Emma Page - Mortal Remains

A few minutes later Diane Holroyd drove into the York House car park. Her own little car was in for a service, she was temporarily using one of her father’s vehicles. She got out of the car and walked round towards the front of the store. As she turned the corner of the building she saw her sister-in-law come out through the swing doors. Claire didn’t see her, she set off in the opposite direction. Diane walked slowly on, looking fixedly after the elegant figure moving gracefully away into the distance.

At a quarter past twelve Claire left the public library. Her face wore a look of satisfaction; she had managed to pick up no fewer than four books on her college reading list.

The weather was fine, pleasantly warm. She strolled without haste towards the bus stop. Never any rush to get back to Fairbourne in the middle of the day, Edgar was never at home for lunch during the week.

Ahead of her on the other side of the road lay the imposing premises of Calthrop’s, auctioneers and estate agents. She glanced over at the frontage, ran her eye along the windows, as she had done lately whenever she went by, ever since the day towards the end of August when she had come across the paragraph about Robert Ashworth in the local paper.

She came to an abrupt halt, her heart thumping. She stared across at the middle window on the first floor. A tall man, thirty-five or so, stood with his head half turned away, talking to someone behind him. He moved his head and she saw his face: Robert Ashworth, almost exactly as she remembered him. Her heart beat so fiercely she feared she might faint.

Robert glanced down, his eye lighted on her. He froze. She stood looking up at him, incapable of movement.

He leaned forward, smiled down at her, raised a hand in greeting. She felt a great rush of release. She smiled, waved back.

A young man carrying a sheaf of papers came up to Robert, spoke to him. Robert turned from the window, casting a final look in her direction.

On the bus home she sat lost in thought. The moment she closed the front door of Fairbourne behind her she dumped her things in the hall and went down to the basement, kept in immaculate order by her husband. She went to the shelves where he stacked old newspapers and magazines until he took them along to the recycling depot. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for: the local weekly paper from the end of August.

She knew precisely where to find the item about Robert’s appointment: halfway down the third right-hand page. She gazed intently at Ashworth’s image, sharp and clear for a newspaper photograph. She scanned the paragraph with close attention but it yielded nothing fresh, no forgotten detail. Only the same facts implacably confronting her: Ashworth was married with two young children, his family would be joining him later.

She restored the paper to the pile and went slowly back up the stairs. She changed her clothes, made herself a snack lunch before setting diligently about household chores. She was busy in the sitting room when the phone rang. Her face lit up. She ran into the hall, snatched up the receiver, spoke her number.

‘Claire?’ asked a male voice at the other end.

Summer gave way to autumn, the leaves turned gold. Dusk and dawn were veiled in mist, the pungent smoke of garden bonfires rose blue on the weekend air.

The Acorn dinner-dance marking the centenary of the club took place on the last Friday in October. A glittering occasion, much talked over before and after, fully written up and photographed for the local press.

On the evening of the second Thursday in November Harry Lingard left work and drove home in his little van. He liked to leave promptly, there was always some pressing chore or urgent piece of business awaiting him.

The bulk of his spare time during the latter part of every week was taken up delivering copies of the Bazaar , a local freesheet, long established; he had been one of the earliest recruits to the distribution team. His territory had grown over the years as distributors in adjoining districts fell by the wayside, and his round was currently the largest and certainly the best conducted; it earned him a very useful sum. He liked to vary the way in which he covered his territory, it helped to keep his interest alive. He prided himself on getting his deliveries finished by Saturday evening. Some distributors were still shouldering their satchels on Sunday morning; Harry considered that a slack way of going on.

The bundles of papers were dropped off at his house around two o’clock on Thursday afternoon, they were stacked on the bench in the front porch, which he left unlocked for the purpose. Before he set off on his first delivery he always glanced swiftly through the For Sale columns, in order to be the first, if possible, to snap up some bargain he could work on, re-sell privately or through the auction rooms. He had often struck lucky in this way.

At six-thirty on this nippy Thursday evening he was ready to leave on his first foray, the official satchel – scarlet, with the Bazaar logo in black and white – slung over his shoulder. He never carried too heavy a load, always took time between trips, if he felt the need, to sit down in his kitchen for a hot drink or a snack. He took care to dress sensibly against the weather. This evening he wore woollen mittens and woollen cap nattily striped in brown and white; his feet were in black trainers, comfortably padded. The collar of his quilted grey jacket was turned up round his ears. In one lapel he sported an outsize red poppy – next Sunday was Remembrance Day, a notable point in Harry’s year.

As he went out, locking the door behind him, he gave his customary good-neighbour glance over at the adjoining semi, checking all was in order. The house was in darkness, it had stood empty since the last tenants had left two weeks ago, to move to another town.

He was halfway through his second trip when he ran into his granddaughter and her boyfriend on their way to a cinema. ‘I’ve just been to tea at Norman’s,’ Jill told him. ‘Mrs Griffin invited me. She went to a lot of trouble, she laid on a marvellous spread.’ She eyed him teasingly. ‘Isn’t it about time you thought of inviting Norman to tea?’

Harry gave her a quelling look. Norman stood by in silence, his expression tinged with amusement. ‘What about next Sunday?’ Jill’s tone was light but Harry saw by her eye that she meant business.

‘Next Sunday’s no good.’ He couldn’t repress a note of satisfaction. ‘I’m going over to see Cyril Shearman in the afternoon, he’ll be expecting me.’ He had served in the army with Shearman, now a widower a few years older than Harry, no longer in good health; he lived in a retirement home in pleasant rural surroundings a few miles from Cannonbridge. Harry went over to see him every couple of months, he certainly wouldn’t miss seeing him on Remembrance Sunday.

‘No problem,’ Jill batted back at once. ‘We’ll come to supper instead.’ Her eyes sparkled with good-humoured determination. You’ll accept Norman one day, her look told him, I’ll make sure you do.

All at once he caved in. ‘All right then,’ he agreed. An engagement, after all, was very far from being the same thing as a marriage. Young women had been known to change their minds. In the meantime he had no intention of falling out with his only granddaughter over such a trifle as Sunday supper.

He plastered a smile on his face. ‘Next Sunday it is. I’ll see you both around seven-thirty.’

Remembrance Sunday dawned bright and clear, perfect weather for the annual parades. Harry would be marching to a special church service alongside other veterans, banners held proudly aloft, brass bands in stirring attendance.