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.
He gave his shoes an extra shine, put on his best dark suit, a spotless white shirt freshly laundered by himself. He pinned his campaign medals to his chest, his poppy on one lapel, the gold regimental badge he always wore, on the other. On his little finger the gold signet ring with his entwined initials that his wife had given him the day they were married; on his wrist the gold watch bought for him two years ago on his seventieth birthday, engraved on the back with name and date, a joint present from Gareth and Jill.
When he was ready he surveyed himself with satisfaction in the long mirror of his wardrobe, then he let himself out of the house and set off for the rallying-point at a briskly military pace.
Tom Mansell’s housekeeper had taken particular pains with today’s lunch. Only the family, Mansell had told her, but a very special occasion. It wasn’t till the coffee stage that Mansell rose to his feet with an air of ceremony.
‘Thirteen years ago today,’ he said, ‘I took control of Dobie and Mansell’s. I give you a toast.’ He lifted his coffee-cup. He allowed nothing stronger than coffee in his house, he had been raised in a strictly teetotal household. ‘To the next thirteen years!’ The others echoed the toast, raised their cups, smiling.
Mansell remained on his feet. ‘I give you another toast. To the new yard, in Wychford!’ He saw the quick movement of all three heads, the look of surprise on the face of Diane and Stuart. But not on Lester’s face. Lester’s expression showed satisfaction, confirmation of something already guessed. Smart lad, Mansell thought with approval, no flies on Lester. ‘We’ll be starting the ball rolling any day now.’ Mansell raised his cup again. ‘To the future!’
Before setting off to see Cyril Shearman Harry checked that all was ready for supper. Traffic was light and he reached the home shortly after three. Shearman was, as always, pleased to see him, they sat in the almost deserted lounge, talking over old times. At half past four several residents came down from their rooms for tea and cake, dispensed from a trolley by a member of staff.
Shearman nodded over in the direction of one of the residents, an old woman with a weatherbeaten face, a countrified look, making her uncertain way into the lounge, leaning on a stick. ‘That’s Mrs Vaile,’ Shearman told Harry. ‘She came here a few weeks back from one of the company’s other homes.’ There were a number of homes under the same management, scattered over a wide area; residents could move, within reason, between one home and another. Mrs Vaile had sold her own house in the summer and had gone initially to a company home by the sea.
‘She’s been a widow for some years,’ Shearman added. ‘Her husband
