19. The Misogynist’s Wedding Plans

REMEMBERING REBECCA - Part 19

Rosie made her way into the elderly man’s house as he stepped back and grudgingly let her in. She followed him into his living room, which showed every sign of hardly having been lived in. It was neat and tidy with his few possessions in their place. In one corner was the smallest adult desk she had ever seen, with barely enough space on it for the blotting pad, itself an interloper from the past. He had a small and ancient television set that looked as if it might struggle to interpret digital signals, a radio that reeked of the 1950s, one sagging armchair that had seen better days, and not much else.

“You don’t believe in luxury then, sir?” she asked.

“I have everything that I need. The television no longer functions, but I’ve kept it for decorative reasons. After all, I don’t want the place to look spartan and uninviting should I have any visitors, such as yourselves.”

“You have other police officers on your list of guests then, do you, sir?” Sheila couldn’t help asking.

His response was a single grunt as if the question was so far beneath him that there was no need to answer it. Sheila looked sideways at Rosie, who shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“I would offer you cups of tea, but I’m out of both tea and milk,” said Samuel Styles, attempting a crisp military voice and almost carrying it off despite his age.

“That’s all right sir,” replied Rosie, “now tell me, the boy you said was asking for it … what boy might that be?

“You know the answer, so why ask the question?” Mr Styles’ voice was becoming increasingly assertive, as if he felt himself to be on firmer ground.

“Just answer the question, sir,” said Rosie.

“Women in the police force!” he growled in response, “all power and questions and think they can get away with it because they’ve got long legs! The country’s gone to the dogs!”

“We’re very sorry about our gender, sir, but it can’t be helped,” replied Rosie, “the thing is the question I asked: what boy was asking for it, as you put it, and when?”

“Gyles Patterson,” growled Mr Styles, “cocky little devil if ever there was one.”

“Gyles who?” asked Sheila, momentarily confused.

“Patterson. That was his name, a decade ago when I was taking the top class for cricket. The only sport I could teach, what with having a wooden leg. No running for the teacher, you see. But I could bowl a slow spinner standing still. I was quite a cricketer in the forces.”

“So you were playing cricket… but you said the boy asked for it. What did he ask for, sir?” asked Sheila.

“Little devil thought he was being clever, asking me to bowl at him. Thought he was being cheeky and would earn brownie points with the other boys if I declined, or fell over because of my blasted leg. But I showed him all right. One ball, and I put a bit of spin into it, made it leap up and bash! Hit him on the chest. Only a slow spinner but cracked a couple of ribs. Had him in hospital, cheeky little squirt. Parents thought they could sue. Silly devils: their kid asked for it, all the other kids heard him. Nothing came of it back then and now here you are, ten years later, bringing it all back up.”

“Well, we’re not, sir,” said Rosie, realising they’d been talking at cross purposes, “our questions go back a lot longer that that. What can you tell me about Rebecca Rowbotham?”

“Rebecca who? A squaw, eh? They don’t play cricket, do they?”

“Sixty years ago, sir…?”

He frowned then slapped his forehead with one hand, which almost sent him staggering into his defunct television set.

“That lass? Yes, Rebecca, nice kid as girls go, decent, honest, probably lovely if you think like that, I was in the bog when it happened, having a tinkle. Door to the lad’s bog was right next door to the bins, where the poor little lass was butchered, and when I came out, buttoning my flies up, it was buttons back then, not zips, there she was with that lousy Roper boy reckoning he was saving her, lousy little squirt that he was, couldn’t save a fly, that little sod…”

“So you remember it, sir?”

“That I do, and if I’d had my tinkle two minutes sooner I’d have seen who did it and sorted him! That I would, no messing!”

“You saw the boy trying to save him?”

“Stupid squirt! With that damned penknife in his hands … always carried that, he did, tiny little pencil sharpening penknife…”

“You’ve got a good memory, sir,” acknowledged Rosie.

“Sharp, that’s what it is, good military training…”

“And you’re planning to get married soon?” asked Sheila.

He grinned at her. “Had a nurse once, but she upped and went. Need a woman about the place, nice meek little woman who can heat my tiffin and wash my smalls… not so good at that myself these days, sad to say. Damned leg’s been gone decades, but its toes still hurt, damn them.”

“So you’re marrying Miss Kristen?” asked Rosie.

“For a her bloody sins, I am. As I said, I need a woman about the house. I’ve even got a bedroom for her, can’t have her in my bed, silly squaw might want what’s never on offer, not since I lost my leg…”

“She might be able to scratch your toes for you, if they hurt like you said…” murmured Sheila.

“Hey? What? Not on your nelly, lass, not on your nelly, she’s not touching my toes, not even the ones that aren’t there! She knows what she’s for, washing my smalls and cooking my tiffin, and that’s the lot!”

“No lovey-dovey?” asked Sheila, “you know, sir, on cold winter nights when your blood runs hot?”

“No such thing, damn you, making me think things I never ought to at my age! Now is that all?”

Rosie sighed. “Much as I’d like to spend the day talking to you, sir, we’ve got to go. By the way, do you own a gun?”

“Damn well do, but I can’t get at it any more. Up the stairs when I could climb the stairs, damned things, another reason to want wedded hell. Not been dusted for ages upstairs, in quite a state, the Kristen woman says, though the devil of it is she’s got a walking stick and can hardly manage the climb either…”

“That’s most interesting,” murmured Rosie, “well, sir, we’ll be off, but a uniformed man might pop by to make sure that gun of yours is okay. Dangerous things, guns, don’t want them firing all on their own, do we?”

Then, with no more ado, she and the detective constable made their way out of the house and through the front door (which wa still open) and out to the car.

“Now that’s a misogynist if ever I saw one,” muttered Sheila.

“A piece of history in flesh and bones,” agreed Rosie.

© Peter Rogerson 23.01.21