earlier of their investigations. He expressed reservations about David Reilly — reservations he’d spoken of to no one else. As they both began to drift into sleep, Titus said, ‘There’s something eating away at Joe. Something apart from this case.’
‘I think it’s Europe,’ Maude said, but Titus’s breathing had deepened, and he didn’t hear her.
–6–
WHEN MATTHEW TODD looked at his sister, Rose, he wondered, just as his Aunt Aggie did, why she didn’t take more trouble with her appearance. She was a looker, but everything about her was practical. She had a practical haircut, wore practical clothes and shoes, and never wore make-up. Matthew didn’t understand people who took no pride in their appearance, unless there was nothing about them that was worthy of pride — and, God knew, there were legions of people like that. Rose’s choice of husband had done nothing to raise Matthew’s opinion of her. She’d married beneath her; beneath all of them. John Abbot was stocky, stolid and, yes, practical. He was plain as a pikestaff, and when Matthew visited, Abbot thought the occasion was so inconsequential that he wore his singlet indoors. In fact, he’d been known to sit down to lunch in a singlet, and Matthew found his hairy shoulders an affront to etiquette. It didn’t seem to bother Rose in the least, which was proof enough for Matthew of how far she’d fallen.
The Abbots ran dairy cattle on a large property outside Port Fairy, on the Portland side. John Abbot had been raised by his father, his mother having died when John was ten years old (‘Sensibly died,’ Aunt Aggie had said). This explained his staggeringly awful uncouthness, Matthew supposed. Old Mr Abbot had died at the age of just 55. He’d never looked youthful, and most of the mourners at St Patrick’s — and the church had been full — were surprised to learn that he was so young. He’d always been referred to in the parish as ‘old Mr Abbot’. Father Brennan knew that Abbot could be relied on to leave £5 on the plate each Sunday — a donation that hadn’t been continued by his son. John Abbot’s view was that you paid money to go to the pictures, but that being bored numb every Sunday should be free.
There was a reason Matthew had taken to visiting his sister. His reason had a name: Johanna Scotney. She wasn’t officially a Land Army placement on the Abbot farm, but her employment protected her from being put somewhere out of the district.
Johanna Scotney was 18 years old, the daughter of a fisher-man in Port Fairy — not one of Matthew’s clients — and she was pretty. Matthew hadn’t settled yet as to whom she most closely resembled. He judged all women against their resemblance to someone he’d seen at the pictures. It didn’t matter how faint the resemblance, he saw the actress first and the real woman second. Rather than wrestle with a woman’s personality, he found it simpler to ascribe to her the traits of the carefully scripted and directed character played by her vague shadow in some film or other. His Aunt Aggie was Judith Anderson — not the severe lesbian, Mrs Danvers, in Rebecca , but the less off-putting Ann Treadwell in Laura . Rose was Ann Sheridan, stripped back to basics, unmade-up and poorly lit. For Johanna Scotney, Matthew was tossing up between Deanna Durbin and Ann Baxter. Either way, she needed deflowering, and he’d begun his campaign by making what he believed to be the occasional erotic remark to her. So far, she’d met him with stony, disapproving silence.
ROSE ABBOT SUSPECTED that her brother’s visits, and his willingness to stay for lunch, had to do with Johanna Scotney, rather than with his having any interest in her, her husband, or the farm. The potatoes and eggs he took away with him weren’t sufficient to encourage grateful lingering. She’d watched him follow Johanna with his eyes, and she’d noted with abhorrence the lewd set of his mouth when he did so.
He’d arrived
‘I think it’s Europe,’ Maude said, but Titus’s breathing had deepened, and he didn’t hear her.
–6–
WHEN MATTHEW TODD looked at his sister, Rose, he wondered, just as his Aunt Aggie did, why she didn’t take more trouble with her appearance. She was a looker, but everything about her was practical. She had a practical haircut, wore practical clothes and shoes, and never wore make-up. Matthew didn’t understand people who took no pride in their appearance, unless there was nothing about them that was worthy of pride — and, God knew, there were legions of people like that. Rose’s choice of husband had done nothing to raise Matthew’s opinion of her. She’d married beneath her; beneath all of them. John Abbot was stocky, stolid and, yes, practical. He was plain as a pikestaff, and when Matthew visited, Abbot thought the occasion was so inconsequential that he wore his singlet indoors. In fact, he’d been known to sit down to lunch in a singlet, and Matthew found his hairy shoulders an affront to etiquette. It didn’t seem to bother Rose in the least, which was proof enough for Matthew of how far she’d fallen.
The Abbots ran dairy cattle on a large property outside Port Fairy, on the Portland side. John Abbot had been raised by his father, his mother having died when John was ten years old (‘Sensibly died,’ Aunt Aggie had said). This explained his staggeringly awful uncouthness, Matthew supposed. Old Mr Abbot had died at the age of just 55. He’d never looked youthful, and most of the mourners at St Patrick’s — and the church had been full — were surprised to learn that he was so young. He’d always been referred to in the parish as ‘old Mr Abbot’. Father Brennan knew that Abbot could be relied on to leave £5 on the plate each Sunday — a donation that hadn’t been continued by his son. John Abbot’s view was that you paid money to go to the pictures, but that being bored numb every Sunday should be free.
There was a reason Matthew had taken to visiting his sister. His reason had a name: Johanna Scotney. She wasn’t officially a Land Army placement on the Abbot farm, but her employment protected her from being put somewhere out of the district.
Johanna Scotney was 18 years old, the daughter of a fisher-man in Port Fairy — not one of Matthew’s clients — and she was pretty. Matthew hadn’t settled yet as to whom she most closely resembled. He judged all women against their resemblance to someone he’d seen at the pictures. It didn’t matter how faint the resemblance, he saw the actress first and the real woman second. Rather than wrestle with a woman’s personality, he found it simpler to ascribe to her the traits of the carefully scripted and directed character played by her vague shadow in some film or other. His Aunt Aggie was Judith Anderson — not the severe lesbian, Mrs Danvers, in Rebecca , but the less off-putting Ann Treadwell in Laura . Rose was Ann Sheridan, stripped back to basics, unmade-up and poorly lit. For Johanna Scotney, Matthew was tossing up between Deanna Durbin and Ann Baxter. Either way, she needed deflowering, and he’d begun his campaign by making what he believed to be the occasional erotic remark to her. So far, she’d met him with stony, disapproving silence.
ROSE ABBOT SUSPECTED that her brother’s visits, and his willingness to stay for lunch, had to do with Johanna Scotney, rather than with his having any interest in her, her husband, or the farm. The potatoes and eggs he took away with him weren’t sufficient to encourage grateful lingering. She’d watched him follow Johanna with his eyes, and she’d noted with abhorrence the lewd set of his mouth when he did so.
He’d arrived
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