make a living from my pictures. And that’s what I’m going to concentrate on for the next bit of my life.”
“And men…?” Jude let the word dangle.
Debbie looked thoughtful. “I’m not going to go out looking for them. I suppose, if one comes along…” She grinned. “He’ll have to be a bloody good one, though.”
Carole made a decision. “You say the reaction to your paintings in the Art Crawl has been good. They haven’t all gone, have they?”
“No. Going fine, but still plenty left.”
“Excellent. I’ll come along and choose one tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Don’t feel you have to.”
“I want to,” said Carole firmly. “And you haven’t given up the interior design business, have you?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“That is good news.” Carole Seddon rubbed her hands together with confidence and satisfaction. “Because I definitely want you to do my sitting room.”
? The Torso in the Town ?
Forty-Three
The Fedborough Festival finished, and Fedborough life continued much as before. Memories closed over Roddy Hargreaves just as effectively as the waters of the Fether had done. It was perhaps unfair that he’d gone down in the communal recollection as a murderer and dismemberer, but then Roddy had never cared that much about Fedborough opinion, and wherever he was now he could at least no longer be harmed by the town’s gossip.
The memory of Virginia Hargreaves, by contrast, lived on, and her myth grew. The grisly circumstances of her death added to the attractions of the story. So, of course, did the fact that she had a title. ‘The torso in the town’ became a regular feature of Fedborough’s Town Walks.
But after the end of that September, no more Town Walks were conducted by James Lister. He had the temerity to die of a stroke without asking his wife’s permission and, with typical lack of consideration, contrived to do it in the middle of one of her Friday-night dinner parties.
All Fedborough turned out for his funeral at All Souls. The service was conducted, with his customary tentative tremulousness, by the Rev Philip Trigwell. In his address he said that everyone would remember James Lister as a good man, though not without faults. James would be remembered best as an honest local tradesman, though some people would remember him best as a generous host and pillar of Fedborough’s social life. He was sure of a place in heaven, though of course some people in different denominations saw heaven in a different way from the Church of England, and there was nothing wrong with that.
For the message on James’s gravestone, Fiona had chosen, with her customary unawareness of irony, the words, At peace at last’. She, being made of sterner – not to mention, in her view, socially superior – stuff than her husband, continued to live for many, many years, spreading her bile even-handedly amongst all the inhabitants of Fedborough.
Andrew Wragg stayed with Terry Harper. The younger man still threw tantrums, but, as middle-age coarsened his beautiful body, his threats to leave grew decreasingly credible. He started to drink a lot, with predictable effects on his waistline. His temper and his art grew worse, and Terry Harper continued to adore him.
The Burnethorpes stayed married, in apparent harmony. Nobody who knew Alan well could imagine that Joke was his only physical outlet, but he restricted his extra-mural activities to the discreet anonymity of London. He went on producing sensitive architectural conversions and accurate impersonal drawings of female nudes.
Donald Durrington continued to be respected as chief partner in the local medical practice. His wife continued to drown the misery of her marriage in drink.
And Francis and Jonelle Carlton…Well, nobody really cared what happened to them. They soon movedpermanently to Florida, and that was miles away from Fedborough.
The town was so self-involved, you see, that people who left it virtually dropped off the map. That’s what happened to the Roxbys. After a Fedborough winter; Grant decided that the family was missing the varied stimuli of London. The children needed access to theatres, cinemas and cultured people. Kim, as ever, agreed with him, so Felling House and its history were sold yet again.
The Roxbys’ girls were quite happy to return to London. They were getting to the age when ponies were becoming less interesting and clubs featured increasingly in their conversation. The only family member who objected to the move was Harry. Typical of his bloody father, he thought, to uproot him from all his Fedborough friends and imprison him in some concrete wilderness. And so Harry Roxby’s adolescence continued.
Debbie Carlton’s career as a painter flourished, so much so that after a few years she was able to give up her interior design work. When Stanley Franks finally died, Debbie moved her mother out of the houseboat and into the flat in Harbidge Street. She herself moved to London, which offered more opportunities for her as an artist, but she was down in Fedborough most weekends.
And Billie Franks continued as she always had. She knew everyone in Fedborough and everyone in Fedborough knew her. But nobody in Fedborough knew everything about her.
After their brief intense involvement in the affairs of the town, Carole and Jude didn’t go back to Fedborough much. They lived eight miles downriver in Fethering, you see, and that was a world away.
