notes, went down to the bar for a drink before lunch.
I read:
Mr Thomas Pembroke (39) lives with his wife Berenice at 6 Arden Haciendas, Sonning, Nr. Reading, in the strip of new townhouses where old Arden House used to be. Two daughters (9 and 7) go to comprehensive school.
Mr T. used to work as quantity surveyor for Reading firm of biscuit makers, Shutleworth Digby Ltd. He got sacked for wrong estimates several weeks ago. I was told unofficially at the firm that he’d cost them thousands by ordering six times the glace cherries needed for a run of‘dotted pinks’. (Had to laugh!) No laughing matter when tons of sliced almonds turned up after‘nut fluffs’ had been discontinued. Mr T. didn’t contest sacking, just left. Firm very relieved. Mr T. had been getting more and more useless, but had long service.
Mr T. didn’t tell his wife he’d lost his job, but went off as if to work every day. (Common reaction.) On Newmarket Sales Tuesday he was‘walking about’, same as the previous Friday. Pressed, he says he probably went to the public library in Reading, he did that most days; also sat around wherever there were seats, doing nothing. He read the job-offer pages in newspapers, but apparently did little to find work. No heart. (My opinion.)
Mr T. on brink of nervous breakdown (my opinion). I interviewed him in coffee shop. His hands trembled half the time, rattling cup against teeth, and he’s not yet forty. Alcohol? Don’t think so. Nerves shot to hell.
Mr T. drives old grey Austin 1100. Has slight dent in front wing. Mr T. says it’s been there weeks. Car dirty, could do with wash. Mr T. says he has no energy for things like that.
Mr T’s opinion of Mr Ian is very muddled (like the rest of him). Mr Ian is‘best of bunch, really’, but also Mr T. says Mr Ian is Mr Pembroke’s favourite and it isn’t fair. (!)
End of enquiry.
With a sigh, I put Thomas to the back and read about Berenice; no happy tale.
Mrs Berenice Pembroke (44 according to Mrs Joyce), wife of Mr Thomas, lives at 6 Arden Haciendas. No job. Looks after daughters, spends her days doing housework and reading trashy romances (according to Mrs Joyce again!).
Mrs B. very hard to interview. First visit, nothing. Second visit, a little, not much. She couldn’t produce alibi for either day.
I asked about children and school journeys. Mrs B. doesn’t drive them, they go by bus. They walk alone along pavement in residential side-road to and from bus stop, which is about one-third of mile away, on the main thoroughfare. Mrs B’s mother lives actually on the bus route. The girls get off the bus there most afternoons and go to their grandmother’s for tea.
Interviewed Mrs B’s mother. Not helpful. Agreed girls go there most days. Sometimes (if cold, wet or dark) she drives them home at about 7 pm. Other days, they finish journey by bus. I asked why they go there for tea so often and stay so late. Told to mind my own business. Younger girl said Granny makes better teas, Mummy gets cross. Told to shut up by older girl. Mrs B’s mother showed me out.
Mrs B. drives old white Morris Maxi, clean, no marks on it.
Mrs B. gave no opinion of Mr Ian when asked, but looked as if she could spit. Says Mr Pembroke is wicked. Mrs B. slammed her front door (she hadn’t asked me in!).
End of enquiry.
I put Berenice, too, back in the packet, and cheered myself up just a fraction with a slice of pork pie and a game of darts.
From the outside, Arden Haciendas were dreadful: tiny houses of dark brown-red brick set at odd angles to each other, with dark-framed windows at odd heights and dark front doors leading from walled front gardens one could cross in one stride. Nevertheless, Arden Haciendas, as Joyce had informed me a year earlier when Thomas had moved there, were socially the in thing, as they had won a prize for the architect.
God help architecture, I thought, ringing the bell of No 6.
hadn’t been to this house before: had associated Thomas and Berenice always with the rather ordinary bungalow they’d bought at the time of their wedding.
Berenice opened the door and tried to close it again when she sawme, but I pushed from my side and put my shoe over the threshold, and finally, with ill grace, she stepped back.