LITMIR.BIZ

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into the yard. Harry got out but he didn’t go off about his duties, he remained where he was, his vehicle screening him from the other three. He stood looking intently across at them.

      Lester went on watching. Mansell stopped talking, he clapped Norman on the arm in a gesture of friendly encouragement and turned to go. Norman’s pleased expression vanished. He began to talk rapidly, with a serious look. Mansell’s face changed. He stood arrested, half-turned away, frowning down at the ground; Stuart listened with keen interest.

      Norman’s flow ceased, Mansell turned to face him. He appeared to fire a series of questions, some of which Norman seemed to deal with at once, others he met with a movement of his shoulders or a slow shake of his head, as if signifying he didn’t know the answer to that one.

      The exchange ended. Men were moving about the yard. As Mansell went striding off with Stuart following, Harry Lingard stepped out from the shelter of his van to intercept them. Mansell halted, regarding Harry with a face of steel. Norman Griffin, on his way across the yard, glanced back and saw the two men in fierce altercation, with Stuart a silent onlooker. Norman halted for a moment, then continued on his way.

      The office door opened and one of the female clerks came in. She greeted Lester and at once raised a query about an office matter. As Lester turned from the window to speak to her the phone rang. The day had begun in earnest, there was no more looking out of windows.

      It was Jill Lingard’s intention to call in on her grandfather on her way home from work on Thursday evening. In the event she left York House a little later than usual, missing the bus she normally caught. It was a raw evening, with a stiff breeze. She decided not to stand waiting in the cold for the next bus but to walk along to the stop by the college, where there was a shelter.

      As she approached the college she saw a bus pull up at the other side of the road and passengers alight. Several crossed over towards the college; among them she spotted Mrs Holroyd carrying some books. She was wearing the grey-blue tweed coat Jill had sold her – and a suède beret, she noted with professional interest. I was right about the beret, Jill thought with satisfaction, it goes beautifully with the coat.

      Mrs Holroyd saw her, they smiled, exchanged a word of greeting. How well she looks, Jill thought, better than she ever remembered seeing her. Under the street lights she seemed to wear a bloom of health and happiness.

      When Jill arrived at her grandfather’s she found him despatching a hasty meal before starting out on the first of his freesheet trips. ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she told him. ‘I won’t delay you. I’m going over to Gareth’s tomorrow evening, straight from work, I’m staying with them for a few days.’ She was using up what was left of her annual leave. ‘I rang Gareth and fixed it.’ She was going by train, Gareth would run her back on Tuesday evening. ‘He said he’d like to look in on you for an hour or so after he’s dropped me,’ she added. Gareth worked long hours, it was some time since Harry had seen him. ‘He wants to know if you’ll be in around eight o’clock on Tuesday.’

      ‘I’ll make it my business to be in,’ Harry responded with energy. ‘Tell him I’ll be delighted to see him. Give my love to Anne and the children.’

      She let herself out into the chill air. She wouldn’t be seeing Norman this evening; she was staying in to wash her hair, pack her bag, get an early night.

      Friday evening was overcast and blustery, and though the rain held off it was cold enough to keep the strollers from the common.

      Mrs Griffin had a good hot meal prepared for Norman, as she had every evening. By the time he had washed and changed she had it ready for him on the table in the kitchen, cosy from the warmth of the stove. She wore a housecoat, her hair was in rollers. She had just had a bath, and would be dolling herself up to go out as soon as she had cleared the table after Norman finished eating. Friday was one of her social club evenings; she went along to the club two or three evenings a week. She always went by bus but could usually rely on getting a lift home. She enjoyed every visit to the club but Friday nights were special, that was when they had the olde-tyme dancing. Tonight she must get there early, there was going to be a little ceremony before the dancing started, the presentation of a retirement gift to the club secretary.

      Norman sat down before his piled-up plate and attacked it with a hearty appetite. His mother hovered about, cutting bread, pouring tea. She ran an eye over what he was wearing: his new trousers, good jacket, smartest shirt. ‘You going out?’ she asked.

      ‘Might go along to the pub,’ he said between mouthfuls. She gave a little nod. He liked a glass of beer with his mates, more to be sociable than anything else, no harm in that; she never ceased to be thankful he didn’t drink the way his father had done.

      By seven she was dressed, ready for the evening. She stuck her head round the door of the little workroom opening off the kitchen where Norman was fiddling with his old radios – they had been his hobby since schooldays. ‘I thought you were going out,’ she said.

      He didn’t look up. ‘I’ve decided not to bother. Might as well make use of the time while Jill’s away, it’s a chance to get on with this.’

      ‘You should change out of your good clothes, ’ she advised. When he made no response she let it go. She very rarely pressed a point with Norman, she had learned long ago that it didn’t pay.

      He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll miss your bus,’ he warned.

      She was galvanized into motion. ‘Right, then, I’m off. I’ll be back around half-twelve or one.’

      In the early hours of Saturday morning the force of the wind greatly increased. It blew strongly all day, driving clouds before it, tossing branches of trees on the common. Late on Saturday night it began to slacken in strength. By breakfast time on Sunday it had fallen calm again.

      The day was bright and sunny. Householders emerged to wash their cars, tidy their gardens. In the ground-floor flat of a converted Victorian house on Whitethorn Road, Miss Tarrant, a middle-aged spinster, supervisor of the typing pool in a Cannonbridge firm, woke late: gone half past nine, she saw by the clock.

      She got out of bed and drew back the curtains. She wouldn’t bother with lunch today, she’d have a good breakfast and then get on with the hundred and one jobs awaiting her. She had recently bought the flat and was currently in the process of doing it up, furnishing it, tackling the garden.

      In the kitchen a little later she discovered to her annoyance that she’d forgotten to buy bread yesterday. Fortunately the corner shop across the common was open on Sunday mornings, she could nip out and get a loaf.

      She put on her coat and went out into the sparkling sunshine. She walked briskly up the road, crossed over on to the common. As she drew near Fairbourne she heard the sound of shears. She glanced in as she passed the front gate and saw Mr Holroyd at work a few feet away. She had some slight acquaintance with him in his official capacity; before she bought her flat she had been a council tenant. She called out a friendly greeting. ‘Much better weather today,’ she added. He looked up, gave her a few words in reply.

      She halted as a thought struck her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have finished with your copy of the Bazaar? Mine doesn’t seem to have been delivered. I like to read the small ads, I’m still on the lookout for things for the flat.’

      Edgar shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. My copy hasn’t been delivered either.’

      It occurred to her as she resumed her quick pace that she could ask at the corner shop, they might have a copy to spare.

      A few yards ahead, young lads, eight or nine years old, were kicking a football around with more enthusiasm than skill. The ball suddenly came straight at her; if she hadn’t jumped aside it would have struck her in the face. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ she called out sharply.

      One of the lads came racing after the ball, throwing her a grin of apology as he darted by. A few moments later another random shot sent the ball soaring over the gate of the last house on this part of the common. Some of the boys snatched open the gate and ran in after

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