Pam Pheasant

 

Chapter 1

 

What was it her mother always said? – “One for sorrow.”  Maureen was not that superstitious and a single magpie swooping across Stony Street caused her no sense of foreboding.  There was usually a pair on this stretch of road.  No doubt, its mate was somewhere close.  It was Sunday morning and she was on her way from her home at one end of the village of Angel Hill to the chapel, just beyond the village sign, at the far end of Stony Street.

Maureen had been brought up chapel, but for many years, to keep Elsie company, had attended the parish church of St. Nicholas, St. Nick’s as it was known in the village.  After Elsie died, stifling a sense of guilt, she had forsaken the poorly attended services at the parish church, where the Vicar was a distant figure who shook hands at the door after the service, and re-joined the free church as the chapel had become.   The small Victorian meeting house was always packed to the gills.   Instead of the watery communion wine and a tasteless wafer, the service would be followed by a communal breakfast with hot buttered toast and marmalade. Really passable coffee was dispensed from an automatic machine donated by old Miss Pink just before she went to meet her maker.  Few of the congregation came from the village.  Most, like their pastor, the Reverend Pritt, travelled from the nearby town. 

Maureen felt that it was good to meet people from outside the village just once a week.  She had lived in the village almost all her life and knew that she was seen as something of an oddity, one of the two weird spinster sisters living in that quaint gothic cottage at the lonely end of Stony Street.  Of course, they were not really sisters. Elsie was a fellow teacher, a colleague at the local comprehensive, who had come to share the cottage after her parents died.    

Some way ahead of her was Cathy Dunn, presumably also making her way to the meeting house, where she spasmodically attended Maureen’s little Sunday School.  Whatever was her mother thinking about, letting the child wander around the village on her own?  She could only be six or seven.  Some people in the village drove like lunatics.  A few minutes before, John Weston had hurtled past in his flashy red car showering stinging dust and gravel from the dry road surface.  John and his wife Jane were amongst the few regulars at St. Nick’s, but he was heading in the wrong direction this morning.   

The child stopped and with the enviable agility of the young, dragged off her sandal with one hand.  Standing on one leg, she shook it vigorously.  As Maureen came closer, the child bent to replace the scandal and adjust the fastening.  Not even wearing knickers thought Maureen disapprovingly, or if she were, they were so skimpy as to be invisible.   She hoped that Warren Briers driving his family to church in his sleek grey saloon had not noticed.  She thought he lent forward for a closer look as the car crawled past.  Warren and Victoria Briers were regular attendees.  “Too righteous to be true and really dreadful children,” thought Maureen.  She straightened her back.  It wasn’t like her to think such uncharitable thoughts, particularly on a Sunday. 

“Hello, Cathy.  Did you have a pebble in your shoe?”  The child nodded silently, looking at her sideways.  “Shall we walk together?  The road is a bit busy this morning.  We can look out for each other.”  The child said nothing, but fell into step beside her.   Maureen wondered whether to take her by the hand, but she was independent little thing and might not like it.  Anyway, you had to be so careful of physical contact with children these days.  Nothing was innocent any more. Even friendships could be suspect.  Maureen was well aware of what the students at Oxendon Wood Girls School had said when the modern languages teacher, Elsie Devine, moved into her cottage.   Elsie’s name hadn’t helped.  “Maureen Thompson thinks Elsie’s divine,” they sniggered.

There were several cars manoeuvring for space in the small car parking area to the side of the square, plain, white-washed building.  Automatically Maureen reached down to take the child’s hand.  It felt slightly sticky.  Cathy spoke for the first time.   “Can I come and help you get out the books and toys?”  She knew that Maureen would go first to the hut beside the chapel where she and the children repaired half way through the service, before the Reverend Pritt launched into his lengthy sermon.  “Yes dear.  That would be helpful.  I’m a bit late this morning.” The Sunday School books were kept in the old metal cupboard in the corner of the outbuilding, as well as a selection of toys for children, like William and Josie Briers who were too young to look at books or sit and listen to stories.  Cathy obediently followed Maureen’s instructions, setting out a dozen chairs in a half circle with a book on each and a selection of the tougher toys (the Briers children were so destructive) in a box at the side. 

“Time to go in.  Thank you for your help, dear.  I wouldn’t have made it without you and I do hate going in once they’ve started singing.”  The child showed no sign of gratification, but then she had a particularly expressionless little face.  They slipped into the back of the church, just as Miss Pink, younger sister of the coffee machine donor, played her first shaky notes on the old piano and the congregation stumbled into song.  Voices wavered, gradually gaining strength and confidence, as old Tom, self appointed pacemaker, did his best to hustle poor flustered Amy Pink to a faster tempo.

The trouble with the communal breakfast was that someone had to stay and do the washing up.  As always, Maureen was the last to leave. “I’ll finish up.  I know you’re in a hurry.”  Maureen’s offer was always gratefully accepted.  “There’s no reason for me to hurry home.” She thought sadly.  It would be nice if, just sometimes, she was invited out to lunch, but Sunday was a family day and you couldn’t really expect it.  No one knew how she missed Elsie.  The opportunity to take early retirement in the last round of budget cuts had been welcomed by Maureen who had never coped well at the comprehensive.  She and Elsie had lived together for twenty years and had great plans for their retirement.  If she had been a widow, she would have had lots of sympathy and invitations.   Even Patch had deserted her.  His basket had been empty for two months, a constant reminder every time she entered the house of this final loss.

Out in the sunshine, her unusual self pity left her abruptly.   It was a gorgeous day, the sort of day, she and Elsie would have packed Patch into the car and taken a picnic onto the downs.  She would have taken her sketch book and Elsie a lined pad, so that she could make seasonal notes for the local history she was compiling.   You couldn’t picnic on your own, but suppose she got another dog.  A spasm of guilt shook her as she thought about the little brown and white spaniel.  “Cross patch by name and cross patch by nature,” Elsie used to say and it was true; Patch had become increasingly grumpy as he got older.  He hadn’t been a company dog, but when you were on your own, it was a lot better than nothing.  

After a cold lunch, Maureen reached for the local paper, where the rescue kennels the other side of Oxenden often advertised.  Yes, here it was.   Opening times 10 till 4 every Sunday.  She would leave the washing up for once and take the car over to the kennels.  Maybe they would have a spaniel, pretty like Patch, but better tempered.  There could be no harm in driving over to have a look.  

The kennels, when she eventually found them up a poorly signed lane and down a stony farm track, were deserted and silent.  She wondered for a moment if she had come at the wrong time, or if the kennels had closed down overnight. However, the gate stood open and she had come this far.  Timidly, she walked towards a forbiddingly closed door labelled “office” in the corner of the yard.  As the gravel crunched under her feet, a whimper, followed by a burst of barking, came from one of the buildings.  This was picked up in the adjacent block and rippled in a cacophony from buildings on all sides.  The office door burst open and a harassed middle-aged woman came striding out.  She was speaking into a two-way radio, apparently to someone very stupid.  Her voice made itself heard easily above the clamour.  “She hardly needs the radio,” thought Maureen.  

“Can I help you?” she asked Maureen, the decibels only slightly reduced.   Maureen was directed through a small door.   “All the dogs in Blocks A and B are up for re-homing.”  Maureen could see nothing to indicate which were Blocks A and B, but obediently walked in the direction indicated.  It was more traumatic than she had thought.  All these dogs desperate for her attention, barking and scrabbling at the bars. She almost turned back.  Then, she saw him.  A delightful little black and white mongrel with a cheeky grin and wildly wagging tail.   “Oh, you’re lovely,” she cried, as the dog leapt higher and higher.   She put her hands close to the bars so that he could sniff her fingers.  “I have to ask you not to touch the dogs.   If you are interested in one, ask at the office.”  The bored voice belonged to a snooty looking girl with blond pony tailed hair and disreputable clothes, leaning against the door at the end of the passage, presumably to turn back those people who could not read the large “No Entry” sign.  Embarrassed, Maureen took her hands away from the bars. 

As she straightened up, she noticed the occupant of the next kennel, a dark bridle greyhound.  He wasn’t jumping about like the other dogs.  Just standing there watching her.  A family came into the block.  They too stopped by the black and white mongrel.   “This one’s gorgeous,” said the mother.   “Yeees, but I did like the little brown dog in the second kennel,” said one of the children.  “Too noisy” said their father.   “This one’s quite cute.”  None of them even looked at the greyhound and he didn’t seem to expect it.  Maureen, who had moved on to let them see the mongrel, bent down to speak to him.  She kept her hands firmly by her sides, so that the snooty girl wouldn’t think she was going to poke her fingers through the bars.  The dog’s tail wagged very slightly, but he made no move towards her.  He was very lean with old scars and newer grazes giving his coat a moth-eaten appearance.  It was difficult to tell how old he was.  She walked to the top of the block and then down the next block, seeing just a blur of excitable barking dogs. When she reached the beginning she looked back.  She would have liked to walk up and say goodbye to the greyhound, but she didn’t want to raise his hopes.  He hadn’t looked very hopeful.   She would never be able to cope with a big dog like that, she thought regretfully.   

“I’d like the bridle greyhound in the kennel third from the top, next to the black and white mongrel.”  Maureen was amazed to hear herself speaking so definitely to the terrifying lady with the two way radio.  The woman herself looked somewhat taken aback.   “That one’s not really ready for re-homing yet, but we were short of kennel space.  He’s just come in. We would have to arrange a home inspection and you would need to have a chat with our behaviourist to make sure you understand what’s involved in taking on an ex-racing greyhound.”  She looked doubtfully at Maureen who continued to wait expectantly.  “If you are really interested, I suppose I could get one of the girls to bring him up for you to see,” she said grudgingly. “Yes please.”  Maureen nodded firmly.

“Caroline, bring number 16 in A block into the yard now” the scary lady bawled into the two way radio.  Maureen hoped it would not be the snooty blond, although she felt sorry for her being spoken to in that way, without even a please or thank you. While they waited, information was dispensed in short negative bursts.  “We’ve called him Barry.  You could change that.  He’s only three years old. An ex racer.  Been kennelled all his life.  He’ll need to be muzzled when he goes out.  If he chases another animal, he might kill it.  You will have to think carefully about whether you can take him on.”   Maureen correctly interpreted the unspoken - “and    we’ll to think very carefully about you.”

Maureen didn’t know what to say when blond Caroline, still looking bored, brought the dog into the yard.   He looked so dignified, as if he was saying:  “I don’t expect you to take me, but it’s kind of you to think of it.”  When she held out her hands, he put his nose politely into them and wagged his tail a little more enthusiastically.  He obviously wasn’t the type to leap in the air or roll over on his back like the little mongrel.   It would take time to get to know him.

As Maureen drove away, she found she had tears running down her cheeks, as if the encounter had triggered all the unshed tears that belonged to losing Elsie and then Patch.   By the time she reached the village she was calm.  Entering the empty cottage was less stressful than usual and she looked round the sitting room critically.   That old two-seater settee, hardly used since she rarely had visitors, would make an ideal bed for a big dog.  She would buy one of those colourful throws that could go in the washing machine.   Thank goodness the garden was secure.  Patch had been a bit of an escape artist in his younger days.   She would go down to the pet shop first thing on Monday and buy some new bowls, so that when the inspection took place they would see she had everything ready.

It was about four o’clock when Maureen arrived back at her cottage and other people were returning to their homes, reluctantly facing up to the fact that tomorrow would be Monday.  The cricket match on the Recreation Ground was over.  The wives of the home team were clearing up the debris from the cricket tea and thinking of the dirty washing and grubby children still to be dealt with.  The village children, having scrounged all they could in the way of leftovers, had made themselves scarce.  It had been a hot sticky day and tempers were frayed. 

At five o’clock Maggie Dunn sat her three younger children, all under five, down with their tea on trays in front of the television.   It was messy, but it kept them quiet and Maggie craved quiet.   Soon they would be in bed and as George had driven off mid-afternoon to his conference hotel, to be ready for the big event tomorrow, she would have some peace.   She looked out of the window.  Where could Cathy be?  The child was usually back in time for tea.  Then she remembered the cricket.  Perhaps she had gone back with one of the wives and been given supper.  It had happened before. 

Victoria Briers was not getting the children ready for bed.  She did not believe in set bedtimes.  William was still in nappies and needed changing.  Josie was out of nappies, but having wet her knickers at Sunday School in the morning, was not wearing any.  At six o’clock, lacking attention and tired, they sat on the floor carefully tearing into small pieces, a copy of “Accountancy Monthly” that had arrived last week and not yet been opened.   Warren sat at the table by the window, chewing the end of his pencil.  In front of him was a report that would discomfort the Senior Partner, Keith Henderson, at tomorrow’s meeting.   What a pity he wouldn’t have time to warn Keith before the meeting about the discrepancy he had uncovered.   Warren chuckled to himself happily.   Victoria came into the room. She looked at her husband with distaste. “Really, Warren.  I thought you were keeping an eye on them.  Just look at the mess.”   She scooped up William, holding him slightly away from her. “Leave that for a moment and help me get them to bed.”

At the vicarage, Jennie Cross was making herself a cup of tea.  Her husband had gone across to the church to get ready for evensong. There would be no-one there, so it would be all right.  They would have some supper later.  First she needed to relax.  It had not been a good Sunday.  She really didn’t know how they were going to go on.  It was all right with just the few regulars, but this morning there had been some new people from the next village where the Vicar officiated every other Sunday.  Whatever must they have thought?   After all these years, the order of service did not present a problem.  It was the sermon.  Although Simon retired to his study each evening, supposedly to write his sermon, she did not believe he had actually written a word for the last five years.  Still, as they had only been in this parish for three years, the fact that he was working his way through sermons written ten, fifteen or twenty years ago didn’t matter.  It was embarrassing when he talked about songs that had long been golden oldies as if they were the newest entry in the charts.  This morning, however, she really believed that he had swapped sermons half way through.  She saw the puzzled looks on the faces of the newcomers, although the regulars seemed to notice nothing.  The embarrassment that Simon could not feel stained her face and neck scarlet.  She lived in dread of what he might say.  He came out with some very odd remarks these days. 

As the sitting room clock struck the half hour, Maggie Dunn put aside her library book with a start.  George did not approve of her sitting reading when there were chores still to be done. With four young children, there were always chores, so she rarely got the chance to finish her library book before it was due back.  She was looking forward to the next few days with no-one running a finger along the shelves or lining up her next tasks, when she was just about to sit down with a cup of tea for the first time that day.  George had been known to sprinkle bird seed under the arm chairs to make sure she was moving the furniture when she vacuumed round.  It was very wearing.  She looked at the clock, then out of the window.  It was half past eight and almost dark.  Where could Cathy be?  The cricket would have finished long ago.  She wondered whether to walk down to the Rec, but if she did someone might bring the child home while she was gone.   For half an hour, she vacillated between a certainty that Cathy would turn up – she always did – and the feeling that perhaps she should do something.  She actually began to wish that George was at home.

Maureen had finished her light supper and picked up her library book.  She always ate late because it helped to break up the evening.  She was struggling with the third volume of a trilogy.  It would be good if she could finish it by Tuesday when the mobile library paid its fortnightly visit.  She wondered if they would have any books on greyhounds, so that she could surprise the bossy woman with her knowledge.   The telephone startled her.   Who could possibly be ringing on a Sunday evening?

“I’m really sorry to trouble you” said a tentative voice that she did not recognise.  The voice continued, “Its Maggie, Maggie Dunn.” 

“Oh, hello” Maureen searched her mind.  Who on earth was Maggie Dunn?  Then came enlightenment.

“I’m Cathy’s mother.  She goes to your Sunday School sometimes and I wondered.  It’s just that she mentioned you and I don’t who else to ask.”   Then, inconsequentially,  “I found your telephone number in the book.  I don’t know the names of any of the ladies at the cricket.”

“Oh,” said Maureen weakly, failing to understand. 

“It’s just that she hasn’t come home and I haven’t seen her all day.  I wondered whether she went to Sunday School this morning?”

“Oh yes, she helped me set up the books and chairs before the service.  I didn’t notice whether she was at breakfast afterwards.”  The full implication hit Maureen suddenly.   “Do you mean to say you haven’t seen her since?”  Maureen spoke sharply.

“No.  I thought she’d probably gone up the Rec.  It’s cricket today and they all go up there, don’t they?  She often doesn’t want anything to eat when she gets home.  I’m sure she’ll turn up, but she’s never been this late.”  Maggie sounded more uncertain than worried.

“Is your husband there?  Have you rung the police?” said Maureen bluntly. “No?  Well ring them now ..... Yes, straight away ..... I don’t know either, dial 999 .....  I’ll ring the Vicar’s wife and we’ll be right over ..... Hang on a moment, where do you live? ..... The second cottage in the terrace opposite the old school ..... the one with the red door ..... Yes, I know the one ...... I’m sure you’re right.  She’ll turn up. Try not to worry.  See you in a minute.”

Maureen was shaking as she replaced the receiver.  Suddenly, she remembered the single magpie and was gripped by an overwhelming sense of foreboding.