Dry Bones (19 page)

‘I'm looking forward to it.'

‘Well, let's hope nobody gets murdered this year.' Naomi waved her glass at the garden. ‘It's all looking pretty good, Hugh. Lots still to be done, but you're making real progress.'

This was praise indeed.

‘The white lavender seems to have settled in well.'

‘So I see. It shimmers at dusk, you know, and it's got a wonderful smell. Sweeter than the purple kind. Bumble bees love it.' She wagged a stern finger at him. ‘You have to be tough with it, though, Hugh. Eight, eight, eight. That's the golden rule.'

‘Three eights?'

‘You have to cut it back on the eighth day of the eighth month, down to eight inches. Rather like Armistice Day. Cut it into a hedgehog shape, then you'll get it to grow right.'

‘I'll remember,' he promised. ‘Many thanks for all you did in the garden while I was away.'

‘I just threw some water over anything that needed it and pulled out a few weeds. By the way, you had some enchanter's nightshade in the far corner so I got rid of that for you. Took all the roots out and burned them.'

‘That sounds rather drastic.'

‘I can assure you there's nothing enchanting about enchanter's nightshade except its white flowers. It's a weed and a bloody nuisance. Runs sideways everywhere, if you let it. It's the plant that Circe used when she turned Ulysses' sailors into pigs and ate them.'

‘It must be powerful stuff.'

‘It's also said to be an aphrodisiac for men, but I wouldn't know about that.'

He smiled. ‘Something in its favour, after all.'

‘And in medieval times, people used to believe it protected them from the spells of elves.'

‘I don't believe in elves.'

‘Nor do I.'

‘How about fairies?'

‘Never seen them in the garden. I always hoped I would, as a child, but no luck.'

‘You had a happy childhood?'

‘Idyllic. How about you?'

He thought of the safe and untroubled years in the house in North London. ‘Yes. I was very lucky.'

Had Rory Heathcote been as lucky – with everything that money could buy? He didn't think so. The most important things in life – the things that really mattered – were not for sale.

Naomi took another swig from her glass. ‘Jacob saw to the grass for you.'

‘Yes, I've settled up with him.'

‘I unlocked the shed, so he could get at the mower. You've got it all organized in there, haven't you, Hugh? Everything in its place.

‘That's the way I like it.'

He had already hidden the key elsewhere. Where she'd never find it.

She shook her head and the flowers and the feathers all quivered beneath the veil.

‘I'll never understand men and their sheds.'

‘You don't need to, Naomi,' he said.

When Naomi had left, the Colonel climbed up into the loft. This involved a certain amount of wrestling with a collapsible ladder and an uncooperative trap door. Once up there, he switched on his torch. Here were the suitcases, and the cardboard boxes and the tin trunk that he had stowed away out of sight and mind when he had moved into the cottage. In the trunk he found some blankets that he thought might be useful for Freda Butler's Homeless cause and, opening a crocodile-skin suitcase acquired during an Africa posting many years ago, he came across the British Warm coat that he used to wear when he was home on leave in England. He added it to the blankets. A visit to Boots in Dorchester would deal with the shampoo, toothpaste and soap that had been requested.

He shone the torch into corners and, close by the cold water tank, he saw what he had been searching for: a dry-cleaner's plastic bag with a hanger hook at the top. He hauled it down the ladder, together with the blankets and the British Warm, and carried it into his bedroom.

The plastic bag unzipped and he drew out his old morning suit – the black coat with the tails, the striped trousers, the dove-grey waistcoat. Thirteen years since he had last worn it at Marcus's and Susan's wedding. This, he thought ruefully, was the moment of truth.

He tried on the trousers first, then the waistcoat, and, then, the coat, breathing in as he fastened buttons. The miracle was that the suit still fitted him – a little tighter than before, perhaps, but perfectly wearable. He looked at his reflection in the long glass. The man standing there was older, greyer and no wiser. For the life of him, he couldn't see what Naomi had been on about.

They were lucky with the weather. The sun shone on the morning of the wedding and went on shining all day. The villagers, dressed up in their finery, converged on the church and filled it to standing room only.

The Colonel, a yellow rose in his buttonhole, arrived with the bride in a hired Daimler that had been polished to gleaming perfection. All brides were beautiful, he knew, but it seemed to him that Ruth was the most beautiful that he had seen since Laura. At the church, he helped her from the car and she laid her hand on his arm as they went up the path. At the open west door they paused. Ahead, he could see the packed pews, Tom Harvey and his best man standing at the end of the nave aisle. He had done the same himself once, long ago. He could remember exactly how it had been, waiting for Laura, and the heart-stopping moment when he had turned round to see her coming towards him.

‘Ready, Ruth?'

She smiled up at him and nodded. ‘Ready'.

The organ wheezed into life, coaxed by the valiant Miss Hartshorne at the keys, and the congregation stood to sing the first hymn,
Praise my Soul, the King of Heaven,
as the Colonel and Ruth walked slowly towards the altar. Smiling faces turned to watch their progress; even the Major managed an approving nod. Among the sea of hats, he caught a glimpse of Great-Aunt Rosalind's magnificent flower and feather creation, of Mrs Cuthbertson's pink tulle dustbin lid, and of Miss Butler's neat navy straw. He knew most of the smiling faces; and they knew him.

Like his old cat, the Colonel had finally come home.

^fn1
See
Old Soldiers Never Die
and
Three Silent Things