death: hypothermia. In other words, she had died of exposure. Again the street buzzed, and it was not only schoolboys who called after Norman.
His mother had left him the house and a thousand pounds. Norman was one of those people—and they are legion—whose ambition is to keep a country pub or shop. He had never lived in the country or run a grocer’s, but that was what he wanted. He underwent training with the Post Office, and at about the same time as the Coverdales bought Lowfield Hall, he and Joan found themselves proprietors of Greeving Village Store. Greeving, because the only other Epiphany Temple in the country was in Nunchester.
The Smiths ran the store with disastrous inefficiency. Sometimes it opened at nine, sometimes at eleven. The post office was, of course, open during its prescribed hours, but Joan (for all her virtuous protestations to Eunice) left Norman in sole charge for hours and he couldn’t leave his cubbyhole behind the grille to serve other customers. Those who had been regulars drifted away. The rest, compelled through carlessness to allegiance, grumbled ferociously. Joan investigated the mails. It was her duty, she said, to find out the sinners who surrounded her. She steamed open envelopes and reglued them. Norman watched in misery and despair, longing for the courage to hit her and hoping against all odds and his own nature that he would one day find it.
They had no children and now Joan was passing through what she called an “early change.” Considering she was fifty, it mighthave been thought that her menopause was neither early nor late but right on time.
“Norm and I always longed for kiddies,” she was in the habit of saying, “but they never came. The Lord knew best, no doubt, and it’s not for us to question His ways.”
No doubt He did. One wonders what Joan Smith would have done with children if she had had them. Eaten them, perhaps.
10
For a long time George Coverdale had suspected one of the Smiths of tampering with his post. Only a week before he went on holiday an envelope containing a letter from his son Peter showed a glue smear under the flap, and a parcel from the book club to which Jacqueline subscribed had obviously been opened and retied with string. But he hesitated to take action without positive proof.
He hadn’t set foot in the shop or used the post office since the day, some three years before, when, in front of an interested audience of farm labourers’ wives, Joan had gaily reproached him for living with a divorced woman and exhorted him to abandon his sinful life and come to God. After that he had posted his letters in Stantwich and given Joan no more than a stiff nod when he met her in the village. He would have been appalled had he known she had been in his bedroom, fingered his clothes, and toured his house.
But when he and his family returned from holiday there was no sign that Eunice had defected from her established ways.
“I don’t believe she’s been out of the house, darling,” said Jacqueline.
“Yes, she has.” Village gossip always reached them by way of Melinda. “Geoff told me. He got it from Mrs. Higgs, the Mrs. Higgs who rides the bike, she’s his grandma’s sister-in-law. She saw her out for a walk in Greeving.”
“Good,” said George. “If she’s happy pottering about the village, I won’t press her about the driving lessons. But if youshould get it via the bush telegraph that she’s got hankerings to learn, perhaps you’ll let me know.”
Late summer, early autumn, and the vegetation seemed to become too much for man and nature itself to control. The flowers grew too tall and too straggly, the hedges overbrimmed with leaves, with berries and tendrils of the bryony, and the wild clematis, the Old Man’s Beard, cast over all its filmy fluffy cloak. Melinda went blackberrying, Jacqueline made bramble jelly. Eunice had never before seen jam being made. As far as she had known, if it didn’t exactly descend like
His mother had left him the house and a thousand pounds. Norman was one of those people—and they are legion—whose ambition is to keep a country pub or shop. He had never lived in the country or run a grocer’s, but that was what he wanted. He underwent training with the Post Office, and at about the same time as the Coverdales bought Lowfield Hall, he and Joan found themselves proprietors of Greeving Village Store. Greeving, because the only other Epiphany Temple in the country was in Nunchester.
The Smiths ran the store with disastrous inefficiency. Sometimes it opened at nine, sometimes at eleven. The post office was, of course, open during its prescribed hours, but Joan (for all her virtuous protestations to Eunice) left Norman in sole charge for hours and he couldn’t leave his cubbyhole behind the grille to serve other customers. Those who had been regulars drifted away. The rest, compelled through carlessness to allegiance, grumbled ferociously. Joan investigated the mails. It was her duty, she said, to find out the sinners who surrounded her. She steamed open envelopes and reglued them. Norman watched in misery and despair, longing for the courage to hit her and hoping against all odds and his own nature that he would one day find it.
They had no children and now Joan was passing through what she called an “early change.” Considering she was fifty, it mighthave been thought that her menopause was neither early nor late but right on time.
“Norm and I always longed for kiddies,” she was in the habit of saying, “but they never came. The Lord knew best, no doubt, and it’s not for us to question His ways.”
No doubt He did. One wonders what Joan Smith would have done with children if she had had them. Eaten them, perhaps.
10
For a long time George Coverdale had suspected one of the Smiths of tampering with his post. Only a week before he went on holiday an envelope containing a letter from his son Peter showed a glue smear under the flap, and a parcel from the book club to which Jacqueline subscribed had obviously been opened and retied with string. But he hesitated to take action without positive proof.
He hadn’t set foot in the shop or used the post office since the day, some three years before, when, in front of an interested audience of farm labourers’ wives, Joan had gaily reproached him for living with a divorced woman and exhorted him to abandon his sinful life and come to God. After that he had posted his letters in Stantwich and given Joan no more than a stiff nod when he met her in the village. He would have been appalled had he known she had been in his bedroom, fingered his clothes, and toured his house.
But when he and his family returned from holiday there was no sign that Eunice had defected from her established ways.
“I don’t believe she’s been out of the house, darling,” said Jacqueline.
“Yes, she has.” Village gossip always reached them by way of Melinda. “Geoff told me. He got it from Mrs. Higgs, the Mrs. Higgs who rides the bike, she’s his grandma’s sister-in-law. She saw her out for a walk in Greeving.”
“Good,” said George. “If she’s happy pottering about the village, I won’t press her about the driving lessons. But if youshould get it via the bush telegraph that she’s got hankerings to learn, perhaps you’ll let me know.”
Late summer, early autumn, and the vegetation seemed to become too much for man and nature itself to control. The flowers grew too tall and too straggly, the hedges overbrimmed with leaves, with berries and tendrils of the bryony, and the wild clematis, the Old Man’s Beard, cast over all its filmy fluffy cloak. Melinda went blackberrying, Jacqueline made bramble jelly. Eunice had never before seen jam being made. As far as she had known, if it didn’t exactly descend like
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