Free After Hours by Jenny Oldfield Page A

Frances’s distressing tale with concern, then shook his head. ‘Ain’t no getting away from it, it sounds like bad news,’ he told her as he brought a cup of tea from the kitchen and got her to put her feet up by the fire. ‘It’s turned you into a bag of nerves for a start.’ Personally he thought it unlikely that fate would push this very same tramp into a ragged heap at Frances’s feet. He heard from her that a police car had pulled up at the kerbside when they spotted her in trouble, and hauled in-the vagrant for a breach of the peace. This had upset his sensitive wife all the more.
    Frances sipped the tea. ‘That ain’t the point though, Billy. The point is Annie and Pa. What’ll this do to them if it turns out to be true? If this really is Wiggin come back after all these years?’
    He sat opposite her, leaning both elbows on his knees. ‘Don’t you think you owe it to Annie to let her know as soon as possible?’ he asked softly.
    She stared back, bit her lip and sighed. ‘Not yet, Billy. Not when it’s coming up to Christmas and all. Let’s wait until Saturday and we can see what’s what.’
    Saturday the 20th was when things would come to a head. Frances kept in close touch with Hettie by phone. On the Friday she took another call from the pub. It was eight-thirty on a cold, clear night. Hettie asked if she and George Mann could pay them a visit.
    They arrived at the Institute within the half-hour. Billy shookGeorge’s hand and showed them both up to the tasteful modem room which Frances had made into a home suitable for the respectable, childless couple they were. A valve radio stood on a sleek, veneered sideboard, with a pair of headphones hung neatly to one side. The pictures on the walls were light, modem watereolours in ash frames which Billy had made himself. The rows of books on the alcove shelves were to do with social issues such as education and family planning, or else slightly controversial modem novels, many by women.
    Frances made their visitors feel at home. Billy offered to send down to the local pub for beer, but George shook his head. It seemed matters were too serious.
    â€˜What is it, Ett?’ Frances stood up and took off her steel-rimmed glasses which she’d lately taken to for reading. Her own hair was greying at the temples, but it was cut into a good, shoulder-length bob which gave her an up-to-date air. ‘It’s Wiggin again, ain’t it?’ She dreaded the next day and their planned return to the Mission.
    Hettie nodded. She nudged George’s arm. ‘It’s bad this time, ain’t it?’
    The cellarman hung his head and. studied the backs of his own broad hands, placed squarely on his widespread knees. All eyes were on him and he wished it otherwise. Reaching up to ease his necktie, he coughed. ‘I’m afraid it is.’
    â€˜Well?’ Frances’s anxiety broke through in a schoolmistressy prompt.
    â€˜I bumped into him,’ George said apologetically. ‘Without intending to, you understand.’
    Frances felt the stuffing go out of her. She leaned forward in her own chair. ‘Oh, George, no! What happened? Tell us, quick!’
    â€˜It was earlier today,’ George began. He felt his colour rise. Frances scared the living daylights out of him, if-the truth be known. ‘I heard the dray roll up for a delivery, and I went out to meet it.’ He stared at the fawn, flowered wallpaper for inspiration. Hettie nudged him again. ‘Well, there I was lifting the barrels off the cart, and I’d just stopped for a chat with Harry Monk, the carter. We call him Harry the Priest on account of his name . . . and anyhow,we’re chatting ten to the dozen, then I turn to roll the first barrel down the slope. But instead I bump into this old heap of rag and bones. He was standing in the road, waving and going on something