A Disturbing Influence Read Free

had a wife and three children. Very often he would go home at weekends. There are many such men, I believe, moving from one big labouring job to another, earning excellent money, usually far from home, and boarding out near their work. Others live in caravans. There was a small caravan village established on the other side of Chapman’s Wood, in fact, while the by-pass was being built, and when the job was finished a few caravans stayed there, the men, having found work locally, deciding they liked the neighbourhood. We have been making efforts recently to get this hamlet of caravans—it is very small now—removed or destroyed as insanitary, but so far we have been unsuccessful.
    William Johnson, however, preferred the small comforts of Mrs Badham’s semi-detached villa to the more adventurous life of the caravans, and he moved in about the end of February. Johnson was a big man, broad-shouldered, with large hands and an appearance of great physical strength. He would have made a splendid partner for his landlady. But he seemed very quiet and respectful, in fact a thoroughly decent working man. He was, I was told, a foreman. But within a month I began to hear rumours.
    It is traditional, I suppose, that a lodger should make advances to his landlady’s daughter, and even if he doesn’t that he should be suspected of doing so. Thus, when Miss Spurgeon came up to me after Matins a Sunday or two before Easter and asked for a private word, only to tell me that she had reason to believe that Lindy and Johnson were misbehaving together, I felt inclined to be short with her. Miss Spurgeon was inclined to exaggerate the faults of others and to minimize her own.
    ‘Come now,’ I said, ‘we mustn’t gossip, Miss Spurgeon.’
    ‘I am not gossiping, Mr Henderson,’ she said. ‘You know me well enough, I hope, to know that I detest gossip.’
    ‘But you haven’t given me a shred of evidence.’
    ‘Sometimes one can sense things, Mr Henderson. And I tell you that I sense that something is going on between Lindy Badham and that Mr Johnson.’
    Miss Spurgeon’s senses frequently told her that Something Was Unquestionably Going On.
    ‘I don’t think you should go round spreading a rumour like that, Miss Spurgeon, unless you can prove it. And I think you might try to be a little more charitable towards your neighbour.’
    ‘I am only telling you what I suspect,’ she said. Her features were set, unforgiving, and confident of rightness, if not righteousness. Miss Spurgeon is an old lady, and argument is wasted upon her.
    ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But I’m afraid I must ignore what your senses tell you, Miss Spurgeon. It is my duty to guard the morals of my parishioners, you know, not to encourage tittle-tattle.’
    ‘You are the best judge of that,’ said Miss Spurgeon. ‘But I know what I’m saying, Mr Henderson, and if you really wish to guard the morals of the parish you will listen when you are warned of goings on.’ She walked away with great dignity, leaning on an elegant black stick. All conversations with Miss Spurgeon tended to end like that. Both of us thought we had authority: I as vicar, she by virtue of her age. We sharpened each other, I think. But as a gossip she lacked consistent accuracy, being correct only about once in ten times, and even when I thought she might be on to something I made a point of telling her that I would ignore whatever it was she had newly ‘sensed’.
    And this time I did ignore her. I glanced once or twice at Lindy during Evensong, and she seemed as demure as ever, sitting placidly in her choir-stall with her normal expression of contented blankness. With her scar and her ugliness and her glasses it was difficult to know what she might or might not be thinking, but I felt sure that she was not lusting in her heart after Mr Johnson while she listened to my brief sermon on the Wise and the Unwise Virgins.
    Some days later my wife, who was now a little better and camedown after