A Slightly Bitter Taste Page 3

  “Well, they say justice is supposed to be blind … and it’s true.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I’d received my proper deserts for getting disgustingly drunk last night I’d be in gaol. Instead I’m going to spend the week-end in your company at a charming country house. How lucky can I get?”

  Carole gave him one of her cheeky grins. “There are two kinds of luck … so don’t start crowing too soon. You may be bored to death. Nothing ever happens in Castle Lammering.”

  Quinn said, “It sounds too good to be true. A place where nothing ever happens is the very place I’ve been looking for.”

  3

  He felt a lot better when he’d had a shave and a shower. While he was getting dressed, Carole rapped on the bedroom door.

  She said, “I’ve just been thinking …”

  It had been too good to be true. He’d known all along she didn’t really mean it. Some women get a kick out of dangling a carrot in front of the donkey’s nose and then whipping it away.

  He said, “Thinking about what? That your friends won’t take to someone like me?”

  “No, don’t be a fool. I merely wondered why you had to go back to town. Anything special you have to do there?”

  “Well, I’ve got to pick up some things — clothes and so on. Haven’t even got a toothbrush.”

  “If you look in the bathroom cabinet you’ll find a new one still in its original sealed wrapper … and I’ll let you borrow that razor as well if you want.”

  In a voice that was a little too flippant, she added, “The man who owned it won’t object.”

  Quinn said, “That’s very obliging of him. But if I’m going away until Tuesday I’ll need more than just a razor and a toothbrush. Among other things, I can’t wear the same shirt for six days on the trot … especially after sleeping in it all last night and the best part of to-day.”

  Through the bathroom door, Carole asked, “What size do you take?”

  “Fifteen collar. Why?”

  “Because there are half a dozen shirts in an unopened parcel on the top shelf of the airing cupboard — just as they were when they came back from the laundry. If I’m not mistaken, they’re your size. You’ll also find two sets of pyjamas, some underwear, and several pairs of socks.”

  Quinn said, “I’m willing to bet you’re not mistaken. But how about the man who owns all this gear? If I help myself to his property, what’s he going to say when he comes back?”

  For ten seconds there was no sound outside the door. Then Carole said, “Behind those two questions I detect a third one. And the answer is that he won’t be coming back. So you can borrow anything you like … unless you’d rather pick up your own stuff and come on to Castle Lammering later.”

  “That would waste part of the weekend,” Quinn said. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t accept your offer — with thanks. Mind if I ask you one more question?”

  “Yes, I do mind. So skip it.”

  As her voice receded from the other side of the door, she added, “Now get ready and I’ll give you a case to put your things in …”

  They didn’t set off until nearly six o’clock. When Quinn was stowing the two cases in the back of the car, Carole said, “You’ve still got time to change your mind.” Her mood had changed in the past half-hour.

  Quinn asked, “Why should I?”

  “Well, you never know what you might be letting yourself in for.”

  “I’ll risk it … unless you’re sorry you invited me.”

  “No, I never turn back. When I decide to do something I go through with it. And if things don’t work out right” — she swung her legs into the car, looked up at the mirror, and smoothed a hand over her dark, shining hair — “no regrets. That’s the kind of person I am.”

  “Then we’re complete opposites,” Quinn said. “Whatever I do I always think afterwards I should’ve done something different. I suppose you gathered that much from my maudlin confidences.”

  “More or less.”

  “That’s the worst of not keeping my big mouth shut.”

  “You aren’t unique.” As the car moved off, she said, “Once in a while I can say the wrong thing at the right time.”

  The look on her face told him what she meant. He said, “Look, Carole, let’s clear the air before we go any farther. If you’re talking about the man whose shirt I’m wearing, forget it. So far as I’m concerned, he’s your brother.”

  She glanced at him briefly and then she concentrated on the road. She said, “I haven’t got a brother.”

  “O.K. So he’s your uncle or your nephew or your grandfather. It’s no business of mine.”

  Without any expression, she said, “That’s why I shouldn’t have involved you.”

  “No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have asked personal questions. There’s an old saying: ‘Never look a borrowed shirt in the laundry mark’.”

  Carole went on looking straight ahead but now he could see that she was smiling. After a while, she said, “I’m glad I asked you to come with me to Castle Lammering. I have a feeling that someone like you might be just what I can do with right now.”

  Quinn said, “We aim to serve.”

  Without looking at him she took one hand off the wheel and gave his arm a little pat. “Don’t let your ideas of gallantry or gratitude run away with you. It might turn out that you’re serving an unworthy cause.”

  “Possibly. But as I said before” — Quinn stretched out his legs and sighed — “I’ll risk it. And while we’re on the subject of gallantry shouldn’t I buy something for the lady of the house so that I don’t walk in both uninvited and empty-handed?”

  “No, you shouldn’t. You’d only embarrass her. Adele doesn’t need anything you can afford to buy. Remember that.”

  “I’ll try,” Quinn said. “Not having had any experience in dealing with a rich man’s wife —”

  “She isn’t a rich man’s wife. It’s her money that pays for everything. I don’t think Michael’s contributed a penny to the household since they got married.”

  In a tone of indifference, Carole went on, “You may as well know the set-up before we get there. Of course, I’m relying on you to keep it to yourself …”

  Quinn said, “Of course.”

  “Not that all their friends aren’t aware of the situation. But naturally I wouldn’t like Adele to think I went around gossiping about her and her husband.”

  Quinn said, “Naturally.”

  “Well, to start with, Michael Parry drinks too much.”

  “He’s not the only one.”

  Carole shrugged. She said, “If you’re talking about yourself, there’s no comparison. You may take one too many now and again but you do a useful job of work. Michael does nothing.”

  “How does he pass the time?”

  “He professes to be a writer. You know the type … always slugging away at the book, the opus magnus, the epic novel that’ll put him right at the top.”

  “I’ve met them,” Quinn said.

  “Haven’t we all? We know that books aren’t created by talk or by wishful thinking.”

  “They have to be written,” Quinn said.

  “Of course. And that means work — even if you’re a genius. I’m prepared to believe that Michael has talent but he doesn’t use it. To him, work is a dirty word.”

  Quinn said, “A man can get like that if he marries someone with too much cash.”

  In a harder voice, Carole said, “Or if he hasn’t got enough guts. Michael’s what he is because he was born that way. Adele’s money just made it easier for him to give in. Now when things get him down — which is pretty often — he crawls inside a bottle and pulls in the cork.”

  “I’m glad you don’t like him,” Quinn said. “One drunk in your life is enough.”

  “Don’t be facetious. In any case you’re wrong. He can be quite pleasant. It’s just that I can’t tolerate a moral coward. Adele deserved someone better.”

  “Ma
ybe she’s happy with him the way he is.”

  Carole turned her head briefly and gave Quinn an irritable look. She asked, “Can you imagine anyone being happy with a man who depends on her for every penny he spends, every single thing he’s got?”

  “Perhaps not. But he can’t be so happy, either. That’s why he drinks.”

  “Yes, I know that. Half the time I’m sorry for him. When he acts the jovial host and everybody knows he’s being generous at his wife’s expense, he’s really pathetic. But what upsets me most is the look in her eyes —”

  Carole broke off. With another shrug, she said, “If I go on like this you’ll be sorry you came. Let’s change the subject. Tell me about yourself instead.”

  “You already know all about me,” Quinn said. “I don’t even know what you do for a living. Whatever it is — judging by your cottage and this almost new car — it must be profitable.”

  “Not in the sense of big money … but it keeps me in reasonable comfort. I’m a freelance TV producer.”

  “Must be an interesting life.”

  “No. What you see on the small screen may look glamorous but the production side is just another job. There’s more romance in what you do.”

  Quinn said, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the hill … until you get there.”

  “Probably. I don’t suppose we’d be content for long if we all swapped jobs.”

  In an absent voice, she added, “Still, I’d like to try it some time … but I doubt if I’ll ever get the chance.”

  She went very quiet after that and seemed to withdraw into herself. Quinn wondered why she’d invited him to spend the week-end at Castle Lammering, why she wanted his company. She was bound to know plenty of men, any one of whom would make a more suitable guest at a country house.

  … Like that fellow who went off without his laundry. Must admit he wears nice shirts. Smart line in pyjamas, too. Wonder what it feels like to wear silk next to your skin …

  That made Quinn think of Carole going to bed with the man who wasn’t coming back — the man who was still able to make her subdued when she thought of him. He must’ve had a wife somewhere or he and Carole would’ve got married.

  And yet, maybe not. She could’ve been in love with him but he might only have been after a bit of fun. Cottage in the country — all found — a cute girl to provide entertainment whenever he felt in the mood — until she hankered after a more permanent relationship.

  Then he’d gone off one day without taking his laundry so that she wouldn’t suspect he wasn’t coming back. Now she knew it was all over … but she’d still kept a parcel of shirts and socks and underwear … in case … just in case.

  Or at least she’d kept them until now. But times might’ve changed. Now they were maybe for the use of anyone who escorted her home and got invited in for a drink … and stayed the night. With women it was difficult to tell.

  Quinn hated to think she was the kind who picked up a man and took him home to bed. It seemed all wrong for a woman somehow — a decent woman, as they used to say.

  Of course, that was an old-fashioned concept. Chastity had become an ugly word … Then he told himself not to be a damned hypocrite. If she gave him enough encouragement he wouldn’t have any scruples. And she might, at that. Peculiar why she’d picked on him to share her week-end at Castle Lammering.

  … Can’t be because you’re dashing and debonair. Maybe she feels sorry for you and this is her good deed for the week. She doesn’t like Michael Parry but she says she feels sorry for him, so that lets you know how you stand …

  Vagrant thoughts came and went without any pattern. He felt drowsy and at peace.

  … Better leave her alone for a while and not try to make conversation. When she wants to talk, she’ll talk. Meantime it’s a lovely day and you can relax. In weather like this the country must be superb. You’re going to be staying with rich people and living off the fat of the land …

  It was a hot sunlit evening without a cloud in the sky and they had all the windows of the car open as they headed south-west from Basingstoke. Quinn sprawled in his seat and let his mind wander in a half-sleep.

  They were approaching Sutton Scotney when Carole asked him, “How’s your poorly head?”

  He roused himself. “Not bad — taking all things into consideration.”

  “Like to stop for a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks … unless you want to.”

  “I’m not fussy. It was you I was thinking of. Maybe you’d prefer a hair of the dog that bit you? We can stop at the next pub.”

  Quinn said, “In my time I’ve plucked so many hairs off that dog he must be damn’ near bald. Thanks all the same but I don’t want to be smelling of drink when we arrive at your friends’ house.”

  She laughed without any pretence of humour. “If you did, Michael would welcome you as a new member of the lodge.”

  A little later when Lopcombe Corner lay behind them she roused Quinn again. She said, “Aren’t you hungry? As far as I know you haven’t eaten all day.”

  “I’m giving my stomach a chance to get over last night’s orgy. We’ll have a meal when we get there, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes. Probably something cold … but I can promise you won’t starve while you’re at Elm Lodge. In fact, if you’re not careful you’ll put on weight.”

  Quinn said, “That’ll be the day. I’ve weighed the same ten stone ten for the past dozen years. How far have we to go?”

  “Well, it’s about six miles to Salisbury. From there Blandford is another twenty-two or -three. Then it’s approximately eight miles to Castle Lammering. If we don’t get held up too often” — she looked at her watch — “we should arrive not much after seven.”

  They drove on into the westering sun. Carole put on a pair of dark glasses, Quinn closed his eyes and slid lower in his seat and let the drone of the car lull him to sleep again until they got to Salisbury.

  They didn’t do any talking until they were on the A3 5 4 and some miles beyond Coombe Bissett. There they caught up with the tail of a line of cars and trailer trucks and caravans all travelling at the lumbering pace of a twenty-ton wagon half a mile ahead.

  As they slowed to the same speed, Carole said, “We’ll probably be stuck in this queue until we get to Blandford. I’ve known it happen before. Be nearer seven-thirty than seven o’clock by the time we reach the village.”

  She was right. It was a quarter past seven when they turned off the A354 south of Blandford where a signpost pointed due west: Castle Lammering — 8 mls.

  The narrow, winding road was barely wide enough for two cars. It ran between grassy banks, straggling over-grown hedges, and briar bushes lush with pink and red blossom. When they reached higher ground Quinn could see wooded country to the south and west.

  Carole said, “Not long now. The village is just beyond those trees. We’ll be at Elm Lodge in three or four minutes.”

  The road swung past a stand of old timber, curved sharply left, and then straightened out. Less than a quarter of a mile ahead lay Castle Lammering.

  It was set in a hollow between two low hills — just a cluster of houses, some half-timbered, others with thatched roofs and whitewashed stone walls. On rising ground to the north the spire of a church reached up to the sunlit blue of the sky.

  Above the village isolated houses nestled among clumps of trees. Where the main village street ran on and lost itself in open country one or- two cottages marked the line of the road leading west. Farther on there was a farm, fields of grain ripening in the sun, pasture land carpeted in summer green.

  Carole pointed. She said, “See the house behind those elm trees up there to the left? That’s it.”

  Two old men stared after them as they drove through the village. A small boy on a tricycle waved both hands vigorously. A woman in the doorway of the village store turned and shielded her eyes from the sun to look at them.

  Quinn said, “I bet they don’t see many strangers
in these parts.”

  “No, it’s well off the beaten track. Over yonder past those red-roofed cottages you come to an unclassified road that’ll take you to Milborne St. Andrews … but it would be a crazy way to get there when all you have to do is follow the main Blandford-Dorchester road instead of making a fifteen-miles detour …”

  She went on talking about places a few miles north of Castle Lammering: places with names like Bishop’s Caundle, Bagber, Sturminster Newton.

  “… Beautiful country around here if you’re fond of walking. Lots of little pubs where you can stop for a sandwich and a drink.”

  Quinn said, “There are a couple of cosy looking spots in Castle Lammering itself.”

  “Well, the Bird-in-Hand is all right but the Treacle Pot’s a bit too much like the old sawdust and spittoon affair for my taste.”

  With no inflexion, she added, “The Bird-in-Hand is Michael’s favourite haunt. Slips in for a quick one most mornings and you’ll generally find him there in the afternoons, too, when the Parrys haven’t got guests.”

  A road no wider than the car climbed in a long slope up from the village, passed under an avenue of trees that met overhead, and skirted some gnarled and ancient elms whose branches spread across the road in full leaf. Beyond them curved a low wall, a gateway without any gates, and then the lawns and the flower beds of Elm Lodge.

  It was a long, two-storied house of grey limestone with a wide entrance and small-paned sash windows. The pebbled drive ran past a built-on garage big enough for three cars.

  Carole said, “We’re here. How do you like it?”

  With its tyres crunching over the pebbles the car pulled up. As Quinn got out, a colony of rooks took flight on startled wings and spiralled high above the trees.

  He watched them settle again, one by one, and then he stretched and looked around. He said, “Home was never like this. Do your friends live here all the time?”

  “Mostly. Michael seldom goes away. He says he’s got everything he wants right here. Adele goes up to town for a few days now and again to do some shopping … or she spends a week or so at a place called Wood Lake where people with enough money can pretend to diet.”