overdressed for the occasion, but only by comparison with the host and hostess’s jeans. She was wearing a little black cocktail number, decorated round the top with spangly black beads. The chest revealed by the décolletage was freckled and slack; its depth suggested greater confidence than did her uneasy blue eyes. Her hair had been recently and neatly cut; also recently blonded. Given the thinness of her frame, her face was surprisingly broad, puffy under heavy make-up. Though she hadn’t contributed much to the general conversation, earlier in the evening Joan Durrington had spoken with trepidation of her approaching sixtieth birthday. Trepidation, indeed, seemed to be her dominant emotion. She kept looking nervously at her husband, as though fearful she might in some way let him down.
The Burnethorpes, Alan and Joke, were at the more casual end of the clothes spectrum. He, trying to look younger than his late forties, wore a collarless black shirt and black jeans, with a rough-knit grey sloppy cardigan on top. She, fabulously toned and twenty-eight, wore what looked like a track suit in burgundy crushed velvet. Her English was excellent, her Dutch origins betrayed only by a tendency to say ‘dat’ and ‘dere’ for ‘that’ and ‘there’. On introduction, Jude had been told that the name was pronounced ‘Yo-kah’, though, as Alan said with practised ease, ‘the spelling’s a joke’. Then, in case she hadn’t got it, he’d spelt out, ‘J-O-K-E.’
It had been established early in the evening that he was an architect whose office was a converted houseboat near Fedborough Bridge, and that this was his second marriage. Joke had been working in Fedborough, they had met and fallen in love, so the first Mrs Burnethorpe and two children had been put out to grass. Joke, in her turn, had quickly produced two children; her conversation was dominated by their skills and charms. Alan, having been through the process before, seemed less ecstatic about their growing family. But he was clearly still obsessed by his young wife. His eyes hardly left her during the evening. He looked capable of deep jealousy.
On the other hand, he still had an eye for other women. On being introduced to Jude, he had repeated her name and looked deeply into her brown eyes. His hand had held hers that moment too long and too tightly, immediately identifying him as one of those men who believe themselves to be irresistible to the opposite sex.
The eighth member of the party, matching Jude’s single state, was the local vicar, the Rev Philip Trigwell. Of thinning hair and blotchy complexion, he’d reached the stage of unattractiveness that comes with age, and gave the impression that he’d never gone through the stage of attractiveness that can come with youth. Being of the school of clergy that doesn’t believe in thrusting religion down people’s throats, he wore an ordinary collar and tie, and spent the entire evening avoiding mention of his profession. He also seemed deeply aware of potential flashpoints in Fedborough society, and on any subject expressed no opinion which was not immediately counterbalanced by the opposite opinion. If the Roxbys are matchmaking and have lined up the Rev Philip Trigwell for me, thought Jude, they have seriously wasted their time.
The dinner party could not have been described as ‘sticky’, but then again nor was it particularly relaxed. Dinner parties were not Jude’s favourite social events under any circumstances and, with the Roxbys having only just moved, they had assembled an ad hoc guest list for the occasion.
The mix was, she reflected, pretty standard for newcomers to a town. She was the one old – though not close – friend, met somewhere else. The Roxbys would have encountered the local vicar and the local doctor in the natural course of events – being visited by the one as part of his parochial duties, registering with the other. And she’d put money on the fact that Alan Burnethorpe was the architect Grant and Kim had consulted about the extensive alteration plans they had for the old house that was new to them.
So the Roxbys had made their first social foray in Fedborough predictable enough, while the long-established principle of reciprocal entertainment would ensure that they soon met other locals and, presumably in time, came across some they got on really well with.
The established Fedborough residents – the Durringtons, the Burnethorpes and the Rev Trigwell – all knew each other, and most of their conversation revolved around mutual acquaintances whose foibles and background they kept having to explain to the newcomers. For the Roxbys, characteristically enthusiastic to immerse themselves in the new community, presumably these explanations were relevant, but they failed to hold Jude’s attention. There is something stultifying in being constantly told ‘he’s a character’ about people one is unlikely ever to meet, particularly when the accompanying illustrative anecdote suggests that the person in question has very little character at all. Jude was beginning to get the impression that not a lot happened in Fedborough.
‘Yes,’ Kim Roxby was saying now, ‘kids can breathe when they get out into the country.’
‘I’d hardly call Fedborough “country”,’ objected Alan Burnethorpe. ‘I was brought up here and it’s very definitely a town.’ Lacking the professional restraint imposed on Donald Durrington, he was letting himself go with Grant Roxby’s excellent choice of Chilean and New Zealand wines.
‘But country’s so readily accessible from here. All of the South Downs to walk on, and you can follow the Fether for miles, you know. And then all those beaches to wander over Still, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You know. You must spend all your spare time taking walks like that.’
Kim’s pronouncement prompted a slightly embarrassed concert of throat-clearing. It had marked her out irredeemably as a ‘townie’. Few people who actually live in the country ever walk further than they have to, and then only if they’ve got dogs.
‘But also the health factors,’ she persevered. ‘London – all big cities – are so choked with pollution these days. I feel happier knowing my children will be out breathing healthy country air. There are so many less allergies in the country.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Donald Durrington with professional gloom. ‘The number of kids I see through my surgery with asthma and similar complaints . . . you wouldn’t believe. It’s partly the pesticides and other pollutants out in the country. Then, of course, living in centrally heated houses and being ferried around in cars all the time doesn’t help. Compared to ours, the next generation are incredibly vulnerable to infections.’
‘Oh.’
Kim was cast down for a moment, and Joke Burnethorpe muscled in to shift the conversation. ‘How many children do you have, Kim?’
‘Three.’
‘For our sins,’ Grant threw in meaninglessly.
‘What ages?’
‘Harry’s fifteen . . .’
‘With all that that entails,’ Grant added darkly.
‘Tina’s thirteen . . .’
‘Going on twenty-five.’
‘And Grace is eleven . . .’
‘And she can twist all of us round her little finger.’ Grant chuckled.
Joke Burnethorpe looked across at the empty laid-up place at the dinner table. ‘I thought you said Harry was going to join us.’
‘Ye-es.’ Grant Roxby looked flustered.
Kim came to his rescue. ‘You’ve just got the two kids?’ Her question was completely gratuitous. Since she’d arrived, Joke Burnethorpe had talked about nothing else.
‘That’s
