They don’t make these rules without a lot of thought.’
‘But they did have one or two youngsters there at one time,’ Dorothy persisted. ‘I’m sure I can remember.’
‘Well, yes, that is so,’ Ruth conceded. ‘They did make an occasional exception—’
‘There you are then!’ Dorothy cried in triumph. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying all along. It isn’t a hard and fast rule. If they could make those exceptions then, they can make one for Terry.’
Ruth sighed. ‘It’s a hard and fast rule now, I’m afraid. It’s just because of those earlier exceptions that the committee decided to be very strict in future. The truth is, those particular admissions didn’t work out very well.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But in any case, quite apart from Terry’s age, there’s a much stronger reason for not admitting him. He really wouldn’t fit in very well at Lyndale.’
Dorothy’s frown returned. ‘He’s not a troublesome boy. You know that.’
‘Yes, I do know that, but the committee have decided that in future they will only admit applicants who are capable of making some kind of personal, social contribution to the life of Lyndale, who are able to help themselves and each other to some extent. It’s far better for the residents, makes them more independent, more sociable, gives them a sense of purpose. It produces a much healthier atmosphere, and of course on a practical level it means the home can be run with fewer staff–and that’s no small consideration these days.’ She paused and then asked gently, ‘Can you honestly see Terry being able to fit into that pattern of life? I’m afraid he’ll never be capable of any more than he is at present.’ She looked down at Terry who grinned amiably up at the pale blue sky.
‘I can’t lose this chance,’ Dorothy said with fierce determination, darting at Ruth from another angle. She knew Ken wouldn’t wait for ever, or even for very long. He needed a wife now; if not her, then he would find someone else. She pressed her hands together. ‘I know we could make a go of it. We’ve always got on well, and I’d love the life. I’ll never get another chance like this.’
Ruth turned towards the house. ‘You mustn’t give up hope,’ she said in a tone of great kindness. ‘I’m sure we can find somewhere suitable for Terry. I’ll make some more inquiries.’
But Dorothy shook her head stubbornly. ‘It’s got to be Lyndale,’ she said, totally unmoved by everything Ruth had said, still confident of the final outcome. ‘Lyndale or nothing.’
Over the weekend the weather continued fair, showing signs of becoming settled again. Along the avenues the laurels raised their creamy candles; on the hills above the town the rowans were in bloom. By two o’clock on Friday afternoon the first fair of the season was in full swing on a stretch of open ground beside the railway station.
Shortly before half past four on Monday afternoon the phone rang in the Franklins’ flat in Northwick Road. Downstairs in the shop Roy heard it ring. He had just finished serving a customer and was busy returning a selection of food processors to their places on the shelves. He paused for a moment and stood listening. Along the counter his assistant explained to a woman the terms on which they offered credit sales.
The phone stopped ringing and Roy resumed his task. A minute or two later there came the sound of someone running down the stairs from the flat. The door at the end of the shop burst open and Jane Franklin darted in. She ran up to Roy.
‘Sunnycroft School’s just rung,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Venetia hasn’t turned up to collect the children. They rang the cottage twice but there’s no answer. They wanted to know if you’d pick the children up. I said we’d be over right away.’
‘There’s no need for you to come,’ Roy said brusquely. ‘You can give a hand in here while I’m gone.’
She shook her head with determination. ‘I’m coming with you.’
He looked as if he might argue but then thought better of it; he gave a little jerk of his shoulders. He spoke to the assistant and then went rapidly out with Jane behind him.
Sunnycroft School, a small private establishment, was situated in a residential suburb at the other side of town. The traffic was building up towards the rush hour and it was a good fifteen minutes before Roy drove up to the front entrance. He jumped out and pressed the bell.
The door was opened by one of the teachers. ‘I’ve just rung Foxwell Cottage again,’ she told Roy. ‘There’s still no answer. The children tell me their mother went away for the weekend, they’ve been staying with you.’
Roy nodded. ‘I expect something cropped up to make her late setting off for home.’
The teacher frowned. ‘I would have thought she’d have rung to let us know. She’s never missed picking them up before, she’s always very punctual.’
‘If her car broke down on the road,’ Jane put in, ‘she might not have been able to get to a phone.’
‘Yes, I suppose that could be it.’ The teacher led the way into the hall where Simon and Katie sat waiting. They had a subdued, anxious air, only partly dispelled by the sight of their father and stepmother. They got to their feet and stood glancing from one face to the other.
‘Isn’t Mummy coming?’ Katie asked. She went up to Jane and slipped a hand into hers.
‘I expect she’s been delayed,’ Roy said easily.
In the car Jane chatted to the children about their day at school. They answered briefly and flatly. Roy scarcely spoke and after a few minutes all four lapsed into silence.
They reached the edge of town and Roy headed the car towards Foxwell Common. It was a fine, sunny afternoon with a little thin, high cloud. The landscape looked serene and peaceful. Along the hedgerows the hawthorns were in full snowy blossom, the common was bright with yellow gorse, the grass thickly studded with golden dandelions.
The hamlet consisted of half a dozen dwellings. Roy drove past a black and white thatched cottage owned by a widow who used the parlour as a little general store, past a farmhouse, a pair of old dwellings modernized for letting out to holidaymakers but empty now, so early in the season. He turned the car in through the open gates of Foxwell Cottage.
‘It’s all right! Mummy’s back!’ Katie cried out on a note of relief. She had caught sight of her mother’s car over on the right, on the far side of the house.
Simon frowned. ‘Why didn’t she drive straight to school to pick us up?’ No one answered.
Roy came to a halt and switched off the engine. He opened his door and got out. Jane and the children made to follow but he stooped and put his head in at the rear window. ‘Stay where you are,’ he commanded the children. Jane’s head came sharply round and he flashed her a look. ‘You stay with them.’ She said nothing. All three sat upright and alert, looking out at him in silence.
He walked over the gravel to the front door and pressed the bell; it rang sharp and clear. There was no response. He glanced about. The cottage windows were open, upstairs and down. He tried the front door. It yielded to his touch and he went inside. On the floor of the hall lay a couple of envelopes, a picture postcard, a scatter of leaflets. He went in and out of the ground-floor rooms, calling out Venetia’s name. There was no stir of movement, no whisper of sound. Nothing out of order in the sitting room or dining room.
He went upstairs, glanced in at the children’s rooms, the bathroom. In Venetia’s bedroom an overnight bag and vanity case stood packed at the foot of the bed. A summer dress, crisply laundered, had been carefully laid out on the coverlet. A shoulder-bag lay on top of the chest of drawers.
By now he had given up calling out. He went down to the kitchen. On the table in the centre of the room was a tray holding used tea-things, an open biscuit tin beside it.
The back door was propped open with an old firedog. He went out on to the paved terrace. A garden table stood beside a canvas sunlounger; on the table