A Disturbing Influence Read Free Page B

Dale’s Diary, but I seem to have lost all touch with Cartersfield.’
    ‘I’m a little out of touch with it myself.’
    ‘Mrs Badham,’ said Isobel, and laughed. ‘What a splendid woman she is. She could scrub kitchens all day and still be ready for a little weight-lifting.’
    This was hardly fair. Mrs Badham was big and strong, certainly, but hardly a giantess. I said as much.
    ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it literally,’ said Isobel. ‘I just meant that she gives the impression of being huge. Morally huge. Can you imagine anyone tweaking her bottom?’
    Indeed I could not. Mrs Badham was the sort of woman whose bottom by its very majesty forbade any levity of that kind. Thinking of that, and of what Miss Spurgeon had hinted, I felt sure that Lindy would never dare to misbehave beneath her mother’s roof. I told Isobel about the gossip, and she agreed with me.
    ‘It’s unthinkable,’ she said. ‘What is the man like?’
    ‘I’ve only seen him a couple of times. He doesn’t come to church. He’s quite good-looking, in a burly sort of way, but too old for a girl of Lindy’s age to be interested in him. Besides, he has a wife and family, I’m told.’
    ‘Who told you that?’
    At first I couldn’t remember. Then it occurred to me that it was Lindy herself. After my talk with Miss Spurgeon I had mentioned casually to Lindy that I’d heard the Badhams had a lodger, and she had given me the information quite without hesitation. It was yet another reason to refuse to credit the gossip.
    I forgot about the whole thing for several weeks, being extremely busy with Easter and the Burmese flood relief. The Christian festival seemed to unleash a great deal of Christiancharity, in a satisfactory way, and contributions suddenly began to pour in. It was not, in fact, till the middle of April that I thought about Lindy Badham again, though I saw her often enough at the vicarage and in church, and had chided her about being tardy. When I did so she hung her head and said she was sorry, and that it wouldn’t happen again. According to Isobel, it hadn’t.
    One morning, as I was on my way to the station, I saw Mrs Badham bicycling down the road. Like an elephant in a circus, I thought to myself, so comic did a woman of her bulk look on a bicycle. She wore a black hat over her greying hair, and a shortish skirt, her bare legs pedalling in stately fashion. She waved as she passed me, but did not stop.
    While waiting for the train I chatted with Bob Ransome, a porter. He leaned against a pillar, drinking tea from a large tin mug, looking, from time to time, at the signals.
    ‘How is your father?’ I asked.
    ‘He’s pretty well, thank you,’ he said.
    ‘I think he’s a marvel at his age.’
    ‘He does pretty well,’ said Ransome. ‘There’s many younger with not half the strength.’
    ‘I wish I was younger,’ I said. ‘I’m getting to the age when a bad winter is a real hardship.’
    ‘It’s been bad,’ he said. Then he turned to someone standing a few yards up the platform and said: ‘’Morning, Bill.’
    It was William Johnson. ‘’Morning,’ he replied. He was burly, as I have suggested, and had grey eyes and straight black hair, with just a brush of silver in it. If he had dressed himself up he might easily have passed as a business man. But he was wearing overalls.
    ‘Mr Johnson,’ I said, going up to him, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met properly. My name’s Henderson. I’m the vicar here.’
    ‘How d’you do?’ he said, giving my hand a gentle shake. Somehow this surprised me. I was expecting one of those bone-crushing grips which labouring men seem to enjoy imposing on those in sedentary occupations.
    ‘I believe you’re staying with Mrs Badham.’
    ‘I am that,’ he said. He had a distinctly northern accent.
    ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Cartersfield.’
    ‘It’s a nice little place, sir.’
    ‘Good, good.’ I couldn’t think of anything further to say.
    We stood