‘At least, I used to hear them. Not any more. That’s what Harriet Throsby took away with that book of hers. She made them into the bad boys they never were and I’ll never forgive her for that. It was a wicked thing to do.’
He showed us to the door. The taxi was still waiting for us and we set off back down the driveway. As we turned the corner, I looked back and saw John Lamprey still standing there, the great sprawl of the house lifeless and empty behind him.
19
Long Shadows
Once we’d arrived at the centre of Moxham Heath, Hawthorne asked the driver to stop and we got out and continued on foot. Neither of us spoke. Maybe Hawthorne was trying to absorb the atmosphere of the village, imagining what it must have been like for the Longhursts as they adapted, unsuccessfully, to their new home. Or perhaps his mind was dwelling on what John Lamprey had told us. Mine certainly was.
For somewhere that had been the cause of so much sadness, Moxham was strikingly beautiful, the sort of place that turns up in jigsaw puzzles or Harry Potter films. In the summer it might be crowded with visitors, but on this bright April day – not quite the weekend yet – it seemed completely authentic; less a tourist attraction, more somewhere to live. We had been dropped off at the bridge, which formed the centre point of the community, its two stone arches spanning a stream doing its best to pretend it was a river. The houses and shops on either side were constructed out of Bath stone, with that warm glow no other building material has ever replicated, and one by one my eye picked out the little details: the ivy, the mullioned windows, the chimneys, the stone urns with their spring flowers bursting through, the original lamp posts, the war monument and the stone trough for horses. I could imagine the Longhursts arriving here for the first time and seeing the gurgling water, the church spire in the distance. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that they had decided to stay. It was hard to believe that Chippenham, with its ring roads and business parks, and the six-lane M4 motorway to London were just a few miles away.
There were only three shops. We passed a newsagent’s and a butcher’s-cum-grocery-store before we came to the Ginger Box, still open, selling sweets and souvenirs. This had been the target of Stephen and Wayne on their shoplifting spree and it reminded me that as much as I had fallen for the charms of Moxham Heath, it must have been insufferably dull to a rich boy who had grown up in London. There were a few people in the streets, none of them under sixty. A vicar walked past on the other side of the street and smiled at us. A vicar! Had I accidentally wandered into an episode of Midsomer Murders?
But as we climbed the hill towards the church, the twenty-first century began to impose itself. Suddenly there were yellow lines and – paradoxically – more parked cars. A modern house and a bungalow stuck out like teeth added by a blindly inept dentist. I was glad to see that the village had its own library, but it was a 1960s monstrosity. We came to the church – St Swithin’s – and seeing the name, I wondered if we were going to visit the grave where Major Alden was buried. I should have known better. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who was less of a sentimentalist than Hawthorne and he didn’t even glance that way.
His destination was on the other side of the road: another old building, this one Victorian red brick, just one storey, with an ill-fitting glass extension on one side. A sign told us that this was Moxham Heath Primary School. The classroom windows would have a view of the graves; a vivid illustration of the transience of life, though one probably lost on the children. There were a few parents milling around on the pavement and, looking at my watch, I saw that it was five to three. Presumably the school day finished on the hour. We had timed it well. We lingered until we heard the class bells ring. The doors opened and the children streamed out, the girls in blue-and-white checked dresses, the boys in shorts and blue polo shirts. I watched them rush into their parents’ arms, delivering the usual bundles of exercise books, curling watercolours and disparate objects made from cardboard. Suddenly the building was empty. We went in.
The school didn’t have a lot of space for the forty or fifty children who went there, but there was still a generous reception area with a glass-partitioned office on one side, a visitors’ book and security passes. Swing doors would have to be buzzed open to allow us access into the school itself. The arrangement reminded me of the stage-door entrance of the Vaudeville. Here, Keith’s role was taken by a businesslike young woman in a blue suit. Hawthorne told her who we were and asked if we could speak to the head teacher. The receptionist looked doubtful but rang through anyway.