Free The Smile of a Ghost by Phil Rickman Page B

bothered about the kid when he was alive, except for one ole woman.’
    ‘Andy, I’m hardly the person to be disparaging it, but if she does think she’s been given this information by a… by Robbie…’
    ‘Could be something he told her days before, ennit? Before he died. Something that’s suddenly clicked. I been agonizing about Robbie’s death for three weeks now. Thinking, leave it till after the funeral, wait for the inquest. Now even Mam’s on at me to do something. Why din’t you stop her? Where the hell did she get that from, Mrs Watkins?’
    On the edge of the car park, Mumford’s dad had picked up his carrier bag and he and Saltash had started back towards the house in the wake of Saltash’s all-concealing smile.
    ‘Andy.’ Merrily beckoned Mumford into his parents’ tiny front garden. ‘I think we should try and deal with this… Go back in. But not with him. Think of something.’

7
     
I’ll Be Waiting
     
    T HERE WAS ANOTHER clear reason why the implications of retirement were terrifying Andy Mumford.
    His dad.
    Reg Mumford was taller than his son and held himself stiff-backed and upright, but it was hard to believe now that he’d ever been a policeman. Still wearing his fishing hat, he was standing with his hands on the shoulders of his wife’s chair, as if it was a wheelchair. Merrily’s feeling was that this was because he didn’t want to look at her.
    ‘I reckon they’ve started watering the beer again, Andrew.’
    ‘You said.’
    ‘Have you found that?’
    ‘No, Dad.’
    ‘Always start doing it this time of year when the tourists come.’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Prices goes up, too. Don’t seem two minutes since it was one and six a pint.’
    ‘Before my time, Dad.’
    ‘Hee, hee!’ Reg Mumford pointed at Andy, who was standing uncomfortably up against the sideboard near the picture that was turned to the wall. ‘You en’t gonner be saying that for long. Now you’re retired, see, time’s gonner speed up, time’s gonner flash by, you mark my words, boy.’
    ‘Mrs Watkins would like to talk to you again,’ Mumford said.
    ‘I’d be delighted to talk to this young lady, Andrew. Shall we go out for a drink, the three of us?’
    ‘She wants to talk to Mam, Dad.’
    ‘Won’t get no sense out of her,’ Reg said. ‘I can tell you that much.’
    Merrily, still standing by the door, glanced at Andy Mumford, watched his lips retract, a sign of extreme frustration. They were getting nowhere here. Nigel Saltash had suggested lunch in one of the splendid new restaurants which, he said, now made visits to Ludlow such an unexpected pleasure. At least she’d got out of that, saying that she had a sermon to write, and then Mumford telling Saltash he had to pick his wife up in Dilwyn, not far from Ledwardine, so he could give the vicar a lift back.
    She came over from the door and knelt on the rug in front of Mrs Mumford’s chair. Mrs Mumford contemplated her for a while and then began to nod, light graduating into her eyes as if the action of nodding was powering a small dynamo.
    ‘Now then. Now. I know who you are. I was a bit confused, the way that man kept smiling at me, but I know who you are now, my dear.’
    Merrily smiled back. Somehow she didn’t think Mrs Mumford was going to get this right.
    ‘You were at the funeral, weren’t you?’
    ‘Erm…’
    ‘You’re the teacher. Yes. Robbie’s teacher. You was his favourite, you’re…’ Mrs Mumford started to prise herself up. ‘You’re his… history teacher!’
    ‘Well, I—’
    ‘’Course you are.’ Reg Mumford was leaning over the chair from behind and pointing a forefinger at his own head, making screwing motions. ‘And we’re very glad to see you, aren’t we, Phyllis?’
    ‘He loved history,’ Mrs Mumford said.
    ‘Yes,’ Merrily said. ‘Yes, he did.’
    ‘Much bloody good it did him.’ Reg snorted. ‘Should’ve been out playing football. If he’d played football like a normal boy