table and tossed the keys and wallet into the shoe box which contained items like watches, cuff links, etcetera.
‘Now. What else? Shoes. Plenty of those. We’ll give ’em to Oxfam. Hand made by the look of them. Strange to think some poor sod out in the bush will probably end up with more than a year’s income on his feet. Now, what’s that leave?’
‘There’s the books,’ said Trudi.
She led the way downstairs into the lounge. The Orwell volumes were in a glass-fronted cabinet. Janet peered at them dubiously.
‘Can’t imagine that lot being worth much.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Trudi. ‘That last night he was talking about having them valued. He said there was a dealer in Manchester he’d heard about and he might take them across when he drove me over to see you. He was very keen for me to see you again.’
‘Was he now?’ said Janet neutrally. ‘At least it shows he really was hard up if he was thinking of selling. Shall we take a look?’
She tried the door. It was locked.
Trudi went on as though her friend had not spoken. ‘And later that night, or rather early in the morning, I came downstairs. Trent had been sleeping badly since we came here. He often got up during the night and usually I pretended to be asleep. This time I came downstairs myself after a while and he was sitting with one of his books on his lap. Perhaps he was worried about money and thinking of selling. All he said was that he couldn’t sleep.’
‘Are you going to unlock this thing or not?’ said Janet brusquely, attempting to interrupt the growing melancholy of the mood.
‘No!’ said Trudi with sudden spirit. ‘I’m not. I’ve got nothing of Trent’s that’s really personal except these books. I haven’t even got a photograph. He hated having his picture taken. So I’m not going to part with the books unless I have to.’
Her spurt of independence was short-lived, and when the time came for Janet to leave she was hard put to conceal the depth of her panic.
‘Chin up girl,’ said Janet, trying to be businesslike. ‘I’m just at the end of the phone. And we’ll meet every week on Wednesdays like we arranged. I’ll drive over in the morning, it’s only a step.’
Trudi clasped her tearfully and said, ‘Oh Jan, thank you, thanks for everything.’
Alone in the house, she waited for the tears to flow freely. To her surprise they didn’t. Now she realized how excellent Janet’s psychology was in arranging a regular meeting. Wednesday was already feeling like an oasis, distant but reachable. Anything vaguer and she would have felt totally adrift.
Curiously, the first week ran by quickly and easily. She spoke with Janet on the phone nearly every night, going over her progress through the timetable which she and her friend had worked out. Interviews at the DHSS and at a job centre were large single features, brisk morning walks and the pursuit of a diet which would build her up without fattening her up were part of the regular pattern which was aimed at holding her life together. The officials at the DHSS made it quite clear that she was entitled to nothing until she became destitute; her interviewer at the job centre was not sanguine at the prospect of finding work for a middle-aged typist who had not been employed for twenty-five years. Not even Trudi’s claim to have fluent German and French and passable Dutch and Italian impressed him. ‘Not much call up here,’ he said dismissively.
Time passed. So did her money and there was still no sign of a job. Soon it was November. But it was not till the tinsel glitter of Christmas began to brighten the shops that she realized how quickly the weeks had gone. It had been high summer when Trent was killed. She had been a widow for nearly four months.
This awareness of the passing of time was not sudden, but it was significant. It brought new pain which made her realize how much she had been flying, to use Trent’s phrase, on automatic pilot. It also brought her new life into sharper focus in all kinds of ways.
Not the least significant of these was the certainty that she was being watched.
She glimpsed him twice, once reflected in a shop window, and the second, confirming time when she suddenly turned in mid-stride and retraced her steps and saw him plunge into a shop doorway.
He was youngish, balding slightly, with a blond moustache. After that she did not see him again. Her previous indifference to her surroundings must have made him careless till he learnt his lesson.
But she knew he was still there.
She told Janet about him at their next Wednesday meeting, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘You don’t believe me!’ she said.
‘Yes, of course I do, girl. I mean, I believe you believe you. But listen, in your state you’ll get ideas … I mean, well, take me, good old solid-state-nerve-circuit me. After Alan’s death, the police asked a lot of questions and some guys from his department came round and I began to feel pretty persecuted I tell you! So I went down there and gave them a row. Christ, they must have wondered what had hit them! Anyway, I must have got a lot of tension out of my system ’cos I went away feeling really good. Only thing was, as time went by, I stopped feeling good and started feeling really stupid! Now the very memory of it makes me blush. What I mean is, if insensitive old me can get neurotic …’
‘Then it’s not surprising that little me who’s halfway there to start with should be positively paranoiac, is that what you mean?’
Janet was taken aback by the vehemence of the response.
‘No, I’m sorry, girl, that’s not what I mean …’
Trudi, suddenly enjoying her insurgency, said briskly, ‘By the way, I may have got a job.’
‘What?’
‘Mr Ashburton rang this morning. Despite what you said about him, he’s really been most helpful. He wants to see me. Something about the case. But he also said he had a client who might be able to use a typist with good linguistic skills.’
‘Well done, girl. But you be careful. Don’t be taken advantage of. Top rates, luncheon vouchers, ask for the lot.’
Janet was seeking to re-establish her ascendancy and Trudi found she didn’t mind too much. Like many a colonial state in the past, she suspected she was in danger of making emotional demands for an independence she did not yet have the resources to support.
‘We’ll see,’ she said, gathering her things together.
‘Hold on, girl. It’s early yet!’ protested Janet in alarm. ‘I’ll give you a lift home, shall I?’
Trudi laughed and said, ‘I’m not walking out in a huff, Jan. It’s just that I’ve got this appointment with Mr Ashburton, remember? I’ll tell you all about it next week.’
She rose and left swiftly. Her appointment was not in fact for another hour, but she felt an irresistible urge to get out of the restaurant and be by herself.
As she left, she had a sense of eyes focused upon her. She didn’t think they were just Janet’s.
‘First the bad news,’ said Mr Ashburton. ‘Harold Brightshaw is dead.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Brightshaw of Six Mile Farm, Grindleford, the witness in the accident case. I told you he had a stroke shortly afterwards. He never recovered, poor chap.’
‘I’m sorry. Does it make a difference?’ asked Trudi.
‘Oh yes. He made a statement but now he can’t be cross-questioned on it. It’s my information that the police will be charging the tanker driver with one of the lesser offences, driving without due care and attention perhaps. That won’t help us, even if he’s found