off towards the office, with Stuart tagging along. Harry remained where he was, his back to Norman. Judging by his stance, the angle of his head, the rebuff had by no means vanquished him.
Norman lowered the bonnet into place, climbed into his van and drove out of the yard. His route took him along Whitethorn Road. As he approached the common he saw, a little way ahead, Claire Holroyd standing alone at the bus stop, turning the pages of a book. She glanced up as he came to a halt beside her. He leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Hello, there.’ He gave her a cheerful smile. ‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift into town.’
She hesitated. He picked up a duster from the dashboard shelf, whisked it over the passenger seat with a flourish. ‘Not a speck of dust, milady, clean as a whistle. Come on, hop in.’
She smiled suddenly, closed her book and stepped into the van.
In the hushed atmosphere of the Ladies’ Coat Salon at York House, Claire stood before a long mirror, contemplating with an air of profound concentration the coat she had almost decided on. Jill Lingard, who was attending to her, stood near by without speaking; she knew better than to interrupt with some comment of her own when matters had reached this critical stage.
Claire turned this way and that, studying the slender, classic cut of the coat. Of supple, lightweight tweed, a subtle blend of soft greys and misty blues, with a touch of dark chestnut; suède-covered buttons in the same dark chestnut, an elegant suède trim edging the pockets.
She tilted her head in thought. The coat was undeniably expensive, but not, she finally judged, too expensive; she could just about get away with it. Edgar wasn’t a man to throw his money around, nor to stand silently by while others threw it around on his behalf, but neither could he be described as close-fisted. Any purchase within reason and she would hear no complaint when he studied the monthly statement from their joint bank account.
She gave Jill a smiling nod of decision. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘I’m sure you’ve made the right choice,’ Jill assured her with total sincerity. It was always a pleasure to attend to Mrs Holroyd. She helped her off with the coat. ‘Would you like us to deliver it?’
‘Yes, please.’ Claire stood pondering. ‘A suède beret might be an idea for windy days, it might go well with the coat.’
‘They’ve got some beautiful suède berets in the millinery department,’ Jill told her. ‘They’ve just come in. I’m sure you couldn’t do better than one of those.’
A few minutes later, when Claire had gone off in search of her beret and there was a temporary lull in the department, another assistant, a woman who had recently joined the staff, middle-aged, with a sharp, knowing face, came over to where Jill was replacing coats on a rail.
‘I saw you serving Claire Holroyd,’ she said. Claire Holroyd, Jill registered, not Mrs Holroyd. ‘Do you know her?’ Jill asked.
‘I can’t exactly say I know her,’ the assistant answered with a movement of her shoulders. ‘I worked with her at Hartley’s a few years back.’ Hartley’s was a high-class establishment not far from York House, combining the functions of stationer, newsagent, bookstore and gift-shop. ‘I suppose I knew her as well as anyone there – and that’s not saying much. She was never one to stand around chatting, she was always reserved. She came to Hartley’s straight from school, she worked there until her accident.’
‘What accident was that?’
‘She was in a car crash. Eight years ago now, that must be. She never went back to Hartley’s after she was better, she got herself a job with the council, in the housing department.’
‘She must have been really beautiful as a girl.’ Jill felt not the faintest twinge of envy, securely content with her own ordinary share of looks; Norman thought her pretty and that was enough.
‘The accident took the bloom off her all right,’ the assistant said on a note of satisfaction. She leaned forward confidentially. ‘I saw a piece in the local paper a couple of weeks back, about Claire’s old boyfriend. He’s back in Cannonbridge, got himself a senior job in Calthrop’s, the estate agents, that’s where he worked before. Ashworth, his name is, Robert Ashworth, he’s a qualified surveyor.’
‘Ashworth,’ Jill repeated. ‘My grandfather read me that piece out of the paper. He worked at Calthrop’s till he retired, he’s always interested in anything to do with the firm.’
‘Claire was never actually engaged to Robert Ashworth,’ the assistant enlarged. ‘But we all took it for granted they’d get married. Then she was in the car crash and that seemed to be the end of it – don’t ask me why, I never did know the ins and outs of it. Ashworth left Cannonbridge and got a job somewhere else. I heard he got married not long afterwards – on the rebound, I shouldn’t wonder. The daughter of some businessman, so they said, pretty well-heeled.’ She slanted at Jill a look full of meaning. ‘Robert Ashworth’s a good-looking man, a lot better looking than Edgar Holroyd.’ Her smile was laced with malice. ‘I wonder if Edgar knows Ashworth is back.’
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
