Her black Labrador, Josh, came tearing around the house from the back door and flung his not inconsiderable bulk at her legs. He rubbed against her, oozing affection but there was also reproach in his eyes as he looked up at her, as if well aware that she had been for a walk and not taken him with her. The ultimate betrayal.
Constance talked to the dog soothingly as she made her way around to the kitchen door. The Virginia creeper which covered most of that side of the house was already heralding autumn with its annual vibrant red-orange blaze, and every time her eyes fell upon it Constance never failed to appreciate its glory.
Inside it was quickly apparent that Freddie had abandoned the working day immediately after Harley had been taken to hospital. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his herdsman, Bill Macintyre. There was a teapot on the table and also a bottle of whisky. Freddie looked slightly flushed and the bottle was nearly empty. Constance didn’t blame him for having had a good drink.
‘Con, I was just beginning to worry about you,’ he greeted her. ‘Mac and I have been toasting young Harley’s health. Will you join us?’
He waved the whisky bottle. Constance glanced at it — a litre bottle of a cheap supermarket brand.
‘No fear,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.’
She reached into the kitchen cupboard which housed the family’s alcohol supplies and found the remains of a bottle of Glenmorangie.
‘Some people have got no taste,’ she said lightly.
She poured herself a generous glass, which almost emptied the bottle, and drank deeply.
‘Here’s to you, my old darling,’ said Freddie, expansively raising his own glass in her direction. ‘You’ve done us proud again today, just like always.’
Later, when Mac the herdsman had departed, Constance and Freddie opened a second bottle of Glenmorangie and polished the bulk of it off after supper — unusual for them, but then, it had been an unusual day. The news from the hospital, when Constance called to check on Harley, was cautiously optimistic — certainly cheering after the drama of the day. At last they were able to relax, two people who loved each other and were content in each other’s company over-indulging somewhat following the satisfaction of a job well done.
In bed that night, and although just a little drunk, Freddie reached out for her. Their love-making was just how it always was, warm and tender, but perhaps, particularly on Freddie’s side, curiously polite. Constance enjoyed making love with Freddie, but she found it reassuring rather than erotic. She regarded it as a kind of ultimate cuddle and her enjoyment came from their mutual expression of deep affection more than from passionate sexual arousal.
As for Freddie — she knew that her husband’s entire sexuality, such as it was, had been awakened by her, and by her alone. She did find that erotic. She also knew that her husband was completely satisfied with his sex life with her, and that it never occurred to him that anyone, least of all Constance, could possibly ask for more.
The next morning Constance and Freddie were awakened by a persistent hammering on the front door. Constance sat up in bed quickly and a sharp pain shot across her forehead. She had quite a hangover.
She looked at her watch: 6.25 a.m. Whoever it was banging on the door had beaten the alarm clock by only five minutes. Beside her Freddie groaned slightly as he started to climb out of bed. A farmer through and through, he was an early riser by nature and was usually up and about a good half hour at least before the alarm woke Constance. Not today though. Freddie was suffering too.
She pulled on her dressing gown and followed him out on to the landing, watching from the top of the stairs, as, wearing only his pyjama trousers, he went downstairs and unlocked and opened the front door.
Norton Phillips stood there, unshaven, his face showing the strain, bags under his eyes, obviously still tense and wound up. He was, however, smiling broadly.
‘’E’s out of danger, ’e is, an’ they reckon they’ve saved ’is arm,’ he blurted out. ‘’T’won’t be good as new, but not far off with a bit of luck. ’E’s been in surgery most of the night. I had to tell ’ee soon as I knew for certain — and I wanted to do it face to face, like. I ’ope yer don’t mind...’
The words poured out, so eager was the farmhand to share his good news.
Constance called down to him from the upstairs landing. ‘Of course not, Norton, we’re absolutely delighted.’
She was telling no more than the truth. Both Constance and Freddie had a big soft spot for Norton, a true English eccentric whose whole personality radiated simple good nature. He was a motorcycling nut who had actually been christened Norman, but had unofficially changed his name to Norton in honour of his favourite British motorbike. Also, overcoming the mild protests of his wife, although he usually deferred to her in everything, he had even insisted on naming all of his seven children after motorbikes. As well as Harley there were sons, Davidson and Maxim, and four daughters, Triumph and Daytona, Aprilia and Suzuki. Iris Phillips had given in to him because she truly loved him — as did all who were close to him — but remained the only person in family or village who still resolutely called her husband Norman. And she had indignantly drawn the line at changing the family surname to Kawasaki.
Norton peered up the stairs at Constance. ‘There’s summat else, Mrs Lange, they said he might not even be alive at all if you hadn’t done what you did.’
The big brawny farm worker, bright ginger-headed like Harley and all his children, shuffled his feet, unused to expressing emotion. But his voice cracked as he spoke and there were tears in his eyes.
‘You didn’t just save the boy’s arm, missus, you saved ’is life, and us’ll never forget it.’
‘Oh, come on now, Norton,’ responded Constance, typically making light of it. ‘It’ll take more than some old tractor to do for that boy of yours.’
Norton continued as if she had not spoken. ‘The wife’ll be round, ’er’s still at the hospital. ’Er says you’m a saint. You know, like, what’s ’er name, Florrie... thigee nurse...’
‘Florence Nightingale,’ responded Freddie solemnly, shutting the door behind a swiftly departing Norton Phillips who had the rest of the village to relay the news to and probably before breakfast at that.
Constance, half-way down the stairs now, smiled but remained silent.
‘Right then, Florence, get the kettle on,’ ordered Freddie.
Arriving at his side, his wife responded with a playful punch and hoots of laughter.
After a few seconds of horseplay Freddie caught her by the shoulders and held her by the arms.
‘The luckiest day in my life was the day I met you,’ he told her.
It was something he quite frequently said and she never failed to be moved. There was a lump in her throat. But it was not Constance’s style to be too serious.
‘Get on, you great softy,’ she said. ‘If you want to show how much you care don’t just talk about it, fetch the Alka-Seltzer.’
Three
Charlie left the Crescent Hotel with a smile on his face. Mrs Pattinson was a very imaginative woman. Charlie had seen a lot of life in an action-packed twenty-four years, but he had never met anyone quite like Mrs Pattinson before.
He and his companion, the lad he knew only as Bob and had worked with just once before, had arrived separately for their assignment. Charlie had parked his nearly new BMW 3251 convertible a couple of streets away from the hotel. Mrs Pattinson insisted on discretion. Bob’s seven-year-old Mini was coincidentally just a few cars along the road — he had yet to aspire to Charlie’s lifestyle.