Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

Samples of patchwork hung in the window. Smaller pieces were laid out on a trestle table outside. Harry stopped to look at them. All shapes and sizes were there, in every design and colour he could think of. Cushions, framed work, quilts and wall hangings.

The shop was open. Inside two women were talking. One voice, that of a customer, he didn’t recognise. The other he did. It belonged to Alison Stirrup.

So it was true. He had not doubted Jonah’s account, yet he never found it easy to take things on trust. He preferred the evidence of his own eyes and ears.

Through the window he could see Alison, engrossed in conversation about a commission she was undertaking for the other woman. Her fair hair was shorter even than in the past; she seemed a little more relaxed than during her married life. Otherwise he could see no change; she might be using a false name, but she hadn’t been so crass as to resort to disguise. Her good looks were quiet, very English. He could recall once thinking Stirrup was a lucky man: How long ago was that?

The customer said something about calling in next week.

“I’ll have it ready then,” he heard Alison promise.

“Super, thanks so much.”

Harry waited for the woman to pass him and disappear in the direction of the main street before entering the shop. Alison was behind the counter, busying herself with invoices. She glanced up in welcome.

Her smile died the moment that she recognised him. Her heart-shaped face had more colour than in the old Caldy days, but all that drained away at the sight of his rumpled figure in the doorway. Incredulity spread over her face, as if she were seeing someone risen from the grave.

“Hello, Alison. Or should I call you Acton?”

“Harry.”

Her voice was barely audible. The way she clasped and unclasped her hands confirmed his first impression. This was a frightened woman.

“You remembered,” he said. “Not that I’ve changed my name lately. Unlike you.”

“Has Jack sent you?”

“Not directly. Of course I’m acting for him, but he doesn’t know I’ve traced you here. Not yet, that is.”

“How did you find me?”

“It’s a long story. Though not as long as the one I think you ought to be telling me. About how and why you set up here with Catherine Morgan.”

“So you know about Cathy too?”

“That the pair of you have a home and business here, yes. There’s plenty I don’t know or understand. I’ve come here in the hope you can fill in the gaps for me.”

“Why should I? You’re Jack’s solicitor, why should I confide in you?”

“Alison, you can’t hide forever. Okay, so you’ve chosen a different way of life. If you’re happier now, that’s fine. I can guess it wasn’t easy living with Jack. Specially if you found out you weren’t suited to a conventional marriage.”

“Under-statement of the decade,” she interrupted bitterly. “You’ve no idea.”

“Give me an idea, Alison. I’m not threatening you. Talk to me. Let’s see where we go from here.”

She considered him for a moment. He stood in silence, waiting for her to make up her mind, hoping his journey would not prove to have been wasted.

She passed a hand across her face for a moment, as if composing herself, then spoke more steadily than before.

“Cathy’s out. Looking at silks in Macclesfield. She won’t be back for another hour. We can’t talk in the shop. I’ll close early and we can go to the cottage. Behave yourself and I might even make you a cup of tea.”

“You’re on.”

He helped her lug the table inside, then stood back as she locked up and stuck a sign in the window apologising for the early closure. When it was done, she led him through a door at the rear of the shop and along a short corridor into the domestic part of the building, picking a way through mounds of brightly coloured fabric on the floor.

After she had directed him into the low-ceilinged sitting room and disappeared into the kitchen, he took stock of his surroundings. This was a warm place, expertly decorated in creams and golds. Patchwork quilts adorned every inch of wall space; they were yet more intricate than those for sale next door. The furniture, antique pine, suited the age of the property. Opposite him stood a six-foot tall bookcase. Fat volumes on interior design, art, patchwork and gardening set side by side with Penguin and Oxford classics from the Victorian age. Alison Stirrup hadn’t been slow to replenish her collection of the books she loved.

She came into the room again bearing a tray with tea things and biscuits.

“Very civilised,” said Harry. “I can tell I’m in Knutsford.”

“You gave me a shock when you walked through the door, obviously. But on a personal level, it’s nice to see you again. Considering you were so close to Jack, you always struck me as a reasonable human being. Funny, I sometimes wondered if you disliked him. Not because you sneered or fawned or gossiped about him behind his back. Quite the opposite. And thank God you never tried to chat me up or pat me on the backside when he wasn’t looking. Unlike some. Loathsome Trevor Morgan, for instance.”

“Jack’s my client. I don’t have to like him.”

“What I’m saying is, I’m willing to talk to you. No preconditions. You’ll do whatever you have to, I realise that. And perhaps you’re right. It may be better to speak to someone who knew us when we were together, you may find it easier to understand.”

He sipped the tea. Lapsang Souchong, smokily distinctive. Now he would keep quiet till she felt ready to unburden herself.

“Where do I start?”

She was, he felt, posing the question as much to herself as to him. For all he knew, this might be the very first time she had confronted the drastic changes she had wrought in her life. Better not to hurry her. Everything would come out, given time and patience.

“You know my mother, don’t you? She and I could hardly be more different. I’ve always been a disappointment to her. Not a temptress, not a voluptuous blonde. I took after my father. You never met him, he died when I was young. A heart attack. Only forty-eight. The kindest man you could wish to find. I blamed her. I still do in my heart, I suppose. She was always on at him for one reason or another. He had no peace. And after he was gone, she poured all her energies into me, wanted to recreate herself, re-live her youth through me. I rebelled, but not enough. I always kept things bottled up inside. I got involved with a sweet boy, he played guitar in a band. He died too. A sailing accident. It devastated me. I met Jack soon afterwards. He was fun, took my mind off things.”

She sighed. “And so eventually I did something right in Mother’s eyes by marrying a wealthy man. Only problem was, she took an instant dislike to him and to Claire. It wasn’t long before the gloves came off. If anything, that drew me closer to Jack, but soon it was clear we had nothing in common. Not age, not interests. Not even bed. Tell you the truth, I’d never been wild about that side of things, not even with Graeme — he was the guitarist I mentioned a moment ago. And with Jack it soon became a real turn-off. He used me for his pleasure, there was nothing more.”

While she paused for breath Harry finished his drink.

“Would you like another cup? There. Well, as I was saying, I had little enough to share with Jack. And nothing at all with Claire. I wasn’t a good step-mother, I suppose. I’m not child-crazy. Jack fancied having another kid at one time, but I put my foot down. Claire was quite enough to handle. She never cared for me and the feeling was mutual. Probably the greater responsibility rested on me, but she was such a — a surly bitch. Oh, I know she’s dead now and I’m sorry about that. No one deserves such a fate. But I won’t be hypocritical, I won’t pretend it was sweetness and light between the two of us.”