guilt was propelling him inexorably towards retirement.
“Come in, my dear,” he said.
He was relieved that this nice woman had taken the place of her rather stroppy young daughter. Hazel had done the work well, he had to admit. But her young, positive presence in the quiet vicarage was disturbing in its vitality, in the way she strode about from room to room, humming loudly and regaling him with items of local news she obviously thought would interest him. He could not accuse her of gossip. There was never anything personal in her conversation, but relayed with relish were such things as updates on the proposed new community hall; or the cat that got stuck up a tree and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.
“What a waste of their time, Vicar!” she’d carolled. The most recent was an unlikely story of a donkey that had escaped from old Mrs Brown’s paddock on Good Friday, and turned up at the church door, braying to be admitted. “Thought you’d be interested, Vicar, it being Easter an’ that,” she’d said with a perfectly straight face.
Now Bridie set about her work quietly. She didn’t say a word unless addressed, and at precisely eleven o’clock sat down at the kitchen table to drink her coffee as quickly as possible. This suited the vicar admirably, and he made a note to telephone Mrs Meade to say how happy he was with the new arrangement.
¦
“What are you doing home?” said Dick Reading to his daughter, who sat reading a magazine and drying her hair at the same time. “Not out skivvying like your mother?”
“I’ve finished,” Hazel said flatly, not taking her eyes off the magazine. “Til this afternoon.”
“You can get me some lunch, then,” her father said, washing his oily hands at the kitchen sink. “That bloody car isn’t right yet.”
“Why don’t you get a new one, then? That old thing has had it. Nobody I know has a car that old.”
“Money doesn’t grow on trees, young lady! Even now your mother’s earnin’ a mammoth wage from her millionaire pal, it don’t mean we can splash it about. And anyway, it’s a good car. Once I’ve got it sorted, it’ll do us.”
Hazel took no notice of him, and continued reading. Furious at being ignored, he cast about for something to annoy her into a reaction.
“As for you not knowin’ people with old cars, what about that bloke that’s cleanin’ for Lois? That’s the worst old crate I’ve ever seen. You’re not tellin’ me it’s passed an MOT lately. Very suspect, that one. And I don’t mean the car,” he added.
This had the effect he’d hoped for. Hazel switched off the drier and looked up at him. “You know nuthin’ about Gary Needham,” she said sharply. “And I’ll thank you to mind your own business. My job, my friends and my time are my own affair. You get on with your life, and I’ll get on with mine. And get your own lunch,” she added, stalking out and slamming the door behind her.
“Bloody kids,” muttered Dick Reading. “Give them everything you’ve got, and they turn against you just the same. Needs a good hiding, that one, and goin’ the right way to get it.”
By the time Bridie arrived home after her morning at the vicarage, Dick had worked himself up into an evil mood. The minute she walked into the kitchen, she knew things were bad. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of him, reading – or pretending to read – the paper. “Did you find the cheese sandwich I left for you?” she began tentatively. No answer. “It was in the fridge…oh, I see, you haven’t had it yet. Were you waiting for me?” she asked nervously. Still no answer. She took the sandwich out and put it on a plate, which she set down on the table. “There,” she said, “you eat that and I’ll cut another one for me.”
He looked up at her now, and very deliberately stood up. He walked over to the bin, and slowly tipped the cheese sandwich and plate into it.
“Dick! Don’t throw the plate away!” Bridie said. “I’ll eat the sandwich. That’s waste, that is!” He advanced towards her and she retreated, holding up her hands. “For goodness sake, Dick,” she pleaded. “What’s wrong? That cheese was really fresh…”
He had her by the arms now, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. He finally spoke. “I don’t care how bloody fresh it was,” he said, his voice horribly quiet. “I have been working on our bloody car all bloody morning, and find when I come in for a decent lunch that all my bloody wife has managed to produce is a bloody freezing cold cheese bloody sandwich!” His voice had risen to a crescendo, and Bridie began to whimper.
“Shut up!” Dick yelled. “You and your precious daughter ought to be chained up! Out all day skivvying in people’s houses, and no time to get your own husband a square meal. It’s got to stop!” he added, and when Bridie silently shook her head, he flung her away from him so hard that she caught her foot on a chair and went sprawling against the door.
“Get up!” Dick advanced towards her, fists clenched. She got up on to her hands and knees and crawled away from him, sobbing bitterly and trembling violently. He started towards her, his foot raised for a vicious kick, and suddenly the door flew open.
“Get out!” It was Hazel, her face dead white and her eyes burning. She held her mobile phone in one hand, and as he turned towards her, she began to dial. “I’m getting the police,” she said. “And if you come anywhere near me or Mum, ever again, you’ll never see either of us again. We’ve had enough. Now get out!” She finished dialling and held her phone to her ear.
Dick Reading stood still. Uncertain now what to do, he fell back on an emotional appeal. “Sorry, gel,” he said. “No, don’t do that – don’t ring the police. I never touched your mother – did I, Bridie?” He appealed to his wife, now sitting head in hands at the table. She silently shook her head. “Come on, now, Hazel,” he said. “Everybody loses their temper once in a while…”
Hazel stared at him. He could hear the tinny sound of the telephone ringing at the emergency number. “Hazel!” he repeated. “Please, love, for God’s sake, I’m your father!” Now he could hear the voice asking for details.
Hazel stared at him, then at her mother, and slowly disconnected the call. She sighed deeply, and went over to put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “Go away, Dad,” she said. “Just go away and don’t come near us until teatime. Mum and me have got to talk.”
Desperately relieved, Dick Reading backed out of the kitchen, and they heard him start the car and drive off.
“What are we goin’ to do, Hazel?” said her mother. “He’ll never be any different…perhaps if I give up working for Lois…?”
“No!” said Hazel firmly. “What we’re going to do right now is have a cup of strong coffee and somethin’ to eat. Then we’ll talk. You put the kettle on, and I’ll make us some egg and bacon. Unless you want a bloody freezing bloody cheese bloody sandwich?”
When she saw a faint smile appear on her mother’s face, she wanted to cry.
? Terror on Tuesday ?
Seventeen
Gary Needham’s old car was parked in a gateway entrance to a field outside Waltonby. He appeared to be asleep in the sun streaming through the car windows, raising the temperature to a soporific degree. His expression was serene, and when Joanne Murphy tapped on the window, first softly and then in sharp irritation, he did not move.
“Oh, Christ,” she said. “Not again.”
She walked round to the passenger side, and opened the door. Seating herself next to Gary, she opened her capacious bag and pulled out a small bottle of water. Without hesitating, she unscrewed the top and tipped the entire contents over his supine head. With a protesting splutter, he woke up, rubbed his eyes and seemed to have difficulty focussing.
“No need for that,” he said thickly. “Just having a snooze. Have to get up early to go to the surgery with Sheila, you know…”
“Of course I know, you fool,” Joanne said. “And for God’s sake get yourself together. We have some serious talking to do.” Gary sighed. Joanne’s idea of serious talking was not his, and he edged as far away from her as possible. Her cheap scent was making him feel sick.
