The Tuscan Child(11)

“No good comes from moping around,” I told myself. Since I was not yet at liberty to start packing up his things I’d go into the village and see the vicar about a funeral. Maybe he could telephone the coroner and find out when the body would be released.

Having something positive to do, I gave myself a wash and brush-up and walked into the village. As happens so often in April, the sunny day had now clouded over with the promise of rain any moment. A cold wind had sprung up from the west, and I realised my folly of going out without an umbrella. I’d be soaked by the time I reached the village. The mile walk seemed to go on forever. I pressed myself against the hedgerow until suddenly I heard the hum of an approaching motor and almost considered holding out my thumb for a lift. As it happened, I didn’t have to. It was a delivery van and it came to a halt beside me. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“It’s never Jo, is it?” he called. “Do you want a lift?”

I took in the big man with his florid face, trying to picture who he might be. When I hesitated, he added, “It’s me, Billy. Billy Overton.”

I saw then the writing on the side of the van. “Overton’s Bakery. Fine Bread and Pastries.” I gave him a grateful smile and climbed up beside him.

“Billy Overton,” I said. “I didn’t recognise you.”

He grinned. “Well, I have to admit I’ve put on a few pounds recently. I was a skinny little kid when we sat next to each other in school, wasn’t I?”

“You were. And so shy that you hardly said a word.”

He burst out laughing at this. “You’re right. I’ve come out of my shell these days. Had to, really, since I deal with the public all the time.”

“You’re working for your dad now, then?” I asked as he let out the clutch and we drove on.

“That’s right. Went straight into the business after school. We’ve opened a couple more shops now—one in Whitley, one in Hambledon—doing really nicely since they put in that big housing estate. Now Dad concentrates on the baking and I make sure the retail side is going smoothly.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“How about you?” he asked. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “At least I will be when I take the bar exam later this year.”

“A lawyer. Fancy that.” He nodded with approval. “Well, we always thought you’d make something of yourself. You always were the smartest in the class.”

“You were pretty smart yourself,” I said. “I seem to remember we had a contest going for who was top in the maths test each week.”

“I did always have an aptitude with sums, I have to admit,” he agreed. “It stands me in good stead now, since I handle all the books. Dad cooks the bread and I cook the books, as my wife says.” And he gave another big, hearty laugh.

“You’re married, then?”

“Married? I’ve got a three-year-old and another on the way any day now. How about you? You married, too?”

“No. I haven’t found the right man yet,” I said.

“Well, I suppose not. You’ve been busy with your career.”

“Did you marry a local girl?” I asked, turning the subject back to him.

“Pauline Hodgkiss,” he said. “You remember her?”

“But we always hated her!” I blurted out before I realised this wasn’t tactful. “She was so snooty, going on about her dad’s nursery and the nice car they had.”

“She improved with age,” he said, turning to give me a cheeky grin. “And it’s useful having the nursery and market garden in the family. We get fresh strawberries for our tarts.” He paused, then his face grew solemn. “I suppose you’re down here on account of your dad, then? It’s true that he’s dead, then? We heard the rumour that he’d died, and my mum saw the ambulance going past.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He was found by the headmistress out in the school grounds. She thinks it must have been a heart attack.”

“That’s terrible,” he said. “I’m so sorry for you. Nothing’s worse than losing your parents. I remember when you lost your mum and how hard that was on you.”

I nodded, scared that if I opened my mouth to speak I’d cry.

“My parents always felt so sorry for your dad,” he went on. “They said it wasn’t right that he had to sell his home like that, not when it had been in the family for generations—and provided employment for generations of us people in the neighbourhood.”

“I suppose it’s happening all over,” I said. “Nobody can afford to run these big houses anymore. They’re like white elephants, aren’t they? In constant need of repair and costing too much to heat, and nobody wants to be a servant any longer.” I paused, thinking. “At least I suppose I should be glad that I didn’t inherit Langley Hall, or I’d have been faced with the death duties and the painful task of selling up.”

“So you won’t have ties here any longer,” he said as we turned into the village high street. “No reason to come down this way again.”

This struck me like a punch in the stomach. No ties to the place where I grew up, where my family had lived for so long—nowhere I belonged ever again. I looked away out of the window so that he didn’t see the despair in my face.