‘It could be many a long day before Jill gets her share,’ his mother commented. ‘Harry’s as fit as a flea, he could live to be a hundred.’ Another thought struck her. ‘What are you doing about a ring? Anything decent’s sure to cost a fortune. And Jill’s not a girl to wear any kind of cheap rubbish.’
He laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of giving her cheap rubbish. She likes old things. I thought I might find her a nice old ring, something with a bit of quality. There’s an antiques market in Wychford every Friday, I can try there.’ He was often over that way in the course of his work.
On Wednesday evening Jill Lingard came out of York House, the Cannonbridge department store where she worked, to catch her bus. She stayed on the bus past her usual stop – she shared a rented terrace house, a few minutes’ walk from Whitethorn Common, with two other working girls. She alighted by the council estate where her grandfather lived, she frequently dropped in on him in this way and he always made her welcome. He hadn’t long got in from work himself when she knocked at his door; he gave her a cup of tea as they talked.
‘Norman and I decided last night we’re going to get engaged on my birthday,’ she told him as she drank her tea.
He looked anything but pleased. ‘You know my opinion of that young man,’ he said flatly. ‘Up to no good when he was a lad. I wouldn’t go bail for his honesty now.’
‘You’re not fair to him,’ she protested. ‘He’s never in any kind of trouble these days.’
He thrust out his lips. ‘He’s got bad blood in him, his father was no good.’
‘Tom Mansell thinks well of him,’ she pointed out.
He gave a snorting laugh. ‘That’s because they’re cut out of the same cloth.’
She gave him back a look as stubborn as his own. ‘I’m going to marry Norman, you may as well make up your mind to it.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Give him a chance, Granddad. For my sake.’
He made no response to that but demanded with an air of challenge, ‘Where are you thinking of living if you marry him? You needn’t imagine I’ll have the pair of you here with me.’
She jumped up. ‘We’ve no intention of asking you. We’ll find somewhere to suit us.’
He looked up at her. ‘You really are set on marrying him? He’ll take some managing.’
She gave him a smile full of confidence. ‘I wouldn’t want a man that didn’t take some managing.’ She stooped to drop a kiss on his bald pate. ‘We’re not going to fall out about it, are we, Granddad?’
He reached out and touched her hand. ‘That’s the last thing I’d want.’ He got to his feet, picked up her coat from the back of a chair. Something that had been bobbing about in his brain for the last few days surfaced again as he walked with her to the door.
‘I intend tackling Mansell about more money,’ he told her. ‘The tradesmen have all had a rise but nothing’s been said about me.’
She saw the familiar light of battle in his eye. ‘Don’t be too hasty,’ she cautioned. ‘It’s probably just an oversight. If you try laying down the law to Mansell you’re liable to find yourself out on your ear.’
Shortly before ten next morning Harry Lingard, busy in his duties about the yard, spotted the unmistakable figure of Tom Mansell getting out of his car. Beside him, as usual, the equally unmistakable figure of his son, Stuart.
Harry at once abandoned what he was doing and set off smartly to intercept Mansell. A few yards away, Norman Griffin was standing by his van, running his eye down the list of materials he had to pick up from the builders’ merchant, deliver out to various sites. He saw Harry stride purposefully up to Mansell, he caught the expression on Harry’s face. Norman lifted the bonnet of his van, stooped to peer inside, a position which enabled him to cock an unobtrusive ear in Mansell’s direction. Through the medley of sounds in the yard he could just about make out the gist of what Harry was saying. Silly old fool, he thought as he caught the drift, what does he imagine he can gain, tackling Mansell like that in the open yard, with other men about? The rawest apprentice lad could have told him all he’d be likely to get out of that would be a flea in the ear.
There could be no mistaking the cutting tones of Mansell’s brief response, even if his actual words couldn’t be distinguished. Mansell turned on his heel and went rapidly off towards the office, with Stuart tagging along. Harry remained where he was, his back to Norman. Judging by his stance, the angle of his head, the rebuff had by no means vanquished him.
Norman lowered the bonnet into place, climbed into his van and drove out of the yard. His route took him along Whitethorn Road. As he approached the common he saw, a little way ahead, Claire Holroyd standing alone at the bus stop, turning the pages of a book. She glanced up as he came to a halt beside her. He leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Hello, there.’ He gave her a cheerful smile. ‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift into town.’
She hesitated. He picked up a duster from the dashboard shelf, whisked it over the passenger seat with a flourish. ‘Not a speck of dust, milady, clean as a whistle. Come on, hop in.’
She smiled suddenly, closed her book and stepped into the van.
In the hushed atmosphere of the Ladies’ Coat Salon at York House, Claire stood before a long mirror, contemplating with an air of profound concentration the coat she had almost decided on. Jill Lingard, who was attending to her, stood near by without speaking; she knew better than to interrupt with some comment of her own when matters had reached this critical stage.
Claire turned this way and that, studying the slender, classic cut of the coat. Of supple, lightweight tweed, a subtle blend of soft greys and misty blues, with a touch of dark chestnut; suède-covered buttons in the same dark chestnut, an elegant suède trim edging the pockets.
She tilted her head in thought. The coat was undeniably expensive, but not, she finally judged, too expensive; she could just about get away with it. Edgar wasn’t a man to throw his money around, nor to stand silently by while others threw it around on his behalf, but neither could he be described as close-fisted. Any purchase within reason and she would hear no complaint when he studied the monthly statement from their joint bank account.
She gave Jill a smiling nod of decision. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘I’m sure you’ve made the right choice,’ Jill assured her with total sincerity. It was always a pleasure to attend to Mrs Holroyd. She helped her off with the coat. ‘Would you like us to deliver it?’
‘Yes, please.’ Claire stood pondering. ‘A suède beret might be an idea for windy days, it might go well with the coat.’
‘They’ve got some beautiful suède berets in the millinery department,’ Jill told her. ‘They’ve just come in. I’m sure you couldn’t do better than one of those.’
A few minutes later, when Claire had gone off in search of her beret and there was a temporary lull in the department, another assistant, a woman who had recently joined the staff, middle-aged, with a sharp, knowing face, came over to where Jill was replacing coats on a rail.
‘I saw you serving Claire Holroyd,’ she said. Claire Holroyd, Jill registered, not Mrs Holroyd. ‘Do you know her?’ Jill asked.
‘I can’t exactly say I know her,’ the assistant answered with a movement of her shoulders. ‘I worked with her at Hartley’s a few years back.’ Hartley’s was a high-class establishment not far from York House, combining the functions of stationer, newsagent, bookstore and gift-shop. ‘I suppose I knew her as well as anyone there – and that’s not saying much. She was never one to stand around chatting, she was always reserved. She came to Hartley’s straight from school, she worked there until her accident.’
‘What accident was that?’
‘She