with the horrid hollow.’
‘Oh yes. I remember the oak.’
‘It gives me the creeps each time I look at it. I always think there’s some malignant presence lurking inside. I imagine something unspeakable is about to crawl out! There’s a smell - I am sure I am not imagining it.’
‘Sir Michael was very keen on preserving the oak.’
‘I’m sure he was . . . What was your name, did you say? I wonder if perhaps we have met?’
‘Antonia. Antonia Darcy. Twenty years ago it used to be Rushton.’
‘No - I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘The oak has had a glorious history - a noble pedigree.‘
‘I don’t give a damn about its noble pedigree - I want it gone.’ A whimpering sound was heard and Mrs Ralston-Scott, speaking away from the receiver, said, ‘Yes, darling, Mummy’s coming . . . It’s my dog. One of my dogs. Such a nuisance ...’
A note of exasperation entered her voice as the whimpering was repeated. ‘Doesn’t like me spending too much time on the phone. Jealous, silly thing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott gave a musical laugh and again she spoke away from the receiver. ‘Laura, put on the record, would you? The one that calms her down . . . No, the other one. Yes.’ She was speaking into the phone once more. ‘I am a slave to my dogs! I must go now. I hope you find Hermione Mortlock on one of her good days. She is not entirely compos, you know, so you should be prepared.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She’s transcended the milder lunacies of senes cence, that’s what George Mortlock said. Pathological rather than eccentric. George does have a way with words. I too knew her many years ago, but I don’t suppose she’ll remember me.’
The sweet sounds of a familiar old-fashioned song were heard somewhere in the background. The whimpering stopped. Mrs Ralston-Scott went on, ‘Lady Mortlock’s been a recluse ever since her husband died. Now she lives with a companion and a nurse. I don’t think they encourage visitors but you can try. Good luck.’
Antonia put down the receiver. For several moments she remained deep in thought. She had the vague feeling that something important had been said in the course of the conversation, only she couldn’t think what it was.
12
Atonement
He hadn’t thought it would be that effortless. There were eighteen Haywoods in the book, but only one woman whose first name was Greek, or what he thought was Greek. Major Payne could hardly contain his satisfaction as he wrote down the address and the telephone number for Andrula Haywood, who lived in Ravenscraig Road, Arnos Grove, London N11.
Was it too much to hope that this was the nanny?
What should he do? Phone first - or simply turn up on the doorstep and take it from there? Play it by ear, eh? Yes, why not. Much better, in fact, when dealing with guilty parties. Receivers could be slammed down only too easily, in fear or in anger, and that would be that, while the vis-à- vis approach had a lot to recommend it if one was playing the detection game. He would be able to observe the eyes, the mouth, the tensing of hands and facial muscles. Watch out for any telltale signs. At this point he had very little to go on. Nothing but guesswork and speculation. The misguided romantic - the lapsed Catholic. Andrula might be neither of these . . . She had been considered a most conscientious nanny until someone (Lady M.?) had offered her a lot of money to abandon her charge on the morning of 29th July 1981.
What he was going to say to her when they met, Major Payne had no idea, but inspiration, he felt sure, would come. He was a quick thinker, had a sympathetic manner. He wasn’t a bad hand at drawing people out of themselves. He wasn’t easily thwarted or abashed either. People took to him, women in particular - most women.
Women found him charming, reliable, funny, non-threatening. Women frequently made him their confidant - not a role he always relished - it could be a bore. On a number of occasions women had
‘Oh yes. I remember the oak.’
‘It gives me the creeps each time I look at it. I always think there’s some malignant presence lurking inside. I imagine something unspeakable is about to crawl out! There’s a smell - I am sure I am not imagining it.’
‘Sir Michael was very keen on preserving the oak.’
‘I’m sure he was . . . What was your name, did you say? I wonder if perhaps we have met?’
‘Antonia. Antonia Darcy. Twenty years ago it used to be Rushton.’
‘No - I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘The oak has had a glorious history - a noble pedigree.‘
‘I don’t give a damn about its noble pedigree - I want it gone.’ A whimpering sound was heard and Mrs Ralston-Scott, speaking away from the receiver, said, ‘Yes, darling, Mummy’s coming . . . It’s my dog. One of my dogs. Such a nuisance ...’
A note of exasperation entered her voice as the whimpering was repeated. ‘Doesn’t like me spending too much time on the phone. Jealous, silly thing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott gave a musical laugh and again she spoke away from the receiver. ‘Laura, put on the record, would you? The one that calms her down . . . No, the other one. Yes.’ She was speaking into the phone once more. ‘I am a slave to my dogs! I must go now. I hope you find Hermione Mortlock on one of her good days. She is not entirely compos, you know, so you should be prepared.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She’s transcended the milder lunacies of senes cence, that’s what George Mortlock said. Pathological rather than eccentric. George does have a way with words. I too knew her many years ago, but I don’t suppose she’ll remember me.’
The sweet sounds of a familiar old-fashioned song were heard somewhere in the background. The whimpering stopped. Mrs Ralston-Scott went on, ‘Lady Mortlock’s been a recluse ever since her husband died. Now she lives with a companion and a nurse. I don’t think they encourage visitors but you can try. Good luck.’
Antonia put down the receiver. For several moments she remained deep in thought. She had the vague feeling that something important had been said in the course of the conversation, only she couldn’t think what it was.
12
Atonement
He hadn’t thought it would be that effortless. There were eighteen Haywoods in the book, but only one woman whose first name was Greek, or what he thought was Greek. Major Payne could hardly contain his satisfaction as he wrote down the address and the telephone number for Andrula Haywood, who lived in Ravenscraig Road, Arnos Grove, London N11.
Was it too much to hope that this was the nanny?
What should he do? Phone first - or simply turn up on the doorstep and take it from there? Play it by ear, eh? Yes, why not. Much better, in fact, when dealing with guilty parties. Receivers could be slammed down only too easily, in fear or in anger, and that would be that, while the vis-à- vis approach had a lot to recommend it if one was playing the detection game. He would be able to observe the eyes, the mouth, the tensing of hands and facial muscles. Watch out for any telltale signs. At this point he had very little to go on. Nothing but guesswork and speculation. The misguided romantic - the lapsed Catholic. Andrula might be neither of these . . . She had been considered a most conscientious nanny until someone (Lady M.?) had offered her a lot of money to abandon her charge on the morning of 29th July 1981.
What he was going to say to her when they met, Major Payne had no idea, but inspiration, he felt sure, would come. He was a quick thinker, had a sympathetic manner. He wasn’t a bad hand at drawing people out of themselves. He wasn’t easily thwarted or abashed either. People took to him, women in particular - most women.
Women found him charming, reliable, funny, non-threatening. Women frequently made him their confidant - not a role he always relished - it could be a bore. On a number of occasions women had
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