay with her back to him, curled in a posture of deep sleep. He moved his covers gently back, eased himself noiselessly out, silently drew on slippers and dressing-gown.

With barely a whisper of sound he let himself out of the room and went stealthily along the landing, into the small bedroom he had used as a dressing room since his marriage. He got into jogging gear and went down to the kitchen where he drank a glass of orange juice and ate the single piece of rye crispbread he allowed himself before setting out.

He went for his early-morning jog in all but the worst weather. Every evening, if at all possible, he took a brisk walk. He had begun these habits years ago, they were by now deeply ingrained. Claire never accompanied him on either sally, it had never occurred to either of them to suggest it.

His watch showed his customary time as he let himself out of the house and set off at his customary pace to cover his customary route.

Upstairs in the front bedroom Claire caught the sound of the side door opening and closing. She had surfaced to full consciousness before Edgar left his bed but she had lain motionless and kept her eyes closed while he was still in the room.

She switched on the light, flung back the covers and sprang out of bed. She pulled on a robe and slippers, darted across to a mirror. This morning it was her hair that occupied her attention. Time for a new style – making her third in as many months. Before that, she hadn’t changed her hairstyle since her marriage; she smiled now at the thought.

She lifted her shining tresses, pinned, unpinned, pursued a fresh inspiration; another and another, arriving at last at an effect that satisfied her. She gave a decisive nod; at her next hair appointment she would definitely suggest something along those lines.

She turned from the mirror and went to the wardrobe, she ran her hand along the rail, appraising. The first day of autumn was only a little over a week away. Some new clothes for the new season. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled. She began to hum a tune.

The area immediately to the north of Whitethorn Common contained a variety of dwellings: terrace houses, red-brick semis, large Victorian and Edwardian residences turned into flats; here and there an old cottage clinging to its original garden, reminding the district of its rural past.

A little further out, a fair-sized council estate had sprung up after the First World War. It had seen several changes; many of the houses had passed into private hands.

In one of the more attractive parts of the estate a small grove of trees separated a group of dwellings from their neighbours. One of these dwellings, a semi occupying a corner plot in a pleasant cul-de-sac, was the home of Harry Lingard, Jill Lingard’s grandfather. It had been his home since boyhood, he had lived there alone since the death of his wife three years ago. They had had one child, a son, father of Gareth and Jill; he had been carried off in his thirties by a virulent form of pneumonia. His widow had married again two years ago and lived now with her second husband in a northern city.

Harry had been up since five-thirty, endlessly busy as always, every moment of his time structured and purposeful. A wiry little man, nimble and vigorous for his seventy-two years, a teetotaller and non-smoker, with an alert eye, a weathered face, a fringe of sparse, iron-grey hair surrounding a gleaming pate.

He had been a regular soldier, a driver, never rising above the rank of private but never disgracing himself either; he had served throughout the Second World War. When his army days were over he found himself a job as a driver-porter with Calthrop’s, an old-established firm of auctioneers and estate agents in Cannonbridge; he stayed there until he retired at sixty-five. He had immediately found himself another, lighter job as a yardman at Mansell’s, where he was still working.

During his time at Calthrop’s he had always done a bit of dealing – perfectly legitimate – on the side, mainly buying in the saleroom old items of furniture in a dilapidated condition at knockdown prices, working on them at home, putting them back in the saleroom later; he had always shown a worthwhile profit. He still kept up this practice, nipping along in his dinner-hour on viewing day, leaving his bids with a porter.

He owned his council house, he had been the first tenant on the estate to exercise the right to buy, exercising it in the teeth of entrenched opposition from the forces of local bureaucracy. The house was his pride and joy. Since the purchase he had modernized and extended, refurbished every inch, carrying out all the work himself.

On this calm September morning he ate his customary sparing breakfast while listening with keen attention to the business news on the radio. It was broad daylight by the time he set off a little later to fetch his morning paper. He glanced ceaselessly about as he strode along, keeping a citizen’s eye open for broken paving-slabs, blocked road drains, overflowing litter bins, overgrown hedges, graffiti, acts of vandalism. He halted now and then to jot down anything worthy of attention in the notebook he always carried.

As he rounded a corner he caught sight of someone he recognized going into the paper shop: Edgar Holroyd. He quickened his pace, he wanted a word with Holroyd and he intended to have it here and now. Repairs to tenants’ houses on the estate were falling behind again. Though no longer a tenant himself, Harry still fought the tenants’ battles for them, orchestrating every campaign. He was a well-known figure at the local library, thumbing through legal tomes and consumer manuals in the reference room.

Inside the shop, Edgar turned from the counter with his newspaper and saw with annoyance that Harry Lingard had stationed himself in the doorway, blocking his exit. Harry’s expression told him plainly he was about to be tackled.

Harry wasted no time in greeting or preamble but launched at once into a spirited attack on the council’s procrastination and penny-pinching. He pulled out his notebook and embarked on a rapid recital of individual cases.

Edgar was humiliatingly aware of the shopkeeper, the other customers, cocking sharply interested ears. He kept his expression, his voice, civil and detached. ‘This is hardly the time or place,’ he began.

‘It’s never the time or place for you jacks-in-office,’ Harry broke in.

A ripple of amusement travelled over the watching faces.

Edgar’s jaw tightened. ‘If you’d care to make an appointment,’ he said, still deliberately courteous, ‘I’ll be happy to see you in my office.’

Harry gave a snort of disdain. ‘You’ll dodge it again,’ he averred with conviction. ‘I’ll be fobbed off with that assistant of yours.’

All commerce in the shop had now ceased. Around him Edgar felt the intently listening silence. He strove to lighten his tone. ‘I’ll make it my business to deal with you myself,’ he promised.

Harry waved the assurance aside and plunged into a fresh chapter of complaints.

Would-be customers appeared behind him in the doorway. ‘We’re holding up traffic,’ Edgar pointed out, polite to the last.

Harry stood reluctantly aside and Edgar was able to make his escape. As he took himself swiftly off to the shelter of Fairbourne, Harry’s parting shot winged after him: ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

In a cottage not far from the council estate, Norman Griffin, Jill Lingard’s young man, lived with his mother, a widow in her fifties. Norman was an only child. His father had also worked in the building trade, in a casual fashion; he had been a good enough workman when he was sober and not engaged in picking fights. He had died not long after his son started school. For the greater part of Norman’s existence he had been accustomed to being king of the castle.

No early-morning jogging for Norman, he got all the exercise he wanted in the course of a day’s work. And he certainly didn’t start his day with a paltry piece of rye crispbread, he tucked into a substantial breakfast every morning, set before him without fail, eaten and enjoyed without haste.

This morning, as he reached the half-way point of his meal, his mother ceased her bustling about and poured herself a companionable cup of tea. She sat down opposite him to drink it.

He looked across at her. ‘Jill and me, we seem to have decided something last night. We’re getting engaged on her birthday, the first of December.’

A smile of genuine pleasure flashed across his mother’s face. ‘That is good news! She’ll make you a good wife, she’s got her head well screwed on. When are you thinking of getting married?’

He shrugged. ‘When we can settle on somewhere to live.’

She jumped in at once. ‘No reason why the pair of you can’t live here with me, to start with, at any rate. Your bedroom’s a decent size and you could have the front room to yourselves.’

By way of reply he gave an indeterminate grunt. There was no mistaking his meaning but she wasn’t offended, her suggestion had merely been a spur-of-the-moment notion. She took another drink of her tea. ‘Harry Lingard’s house,’ she said reflectively as she set her cup down. ‘Who gets that after he’s gone?’

‘Half to Jill and half to Gareth,’ Norman replied at once.

‘It could be many a long day before Jill gets her share,’ his mother commented. ‘Harry’s as fit as a flea, he could live to be a hundred.’ Another thought struck her. ‘What are you doing about a ring? Anything decent’s sure to cost a fortune. And Jill’s not a girl to wear any kind of cheap rubbish.’

He laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of giving her cheap rubbish. She likes old things. I thought I might find her a nice old ring, something with a bit of quality. There’s an antiques market in Wychford every Friday, I can try there.’ He was often over that way in the course of his work.

On Wednesday evening Jill Lingard came out of York House, the Cannonbridge department store where she worked, to catch her bus. She stayed on the bus past her usual stop – she shared a rented terrace house, a few minutes’ walk from Whitethorn Common, with two other working girls. She alighted by the council estate where her grandfather lived, she frequently dropped in on him in this way and he always made her welcome. He hadn’t long got in from work himself when she knocked at his door; he gave her a cup of tea as they talked.

‘Norman and I decided last night we’re going to get engaged on my birthday,’ she told him as she drank her tea.

He looked anything but pleased. ‘You know my opinion of that young man,’ he said flatly. ‘Up to no good when he was a lad. I wouldn’t go bail for his honesty now.’

‘You’re not fair to him,’ she protested. ‘He’s never in any kind of trouble these days.’

He thrust out his lips. ‘He’s got bad blood in him, his father was no good.’

‘Tom Mansell thinks well of him,’ she pointed out.

He gave a snorting laugh. ‘That’s because they’re cut out of the same cloth.’

She gave him back a look as stubborn as his own. ‘I’m going to marry Norman, you may as well make up your mind to it.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Give him a chance, Granddad. For my sake.’

He made no response to that but demanded with an air of challenge, ‘Where are you thinking of living if you marry him? You needn’t imagine I’ll have the pair of you here with me.’

She jumped up. ‘We’ve no intention of asking you. We’ll find somewhere to suit us.’

He looked up at her. ‘You really are set on marrying him? He’ll take some managing.’

She gave him a smile full of confidence. ‘I wouldn’t want a man that didn’t take some managing.’ She stooped to drop a kiss on his bald pate. ‘We’re not going to fall out about it, are we, Granddad?’

He reached out and touched her hand. ‘That’s the last thing I’d want.’ He got to his feet, picked up her coat from the back of a chair. Something that had been bobbing about in his brain for the last few days surfaced again as he walked with her to the door.

‘I intend tackling Mansell about more money,’ he told her. ‘The tradesmen have all had a rise but nothing’s been said about me.’

She saw the familiar light of battle in his eye. ‘Don’t be too hasty,’ she cautioned. ‘It’s probably just an oversight. If you try laying down the law to Mansell you’re liable to find yourself out on your ear.’

Shortly before ten next morning Harry Lingard, busy in his duties about the yard, spotted the unmistakable figure of Tom Mansell getting out of his car. Beside him, as usual, the equally unmistakable figure of his son, Stuart.

Harry at once abandoned what he was doing and set off smartly to intercept Mansell. A few yards away, Norman Griffin was standing by his van, running his eye down the list of materials he had to pick up from the builders’ merchant, deliver out to various sites. He saw Harry stride purposefully up to Mansell, he caught the expression on Harry’s face. Norman lifted the bonnet of his van, stooped to peer inside, a position which enabled him to cock an unobtrusive ear in Mansell’s direction. Through the medley of sounds in the yard he could just about make out the gist of what Harry was saying. Silly old fool, he thought as he caught the drift, what does he imagine he can gain, tackling Mansell like that in the open yard, with other men about? The rawest apprentice lad could have told him all he’d be likely to get out of that would be a flea in the ear.

There could be no mistaking the cutting tones of Mansell’s brief response, even if his actual words couldn’t be distinguished. Mansell turned on his heel and went rapidly off towards the office, with Stuart tagging along. Harry remained where he was, his back to Norman. Judging by his stance, the angle of his head, the rebuff had by no means vanquished him.

Norman lowered the bonnet into place, climbed into his van and drove out of the yard. His route took him along Whitethorn Road. As he approached the common he saw, a little way ahead, Claire Holroyd standing alone at the bus stop, turning the pages of a book. She glanced up as he came to a halt beside her. He leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Hello, there.’ He gave her a cheerful smile. ‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift into town.’

She hesitated. He picked up a duster from the dashboard shelf, whisked it over the passenger seat with a flourish. ‘Not a speck of dust, milady, clean as a whistle. Come on, hop in.’

She smiled suddenly, closed her book and stepped into the van.

In the hushed atmosphere of the Ladies’ Coat Salon at York House, Claire stood before a long mirror, contemplating with an air of profound concentration the coat she had almost decided on. Jill Lingard, who was attending to her, stood near by without speaking; she knew better than to interrupt with some comment of her own when matters had reached this critical stage.

Claire turned this way and that, studying the slender, classic cut of the coat. Of supple, lightweight tweed, a subtle blend of soft greys and misty blues, with a touch of dark chestnut; suède-covered buttons in the same dark chestnut, an elegant suède trim edging the pockets.

She tilted her head in thought. The coat was undeniably expensive, but not, she finally judged, too expensive; she could just about get away with it. Edgar wasn’t a man to throw his money around, nor to stand silently by while others threw it around on his behalf, but neither could he be described as close-fisted. Any purchase within reason and she would hear no complaint when he studied the monthly statement from their joint bank account.

She gave Jill a smiling nod of decision. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘I’m sure you’ve made the right choice,’ Jill assured her with total sincerity. It was always a pleasure to attend to Mrs Holroyd. She helped her off with the coat. ‘Would you like us to deliver it?’

‘Yes, please.’ Claire stood pondering. ‘A suède beret might be an idea for windy days, it might go well with the coat.’

‘They’ve got some beautiful suède berets in the millinery department,’ Jill told her. ‘They’ve just come in. I’m sure you couldn’t do better than one of those.’

A few minutes later, when Claire had gone off in search of her beret and there was a temporary lull in the department, another assistant, a woman who had recently joined the staff, middle-aged, with a sharp, knowing face, came over to where Jill was replacing coats on a rail.

‘I saw you serving Claire Holroyd,’ she said. Claire Holroyd, Jill registered, not Mrs Holroyd. ‘Do you know her?’ Jill asked.

‘I can’t exactly say I know her,’ the assistant answered with a movement of her shoulders. ‘I worked with her at Hartley’s a few years back.’ Hartley’s was a high-class establishment not far from York House, combining the functions of stationer, newsagent, bookstore and gift-shop. ‘I suppose I knew her as well as anyone there – and that’s not saying much. She was never one to stand around chatting, she was always reserved. She came to Hartley’s straight from school, she worked there until her accident.’

‘What accident was that?’

‘She was in a car crash. Eight years ago now, that must be. She never went back to Hartley’s after she was better, she got herself a job with the council, in the housing department.’

‘She must have been really beautiful as a girl.’ Jill felt not the faintest twinge of envy, securely content with her own ordinary share of looks; Norman thought her pretty and that was enough.

‘The accident took the bloom off her all right,’ the assistant said on a note of satisfaction. She leaned forward confidentially. ‘I saw a piece in the local paper a couple of weeks back, about Claire’s old boyfriend. He’s back in Cannonbridge, got himself a senior job in Calthrop’s, the estate agents, that’s where he worked before. Ashworth, his name is, Robert Ashworth, he’s a qualified surveyor.’

‘Ashworth,’ Jill repeated. ‘My grandfather read me that piece out of the paper. He worked at Calthrop’s till he retired, he’s always interested in anything to do with the firm.’

‘Claire was never actually engaged to Robert Ashworth,’ the assistant enlarged. ‘But we all took it for granted they’d get married. Then she was in the car crash and that seemed to be the end of it – don’t ask me why, I never did know the ins and outs of it. Ashworth left Cannonbridge and got a job somewhere else. I heard he got married not long afterwards – on the rebound, I shouldn’t wonder. The daughter of some businessman, so they said, pretty well-heeled.’ She slanted at Jill a look full of meaning. ‘Robert Ashworth’s a good-looking man, a lot better looking than Edgar Holroyd.’ Her smile was laced with malice. ‘I wonder if Edgar knows Ashworth is back.’

A few minutes later Diane Holroyd drove into the York House car park. Her own little car was in for a service, she was temporarily using one of her father’s vehicles. She got out of the car and walked round towards the front of the store. As she turned the corner of the building she saw her sister-in-law come out through the swing doors. Claire didn’t see her, she set off in the opposite direction. Diane walked slowly on, looking fixedly after the elegant figure moving gracefully away into the distance.