style="font-size:15px;"> ‘It’s so boring,’ Vera said fretfully. ‘Stuck here all day with nothing to do.’
‘You can surely find something to entertain you.’ Gerald waved a hand at the television set, the radio, books, magazines. ‘If there’s anything else you want, I’m sure Miss Jordan or Alma will be happy to get it for you.’ Vera moved her head sulkily but made no reply.
He patted her shoulder. ‘Do cheer up, my dear. It’s a lovely day.’ He picked up his cases. ‘I must be off, I have to call in at the office first. Miss Greatbach will be wondering where I’ve got to.’ He smiled again and was gone before Vera might decide to allow tears to trickle down her cheeks.
Downstairs in the kitchen the housekeeper, Alma Driscoll, was busy with her chores and at the same time chatting amiably to her uncle, Matt Bateman. Matt was sitting at the table, finishing off the substantial snackmeal Alma had set before him.
He was a retired labourer living alone in a tiny cottage half a mile along the road to Abberley village. He had never married, had never seen much good come of it, nothing but loss of freedom and general aggravation. He dropped in at the Lynwood kitchen most days, to see his niece, drink a cup of tea, have a bite to eat. And cast his sharp eye round for any little unwanted trifles that might be doing nobody any good just lying about, but might come in very handy at his little cottage.
Alma rinsed out the teapot and set it down on a shelf. The room was large, with what had once been a butler’s pantry opening off it.
Vera’s parents had had the house modernized when they moved into it immediately after their marriage. Gerald Foster had caused further substantial improvements to be carried out after his own marriage. Vera would have been quite happy if he had left the house as it was; she would have felt that this enshrined her father’s memory.
But she was pleased all the same when the improvements were carried out. She appreciated the new comfort and convenience even if her nature didn’t allow her to open her mouth and say so.
Alma picked up the teacups from the table and carried them to the sink. She was a plump, cheerful-looking woman in her middle thirties. She had married once and lived to regret it. She was now a resolute divorcée amusing herself when and where she chose.
She glanced up at the clock. ‘Time you were taking yourself off,’ she said to her uncle with pleasant firmness.
He got to his feet. There was one further benefit from his visit that he intended to have.
‘I’ll just have a word with the gaffer,’ he said easily. ‘About the firewood.’ There was a beautiful lot of wood lying along the edge of the Lynwood shrubbery where the jobbing gardener, Ned Pritchard, had piled it two days ago.
Matt had marked the wood for his own. It would burn very nicely in the kitchen of his little cottage.
‘You certainly will not ask Mr Foster about the firewood,’ Alma said. ‘I won’t have any kin of mine coming here cadging.’
She saw nothing amiss in diverting a certain amount of Mr Foster’s food and drink towards her uncle in the course of his frequent calls at Lynwood. That was straightforward perks and nothing to be ashamed of.
And she made no secret of the pie or spiced fruit-loaf that she carried in her basket when she called in at Matt’s cottage. But that was quite definitely as far as she would
‘Miss Vera wouldn’t mind if I had the wood,’ Matt said. ‘Her Dad would have let me have it if he was still alive. A fine old gentleman, Mr Murdoch, I always got on well with him.’
‘And Mr Foster’s a first-class employer,’ Alma retorted. ‘I get on well with him. And I mean to keep on getting on well with him. You’re not asking him for that wood.’
‘Ned Pritchard’ll have it if I don’t,’ Matt said with resigned protest.
‘That’s up to Mr Foster. It’s his wood, he can do what he pleases with it.’
Matt pulled on his jacket with its deep and well-used pockets not immediately visible to the questioning eye. He picked up his cup.
‘Now mind,’ Alma said as he opened the door. ‘One word about that wood and you’ll have me to reckon with.’
‘I shan’t say anything.’ He’d already set his mind on another and equally fertile source of free fuel. No need to mention the fact to Alma. She was a dear girl but she did go on a bit.
‘You’ll be looking in at the cottage this afternoon?’ he asked.
She gave a nod. ‘I’ll see you as usual.’
‘This is your night for sleeping out at Pinetrees?’
‘That’s right.’ She came out of the kitchen and stood beside him on the doorstep, looking out at the mellow day.
‘It’s a lovely time of year,’ Matt said with deep pleasure. ‘The pheasants will be fine and fat now.’
She gave him a sharp slap on the arm. ‘Don’t let me hear of you poaching,’ she said fiercely.
Not that he’d ever actually been hauled up into court and charged with poaching, and not that he’d ever admitted such an activity to her, but she had grave suspicions all the same. He gave her a reassuring grin and she turned back into the kitchen.
Matt walked along the side of the house and saw Mr Foster backing his car out of the garage. Matt couldn’t help himself, he took a chance; no need for Alma to know if it didn’t come off. He went up to the car and stooped by the window.
‘All right if I take that bit of wood?’ he said amiably to Mr Foster. ‘I’ll give you an hour or two in the garden for it.’
Gerald Foster turned from his own preoccupations and was momentarily irritated by the cheerful cadginess of Bateman, Matt’s happy assumption that other men strove so that he could help himself to the fruits of their labours.
At another time Gerald might easily have nodded agreement, might have been no more than mildly amused by Bateman’s cheek. But now he said curtly, ‘It’s certainly not all right. You leave that wood where it is. Ned Pritchard is to have it. He chopped it down.’ Gerald began to turn his car.
‘That’s all right, Mr Foster,’ Matt said genially. ‘No offence intended and none taken, I hope.’ Gerald merely nodded and grunted in reply and Matt went swinging off down the drive.
He whistled as he strode along the road. He walked with a strong upright carriage, jaunty and free. He was still agile and quick on his feet in spite of his sixty-nine years.
All his life he’d been a country lad, wouldn’t give you tuppence for the town. He disapproved of almost every change that had taken place in his lifetime. He ignored the greater part of those changes and lived his life in a manner not much different from the way his father had lived his.
Matt lived in the cottage where he had been born; during his working life he’d been a labourer in the local quarry where his father and grandfather had worked before him.
In Matt’s eyes the village of Abberley was the centre of the universe. He’d grown up with the strong conviction – passed on to him from his father – that
