Ted mistook the move completely and his other arm came round with an enthusiasm which had nothing paternal in it. Jenny found herself dragged uncomfortably over the gear-stick and hand-brake, her left cheek was pressed in against her teeth by the pressure of an ardent but misdirected kiss and she felt a button on her cardigan give with a violence which boded ill for Marks and Sparks cowering beneath. Round two, she thought, and I didn't even hear the bell. Now this long metal rod with the knob on the end which is doing God knows what damage to my pelvis is the gear-lever. From the freedom of play it seems to have in relation to my belly it must be in neutral. This other more rigid lever which is gouging a hole in the knee of my tights must be the hand-brake. Therefore if I move my hand down there, poor Ted, he's shifting out of the way, God knows what he imagines I'm going to do, there we are, rather stiff, but there she goes, I think. It took Ted several seconds to realize the car was moving. Jenny clung to him tightly, partly to delay his attempts to remedy the situation, partly to buffer herself against any possible impact. By the time he got his foot to the brake pedal they were down among the mud and the car slid on for several yards before coming to a halt. Below them the lights of the town twinkled unconcernedly on. Jenny had a very poor topographical imagination and needed to apply herself with great concentration to the task of relating the main lines of street lights to her own knowledge of the town. It was a task she devoted herself to while Ted with a most ungentlemanly violence of language put the car into reverse and tried to back up the lane. The wheels spun in the mud-lined cart-tracks. Jenny let them spin on for a while; but she was above all things a sensible girl and had no desire to find herself irretrievably stuck. That would be jumping out of the frying-pan into a raging inferno. 'Why don't you,' she said in the ultra-kind voice she reserved for very recalcitrant children, 'get out, put some branches or stones or something under the wheels, then start pushing? I will drive. I do have a licence and I'm really quite good.' Without a word, Ted climbed out of the car and began pulling at the hedgerow. Jenny felt quite sorry for him.
She wound down the window.
T think we'll need some more branches,' she said. Dave and Alice Fernie were walking like a couple of children down the private side of Boundary Drive. They were hand in hand, about a yard apart, swinging their joined hands high and indulging in a tug-of-war every time they encountered a lamp-post or a tree. Alice screamed with laughter as Fernie gave her a jerk which pulled her forward so hard that her left shoe stayed behind, its heel bedded deep in the grass verge. 'Oh-Dave-you-silly!' she half-panted, half-laughed, hopping towards him as he retreated, holding her at arm's length, but didn't finish for he let her catch up, caught all her weight to his body and kissed her passionately. It had just been an ordinary night, starting like a hundred others. They had walked to the local pub, about half a mile into the estate, to have a couple of drinks with a handful of old acquaintances. But things had gone absolutely right from the start, contrary to usage. Perhaps the Christmas decorations in the pub had helped. Dave had had just the right amount of drink, he hadn't been tempted to display his superior knowledge in argument; he hadn't produced any slanderous gossip, he hadn't felt it necessary to demonstrate his virility by being overattentive to someone else's wife. He had irritated no one, offended no one; he had been moderate in speech, witty in comment, generous in purchase and was now obviously amorous in intent. There was a sharp edge of frost in the air. Above, clouds ragged as crows' wings beat across the sky, turning the moon into a pale flower drifting beneath the sea. When for a moment it floated into a clear patch of the sky, it turned to silver the branches and few tenacious leaves of the tree against which they now leaned. There had been nights like this years ago, when they were younger, before there was a house and a television set, before they were married. Memories real as the rough bark pressing against the back of her hands came crowding into her mind. But she did not speak them. Dave did not like the past and she was not going to risk losing any part of the present. The wind rose suddenly and her foot began to feel the cold. Gently she pulled away. I'll get my shoe, Dave, and we'll get on home,' she said.
'Right, love.'
His arm was round her waist now as they walked on, quietly, anticipatingly. It was darker on this side of the road. The trees, the older less efficient lamp-posts, all contributed. Ahead they could see the telephone-box which stood almost outside their gate. They didn't need one till the hoi polloi came,' Fernie had once commented. When he was in the mood, everything appeared as evidence of the difference between 'us' and 'them'. Now it looks like a beacon, welcoming us home, thought Alice, though not without a wry glance at her own romanticism. They were nearly there and she turned to cross the road. But he pulled her back and leaned her against another tree.
'Dave!' she said.
He kissed her again.
'Afraid of the neighbours?' 'Of course not. I'm afraid of me. There's some things you can't do out on the street.'
'Why not?' he whispered. 'It'd be fun.'
'Oh, you fool,' she murmured.
They kissed once more.
'Let's go in now,' he said, eagerly. As they stepped out from behind the tree, a figure, walking rapidly and glancing back over his shoulder, stepped off the pavement a few yards up and came at them on a collision course. There was an urgency about the way he moved which caught Alice's attention, but it was her husband who spoke first.
'Hey, Stanley! What's up, then?'
The figure stopped dead and saw them obviously for the first time.
'Mr Fernie. It's you.'
Then no more. It was Stanley Curtis, his face rather pale, breathing deeply, quickly.
'Is something wrong, Stan?' asked Alice.
'No. Well, yes. It's just that, well, I was passing Mr Connon's house and I just looked over the hedge and I saw someone. Someone there.'
He stopped again.
'Where, boy?' asked Fernie, sharply. 'What doing?' 'In the garden. Just prowling around. Then he disappeared up the side of the house. I thought it might be…'
'Yes, Stanley?'
'… the man who killed Mrs Connon.' Fernie nodded vigorously, not so much, it seemed to Alice, at what Stan had said, but rather at some thought going through his own head.
'Right. Come on, lad. Alice, you stay here.'
'Dave! What are you going to do?' To have a look. What else? There's two of us. Come on, Stan.' But Stanley made no movement. Poor kid, thought Alice, he's scared stiff. She moved to him and put her arm over his shoulders. He was shivering violently. 'Don't be a fool, Dave,' she said sharply. 'Stan's not coming with you. And you're not going either. There's the phone-box. Get on to the police straightaway.' Fernie stood irresolutely for a moment. Alice glanced round. The Curtis house was in darkness. Maisie and her husband were obviously out. 'I'm taking Stan inside,' she said. 'You come on in when you've talked to the police. You can watch in comfort then.' So much for the perfect end to a perfect night, she thought resignedly as she walked up the path. All that build-up gone to waste. It'd have been better if I'd told him to go ahead up against the tree. We might have missed Stanley. And he was too scared to notice us. But he'd have called the police anyway and they might really have caught us at it. Against a tree! The thought made her smile. Alice Fernie was a woman of indomitable spirit. Behind her, her husband stepped into the telephonebox and began to dial. 'Connie,' said Hurst, 'I've brought you a drink. You're not going to hide in here all night, are you?' Connie recognized the half-jocular, half-sympathetic note in Hurst's voice. It was a tone he was growing familiar with. Condolences first. Then afterwards talk as if nothing had happened, but inject enough sympathy into your voice to show you're still aware that something has.
He hadn't meant to sit so long by himself. He had come down to the Club that night with a real purpose, a purpose only half of which had been carried out at the meeting. The sight of Dalziel and Pascoe had disconcerted him more than he had cared to show. He felt illogically that somehow he was responsible for introducing a dissonant element into the Club. It was a rugby club. He had long been disturbed by the growing diversification of the Club's interests. And therefore of the Club's membership. But he put these thoughts to the back of his mind now, with a silent promise that they would be uttered one day soon. 'I've been glancing through the teams, Peter,' he said. 'What's happened to Jim Davies?' 'He knocked his knee on Saturday. Seemed all right at first, but came up like a balloon over the weekend.' 'So you brought in Gerald on the open side. He'll never hold the place, will he? Did you think of any of the youngsters? Jo Walsh? Or Stan Curtis?'
Hurst laughed.
'You might almost have been eavesdropping, Connie. Yes, both of them. But Joe's best-manning at a wedding
