want to start my holiday with a streaming cold.’
By Friday morning Gavin’s cold was turning feverish. Mrs Cutler hadn’t shown her face at Eastwood since Tuesday, she was presumably nursing herself at home in her cottage.
It was a raw, chilly morning. Gavin shivered as he came out of the house and walked to the garage, although he had wrapped himself up with care. I’ll be glad when today’s over, he thought as he drove into Cannonbridge. Not only was there the usual list of appointments in the morning and the weekly meeting in the afternoon, but, worst of all, he had to attend a dinner in the evening over at the Northgrove Hotel. Northgrove was a small township which stood at the apex of a triangle with Cannonbridge and Martleigh at either end of the base line; it was roughly equidistant from both places.
The dinner was being given by the Northgrove Chamber of Commerce and was typical of many functions Gavin attended in the course of a year. In the ordinary way he didn’t dislike these occasions; sometimes they were quite enjoyable. But to sit through one feeling as he did now – not a cheerful prospect.
He walked slowly up the front steps of Elliott Gilmore and into the building. His head felt woolly and his legs far from steady. It was beginning to seem a good deal more like ’flu than a cold. He had breakfasted on black coffee and aspirin and he intended to repeat the dose throughout the morning. The thing is to buckle down to work and forget about how you feel, he told himself bracingly as he went into his office. With luck the aspirins would have some effect and by evening he would be feeling less like death warmed up.
By midday, when he terminated his last appointment as speedily as he could without overt rudeness, he was feeling very poorly indeed. ‘You don’t look at all well,’ Miss Tapsell said with concern as she removed yet another empty coffee cup from his desk. ‘I really think you should give in and go home to bed.’ He began to shake his head. ‘I’ll phone Mr Howard and Mr Roche,’ she said with resolution. ‘I’ll explain that you’re not well, you’ve had to go home, there won’t be a meeting this afternoon. They won’t mind. There’s nothing urgent on the agenda, it can all stand over till next week.’
He looked up at her. ‘It’s this dinner at Northgrove. If I go to bed now I’ll never be able to force myself to get up again this evening.’ At the thought of having to struggle into a dinner-jacket and drive over to Northgrove, sit through an interminable meal and endless speeches, he could have dropped his head into his hands and groaned. ‘I can’t cry off at such short notice.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you,’ Miss Tapsell said robustly. ‘Either Mr Howard or Mr Roche will go in your place, I’m sure of it.’
‘I know Howard can’t go,’ Gavin said. ‘He’s going away for the weekend. He’s joining his wife at her godmother’s, he’s driving over there this evening, it’s all arranged. He mentioned it on the phone yesterday.’
‘Then you can ask Mr Roche, I’m sure he’ll go. Shall I ring him now?’
‘I’d better speak to him myself.’ He was beginning to feel a great surge of relief at the prospect of deliverance.
Roche was, as always, ready to be flexible. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said when the matter had been explained. ‘I don’t mind in the least.’
‘It’s very good of you,’ Gavin said. ‘Particularly at such short notice.’
‘It’s no trouble. Tomorrow’s my turn on duty, I’ll stop over here tonight.’ Roche and the head clerk at Martleigh took it in turns to go into the office on Saturday mornings.
‘I’ll get off home then,’ Gavin said. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Look after yourself,’ Roche told him. ‘There are some pretty nasty bugs going around.’
‘Whisky and lemon, that’s the thing,’ Gavin said. ‘I’ll stop by for another bottle on the way home, I finished every drop in the house last night.’
‘Don’t worry about Mr Howard,’ Miss Tapsell said when Gavin had replaced the receiver. ‘I’ll ring him, I’ll explain about the meeting.’ She was already shepherding Gavin towards the door. ‘I’ll see to everything here, don’t worry about any of it.’ She looked up at him. ‘Would you like me to get someone to run you home? Are you sure you feel like driving?’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m quite capable of getting home. I’ll sweat it out over the weekend, I’ll be as right as rain on Monday.’
With the extra time at his disposal because of the cancelled meeting, Roche was able to get through a good deal of work during the afternoon. At a quarter to five his secretary came in with a pile of letters to be signed. He came suddenly out of his absorption.
‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘Is that the time?’ He reached for the phone. ‘I must ring my wife and tell her I won’t be home this evening. I meant to do it earlier.’
On Monday morning Mrs Cutler returned to work at Eastwood. She didn’t yet feel one hundred per cent her old sprightly self but she felt just about well enough, and it did you no good to stay moping round the house once you were anything at all like fit to get back to work.
She pulled on a thick knitted cap and wound a long woolly scarf round her neck and shoulders, securing it with a large safety-pin against unwinding while she was pedalling along. She was early, as usual on a Monday morning. She always liked to get the week off to a good start, particularly so today, when she hadn’t been into Eastwood to clean since last Tuesday. The house would be in a fine old state by now. Mr Elliott was the last person to think of picking up a duster or running the cleaner over a carpet, let alone applying a flick of polish anywhere, not even if she were to stay away weeks instead of days. Not that she thought any the less of him for that. There was man’s work and there was woman’s work, and she had never seen good reason to depart from that principle.
She hoisted herself up on to her antiquated bicycle and began to pedal along at a good steady pace. The weekend had been dry, very bright and cold, but this morning was dark and overcast, with a biting wind. Not a morning to tempt folk out unnecessarily. She met no one as she covered the three-quarters of a mile, only a car or two drove past her on its way to Cannonbridge.
She reached Eastwood and got stiffly down to open the gate. She kept her head lowered against the chill blast as she pushed the bicycle along the drive and round to the rear of the house. She stowed the bike away in its usual place inside the shed and went over to the back door. She turned the handle but the door refused to yield. She tried again, without result. Mr Elliott must have forgotten to unlock it for her. He probably hadn’t expected her back so soon, it would be a nice surprise for him. She put a finger on the bell and pressed it, glancing about the garden as she waited. A few yards away a fly-catcher darted about, gathering material for his minuscule nest. In a nearby flowerbed a robin tugged at a worm.
Still no sound from inside the house. She pressed the bell again. ‘Oh, come on!’ she said aloud. ‘Get a move on!’ She began to stamp her feet to keep the circulation going. Still no sign of Mr Elliott coming down. She abandoned restraint, she put her finger forcefully on the bell and kept it there for several seconds. It was certainly ringing, she could hear it clearly, loud and insistent, he must surely hear it too, wherever he was – but maybe not if he was in the bathroom with the door closed. Or he could have overslept, he might have taken a drink or two over the odds last night, he might still be in bed. She stuck her finger on the bell yet again. She was growing tired of standing out here in the cold.
And then a thought
