LITMIR.BIZ

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      Shortly after half past nine Claire said she was tired, she would have a bath and go to bed. She went slowly up the wide staircase with its ornamental balustrade. The house had been built by Edgar’s great-grandfather, a prosperous merchant; it had been modernized over the years.

      Outside the door of the large bedroom she shared with Edgar, Claire paused with her hand on the knob. She turned her head and looked along the landing to where a narrower flight of stairs rose to the next floor. Up there were the nurseries with their barred windows, silent now for many a year. Her face fell into melancholy lines, then she gave her head a brisk little shake and went into the bedroom.

      Left alone in the sitting room, Edgar switched off the television. The evening paper lay on a table beside him but he didn’t pick it up. He sat staring ahead, then he got to his feet and went to the bureau. He took out an old leather-bound album and returned to his chair. He opened the album and sat studying the photographs, remembering, reflecting.

      His mother, fair-haired and pretty, delicate-looking, gently smiling; Edgar, her first-born, her treasure, had greatly loved her. She had died at the birth of her second child, his brother Lester, born after a gap of twelve years. Their father, dark-haired, an austere cast of countenance; he had died ten years after his beloved wife. Edgar was then twenty-two years old; the task of rearing his young brother to manhood had fallen to him. He had gladly embraced it, seeing it as a service rendered to the mother he had so dearly loved and never ceased to mourn.

      He turned the pages of the album: Lester as a baby, a toddler, a schoolboy. Lester in his first long trousers. Lester as a young man.

      He turned another page: Lester as a bridegroom, smiling confidently into the camera – five years ago, now. Beside him his bride, a striking brunette, radiant with health and vitality, twelve months younger than her groom: Diane Mansell, only daughter of Tom Mansell, the local builder, the apple of her father’s eye. She had been the star of the Cannonbridge tennis club in her teens, renowned for her mighty smash. She and Lester had met at the club when they were both still at school.

      Edgar looked down without affection at Diane in her bridal finery, her hair looped up under a filmy veil, her handsome face with its strongly moulded features, her habitual expression of self-will plain even then, on her wedding-day. Edgar had wanted Lester to take some further course of study or professional articling after leaving school but Lester would have none of it. He had walked out through the school gates for the last time on a Friday afternoon. On the following Monday morning he started work at Mansell’s. Three years later he and Diane were married.

      Edgar gave a sigh as he contemplated the bridal couple. He had been against the marriage, had considered them both too young. But it had been more than that: in his official capacity he hadn’t welcomed the Mansell connection. He had never been able to put a positive finger on it but he had long had the feeling that Tom Mansell sailed close to the wind in his business dealings. Mansell for his part had heartily approved the match, had done all he could to encourage it. Edgar couldn’t help thinking this was at least partly because Mansell believed it could do him no harm to have an in-law high up in the local housing department, it could set a seal of respectability on his activities.

      But Lester had needed neither Edgar’s approval for the match nor his financial assistance. As soon as he reached the age of twenty-one he came into a substantial legacy, his share of their father’s estate; he could do exactly as he pleased.

      In a secluded rural spot four miles from Fairbourne, Lester Holroyd put his car away in the garage and walked towards his house, well designed and soundly constructed, built by Tom Mansell as a wedding present for his darling daughter and her bridegroom.

      Lester was as tall as his brother, somewhat better-looking than Edgar. He had a rangy, athletic figure, a fine head of fair hair. Where Edgar closely resembled their father, Lester in some respects took after the other side of the family, inheriting his mother’s colouring, her eyes and smile.

      Whatever Tom Mansell’s motives had been for encouraging the match, he had come increasingly over the last few years to value his son-in-law’s services, to rely on him as an able assistant and deputy. Lester was now indisputably Mansell’s right-hand man; he had hopes of more formal promotion before long. He had a shrewd notion changes were in the wind; he was certain they would be to his own advantage. Mansell always kept his cards close to his chest until the last possible moment but Lester believed he knew the next objective Mansell was contemplating: the opening of a second yard.

      He let himself into the house. Diane would soon be home. She was a trained nurse, employed in that capacity at a large factory in Cannonbridge. She was currently working the second shift, two till ten, she had done so for a few months and had found it suited her, she liked the long, free mornings.

      Lester went into the sitting room and settled himself down to watch the news. But it had been a long day, his eyes began to close. Before long he was asleep, slipping shortly into a spell of vivid dreaming.

      He was driving an open sports car in sparkling sunshine, at tremendous speed and with great exhilaration, along a steeply twisting road, the wind whistling through his hair. He shouted in exuberance as he rounded a bend with a swooping roar. All at once he saw before him a precipitous drop, down on to jagged rocks, into a boiling sea. He slammed on the brakes. There was no response.

      The car whirled off the road, hurtling out through the brilliant air, describing a soaring arc before it began to fall. Down, down, faster and faster, towards the vicious rocks, the churning waves.

      He started up in his chair, wide awake, his face running with sweat, his heart pounding. As he strove to steady himself he heard Diane drive up.

      She came into the room a few minutes later, smiling cheerfully. She wasn’t unduly fatigued after her stint at the factory, she found it far less demanding than hospital work.

      They greeted each other with affection. A little later, over coffee, Lester remembered something he had to tell her. ‘I ran into one of the Acorn committee today. He said the tickets for the dinner-dance will be ready tomorrow.’ The Acorn Club was a prestigious association, founded one hundred years ago by a group of local businessmen – among them Lester’s great-grandfather – with the aim of raising money for charity. The annual dinner-dance, always held on the last Friday in October, was the outstanding event in the Cannonbridge social calendar, a fundraiser on an impressive scale. There was always a rush for tickets; this year, because of the centenary, it was likely to prove a mad scramble.

      ‘I’ll get the tickets in the morning,’ Diane promised. They always looked forward to the event, they both enjoyed the big local social occasions. Diane had arranged some time ago to have the evening off work.

      Her expression suddenly changed to a frown. ‘I suppose Edgar and Claire will be there?’

      ‘Yes, of course they will,’ Lester responded. ‘Edgar’s expected to go, in his job. And Claire’s gone with him every year since they’ve been married.’

      Her frown deepened. She was three years younger than Claire, no small gap during the years of growing up; they hadn’t known each other in those days. Claire had married Edgar – much to everyone’s surprise, not least that of Edgar himself – twelve months after Lester’s marriage to Diane. The two women had never taken to each other. Relations between the households had teetered along on a shaky footing, finally petering out altogether a few months ago.

      Diane’s tone was sulky. ‘If Claire’s going to be there, then I’m not going.’ Ill humour gave her face a tigerish look.

      Lester was astounded. ‘Of course you’re going! Your father’s making a big donation this year. His evening will be ruined if you’re not there to see it.’ The donation ceremony, with its formal announcing of names and amounts, punctuated with drum rolls and storms of applause, was always the highlight of the evening. ‘If you don’t go, I can’t go. It would look very odd if I went without you.’

      Her face remained mutinous.

      He tried another tack. ‘Stuart will be there this year, now he’s old enough to go.’ Stuart was Diane’s

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