three-thirty.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, in her uniquely Maggsian manner. ‘Sounds as if you like it there.’
‘It’s Saturday,’ I defended.
‘Right, and your poor wife’s got to entertain two kids all day. Just like a man.’
I remembered Timmy’s hope that Maggs might take him swimming, but refrained from mentioning it. It was bad enough that she’d been called out on a Saturday, when she must have a thousand things to do at home. ‘So what’s Den doing?’ I asked, instead.
‘He’s still catching up with sleep, but this afternoon he’s doing the garden,’ she said. ‘Digging out buttercups, I think.’
‘Go!’ I ordered. ‘No more chit-chat.’
Her answering snort was perfectly reasonable, I acknowledged. I knew I had a bad habit of staying too long on the phone, somehow not liking to sever the fragile link between myself and the other person.
I found a gateway onto the road, went up to the junction at the top and turned right, my mind on Mr Everscott and the most likely day for his burial. Maggs and Den were more than I deserved, I reflected, not for the first time. They put their weekends aside when the business demanded, sacrificing normal married life without a murmur. Den’s suggestion of the trailer was typical – his practical nature would quickly identify the solution to the problem of Mr Everscott. He had been a police constable when I first met him, but had resigned shortly before Karen’s shooting, for reasons I never entirely grasped. His romance with Maggs had been sweet to watch, their wedding, only a few months earlier, a triumph of originality. The trip to Syria had been a kind of delayed honeymoon. Karen was already predicting an imminent announcement that a new little Cooper was on its way – but somehow I had my doubts. Maggs might be fond of my Timmy, but children in general appeared to leave her cold. I also selfishly dreaded such a distraction. As a mother, Maggs could not possibly hope to be such a reliable colleague in the business as she currently was.
My route back to the cottage seemed further than I expected, which turned out to be because I was going in the wrong direction. I’d reached an unfamiliar row of houses, the road dipping downhill, and swung round, trotting back in a state of embarrassment.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ asked Thea Osborne, when I eventually got back to where my car sat outside Mrs Simmonds’ cottage.
‘Sorry,’ I panted. ‘Have I made us late?’
‘You’ve been more than half an hour,’ Jessica accused. ‘We didn’t know what to do.’
I didn’t like to admit my stupidity, so shrugged and mumbled something about needing to sort something out at home. My idea of skipping the lunch and going back right away seemed to have evaporated. With a new funeral coming along, I would be more solvent than expected – enough to afford a pub lunch, so long as I didn’t have to treat everybody.
We turned right at the main street, walking in an untidy group, Thea’s dog straining at the lead, dragging her ahead of the others. The boyfriend was with us, as expected. Paul something – Middleman, I remembered after a few minutes – was young and relaxed, smiling a lot and giving Jessica fond glances. Twenty years earlier, he would have been horribly aware of sharp looks coming his way from locals, an alien in this impeccably white English village; but now he strolled easily along – just as Maggs would have done, skin colour a matter of utter irrelevance.
Maggs was mixed race, adopted out to a sensible couple in Plymouth, who raised her to ignore all issues of skin colour. No nonsense about culture or heritage for them – they simply cherished her for the amazing person she was, and shrugged away the ignorant and unkind remarks sometimes made by schoolmates. This Paul was very much blacker than Maggs, but he appeared to have arrived at the same confident attitude to life and I found myself liking him for this reason
‘Hmm,’ she said, in her uniquely Maggsian manner. ‘Sounds as if you like it there.’
‘It’s Saturday,’ I defended.
‘Right, and your poor wife’s got to entertain two kids all day. Just like a man.’
I remembered Timmy’s hope that Maggs might take him swimming, but refrained from mentioning it. It was bad enough that she’d been called out on a Saturday, when she must have a thousand things to do at home. ‘So what’s Den doing?’ I asked, instead.
‘He’s still catching up with sleep, but this afternoon he’s doing the garden,’ she said. ‘Digging out buttercups, I think.’
‘Go!’ I ordered. ‘No more chit-chat.’
Her answering snort was perfectly reasonable, I acknowledged. I knew I had a bad habit of staying too long on the phone, somehow not liking to sever the fragile link between myself and the other person.
I found a gateway onto the road, went up to the junction at the top and turned right, my mind on Mr Everscott and the most likely day for his burial. Maggs and Den were more than I deserved, I reflected, not for the first time. They put their weekends aside when the business demanded, sacrificing normal married life without a murmur. Den’s suggestion of the trailer was typical – his practical nature would quickly identify the solution to the problem of Mr Everscott. He had been a police constable when I first met him, but had resigned shortly before Karen’s shooting, for reasons I never entirely grasped. His romance with Maggs had been sweet to watch, their wedding, only a few months earlier, a triumph of originality. The trip to Syria had been a kind of delayed honeymoon. Karen was already predicting an imminent announcement that a new little Cooper was on its way – but somehow I had my doubts. Maggs might be fond of my Timmy, but children in general appeared to leave her cold. I also selfishly dreaded such a distraction. As a mother, Maggs could not possibly hope to be such a reliable colleague in the business as she currently was.
My route back to the cottage seemed further than I expected, which turned out to be because I was going in the wrong direction. I’d reached an unfamiliar row of houses, the road dipping downhill, and swung round, trotting back in a state of embarrassment.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ asked Thea Osborne, when I eventually got back to where my car sat outside Mrs Simmonds’ cottage.
‘Sorry,’ I panted. ‘Have I made us late?’
‘You’ve been more than half an hour,’ Jessica accused. ‘We didn’t know what to do.’
I didn’t like to admit my stupidity, so shrugged and mumbled something about needing to sort something out at home. My idea of skipping the lunch and going back right away seemed to have evaporated. With a new funeral coming along, I would be more solvent than expected – enough to afford a pub lunch, so long as I didn’t have to treat everybody.
We turned right at the main street, walking in an untidy group, Thea’s dog straining at the lead, dragging her ahead of the others. The boyfriend was with us, as expected. Paul something – Middleman, I remembered after a few minutes – was young and relaxed, smiling a lot and giving Jessica fond glances. Twenty years earlier, he would have been horribly aware of sharp looks coming his way from locals, an alien in this impeccably white English village; but now he strolled easily along – just as Maggs would have done, skin colour a matter of utter irrelevance.
Maggs was mixed race, adopted out to a sensible couple in Plymouth, who raised her to ignore all issues of skin colour. No nonsense about culture or heritage for them – they simply cherished her for the amazing person she was, and shrugged away the ignorant and unkind remarks sometimes made by schoolmates. This Paul was very much blacker than Maggs, but he appeared to have arrived at the same confident attitude to life and I found myself liking him for this reason
Similar Books
