“And since I’ve been the owner, I’ve tried time and again to get planning permission to turn it into a house. I want to live there. But every time the planning inquiry comes up, the Village Committee gets it kicked out.”
“Bad luck. You must rather regret your investment.”
“No way. Even in that state, the barn’s appreciating by the minute.” The thought of profit soothed his anger. “And we’ve now got a government who’s urging more housing in West Sussex. And new people get appointed to the County Council Planning Committee and…they may be persuaded to take a less blinkered view…”
“Oh no, don’t worry. I’ll get what I want in the end…Maybe even next week – there’s a planning meeting on Thursday. And when I do succeed and move into my own barn conversion in Weldisham…then, people like Mr Graham Forbes may be laughing the other side of their faces, eh?”
He smiled triumphantly, just as the subject of his conversation approached, leading a thin-faced pinstriped man with the expression of someone who always counted his change.
“Carole, may I introduce Barry Stillwell. Barry – Carole Seddon.”
The newcomer was effusively polite in his greeting.
“And of course you two know each other.”
Harry Grant nodded.
“I dare say Barry’s done some of your conveyancing for you, Harry.”
“No way. He’s too bloody slow for me. When I want some legal work done, I go to a specialist.”
Graham Forbes might have used his diplomatic skills to ease this rather sticky opening to their conversation had not the doorbell once again rung. He scurried off, leaving the three of them together.
But not for long. Harry Grant moved away with a mumbled, “Oh well, better circulate.” Since his wife and Irene Forbes were the only other people available to circulate with, it could be deduced that Barry Stillwell was not his favourite person.
“I gather you’re a solicitor,” said Carole, clutching at the conversational hint Graham Forbes had dropped for her.
“Yes, that’s right. Partner in a practice in Worthing.”
“Ah.”
There was a silence. Carole had a nasty feeling she knew exactly the kind of man she was up against. Barry Stillwell, she reckoned, like many country solicitors, having limped through some exams in his early twenties, had thereafter made a comfortable living involving no intellectual effort of any kind. And, so long as people continued to buy houses, divorce and die, that comfortable living would remain secure.
“Are you connected with the law at all, Carole? I may call you Carole, I hope?”
“Please do. No, I’m not a lawyer myself. I used to come in contact with a lot of lawyers when I worked for the Home Office.”
“The Home Office? That’s interesting.” She’d suspected Barry Stillwell would be a dreadful bore, and his use of the word ‘interesting’ confirmed it. The seriously boring claim to find everything interesting, maybe in the hope that some of it may rub off and they’ll be found interesting too.
“But you’re not still there?” he went on.
“No. Retired.”
He curled his lips into a thin smile. “It must have been a very early retirement.”
Oh dear, thought Carole. Is there only one compliment available in Weldisham?
“It was a bit early,” she conceded. “Have you thought about when you’ll retire, Barry?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I might not.” He assumed an expression of pious suffering. “Since my wife died a couple of years back, my work has rather been my life.”
“Ah.”
“Though I live in hope of course that I will one day recover my
Oh, my God, thought Carole. I know why I’ve been invited to this dinner party. He’s a spare man.
? Death on the Downs ?
Eighteen
She was relieved that the seating plan did not put her next to Barry Stillwell. In fact, she was well placed between her host and Harry Grant, but it was Graham Forbes who enlivened her evening. She was surprised. In the Hare and Hounds the evening she’d found the bones, he’d sounded very right-wing and intolerant. Maybe he’d taken on that role for the benefit of the regulars, because in his home environment he showed himself to be a man of genuine wit and sophistication. At first Carole thought he might have a tendency to name-drop, but after a while she realized that he did actually know all the people he was talking about. His work at the British Council meant that he had acted as host to some of the most eminent figures in the arts world.
He’d just concluded a hilarious anecdote about William Golding at an event in Cairo, when Carole said apologetically, “I’m afraid I don’t know many writers.”
“Your loss, my dear lady. They’re most of them paranoid depressives, serial philanderers and improvident alcoholics, but enormous fun. I think I’ve had more pure unadulterated fun getting drunk with writers than from anything else in my life…” He grinned at Irene across the table. “Possibly excluding sex.”
Graham Forbes certainly had a relish for drink and a well-educated taste in wine. He was putting away a lot himself and ensuring that none of his guests ever had an empty glass for long. Carole had to keep putting her hand across the top of hers, or she was never going to drive safely back to Fethering. The West Sussex police, she knew, were notoriously vigilant about drink-driving.
“There was another rather amusing incident,” Graham went on, “while I was based in Kuala Lumpur, where, um…I’d better call her a distinguished literary novelist out on a tour…developed a passion for one of the British Council drivers. Lovely chap called Shiva, my absolute favourite, I always got him to drive me everywhere. So, our, um…lady novelist…Sorry, the story’d be a lot better if I used her name, but I really can’t. Anyway, she started in unambiguous pursuit of Shiva, and I could see she was making life very difficult for him. I think her culture and sexual mores were rather less inhibited than his. Then one day, quite suddenly, she appeared to have lost interest in him, and when I was next alone with Shiva in the car I asked how he’d managed to get her off his back. And Shiva said…” He dropped into the slightest of Indian accents, “‘Very easily, Mr Forbes. I told her I had started one of her books and that I had found it unreadable.’” He chuckled. “Very sensitive plant, you know – writer’s vanity.”
Carole thought she should try to contribute to the conversation. “I met – well, I saw – a writer in the Hare and Hounds the other day. Local writer.”
“We haven’t got any local writers,” said Graham. “Not what I’d call writers, anyway. Who was this?”
“His name’s Brian Helling.”
“Brian Helling? Oh, for heaven’s sake, I said ‘writers’!” In spite of the vehemence, he managed to retain his charm and courtesy. “I’m sorry, Carole, but I’m afraid you can’t mention Brian Helling in the same breath as William Golding, led Hughes, Margaret Drabble and the other people I’ve been talking about. Brian Helling is a…is a…”
For once Graham Forbes seemed lost for words. Harry Grant was happy to provide them. “He’s a useless bloody sponger.”
Their host nodded. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Brian Helling is not the kind of person we want in a village like Weldisham.”
“I hope you won’t ever say that to his face.” It was Irene who had spoken. There was a look of concern on her smooth Oriental features.
“Why shouldn’t I say it to his face? I’m not afraid of Brian Helling.”
“No, but there is no need to antagonize him.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Irene, my love?”
“I just don’t think Brian Helling is someone you should rub up the wrong way, Graham. He’s potentially violent.”
“He’s never threatened you with violence, has he?”
“No.” For a moment, the eyes of husband and wife interlocked across the table. Graham’s were puzzled, but in Irene’s there was something close to fear.
Then she looked away to continue her duty as hostess and talk to the man on her right. He was Freddie
