A short bespectacled man in his late sixties, clad in a purple cardigan and grubby old corduroy trousers, had bustled out of the back garden of the adjoining semi. Rain had plastered strands of grey hair to his scalp. He had a garden trowel in his hand and he pointed it at Daniel, rather as a sheriff might threaten a snake oil salesman with his revolver.
‘Do you happen to know when Cheryl might be back?’
The neighbour scowled. ‘Said she’d be away for a few days. Left the key with us, asked us to water the plants if there was a dry spell. Fat chance of that in this country. Whatever happened to global warming?’
‘So she’s gone on holiday?’
‘I suppose you could call it that.’ The man’s tone was disapproving, for a reason Daniel could not understand. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Her husband was my father.’
The old man coughed; it seemed to be his way of showing astonishment. ‘You’re Ben’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Daniel? Good God.’ He stared fiercely. ‘I can see the likeness now. The eyes, anyway. Of course, he was burlier to start with and he did put on a few pounds after he retired. Who would have thought it? He used to talk about you. You’ve had a programme on the television, isn’t that right? Historical stuff, not my cup of tea. Gardening’s my thing. My wife watched it after Ben told us it was on.’
Daniel blinked. Somehow he’d never imagined that his father would have mentioned his name to anyone up here. He’d presumed that Ben Kind would have been determined to keep his first marriage a secret, too ashamed ever to reveal the existence of the family he’d deserted for the hedonistic pleasures of life in Oxenholme.
The rain was drumming against the roofs. The man took off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief. ‘What did I say? Now then, you’d better come inside, have a cup of tea and a scone. You can say hello to Edna, she’ll shoot me if I let you go without introducing you. It isn’t every day that a celebrity turns up on our doorstep.’
‘The only mercy is that is was quick,’ Edna Whiston said. She was a dainty little woman whom Daniel and her husband had interrupted in the middle of knitting a Postman Pat jumper for an infant grandchild. ‘Another scone?’
Daniel put down his tea cup on a coaster depicting a view of the harbour at Whitby. The only word for the Whistons’ living room was cosy. It smelled faintly of roast beef and gravy. Photographs of beaming family members covered the tops of the sideboard and a nest of occasional tables. A magazine rack bulged with copies of
‘Thanks, but I’d better be going soon. You have been very kind.’
‘Well, as I say, we were very fond of your father and it was a dreadful tragedy when he died. Such an active chap, loved his garden. You can see how carefully he tended it, even though nothing much has been done since he passed away. Cheryl has a man in one afternoon a week, to keep up appearances. Of course, she doesn’t spend much time around here nowadays.’
‘I see that she’s selling the house. Staying in the area?’
‘Moving to Grange-over-Sands, she said.’
Edna pursed her lips, rather as if Cheryl had decided to re-locate to Gomorrah. The Whistons had evidently enjoyed Ben Kind’s company, but it was apparent that they cared less for his second wife. Daniel caught the couple exchanging a look and wondered what it might signify.
‘I should have given her a ring. Perhaps I’ll do that when she’s back.’
George Whiston cleared his throat noisily, like a 1950s father preparing to tell his son the facts of life. ‘Um, it’s none of our business, young man, but you might want to think over whether it’s such a good idea.’
‘You think she won’t want to talk to me? I realise it’s not so long since Dad died, but…’
‘This is a bit difficult for Edna and me, lad. We don’t care to interfere, like. But between you and me, Cheryl has a gentleman friend. He has a house in Grange-over-Sands and that’s where she is now.’
‘Oh, right.’ All was becoming clear. ‘Thanks for telling me, I’ll be discreet. Obviously I don’t begrudge her a new relationship.’
‘Right you are. But there is one thing…’ George Whiston coughed in noisy embarrassment and took a sudden interest in his shoes, ‘…it’s not a new relationship at all.’
‘So your father got a taste of his own medicine?’ Miranda asked.
They were snacking while the cottage echoed to the beat of Status Quo, thanks to the muscular builder who had brought a portable CD player along. At least the music drowned out the rain, which was bouncing off the paving stones outside the kitchen window. This was the fiercest downpour since they had moved in.
‘Sounds like it. According to Edna and George, she’d been having a long-term affair with her boss. They’d seen him call at the house when my father was out. He wouldn’t leave for hours. In the meantime, she drew the bedroom curtains.’
Miranda clicked her tongue. ‘Scandalising the neighbourhood. Not a good idea.’
‘Especially when your neighbours don’t care for you and have a soft spot for the husband you’re cuckolding.’
‘Did they give him any hints about what was happening?’
‘No need. He and George were in the same pub quiz team. One night, after a few pints, he confided in George. He’d had his suspicions for a while and when he confronted her, she didn’t deny it. He gave her an ultimatum, said she had to choose. Her boyfriend was married but his wife had cancer and he wouldn’t leave her, in fact he had retired from work to spend his time caring for her. Cheryl promised Dad that she’d finish with him. It never happened, she couldn’t let go. The boyfriend’s wife died a month before dad. Now Cheryl’s in the process of moving in with him.’
‘Presumably you don’t want to see her any longer?’
He finished his tuna sandwich. The act of putting his plate and tumbler in the new dishwasher gave him time to compose a reply. ‘This makes no difference. She broke up my parents’ marriage, then her own, but there’s no changing the facts. She lived with my father for the past twenty years. If anyone can tell me about him, she can.’
‘Yes, but how much more do you want to know about him?’
He hesitated. ‘I–I need a clearer picture of him than the old blurry snaps in the family photo album.’
‘How can you be sure that Cheryl would be a reliable witness?’
‘I can’t. But she’s the best that I have.’
Despite failing to find her at Oxenholme, Daniel remained unwilling to phone Cheryl and give her advance warning of his arrival. That would give her the chance of making an excuse, or refusing outright to have anything to do with him. Judging by what the Whistons had said about her, this was more than likely. He’d rather take the risk that she was out.
Even if she eluded him, his journey would not be in vain. He planned to stop off en route. Like a child husbanding a special treat for a rainy day, Daniel had been saving up his first visit to Amos Books. The shop was supposed to be something special, an Elysium for seekers after secondhand and antiquarian books. There was even a cafe which earned high marks in the guide-books for value and atmosphere. Best of all, the shop was only a short drive from Brack.
He found it without difficulty, one of half a dozen small businesses grouped around a large yard. Most of the units produced and sold crafts of one sort or another: wall hangings decorated with Lakeland themes, pottery and wooden gifts, hand-made greetings cards, and teddy bears with large, beseeching eyes. The bookshop occupied a section of a converted mill, the rear of which overlooked a weir. Rain was rattling on the gravel and although Daniel ran from his car, his sweatshirt was soaked by the time he was inside. The rich aroma of Kenyan coffee blended with the smell of old books and he recognised the andante movement of Hanson’s
This afternoon an elderly couple taking shelter from the weather were pretending to interest themselves in slip-cased effusions of the Folio Society while a pair of earnest back-packers studied a glassed cabinet containing a complete set of Wainwright first editions as if glimpsing the Crown Jewels. A quick reconnaissance established that
