The Legacy (26 page)

‘I am, that's right.' Rolf wasn't abrupt this time. His instincts were sending messages—he's approached you for a reason. Maybe curiosity, maybe not—he knew how gossip flew through small communities. His business at RussMore with the Mannings and Bob Thorn that afternoon, even his appointment with the local doctor for the next day … the news would have reached the pub landlord by now, and Madge, the overfriendly barmaid, had even tried to pump Rolf himself for information. He decided to draw the man out. ‘I'm her lawyer,' he said.

‘Are you? Well, I expect you've got plenty of work to do sorting out that mess up there. Mind if I sit at the table? I've been on my feet all afternoon.'

Rolf said, ‘Not at all. Doing what?' It was his turn to quiz.

The man looked at him in surprise. Then he smiled, understanding. ‘Ah, you're a foreigner, aren't you sir?' The word lawyer produced the ‘sir'. ‘I've been burying an old lady over Winching way. Big funeral it was; she'd lived to a good age, near on eighty-eight, and there's a lot of her family round about. I'm on my way home, just stopped off for a quick drink. Haven't had time to get out of my business suit.' He gave a little chuckle. ‘Puts people off if I come in here like this, though they all know me. I'm a builder too, you see. I do the funerals as well, but my work is mostly building. I did all the repairs up at RussMore that their lads on the estate couldn't do.' Rolf knew that his instincts had been right.

‘Let me get you another glass. Beer?' The smile broadened.

‘Real ale. Only half, please. I've to drive another fifteen miles home … Thanks very much.'

Rolf brought the small tankard back and set it down. ‘You said there was a mess to sort out,' he remarked. ‘I suppose you can't keep secrets in a village.' He was relaxed and friendly now. ‘I'm Wallberg,' he said. ‘Rolf Wallberg.'

‘Mick Garrett,' was the response. ‘Pleased to meet you. Well, as you say, you can't keep secrets, everyone gets to hear things. Not always the truth, mind, but you'd know if it was right or not. The word is that Mr Farrington's sons are taking Mrs Farrington to court.'

‘One son is, that's right. The eldest.'

Garrett swallowed some of his ale. He pulled a face, but not because of the taste. ‘Oh him, he would.' He took another swallow. ‘Wants to take RussMore away from Mrs Farrington,' he said, ‘that's what I heard.'

‘That's about right,' Rolf agreed. ‘You know him then?'

‘Me? Oh no, I wouldn't say that … Saw him sometimes when I did work up at the place. He was a boy then; sullen little bugger, never talked to anyone, but then there were problems with the mother. I suppose that might account for it.' Truly, Rolf thought, there are no secrets in a village.

‘But you knew Mr Farrington then … if you worked for him?'

‘Oh, yes. Mind, I got my orders from the estate manager. Very nice gentleman, but well … not that friendly. Bit of a squire.' He chuckled again. ‘Those days are gone, even if your family's been in these parts before there
was
a village here. There's always been Farringtons at RussMore. He and that son of his never got on, everyone knew it. That's what surprised me.' He had nearly finished his ale.

Rolf said quietly, ‘What surprised you?' There was a hesitation. He had reached the point, the reason for accosting the stranger who was working for the Farringtons on their legal case. He wasn't being dramatic, it was a natural reluctance to say what was on his mind; a doubt that he would be believed. Rolf repeated it, ‘What surprised you, Mr Garrett?'

Garrett cleared his throat. ‘Him coming to see his father in his coffin,' he said. ‘I buried him, you see. My father buried his father, and so on; four generations, all buried by Garretts. Never went to fancy undertakers in Lincoln; always used us. It's a tradition.'

Rolf kept his tone of voice unchanged. ‘Yes, I see. You say the son, Alan Farrington, came to see his father's body before the funeral?'

‘That's right. Rang me up the night before, and asked if he could see his father. He was in Lincoln, staying at a hotel. Mr Farrington, the deceased, he was in our little chapel of rest, by the builders' yard. We keep a little place where they can lie over night.'

‘And he saw the body?' Rolf asked. ‘He actually came and saw his father's body?'

‘Oh, yes, he did. I opened up the chapel for him myself. I didn't stay, of course; relatives like to be on their own, to say their goodbyes. I left him there. He didn't stay long, not more than a few minutes. He wasn't upset at all, not that I could see; very businesslike. “Thanks,” that's all he said, and then he walked off to that big car of his and drove away. So far as I know he hadn't been down here for years. I said to my wife, Lily, not much grieving there, nor at the funeral either, not a tear. He just stood by the graveside scowling. Wouldn't stand anywhere near his stepmother and the little girl; didn't sit with them in the church either.'

Rolf said, ‘Mr Garrett, why are you telling me this? It's not that unusual for a son to pay his respects to his dead father, even if they didn't get on well.'

‘As you say, no, it isn't. But when he'd gone and I went to close up the coffin—it was quite late and no-one else was coming to view him—there was something I couldn't account for; in all my years in the business I've never seen anything like it. Horrible, it was, it's worried me ever since.'

Rolf leaned towards him. ‘Tell me about it, Mr Garrett. Tell me what happened?'

‘Don't worry about Belinda,' Jane Spannier said. ‘She's such a confident child, she'll be fine; you're the one who's going to miss her.' She thought Christina looked peaky and miserable, not even Harry's clowning could cheer her up. Of course it was an emotional wrench; she'd become closer than ever to the child after Richard's death.

It was a good thing from Belinda's point of view that she'd gone away to school.

It wasn't surprising that Christina depended on her, after all, as she and Peter agreed, who else had the poor girl got to turn to? And that was when he had put into words what they had both been thinking. ‘Harry thinks he's in love with her,' he said. ‘I'm sure she doesn't realize it, but I don't want him to get hurt. Once is bad enough.'

‘No, that mustn't happen,' Jane agreed. ‘I think I might say something to her.' After she had been there for three days, Jane decided that the moment had arrived.

The men were out rough shooting, and they had spent the morning doing household chores and chatting about family matters: about Belinda's school; about the problem of their other son, who was coming over to dinner; and his resentment of Harry coming back to take over the business and run the farm.

‘That's the trouble with children,' Jane remarked, ‘you never stop worrying about them, no matter how old they are. I suppose I worry about Harry more than Tom, because Tom's happily married and got his family … he's set up now. But Harry's very impulsive, you know, and in spite of all the fooling about, he's vulnerable really.'

‘I know,' Christina agreed. ‘He's so kind; I don't know what I'd have done without him. You told me he was a wonderful friend.'

Jane took a breath. Tact was not one of her qualities, but she tried very hard this time. ‘I think he's more than that …' she said. ‘Peter thinks he's in love with you and I do too. So please, my dear, don't lead him on if there's nothing going to come of it.' Christina flushed.

‘Jane, you're not serious?'

‘'Fraid so. You don't mind me saying it, do you Christa, but you're too wrapped up in your own problems to notice. Just be careful, will you?'

‘Of course I will,' she promised. ‘I'm quite shattered, Jane. I never imagined he felt anything like that for me. But my father said something too … oh God, what a stupid mess I've made!'

Jane was horrified to see her eyes fill with tears.

‘I'm really fond of him, I'd never do anything to hurt him.'

‘Course you wouldn't, and for Heaven's sake don't let on I've said anything, he'd kill me. And don't upset yourself over it … poor dear, don't do that. I feel awful now!'

She came over awkwardly and put an arm round Christina. Showing affection made her uncomfortable. ‘I can hear them outside,' she said. ‘Turn the taps off, and let's get the drinks out. Come on.' Her briskness made it easier.
Turn the taps off.
It was so typically Jane that it even made Christina smile. ‘Don't worry,' she said, ‘I'm fine. I'll get the ice.'

Moments later Harry and his father were in the kitchen and Harry was demanding to know if Christina liked pigeon, because he'd shot two. She didn't know; she'd never eaten any. He laughed; he looked happy and in higher spirits than usual.

‘Well, you won't have to, because it's pheasant tonight. Couldn't give brother Tom a humble pigeon; he'd say we were being mean … I'll pour the gin, Pop. Can't have you getting pissed before lunch.'

After lunch Harry murmured to Christina, ‘Stop fretting about Belinda; I bet she's in the thick of things by now, getting up to mischief. Come for a walk with me.' Caught by surprise, Christina fumbled for an excuse.

‘Harry, I don't think so, I promised to help Jane …'

‘Mum,' he said firmly and loudly. ‘Mum, you're not to slave-drive Christa. She's not helping you, she's going out for a walk with me. See you at teatime!'

It was a very crisp day, but the sun shone and the flat Norfolk fields were criss-crossed by footpaths. He walked with a long stride, head slightly bent, hands jammed in his jacket pockets. ‘We'll go up there,' he said, pointing to a gap in a hawthorn hedge. ‘You can see for miles. That's what I love about this part of England; the Fens even more so. You feel you could go on walking till you stepped off the edge into the sea. You've been crying. What's the matter? Belinda?'

‘No,' she answered. He was walking faster now, a few steps ahead of her on the narrow path.

‘Didn't think it was. Not anything Mum said, I hope; she can be really club-footed sometimes. Doesn't mean it, but it doesn't stop her upsetting people.'

‘Harry,' Christina said. ‘Harry, yes, I was upset, but it was about you.' He stopped in mid-stride.

‘Me? Christa, what about me?'

They were face to face on the path. ‘Jane said … she said you were in love with me, and she doesn't want you to get hurt. Oh, dear God, she begged me not to tell you, but it just came out. You're not, are you?'

He tilted his head on one side, and looked at her with an expression that was slightly quizzical and also guarded. ‘What would you say if I said no?'

‘I'd be relieved,' she answered.

‘And if I said yes? Just hypothetical questions, don't worry. Stop biting your lip; it'll get sore in this wind.'

‘Harry,' she said unhappily, ‘I'm afraid I've made a fool of myself … I shouldn't have said anything. Jane shouldn't have, either; it's just that she knows how hurt you were when your marriage broke up. She knows I'm not ready for anything like that with anyone.'

‘I'm sure you're not,' he took her arm, as the pathway widened at the opening between the hedges. ‘If I said no, I wasn't in love with you, wouldn't you be even a touch disappointed? Not that I've said it, mind. Wouldn't you?'

‘No,' Christina answered. ‘No, I wouldn't. I'm so fond of you, Harry, I couldn't be selfish or conceited enough to feel like that. I don't want you to be hurt either. She's not right, is she?' He pointed briefly, before plunging his hand back in the pocket.

‘Look at that! Acres and acres, miles and miles of space, with that sunny sky. Doesn't it put things in perspective? My mother worrying about me; you worrying about something that's not your fault if it happens to be true, which it is.'

He stopped, his arm still linked with hers. He wasn't facing her; he looked ahead, squinting into the distance. ‘I loved you the first night I ever saw you. Gloomy old RussMore seemed full of light the minute you appeared. Not just because you're a beautiful woman—I don't give a toss for beauty—my wife and her friends all looked golden and gorgeous; all you could think about was getting them into bed. I don't think about you like that; I like you. I want to go to bed with you, but it's not the most important thing. That's why', he still hadn't looked at her, ‘we can go on being friends and see how things develop. Nothing may change; I don't know. Can you put the whole thing on hold? Forget what Mum said and I've said?'

Slowly Christina answered. ‘I can't promise anything, Harry. I know how I feel now, that's all. I couldn't get involved with anyone.'

He had begun to move forward. ‘Not even the noble Swede?'

‘Most of all, not with him.' She'd said it before she could stop herself.

‘But he's tried, hasn't he?'

‘Yes,' she admitted and was suddenly relieved.

‘He has.' Harry walked on. ‘I thought so. Well I'll still be around when this bloody case is finished, one way or the other, and he'll be gone. Do you want to turn back? Are you cold?'

‘No, let's go a bit further.'

‘Changing the subject, let me fill you in about my brother. He has a nice cosy wife, two badly behaved children that drive Mum up the wall because they never go to bed before nine in the evening and we were all packed away by half-past six. He's a nice enough guy, and I'm fond of him; not a great sense of humour, but, unlike me, he never gave Mum and Pop a minute's trouble. He always did the expected thing. The unfairness is, they've always liked me better than him; I can't think why, but it's a fact. So I get to manage the farm and take over the business, which he'd thought would come his way when I emigrated. Not that he's been badly done by; Pop gave him nearly three thousand acres when he got married. They live very well; no pigeon for them! He'll be charmed by you; she'll be overawed—she's a bit of a snob, I'm afraid, but never mind—and they'll both be irritated by me! So I hope you're looking forward to a jolly evening.'