Hartsend by Janice Brown Page A

armchair, Mother’s chair, and chose instead one of the hard chairs next to the table. As she sat down her grey trousers rose up by a couple of inches, revealing mottled skin above white ankle socks.
    â€˜â€˜You don’t knit, do you, Mrs Flaherty?’’ Lesley said hurriedly. ‘‘All these knitting patterns. It seems a pity to throw them out. Maybe you know someone who would like them?’’
    More tears. Lesley wondered tentatively about leaning over to pat an arm. This must stop soon, surely? Should she offer a glass of water?
    Mrs Flaherty wiped the tears from below both eyes, using her fingers.
    â€˜â€˜I don’t know what to do,’’ she said.
    â€˜â€˜About what?’’
    Mrs Flaherty’s pale eyes were on her, bewildered, fearful.
    â€˜â€˜You can tell me, if it helps, Mrs Flaherty. I am not one to gossip.’’
    There was a longish interval. Nothing violated the heavy silence except the slow tick of the onyx mantel clock, and the muted sound of a plane overhead.
    â€˜â€˜He phoned this morning. I knew it was him. I should’ve put the phone down.’’
    â€˜â€˜Who phoned?’’
    â€˜â€˜Johnny. Mr Flaherty that was. Nearly sixteen years it’s been. What am I going to do?’’
    The doorbell shrilled. As if one they sat, motionless, waiting. It rang again. Mrs Flaherty began to rise, but Lesley stayed her with a lifted hand.
    â€˜â€˜No,’’ she said. ‘‘They’ll go away.’’

Shopping
    â€˜â€˜Mother, let me take them for you,’’ Duncan offered, pulling the car gently to a stop. ‘‘I think the rain’s coming on.’’
    â€˜â€˜I’m not an invalid yet, Duncan. You’ve parked rather close to the hedge, dear,’’ his mother added, inspecting the ground below the opened door. It was hard to tell what might lie beneath the brown mush of dead leaves and twigs. ‘‘You’d better go up to the end and turn round before I come back.’’
    Lesley had not been picking up her phone. Mrs Crawfurd did not believe in leaving messages on answering machines. She did not intend to go inside the house, merely to hand in the boots. It would be sufficient to mention the words ‘‘city’’, ‘‘motorway’’, ‘‘traffic’’ and ‘‘parking’’ to excuse the brevity of the visit.
    The pebbled path to Lesley’s stout oak door was indeed long, and uneven, but the parcel of boots was not heavy, and it suited Mrs Crawfurd to return them herself, because she was not altogether certain that Duncan would come immediately back to the car. He had been in something of a mood since Christmas. Holidays, she felt, did not agree with him. When idle, he was inclined to mope, and to cast about for inappropriate affairs in which to busy himself. She was sorry for Lesley’s loss too, of course, but people had to have privacy and take their own time to re-establish themselves. It had been unwise, if well-intentioned on his part, to invite Lesley, so soon after the funeral, especially when, as Dr MacKinnon explained confidentially after the distressing scene, she had been neglecting her own health during her mother’s last weeks.
    Both of the heavy outer doors were shut. Mrs Crawfurd pressed the doorbell firmly. No response. She peered into the sitting room. Seeing no-one, she went to the side gate. Unfortunately, this was locked.
    â€˜â€˜Are you looking for Lesley?’’
    She turned. The speaker, coming up the path in the neighbouring garden, was an odd-looking woman with blue-pencilled eyebrows, and a scarf that resembled a piece of orange fishing-net. The plastic bags in her hands suggested she had been shopping at the village Co-operative store.
    â€˜â€˜I beg your pardon?’’
    â€˜â€˜If you’re looking for Lesley, I think she’s at