Ann Cleeves - The Healers

Lily had long since disappeared from sight and he turned back to the room. It was tidy enough. He liked to keep things tidy. If he’d known the word he’d have called it an obsession. During his National Service he’d been an officer’s batman. He knew about standards. But he didn’t seem to be able to keep it clean. A film of fine ash dust from the boiler covered the surfaces, and the lino beneath his feet was tacky with spilled food. He needed a wife to look after him, he thought, like every other man he knew. It was what he deserved.

From an envelope which had been propped on the mantelpiece he took a photo. This was his date. She was his perfect match, the agency had said. She had chosen him from the rest of the men on their files. He read again her details though he knew them almost by heart. Jane Symons. Divorcee. Blond. Blue eyes. Forty-four years old. She was, she had written, manageress of a high-class shoe store. He wondered briefly if he would get shoes at a discount. He could do with a new pair of boots. The photo was small, the kind you can have taken in a machine, just a head shot. When he looked at it he couldn’t connect it with a real person, with the blond-haired, blue-eyed divorcee of his imagination.

He had arranged to meet her in the lounge bar of the Ship Hotel in Otterbridge. It was a longish way for him to go and the drinks were a bit pricey but she hadn’t said on her form if she could drive. Besides, he thought the Ship would impress her. He would buy her a meal. If they got on perhaps she would come over to Mittingford next time. The real secret hope was that he would persuade her to come back with him tonight. That would show Lily Jackman.

In the depths of the house his mother’s clock chimed the half hour. Half past six. For some reason it had kept better time since the old lady had died. Not like the one in the song. If he was going to meet Jane at eight he’d have to get a move on. Jane. He said the word out loud, practising.

No time for a bath, he thought, without much regret. He hadn’t lit the boiler this morning and if he waited for the emersion to heat the water he’d be there all night. He’d put a kettle on and have a wash at the kitchen sink as he had when he was a lad.

When he was ready he thought he was smart enough for any woman. He’d bought a shirt for the occasion from the small gent’s outfitters in Mittingford and there was the suit his mother had made him get for his uncle’s funeral. He cleaned his shoes, spitting on them as he’d been taught during National Service.

Jane, he thought again, pushing thoughts of Lily Jackman to the back of his mind. Likes: the countryside, classical music, walking. She had left the dislikes space on the form blank. He hoped that meant she was an easy and accommodating person. A gay divorcee, he thought. Meaning laughter, sex.

The grandfather clock struck seven. At least half an hour to get to Otterbridge and park, and then he’d need a couple of drinks for Dutch courage before she arrived. He locked the farmhouse door behind him. When Mother was alive he’d never bothered. She’d be more than a match for any burglar. But he didn’t trust Sean any further than he could throw him.

He crossed the yard gingerly, trying to avoid getting his shoes too mucky. From the Land-Rover he could see over the wall into the meadow. Sean was sitting on the caravan steps with his head in his hands. He must have heard the Land-Rover starting up it was a diesel engine and it needed a service but he did not look up at the sound. Ernie wondered wistfully if they’d had a row.

The fantasy returned of Lily in his kitchen, cooking his meals, and in his bed smoothing away the pains of the day with her long, brown fingers. But, he told himself sternly, there were other women in his life now. He had other fish to fry. He drove off.

On Saturday night Val McDougal too was preparing to go out. At that point it was all she had in common with Ernie Bowles. Later their names would be linked together, but they had never met.

Val’s husband Charles was surprised that she had arranged to go out. They had developed a ritual to Saturdays. To relieve the stress, he said, after a week at the grindstone. He worked in the university. Sociology was his subject though these days, he said, it was hardly a thing you owned up to. Better tell the man in the Clapham omnibus that you were a serial killer than a sociologist. Val, who had never known him travel anywhere by bus and had heard it all before, usually managed to contain her irritation. She taught basic literacy and numeracy skills in a further education college, and secretly she thought sociology was a waste of time too.

On Saturday they got up late. Only one of their sons was still at home: James, who was in the upper sixth and preparing to take A levels. He was a placid, amenable boy who fitted in with them. At least he did his own thing and made no demands. He did not play music late at night or throw up in the garden after an all-night party. Richard, their elder son, had done both these things. Luckily he was now away at university.

The three of them would have a late and lazy breakfast: croissants bought fresh by Charles from a local bakery and lots of coffee. At midday Val and Charles would walk into the town to a pub by the river where they’d meet a group of friends. The friends were mostly Charles’s. They had clear, loud voices and told jokes about the sociology professor who spent more time talking on Radio 4 than to his staff. The same jokes were told week after week. Charles would drink beer and Val white wine and soda for most of the afternoon, then they would emerge into the town centre to go shopping.

This wasn’t boring shopping. They didn’t buy toilet rolls or bleach or cat food. Val would get all that from the supermarket on the way back from college on her early night. This was quite different. Late in their married life Charles had taken to cooking, and indeed he was very good. At first Val had been grateful. These Saturday night extravagances were something of a treat and she had enjoyed wandering round Otterbridge with him looking for the special ingredients he needed. But lately the novelty had begun to wear off. His creations were always elaborate and took most of the evening to prepare. He used every utensil they possessed. And because he had cooked she felt obliged to clear up the chaos and load the dishwasher afterwards, though she noticed that he never felt the same obligation after her weekday stews and spaghetti bolognese.

At breakfast on that Saturday he had asked, as he always did:

“Well, what shall we eat tonight?”

She had answered, as casually as she could. “Well, actually I won’t be here. I’ll be going out.”

“Where?” he asked petulantly.

“Just to a friend’s for supper.”

“You didn’t say.” His voice was accusing.

No, she thought. I was frightened. I didn’t have the nerve.

“We fixed it up at the last moment,” she said, ‘and I thought it would be quite nice for a change.”

She realized how lame that sounded, saw that her hands were shaking, wondered even if she would have one of those panic attacks which she seemed to have been controlling better lately, despite Charles’s scorn. He was right, of course. She was quite feeble. But he had a frightening temper and she never liked to upset him.

“Who is this friend?” he demanded. “Someone from college?”

“No,” she said vaguely. “I met her on that weekend away at the Lakes. I told you we’d kept in touch.”

“Did you? I don’t remember.”

He thinks I’m lying, she thought with astonishment. Perhaps he thinks I’m having a wild affair with a secret lover. She smiled to herself and saw him become even more suspicious. She enjoyed his uncertainty. It served him right. She was certain that he’d been having a fling with a bright, postgraduate student called Heather for more than a term.