A Passion So Deadly

Four

On the second Tuesday of every month Constance Lange’s family were accustomed to her absence when she travelled to Bristol to visit her one surviving relative, a great aunt who had been kind to her throughout her lonely childhood. Aunt Ada was now a very old lady living in a nursing home on the outskirts of the city. She had suffered for some years from Alzheimer’s disease. In the early stages of her illness she had spent occasional weekends at Chalmpton Village Farm with Freddie and her great niece. But for more than five years now that had been impossible due to the deterioration in her condition. Constance would describe to Freddie how the old woman now lived in some other world, a strange and frightening fantasy place where the past moulded with the present, what had gone before with what could never be, and where there was no future. Sometimes Aunt Ada knew her, sometimes she did not. And when she was well enough Constance would take her great aunt for an afternoon drive in the country.

‘I’m not sure how much she understands, even whether or not she knows she is in a car, but driving through the countryside seems to have a soothing affect on her, Alzheimer’s sufferers get so agitated, you see,’ she explained to her husband who made sympathetic noises but always had too much else on his mind to listen properly.

Usually Constance stayed until the evening and had supper with the old lady — a service in the nursing home provided at a small charge to visiting relatives — and then drove back to Chalmpton Peverill. The journey took just over an hour and on occasions she did not arrive home until between 10.00 and 11.00 p.m.

But Freddie Lange never minded these absences — if the truth be known, he was usually so engrossed in his farm that he barely noticed. Constance frequently took the opportunity to make a day of it, shopping in Bristol, having lunch with a girlfriend, and Freddie thought it was important that his wife escaped from the village occasionally. Too many people depended on Constance and took her for granted. Freddie was honest enough to admit that he came into that category himself. She was so calm and steadfast, so bright, clever and positive — and at the same time such fun to have around. It was a heady combination. He could also never quite get over how beautiful his wife was.

He really did not know what he would ever do without her. In fact he hoped beyond hope that he would never have to do without her. Losing her was the biggest dread of his life. Freddie was a practical sensible man and he did not dwell on the ultimate prospect of death. There was no point. He was a farmer. He understood there could be no beginnings without endings. He was fatalistic and not overly imaginative. Therefore he did not fear his own death. But he feared his wife dying more than anything else in the world.

Every Sunday morning he and Constance went to church. Freddie wasn’t sure whether or not he had any religious convictions — men like him didn’t think about things like that. He went to church on Sunday mornings because that was what he had done since he was a boy, that was what his family had always done and they had always sat in the same pew. Naturally when he married he assumed that he and his new wife would continue the tradition and so would their children. Constance had never questioned it. Neither had he asked her if she believed in this God they both went through the weekly ritual of worshipping. It would not have occurred to him to pry in that way.

Nonetheless, and he never told a soul, there was not a Sunday, sitting in the stony chill of that little Norman church, that he didn’t pray that he would die before Constance. That was how much she meant to him.

Any man lucky enough to have her would feel the same, he told himself with simple certainty as Constance cheerily left the house on the morning of Tuesday, September 8th.

Freddie stood by the back porch as she reversed the Volvo into the bam, swinging the car around so that she could drive forwards into the village street. It was yet another miserably wet day. He could barely see his wife within the car until she switched on the windscreen wipers as she reversed. She handled the big estate so easily, with so much more aplomb than he ever did. He always found the Volvo cumbersome and much preferred to drive his little MGB roadster — a beautifully preserved concourse job in British racing green — although he didn’t really like taking it out of the garage in the rain.

He waved when Constance pipped her horn as the Volvo’s back end slipped smoothly forwards through the gateway.

He knew Constance remained fond of her aunt regardless of the old lady’s sorry condition. And although he doubted he would ever see Aunt Ada again — in spite of her visits to the farm he had never known her well and really couldn’t see the point when she almost certainly wouldn’t have the faintest idea who he was — Freddie was glad that his wife still took the trouble. Freddie had a strong sense of family. The Lange family tree could be traced back to the time of William the Conqueror. Freddie took that kind of family history for granted, but it was very important to him. He thoroughly approved of Constance caring for her one elderly relative. That was how things should be, in Freddie’s opinion. His own parents had died a few years ago, both in their mid-seventies, within six months of each other, and he wished they were still alive for him to look after. Freddie liked looking after people. His family. His workers. The villagers whom he knew relied on him, as they had done on his father before him, for advice and support in a way outsiders would probably consider unhealthily feudal. It seemed perfectly natural to Freddie.

He still missed his parents dreadfully, but he could not really imagine either one of them having survived long without the other. And that was how he felt about himself and Constance. They were a team. Together they were indomitable. Apart they were nothing.

That night Constance arrived home in high spirits.

‘Aunt Ada was bright as a button today,’ she told Freddie. ‘I said you sent your love and I don’t think she had a clue who I was talking about, but she chattered away all the time. Nonsense it may have been, but she seemed content enough, and at least she didn’t fall asleep on me like the last time.’

It had been just on ten o’clock when Freddie had heard the Volvo purr into the yard.

‘Do you want a night cap?’ he asked now, reaching, without waiting for his wife to reply, for the bottle of Glenmorangie in the kitchen cupboard.

Constance, carrying two large carrier bags, was in the hallway, heading for the stairs, and trying to avoid falling over Josh whose excitement at her return caused him to run in circles around her legs.

‘You bet,’ she called. ‘Just let me sort out my stuff.’

She was down within a couple of minutes, in her hand a small paper bag which she gave to her husband, brushing his weathered cheek with her lips as she did so.

He thought how fresh she smelt after a whole day out, almost as if she had just bathed. But then, Constance invariably seemed so cool and fresh, sometimes appearing to be made of different stuff from other poor mortals.

‘You don’t always have to buy me a present when you go out, you know,’ he remarked.

‘Right, I’ll have it back then,’ she said quickly, reaching out as if to snatch the package away from him.

He swung his body backwards, laughing, avoiding her.

The bag contained a rare early edition of The Trumpet Major, probably Freddie’s favourite Thomas Hardy, beautifully bound in leather with gold embossing. Freddie, although a well-educated man, was no intellectual and not a great reader either, but he had a passion for the famous Wessex writer, perhaps because Hardy wrote about things that Freddie instinctively understood and that did not seem to him to have changed fundamentally since Hardy’s day.

Freddie’s face lit up. He put down the book and took Constance in his arms.

‘Where on earth did you find this?’ he asked, his delight bubbling over.

‘I’ve been on the case for months,’ she said. ‘I take it you like it.’

‘Not as much as I like you, but it’ll do,’ he said.

She poked out her tongue at him.

‘You know, I think if my mother had ever done that to my father he would probably have collapsed in shock,’ remarked Freddie. He couldn’t stop smiling.

‘Easily shocked, your family,’ said Constance. ‘Forgetful too. Where’s that drink?’

He reached behind him for a glass already half filled with fine whisky.

‘Just waiting for you, you impatient woman,’ he told her.

He picked up the book again, handling it carefully, appreciatively turning the pages. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said. ‘It is so beautiful — really the most wonderful present.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she replied. ‘You deserve it, and more actually — only don’t get too big-headed.’

She raised her glass, taking a long appreciative swallow. He turned around to pour himself a drink.

When he faced her again it seemed that she had changed slightly, as if slotting back into a different mould. And indeed when she spoke again her thoughts were obviously no longer on her day away, the shopping and lunch she had told him she had enjoyed in Bristol, her visit to her aunt, or indeed on him. She had switched her attentions to the village she was so much a part of, with its almost daily round of rural drama. Drama was how it seemed to Freddie. Connie took things much more calmly.

‘Did Harley Phillips come out of hospital today as planned?’ Constance asked.

‘Uh huh.’ Freddie grunted. He didn’t really want to talk about Harley because the boy was now yet another problem that had to be dealt with. Harley’s arm had been saved but nobody knew yet how much it would return to full use. And certainly, at best, it would be a long time before he could work properly on the farm again. Freddie had no wish to lay Harley off and in any case knew his wife would not allow it — but, although his was a rich farm, Freddie had relatively little disposable cash. Like most farmers, his wealth was in his assets and he could not afford to carry passengers.

As if reading his mind, Constance spoke. ‘I’ll visit Harley tomorrow, then,’ she said. ‘And we’ll have to think of some gainful employment for him as soon as he is able. Knowing Harley, he’ll try like mad. You know how eager and energetic he is.’

Yes, thought Freddie, with a mixture of affection and irritation. And that was what had probably caused the boy’s accident in the first place. More brawn than brains, like the rest of his family.

Out loud he merely said, ‘Yes, he’s a good lad. If he does his best for us, and I’m sure he will, we’ll just have to do our best for him.’

‘I knew that’s what you’d say, Freddie,’ replied Constance, smiling broadly at him. ‘That’s what you always say.’

It was too. And it was what his father used to say before him. Indeed if that wasn’t the way of his family they might all be multi-millionaires by now, he reflected. But Freddie had never sought to make a fortune, any more than had his father. It was his wish only to keep Chalmpton Village Farm at the very least in the fine fettle in which it had been handed to him, and perhaps, if possible, hand it on to his own son in even better shape.

His own son. William. Oh God. The news from William, received that morning only minutes after Constance had left, had put a blight on his entire day. It was quite extraordinary. The elation he always felt when he was reunited with his wife, even after such a brief parting, and the joy of her wonderful gift, had put the whole sorry episode right out of his mind.

He must tell her, he supposed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he had quite found the words, she began to talk first.

‘You know, I’m really quite worn out,’ she said, as she emptied the whisky glass with a second big swallow. ‘It’s been a long day. And I don’t like driving as much as I used to. I think I’ll have an early night. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not,’ said Freddie. He decided the news of their son could wait till morning before he shared it with her. He knew she would be upset. She idolised the boy and sometimes, Freddie felt, put him on a pedestal he did not deserve.

Freddie was up at six as usual. He pottered in the kitchen making tea and then laid up the fire in the sitting-room which this year they were already lighting in the evenings even though it was still only early September, because the weather remained unseasonably cold and damp. He contemplated how best to break the bad news to his wife. He could come up with no easy way.

He took tea up to Constance at a quarter to seven as he always did.

‘By the way, William will probably be home today,’ he told her conversationally as, sipping from her favourite mug, she propped herself up on the pillows. And not until he had finished speaking did he realise what a clumsy approach that had been.

Momentarily her face lit up. Then the clouds came.

‘Freddie, the new term has only just started, what is going on?’

Her voice was sharp. But he knew her so well, knew she was not really angry, only anxious.

“Things aren’t too good, apparently...’ Freddie stumbled over his words, wanting so desperately not to hurt her, knowing he could not avoid it.

‘For goodness sake, Freddie!’ she said.

He sighed. ‘He’s been given his marching orders.’

‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. First she looked merely distressed, then puzzled. ‘I knew he wasn’t doing very well, but surely not that bad, and why now, at the beginning of term?’

‘There’s more to it than that. They’ve only been back a week and he’s already turned up drunk for afternoon lectures at least twice and missed one morning session. He was warned last term, apparently.’ Freddie sighed. ‘Yesterday he actually threw up in the lecture room, the idiot. And that was his lot!’

Constance now seemed to be both upset and exasperated.

‘But why, Freddie? I know he likes a pint, but I’d no idea his drinking was getting out of hand. The boy’s got everything, why does he need to get drunk like that?’

Freddie sighed again, he understood that if you hero-worshipped somebody, especially your own son, the blow was all the greater when you realised that maybe he wasn’t quite such a hero after all.

‘I think he’s just going through a bit of a wild patch...’

‘God, Freddie, with all he has to look forward to, he is so lucky...’

Freddie knew she was thinking of her own childhood and how hard she had had to fight in order to make anything of her life before meeting him.

He spoke to her very gently. ‘You know, it is not always so easy when you see your life mapped out before you, either. Not at twenty. He’s rebelling, that’s all. He’ll grow out of it.’

Freddie turned away slightly. He was, after all, trying to reassure her. He didn’t want her to see how worried he also was. But he guessed that she saw all right. She never missed much, not Constance. Particularly not about how people were feeling. She had such wonderful natural sensitivity. He thought it was that, more than anything, that had made him fall in love with her. She had understood all his doubts and insecurities and given him a belief in himself, both emotionally and physically, that he would not as a young man have thought possible.

‘Freddie, just tell me everything,’ she demanded, but in a tone of voice just as gentle as that he had used to her. ‘That’s far from all, isn’t it?’

He gave in then, explaining that after William had called telling him rather sulkily that he had been chucked out, would be home tomorrow, refusing to give reasons bar a brief admission of having had a few drinks too many, he had telephoned Ted Parish, a lecturer at William’s agricultural college. Ted, an old schoolfriend whose elder brother worked the family farm fifty miles or so away in Devon’s South Hams, explained that the real problem was that it seemed likely that William was involved in the drug scene — and not just marijuana either, but cocaine and maybe even harder stuff as well. Ted’s boss, the principal, would probably not send a man down for drunkenness unless it became totally out of control, but he wouldn’t tolerate drugs for a second.

Freddie, ever sensible, understood that. But — after ascertaining that while his son admitted to the allegations of being drunk on college premises (it seemed he could do little else) he hotly denied using drugs — he had asked his friend to push for William to be merely suspended unless the drug allegation could be substantiated. The old-school tie works as well in the farming community as any other and Freddie would always use any means available to protect his family.

‘But that was the best I could do,’ he told Constance. ‘Ted agreed that he would speak up for William, although he sounded as if he was pretty fed up with the lad himself. It seems this has been going on for some time, although we knew nothing about it.’

Constance was horrified. ‘Oh, not drugs, Freddie, surely not that,’ she said.

Freddie shrugged. ‘Let’s hope not. William says no, so all we can do is accept that. Ted said he’ll call as soon as he has an answer from the boss. But even if it’s just a suspension, and even if William is prepared to mend his ways pretty sharpish, the college will take some convincing that he’s turned over a new leaf before they let him back in, I reckon.’

Constance put her mug of tea down carefully on the bedside table. She reached out and touched Freddie’s hand.

‘I can’t believe William would do this to us,’ she said.

‘Con, whatever it is he’s doing it isn’t to us,’ responded Freddie patiently. ‘He’s just a young man kicking over the traces a bit, I’m sure that’s all...’

‘You never kicked anything over when you were a young man,’ said Constance, forcing a strained smile.

‘I never felt the need, and then I met you and I’ve never wanted to kick anything since, not really,’ he said.

She smiled again. This time rather more naturally.

‘I was the odd one out though, particularly in that generation, in the sixties,’ he continued.

She was holding his hand now, his big capable farmer’s hand, and she leaned forward and kissed his calloused fingers. Absurdly he hoped they were clean from carrying the firewood.

‘Whatever you say, I’ll ring his bloody neck if he hurts you, Freddie Lange,’ she said. ‘And anyway, at what time do we expect the little bugger?’

Her voice had its usual sparkle back in it now. She spoke determinedly, facing up to a problem while at the same time making as light of it as possible. Typical Constance.

That was better. Freddie could cope with almost anything as long as he had Constance in the trenches with him. Without her strength and her compassion, without her leadership, her calming presence, he was, in his own opinion, nothing.

William was due to arrive some time during the afternoon or early evening, it seemed. He had not been precise. His mother supposed it would be too much to ask for any consideration from him at the moment.

It was still only just after 8.00 a.m. Freddie had a problem in the piggery to sort out. Constance was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. She had far too much to do to sit around moping all morning, but she had to sort out her thoughts.

It was probably wicked, she considered, for a mother to admit to having a favourite among her children, but William had always been extra special to her. She supposed it was partly because of how much she had known Freddie had wanted a son, an heir to take over and work the land that had been in his family for so long. But also, as William had grown, he had come to resemble his father so much physically it almost made her heart leap when she looked at him.

Freddie Lange had been thirty-one when Constance first met him and William was only twenty. Sometimes she was not sure if she looked forward to her son reaching thirty or not. She was quite sure he would by then be almost a carbon copy of the father he was already so like.

And yet in personality the two were completely different. William was much more like her. He had her drive and ambition — or at least she had thought that he had. Maybe Freddie was right. Maybe it was hard to be ambitious when plans had already been made for your life before you were born, when there was nothing to strive for. But William had never indicated that he wanted any other kind of existence. Never said that he dreamed of being a writer or a painter or a soldier. Not even anything mundane. ‘What I really want in all the world is to be an accountant, mother.’ She let her imagination run riot for a moment, playing games now. And she smiled in spite of herself.

No, William had no dreams beyond Chalmpton Peverill and the nine hundred acres of prime Somerset farmland he would one day inherit — she was sure of it.

He had always seemed so well-adjusted. Certainly so personable, so charming. He had been both articulate and at ease among adults much earlier than most children. He shared his mother’s sense of fun and she thought that perhaps she had never laughed with anyone as much in her entire life — not even with Freddie — as she had with her son.

Indeed, she supposed she had so far had the kind of relationship with all her children that many mothers would envy. All three of them, probably particularly William, always seemed to have regarded her as much as a friend as their mother — amusing and entertaining to be with and certainly so much more fun than the mothers of any of their contemporaries. That’s what they told her anyway. And William, in particularly, always stressed the fun. All three eagerly sought out her company rather than avoiding it, she knew that, sometimes almost competing for her attentions.

She was also aware that when there was such a competition, however subtly mounted, it was always William who won. She felt guilty about that, but did not seem able to fight it somehow and just hoped that her daughters, whom she also adored, were not as starkly aware of it as she was.

It was just that they did not have William’s charisma. Nobody did. It was quite a package for a mother to have a son whose appearance was a mirror image of his father and whose personality was a mirror image of her own. She and William did not clash either as they might have done. They complemented each other perfectly. They thought the same way, liked the same people, laughed at the same jokes before they were even completed.

Only a couple of weeks before William had returned to college, they had danced together most of the night at the hop staged in the village hall in order to raise cash for a new roof. Unlike most young men nowadays, William could dance properly. Constance always thought of traditional ballroom dancing as dancing properly, although she knew that would seem old-fashioned to many, and indeed, she had had to learn herself when she wed Freddie and realised the kind of life she would be leading in a village community. There had not been much opportunity in her childhood for the foxtrot, she reflected wryly.

Freddie had not minded his wife and his son monopolising each other, she knew that. He was so proud of both her and of William and he always remarked on how well they danced together and how splendid they looked. They did too, Constance was well aware.

She had been, however, more distressed than she admitted to either her son or her husband when she spotted the look in Marcia Spry’s eye as the notoriously malicious old woman studied her having such a wonderful time with her only son.

God, that woman is disgusting, Constance had thought, but she said nothing aloud. She had been aware that her body had tensed involuntarily and William, holding her lightly in his arms, noticed at once.

‘What’s wrong, mother?’ he asked.

She had made a physical effort to shake off the tension. ‘Nothing, darling,’ she replied. ‘It’s just that there are some really quite monstrous people living in this village, that’s all.’

William had shrieked with laughter, causing even Freddie, standing on the edge of the dance floor talking to the vicar, to look mildly askance.

‘You mean it’s taken you all these years to realise that, mother,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were so innocent.’

And, outrageously, he had swung her across the dance floor towards the table Marcia Spry was sharing with the vicar’s wife — a sweet woman although without a brain in her head in Constance’s opinion — and called to the old gossip over Constance’s shoulder. ‘Don’t forget I must have a dance with you before the night is out, Miss Spry,’ he said, and Constance knew his features would be composed into the most charming of expressions.

She had heard Marcia Spry mutter something stiffly and could imagine how set her face would now be, flushed slightly probably, having been confronted so blatantly.

Constance had not dared turned around. Secretly revelling in her son’s behaviour, she had difficulty in preventing herself from laughing out loud. Only now did she wonder if William’s sparkling high spirits had been artificially induced — and perhaps even by something more potent than alcohol. She shuddered at the thought. Then she had had no such doubts.

‘You are appalling, William,’ she had whispered in his ear, in such a way that he was made well aware that his mother was actually quite delighted with him.

‘Maybe,’ he had responded. ‘But I’ll have a long way to go before I’m as appalling as that twisted old bat. I don’t know why you and dad ever have anything to do with her.’

But he did know, of course. William was steeped in village life, like all of them. Marcia came from a family established in the village for almost as long as the Langes. Whatever you thought of her, she was a force to be reckoned with in Chalmpton Peverill. And it was an absolute certainty that within minutes of William arriving home so early in the term the dreadful Marcia would be sure to know that he was back — and God knows what she would make of that.

Constance knew she shouldn’t care. And in her heart she didn’t. She also know that the main cause of Marcia Spry’s behaviour was envy, because her own life was such an empty one.

But Constance’s family and the part it played in the village were at the very core of her existence — she had somehow slipped on that mantle as naturally as Freddie had been born to it. And if you accepted that kind of place in village life, you also had to accept that appearances mattered. They mattered terribly. If you wanted the uncaring anonymity of city life, which provided in many ways so much more freedom, then you should go to live in London. Even Bristol was big enough to give you a slice of that.

Here in Chalmpton Peverill everyone knew everyone else’s business. The other slant to it was that if you needed help, in times of sickness or any kind of trouble, it was always there. You were never lonely in a village. Even those living without any near neighbours in cottages and on farms in the more remote parts of the parish, miles away from the village itself, experienced none of the isolation endured by so many living alone in a city tenement.

There was good and bad about village life and, perhaps because she had not been born to it, by and large Constance knew and had learned to live with both sides of that. She was quite realistic about it, and now dreaded not only having to cope with what looked like being a considerable family crisis but also having to deal with the reaction of a load of interfering busy-bodies. It was one of those times when, fleetingly, she was in fact finding it hard to remember the good things about village life.

Then she glimpsed movement out of the kitchen window. Dawn had arrived with yet more rain, but this had ceased at last, and she looked up and out into what was swiftly becoming a glorious morning, the sun rising spectacularly above the Quantock Hills in the distance. And in the foreground, silhouetted against an orange and crimson background, bustled Harley Phillips’ mother.

The woman’s plump face was an animated picture. She was excited, happy, couldn’t stop herself hurrying. Her anxiety about her son’s injury still showed, but the woman was bursting with good news. You could see it written all over her. Constance smiled easily through the window, slightly cheered already. She couldn’t help it. She liked Iris Phillips every bit as much as she liked Iris’s husband Norton. Iris was exactly the way village people were supposed to be, warm-hearted, kindly, the best of neighbours, a truly good sort. If only they were all like her, Constance thought wearily as she pulled open the kitchen door.

‘’E’s ’ome, ’e’s ’ome and ’e’s that grateful to you, Missus Lange.’

Iris’s voice was a sing-song. Her chestnut-brown hair, permed tightly, framed rosy cheeks. She wore a floral-patterned crossover overall which did not entirely conceal a contrasting floral-patterned dress beneath. No stockings. Lace-up shoes. No coat or jacket either. But if she was cold running around the village like that so early on a still chilly morning, she gave no sign of it. Constance always thought Iris looked just the way farmers’ wives do in children’s books.

‘’E wants to see ’ee. Says ’e was too dopey to thank ’ee properly when ’ee came to thigee hospital. I said you’d sure to be over. You will, won’t ’ee?’

There was just a tinge of uncertainty in the last questioning sentence.

‘Of course I will, Iris, of course. Tell him, later this morning. I do hope he gets well soon.’

‘Oh ’e’s on mend all right. Daft bugger. Talking ’bout going out shooting with ’is dad this very weekend — just for the walk, ’e says. I told ’im what for, don’t you worry.’

Iris stepped forward and thrust the basket she was carrying into Constance’s hands. It contained six perfect goose eggs nestling in tissue paper.

‘My Gert’s laying a treat,’ said Irish. ‘There’s nought like a goose egg, flavour all of its own I always says...’

She was beaming. A woman who accepted all that life threw at her and just got on with it. She had so much less than Constance and yet no aspirations for more, let alone any envy, would ever enter her head. There was such splendid simplicity in her.

Constance rather wished she could be more like Iris Phillips.

William arrived in his little Renault, a present from his father, naturally, soon after 5.00 p.m.

Constance, although she would never admit it, had been waiting by the upstairs window which gave the best view of the yard. As always now when she saw him after they had been apart she was struck all over again by his resemblance to his father. She watched him slam shut the door of his car and walk quite jauntily towards the house.

Instinctively she knew that he was going to play the whole thing down. Of course she knew. That was exactly what she would do in his situation. Exactly. But she could not let him get away with it, and she wasn’t going to. It was time for William Lange to grow up. The strength of her feelings for him increased her sense of having been let down, made her angrier than she might otherwise have been.

In addition to that, she was afraid. Constance Lange was a woman who had lived a bit. But she knew nothing about drugs except that they frightened the life out of her. Even the suggestion that her only son might be a drug user, and the hard stuff at that, was enough to send her into totally uncharacteristic panic.

Just before William reached the kitchen door Constance saw him pause and drop the cigarette he was smoking on to the ground, stamp on it and then kick the remains into the edge of the flower bed. He knew that she hated smoking and at the last moment had decided not to antagonise her by smoking in the house, she realised. Grudgingly she judged that to be a fairly good sign. At least it indicated that he might not mean to totally disregard his parents’ wishes. She could still feel a nervous flutter in her heart, though, and an unfamiliar sense of foreboding.

As soon as he was inside the kitchen William called out for her. But she let him wait a minute or two before going downstairs.

He beamed at her and, as he always did, strode towards her and took her in a big bear hug. She did not respond. He stepped back, eyebrows raised quizzically, a small smile playing on his lips. She knew only too well that he was quite convinced he could always get around his mother.

‘It’s not going to work, William, not this time.’ She spoke firmly and she was not smiling.

‘Oh, come on mother, it’s not as bad as all that, everything’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

The small smile stretched into that big cheek-splitting grin which she already knew had set the hearts of half the girls in the neighbourhood fluttering. He was laying on all the charm, with which, with some justification, he thought he could overcome anything and certainly his poor besotted mother.

Indeed she could feel a part of her melting, as always. But she was not going to have it. No way. Her fear would not allow him to succeed in soft-soaping her. Not this time.

‘William, it isn’t going to be all right. Nothing is going to be all right until you start behaving like a man and not a child.’

Her voice was hard and cold. She had made it so. She knew that he had never heard her speak to him quite like that. It was, in fact, a long time since Constance had spoken to anyone like that. The words were not so awful, but the message she had managed to put into them was designed to be quite chilling — especially so when you considered the tremendous warmth there normally was between her and her son.

William flinched and coloured slightly.

She made her voice just a little gentler. Before going any further she must make sure she knew the truth.

‘You’d better tell me all about it, William,’ she said. ‘And I mean all.’

‘Just a few drinks, mum, honestly.’ He spoke quite casually, still trying to make light of things.

‘That’s not what we’ve been told,’ she said bluntly.

He shrugged. Lowered his eyes. His body language said believe what you like. Constance felt herself growing angrier and struggled to maintain control.

‘I want to know if you have been taking cocaine, or even something stronger, William.’

William raised his eyes to meet hers. His face was a picture of wounded astonishment. ‘I’d never touch hard drugs, mum, honest.’ He managed to sound quite hurt.

‘Honest?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘I promise you, mum.’

She so wanted to believe him. She eyed him up and down, wishing she could read his mind, hoping fervently that he was telling the truth.

‘OK,’ she said eventually. ‘OK. Let’s say I accept it’s nothing other than alcohol. It’s still a fact that the college is investigating the drug thing. You’re in big trouble. I love you very much, William, but I’m not putting up with this kind of behaviour. I won’t have you letting this family down. And I certainly won’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself. Your father sees you as his future. I will not allow you to break his heart.’

William tried one more time to smooth things over. ‘Oh, come on mum, you’re over-reacting, just like they did at college...’

‘I am what?’ She raised her voice this time, trying to make herself as cold as she could ever be with this son she idolised. She needed to shock him, to frighten him a bit, she reckoned. After all she was frightened enough. He had to be made to realise that this marvellous life of his really could disappear unless he played his part too. The world might be full of sons of the privileged who idled and wasted their lives away, who allowed themselves to become zombies, but she was not going to let that happen to her boy. And if that meant being hard and tough — well, she could do that. She knew how to. She had, after all, seen the other side of life.

She caught hold of him by the shoulders.

‘William, you’re a highly privileged young man. Don’t you understand that privilege brings responsibility too? I’ve always known you could be self-willed, but I didn’t realise you could also be stupid. You’ve no idea what it is like to fight for anything and I don’t wish you ever to have to. But I do know what it is like to have nothing, no family, no joy, no future...’

She paused, but not for long enough to give him a chance to respond. It was because she loved him so much that she was so hurt, because she was afraid that she was so furious. There was contempt in her voice when she continued. ‘God, you are a fool!’

He flinched again. She did not grasp for a moment quite the effect her attack was having on him. She should have known. After all, she knew that he loved her every bit as much as she did him. And she knew she had rarely spoken harshly to him in his life, and certainly never slammed into him like this.

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve not had any problems since you married dad though, have you,’ he remarked. His voice had a nasty edge to it, a peevishness she had never noticed before. ‘That was a pretty good move for you really, wasn’t it?’

She didn’t hesitate. She had, after all, been only barely in control of her emotions ever since William had arrived home. And that was a state of mind so rare for her that she had little concept of how dangerous it can be.

She slapped him hard on the cheek. He raised one hand to his face and took a step forward. For one awful moment she thought he was going to hit her back. Then he stopped and looked at her, the shock all too apparent in him.

She realised too late how badly she was handling the whole thing. But before she had time to say anything he spoke again.

‘Well, I’ll just go to the pub and get drunk then, shall I? Might as well behave the way you expect me to. Might as well finish the job.’

He slammed the kitchen door behind him when he left.

Constance sat down at the table, poured a large scotch, cursed herself roundly and gave up the fight against the tears which had been threatening to overwhelm her for some minutes. It was not like her to mishandle things like that. Then again, although she was quite used to dealing with other people’s crises, she had perhaps grown accustomed to her own family not having any worth mentioning, she thought wryly.

Freddie turned up just minutes later. For once she did not welcome even his arrival.

‘Seen his car, where’s the prodigal son then?’ he called from the hall.

‘Gone out,’ replied Constance in a flat tone.

Her husband came into the kitchen and looked at her questioningly. Her face was tear-stained. A pile of damp paper tissues was on the table before her. It was obvious that she had been crying.

Constance sniffed and blew her nose, attempting to regain the control she so wished she had never lost.

‘I gave him a bollocking and then he said something really unpleasant and so I slapped his face and then he stomped off to the pub.’

‘Good God!’ said Freddie. ‘You’ve had a row with William. I never thought I’d live to see the day.’ His voice was light. He did not sound worried.

‘I’m afraid I’ve made a right mess of it,’ said Constance.

‘Well, it’s nice to know you’re human.’

‘What do you mean by that, for goodness sake?’

‘Constance, you’re jolly near perfect, don’t you realise? Mothers are allowed to lose their tempers with their sons, you know, especially when their sons have been behaving like prats. You’ll never love him any the less whatever he does in life, will you? And he feels the same about you. So what’s the great tragedy? I thought somebody had died.’

She managed a watery smile.

‘Freddie, sometimes you are just wonderful,’ she said.

‘It’s my turn,’ he replied affectionately. ‘And now I think it would be a good idea if I went to join my son for a pint, don’t you?’

William was in the back bar of the Dog and Duck when his father joined him. The boy’s face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed. Freddie wondered for a moment if he had been crying too. A pint of bitter stood on the table in front of William. He had hardly touched it.

‘Thought you had a drink problem,’ said Freddie, by way of a rather obscure greeting.

‘It’s not a problem, dad, honest.’ William sounded subdued, nonetheless.

Freddie smiled, leaned across the table and embraced his son. ‘Fine. Then let’s not make it one.’

‘I’m sorry, dad.’

Freddie leaned his head to one side, mildly surprised, and studied his only son carefully. Certainly William looked sorry. Those handsome features seemed quite morose. His shoulders were slumped and he sat almost hunched over the virtually untouched beer. Perhaps Constance had done more good than she realised. She’d given the little blighter a shock, that was for sure.

Freddie was ever an optimist. Unlike Constance, he could not bring himself even to mention drugs. The boy couldn’t be that daft, he told himself. He’s gone a bit off the rails. He’s had a shock, he’ll be fine now. He’ll not let anybody down.

‘I’m glad of that, son, pity you couldn’t have told your mother so, though,’ he said quietly.

William winced. ‘Did she tell you what I said to her?’

‘No. What did you say to her?’

‘If I told you, you’d kill me.’

‘Best not, then.’ Freddie looked him up and down again. ‘So let’s just try and straighten this mess out, shall we?’

Ultimately William stayed at home for little more than a week. Eventually he assured his father, as he had his mother, that he had not been taking drugs. Neither did he have a drink problem, he insisted, he just liked to party. He promised to control his partying and to work hard at college were he given the opportunity to do so again. And he apologised to Constance who accepted his apology warmly. But there remained a certain edge to relations between mother and son.

Some things that are said, particularly within families, can never be quite unsaid. Constance had been very deeply hurt. She couldn’t help wondering if her only son had always harboured the thoughts about her that he had expressed, the awful idea that she had been some kind of gold digger. She knew better really, but sometimes in temper people do say what they really mean.

Certainly she realised that it would take her a while to get over it and she was delighted in more ways than one when the family was told that William could return to college after all. In addition to continuing to want the very best for her son, she felt that a time apart would do them both good.

Ted Parish called with the good news. He also made it clear that the college principal was still suspicious about William’s possible involvement with drugs, but had accepted that nothing could be proved and agreed therefore to allow William to return — provided he pledged that there would be no further complaints about his behaviour.

William, by now apparently eager only to please, did so most earnestly. He also received a letter sternly informing him that the decision to allow him to continue with his studies had been made primarily in deference to the standing of his family and that should he fall by the wayside again he would not be given another chance.

Predictably there was plenty of talk in the village. Constance had quite rightly foreseen that the local scandal-mongers would somehow learn of each development in the saga of her son almost as quickly as did the Lange family.

‘I hope for ’is poor father’s sake that boy don’t turn out to be a black sheep,’ commented Marcia Spry to Mrs Walters in the village shop. Like a lot of dedicated gossips, Marcia had a penchant for speaking in clichés and using hackneyed expressions. ‘Of course, there’s always been a question mark ’anging over that mother of ’is. ’Er was never in Freddie Lange’s class. They was wed in no time, too. Marry in haste, regret at leisure, that’s what I always say...’

Mrs Walters had heard it all before from Marcia Spry and didn’t particularly wish to hear it again. There was always bound to be gossip about someone of Constance Lange’s standing in a rural area and Mrs Walters was not above enjoying a certain amount of idle tittle-tattle — you could hardly run a village shop and not indulge in a little gossip now and again. But that Marcia Spry always went too far, Mrs Walters thought, and she really was a rather unpleasant old busy-body.

Mrs Walters didn’t say any of that, of course. After all, she had a business to run and Marcia Spry was a customer who visited her shop far more frequently, and therefore spent considerably more money, than anybody would have thought necessary for an elderly spinster living alone. But Mrs Walters understood perfectly well that buying her groceries was only the secondary reason for Marcia’s frequent shopping expeditions. First and foremost Marcia Spry always wanted a good natter. And if Mrs Walters wished to make a living she had to accept that she had another function in Chalmpton Peverill in addition to selling stamps, newspapers, sugar, soap and bread, and generally considered equally important. The village shopkeeper and post-mistress was also widely regarded as both an audience and a sorting house for all the latest and juiciest gossip.

A meeting of the committee set up to arrange the village’s annual Christmas festival, which Constance was chairing and upon which both Freddie and Marcia Spry served, was held a fortnight after William Lange returned to college. The Langes had publicly made light of the whole incident and, on the surface at least, life seemed to be pretty much back to normal.

Miraculously perhaps — based on his initial response to the trouble he had got himself into, Constance had to admit to herself — William seemed to be settling down. Ted Parish had reported privately to Freddie that his son’s work already showed signs of improvement and certainly there had so far been no more unexplained absences nor bouts of public drunkenness. William appeared to be behaving responsibly again — much more like a Lange, Ted had told Freddie.

The meeting went as well as these things ever can, taking into account the various rival factions competing to gain maximum credit while at the same time putting in minimum work. The only unexpected moment came when the proceedings were virtually over and the discussions had more or less become small talk.

Without warning, a neighbouring farmer jokingly referred to having recently spotted Constance somewhere she should not, indeed, unless she hadn’t been telling her family the truth about her various movements, could not, have been. Her husband glanced at her inquiringly.

Constance studied the neighbour with interest. She assumed that the man thought he was making some kind of joke. Certainly he had spoken without any appearance of deliberate malice — but in village life you could never be sure of these things. Nonetheless Constance decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘I think you must have made a mistake, Joe,’ she said casually and with an easy smile.

‘Oh no I ’aven’t, Missus,’ insisted the man. ‘Come on then, tell us what you was up to?’ And he proceeded to tease her mercilessly.

Finally Constance flashed him her most challenging look. ‘Actually, I was visiting my toyboy lover,’ she remarked, grinning broadly, and causing an outbreak of laughter around the table. After all, Constance was known for her wickedly dry sense of humour.

‘God, not him again,’ said Freddie, quite untroubled.

And Constance knew that she had passed the whole thing off beautifully, but she did sometimes wish that she did not have to put up with quite so much small-minded silliness.

Marcia Spry, however, was captivated. It didn’t take much to get Marcia going and this was the kind of exchange upon which she thrived. In her capable hands even a smattering of intrigue could be almost instantly transformed into a full-blown mystery.

The next day Marcia found herself actually standing on the doorstep of Airs Walter’s shop when the other woman opened up at 8.00 am. She hadn’t been able to wait to pass on her latest bit of news.

‘You mark my words,’ she remarked sagely, after treating Mrs Walters to a full account of the events of the previous night, ‘there be things about thigee Constance Lange that just don’t add up.’

Several days later, on a cool but bright autumn afternoon, the weather having apparently settled at last, Charlie was driving through Clifton on his way to see Mrs Pattinson. That always put him in a good mood. He had with him a young partner, a rangy fair-haired young man called Sandy, rather less experienced in the work than was Charlie.

Charlie had met Sandy in the Brasserie as arranged and was giving him a lift in his BMW. Charlie liked showing off his car. The sunshine glinted on the bonnet and reflected against the windscreen. Charlie was wearing his new pale grey Armani jacket and had his Ray Ban shades on. He felt cool. Beethoven blared from the CD player. Charlie hummed along with the music.

Sandy did not seem to be very interested in music, and if he was surprised by Charlie’s choice he gave no sign. Neither did he seem impressed by the car, which was a shame. Perhaps he was just too busy thinking about the job ahead.

It was the first time that Charlie had teamed up with Sandy — and Sandy told him that he had only done three jobs so far for Avon Escorts. He liked the work, though, he said with a broad grin. Certainly Sandy seemed sure enough of himself, relaxed, excited even. And he reacted with gleeful enthusiasm when Charlie explained to him the details of Mrs Pattinson’s latest sex game.

‘A lot of them like games,’ remarked Charlie knowingly, as he explained to his partner exactly what would happen to him and what he would be required to do.

‘Wow!’ said Sandy eventually.

‘Think you can manage it?’

‘I’m horny already...’