Miss Yaxley, but had all her marbles.
‘No,’ said Rose reassuringly. ‘I don’t think she’s had a stroke or anything. She’s just had a bad shock with vandals. Can she come and stay with you for a bit?’
Miss Yaxley, a little recovered in spirit, raised her legs and waggled her toes in their carpet slippers, to reassure herself she hadn’t had a stroke.
Then Rose looked up and rang a taxi firm. In Sheringham. She was getting over her own shock now. Warmth and power seemed to flow into her, from the phone and the voices of the ordinary civilised world outside Wallney.
The taxi firm said someone would be with them in an hour. The man called her ‘madam’ respectfully. Rose gave Miss Yaxley her arm, and helped her upstairs to pack. Looked out of the broken windows at the garden to avoid seeing the old mottled hands packing the faded grey underwear, and never stopping shaking.
Bastards, thought Rose. They might have killed her. They are going to pay for this, no matter what Miss Yaxley says.
She got Miss Yaxley settled back in her chair, with another cup of tea, and her suitcase at her feet. The old lady’s colour was better now; the awful greyness was fading. She was beginning to look forward to staying with her sister.
‘You need the glazier,’ said Rose masterfully. ‘Get those windows done before it rains. Shall I get you one?’
‘Yes please!’ The old lady looked pathetically grateful.
The glazier was helpful; he would come this afternoon straight away, when Rose explained about ‘the vandals.’ But then he, too, was a Sheringham man.
Then Rose asked if she could do some phoning on her own account, and began ringing up hotels asking for accommodations for three people that evening. She had no wish to spend another night in this damned village . . .
But it was Friday; in the height of the holiday season in a big holiday area. Hotel after hotel had nothing. She began to think less bitterly about Philip and the super-efficient Ms. Sampson. It was only after a long search that she got a mere two-star place in Hunstanton that could take them at lunchtime on Saturday. That was it; it was either one more night in that damned village, or go home to Philip with her tail between her legs.
And she would not run home to Philip. Well, one more night would not kill them . . . she confirmed the booking at Hunstanton. She heard Miss Yaxley say sharply, ‘No.’ But by that time she’d made the booking and rung off.
Miss Yaxley kept on saying no. She must not spend another night in the village. But then the taxi came, and Miss Yaxley was handed into it carefully, tucked up and sent off, Rose reassuring her that she would stay till the glazier came.
The house was very silent, after that. The whole village seemed silent, dreaming under the afternoon sun. Not even a dog was stirring. It was hardly a picture postcard village, even in the sunshine, with its massive poles for phones and power-cables, and the vast blue silos of the farms. But it seemed peaceful enough. Quite a lot of people seemed to be coming and going at the post office, but Friday tended to be shopping day.
But the more peaceful it seemed, the more Rose wanted revenge on it. The telephone lay by her hand, and, in it, power. The power of all the outside world, that could come sweeping in at the touch of a dial, and drown Wallney. The world of decent society and standards, of civilised living, of the police and the RSPCA.
And Philip.
She would phone Philip. She looked up the dialling code, and dialled the old familiar number.
And got the old familiar voice of Ms. Sampson. Who enquired politely how the holiday was going, and hoped Rose and the children were enjoying themselves . . .
Rose asked curtly for Philip.
Philip was unfortunately in a meeting. Would she like to leave a message? Was there a number he could ring her back on?
Rose’s rage must have crept into her voice. Ms. Sampson asked if there was a problem.
Rose said damn right there was a problem; she should try asking the minister of Cley if there wasn’t a problem, and rang off abruptly.
And then thought it would be a good thing to ring the minister of Cley herself.
And got Mrs. minister. The minister was in a meeting. Would she like to leave a message? Was there a