Free A Fatal Attachment by Robert Barnard Page B

Television, Maurice?”
    â€œMonday afternoon. More of a meeting, really. Slightly clandestine. We’llpack up the car, Kelly and Matthew can look around Leeds for an hour or two, maybe talk to a few estate agents, then we’ll be off down the M1 and home—out of your hair.”
    â€œYou’re not in our hair, Maurice,” protested Thea, conscious that the more she saw of Kelly the more she was intrigued by her, even liked her.
    â€œOh, I know Dad has a lot to do with this new job.”
    â€œLast week of term next week,” said Andy, shaking his head. “No problem—just a lot of loose ends to tie up.”
    He was conscious of a figure looming over their table. He thought at first it was another autograph hunter, but when he looked up it was Nick Bellingham, his paunch seeming ampler than when they had last met, his face certainly redder.
    â€œMr Hoddle? Don’t let me interrupt. Just on my way out. Just thought I’d tell you we’ve found out what the trouble’s been with the wife. Thought it was all in the mind m’self, but I was wrong. She’s got M.E.”
    â€œOh dear, I’m sorry. That’s rather serious, isn’t it?”
    â€œSo they tell me. May take months, years, before she’s back to normal. But your sister-in-law’s been very good. Offered to give the lads a good meal in the evenings, and she’s been as good as her word. Load off my mind, I can tell you, I couldn’t be more grateful—that’s what I call being a Christian. Meant I could come out here tonight. She’s a wonderful woman, that sister-in-law of yours. Goodnight all!”
    And he lurched off towards the door. Back at the table there were now several pairs of raised eyebrows.
    â€œAwful man,” said Kelly.
    Maurice sat looking thoughtful.

CHAPTER 7
    O N the Saturday afternoon Maurice took the old, familiar road up the hill to his aunt’s cottage.
    As he neared the brow he recalled his wife’s sneer at the word “cottage.” Of course she had hit the nail on the head as usual. There had been three labourers’ cottages there in the old days: dark, cold little hovels. Lydia had removed doors, enlarged windows, made lawns, installed central heating, all with the proceeds of her first popular success, Horatio and Emma. It was now pre-eminently a gentlewoman’s home, and the name Hilltop Cottage, a survival from its former lowly status, represented the sort of self-depreciation which Lydia would be the first to deplore in humans.
    But there was no denying she had made it attractive. In the warm afternoon sun it glowed, as surely it never had glowed in its previous bleak existence. Maurice stood for a moment and looked at it: the terraced lawns and brilliant flower-beds framed it perfectly. This was Lydia’s face to the world. He reflected that he was one of the very few people who knew her other face.
    He went through the gate, carefully closing it after him. Then he walked down the path and up to the front door. Once he and Gavin had walked straight in and shouted greetings. Perhaps the new boys already did. He knocked.
    â€œMaurice! How lovely to see you again! All alone?” Lydia could hardly keep the satisfaction from her voice. “Do come through. I’ve got the tea things ready.”
    She led the way trough to the sitting room, then bustled into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was wearing a stylish cream dress with a full skirt, perfect summer wear. Maurice stood leaning against the kitchen door—apparently relaxed, yet feeling a growing tension inside him, as if his entrails were being knotted.
    â€œYes, I’m on my own. Kelly is bathing Matthew, and Mother is helping her.”
    â€œThea would love that. She always liked babies.”
    â€œI hope you’ll like him too. Thea wondered whether you could come to lunch on Monday.”
    â€œMonday I’m in Boston Spa, I’m afraid.