? Murder on Monday ?
Eight
Dr Rix, present chairman of Farnden Parish Council, sat in his study sorting papers for tomorrow’s meeting. He had occupied the chair for fifteen years, and when his wife accused him of wasting his time on trivial, parochial matters, he consoled himself by thinking of things that had been achieved or resolved since he was first elected: a waste bin in the recreation ground, a seat on the green in memory of an old inhabitant, young trees now well established on the small hill that ran up to the village. No matter that he had thought they were poplars, and they’d turned out to be hawthorn. They were extremely pretty in the spring and reminded him of his childhood in the Sussex countryside.
After a more or less idyllic childhood, he had completed his medical training at Barts in London, and there he had met his wife, a smart young secretary working in hospital administration. Her parents had lived in Finchley and he’d been dazzled by their obvious wealth and comfortable way of living. Not that his own parents were poor. There had been no struggle to put him through college, nothing like that, but their Sussex village house was modest, and their everyday lives were humdrum and pleasant. One family car, a cleaning woman once a week, no help with the garden, which, anyway, was his father’s passion. It had been expected of him to follow his father’s profession and he had been glad to agree. He had always admired his father, and thought that nothing could be as useful as the work he did.
Mary had belonged to a different world altogether. Money was of primary importance, and everything measured by it. Her parents talked of little else, Andrew Rix quickly discovered. They gloated over bargains they had won, prided themselves on getting value for money, watched with anxiety the rise and fall of stocks and shares. They knew where they could find the cheapest petrol, track down cut-price food on Saturday afternoons, find for Mary and Andrew the best quality furniture marked down because of ‘invisible’ blemishes.
It had soon occurred to Andrew Rix that his own parents were well aware of these things, too, but would have thought it bad form to bring the subject of money into social discourse. Although he tired of this endless preoccupation with money, he had fallen deeply in love with Mary, with her liveliness, her ready good humour, and her sparkle and enthusiasm for life. She, in her turn, loved Andrew for his steady judgement and reliability, and his lack of interest in money. He and she were delighted with each other, and a quick courtship and glamorous wedding followed. Their early days of marriage were heavily subsidised by Mary’s parents, and Andrew was not so happy about that. Gradually, though, the handouts tailed off, and they managed well on his income as a family doctor in a country practice. Their only abiding sadness was that they had no children.
When they had arrived in Long Farnden, they endured the usual year or so of suspicion and unfriendliness from the village. After that it was generally accepted that Dr Rix and his wife were a good thing, and he was elected to the parish council, giving him contact with the local people in a different way from in his consulting room. He was good at making friends and, with very few enemies, had in due course been elected chairman. Now he had promised Mary he would resign from the chairmanship at the next annual meeting. He realized he would miss the pleasant feeling of being held responsible for the well-being, in however insignificant a way, of his small community.
There were plenty of contenders for the job, of course. Evangeline Baer from the gallery fancied herself a good organizer, and let it be known that she considered running the small parish of Farnden as a doddle to someone of her experience. Maybe she was right, the doctor thought. There were certainly more cars parked outside her house these days. Another thing to be brought up at tomorrow’s meeting. Some thought the corner too dangerous for parking, and they might review the placing of double yellow lines.
Then the professor, Malcolm Barratt, was clearly looking for another chair to inhabit. Organizing departments was his speciality, he reminded the doctor every time they met in the pub. A quick half pint was the doctor’s usual, but if buttonholed by Malcolm Barratt he stood no chance of a swift escape. The professor had time on his hands, Andrew Rix reckoned, and now Malcolm had been elected to the council he had already begun to suggest radical plans for village reorganization.
The vicar, of course, came to parish council meetings as a traditional courtesy, though he was not a member, but Nurse Surfleet was a legitimate contender, a capable woman and not without ambition. Andrew Rix was well aware of the respect she commanded in the village. She had no family of her own to care for, but regarded the whole of Farnden as hers to cherish and protect. A splendid woman, but had she the necessary experience of handling the outside world: the planners, speculative builders, social engineers with bright ideas and very little practical knowledge?
Anyway, the chair was not in his gift. He would resign, and there would be a democratic election amongst the parish councillors. Dr Rix folded his morning paper, took his hat from the hall, and shouted his usual farewell to Mary in the kitchen. As he shut the door, he heard her shout a reminder that she would be out that evening, and he carried on. It was Open Minds, and he’d not forgotten. Now he was late, and still had to call in to see Gloria Hathaway. Peter White had said Gloria was still not completely right, and he wanted to check on her. So many bugs about…He coughed deeply as the cold air caught him.
The village street was empty, except for one car slowing down, and he saw it was Lois, turning into the gallery. She waved, and he raised his hat. Charming girl, he thought. What would we all do without her? She looks after us all so well. Perhaps it is time for Gloria to have a bit of help in the house? Maybe Lois has a free hour or two.
¦
Lois had waved at the doctor, but her thoughts had nothing at all to do with her responsibilities in Farnden. She was thinking about Christmas. Only eight weeks to go, and the pressure was on. She pulled on the handbrake with a rasp. Derek was forever yelling at her to release it first, but she liked the ratchety sound and ignored him. It was a small revolt, but one in which she persisted.
Eight weeks only, and nothing done. She did all the shopping for the family and her mother cooked the Christmas dinner. The cake and the pudding were made weeks before. One day she won’t be there, and I shall have to do it all myself, Lois thought, as she parked her car outside the gallery. Evangeline never minded that. In fact, she encouraged it. People will think we have customers, and that encourages more to come in, she’d said. Lois, still thinking of her mother, reminded herself that she always shopped for all the presents, including from her mother to the family, and that would save Mother’s feet. The thought of all that shopping depressed Lois further, and she began to wonder if that smug policewoman hadn’t had a point.
¦
“Morning, Lois,” said Evangeline Baer. “I’m sure you remembered to wipe your feet. Dreadfully muddy in the village…muck-spreading everywhere and not just in the fields!” Evangeline laughed heartily, and Lois bridled. She had already taken off her outside shoes and put on slippers, something she did every week at the Baers’, knowing Evangeline’s obsession with cleanliness.
“Look at my feet, Mrs Baer,” she said, holding up one leg. “Slippers on and not a speck, as you can plainly see.” On the whole, Lois and Evangeline rubbed along. Lois respected her foibles, as she did those of her other clients, and also recognised that Mrs Baer had a lot to put up with with that husband of hers.
Evangeline would have been surprised that Lois thought this of Dallas. She was sourly aware that everyone else they knew looked on him as the perfect husband, regular in his habits, faithful, as far as they knew, and fully in tune with his wife’s neat and tidy preoccupations.
Lois had observed that perfection was not always a good thing. Her Derek left stubble shavings on the bathroom basin, drawers half-open, stumped through the house in boots covered in oil from the car. She yelled at him, of course. But when he’d gone on his own to visit his sick mother in Ireland, his absence had struck her forcibly. She had missed him, stubble, grease and all. “It’s all part of him, isn’t it?” she had said to her mother. “That’s my Derek.”
Her mother had surprisingly agreed. “What I missed most about your Dad, when he went,” she had said, “was suddenly having clean ashtrays everywhere.” Lois had nodded.
“Forty a day…bound to make a mess,” she agreed.
Dallas smoked, which was his one transgression. Lois dusted the big sitting room and emptied last night’s ashtray. Apart from this, she sometimes wondered why they wanted her at all. A slight film of dust each week, a
