Bobby McGee

Chapter Forty-seven. Mrs. Merson.

Chapter Forty-seven.

Mrs. Merson

The mizzle had stopped mid-morning, leaving the countryside glistening, and the Merson farmyard awash with liquid manure. In deference to his newly polished boots, McGee avoided the farmyard. He dismounted outside the wrought iron gate, and took the crushed stone path to the front door of the farmhouse. The lace curtains, that framed a large aspidistra, fluttered as he approached. The door opened before he had a chance to knock.

Mrs Merson, a very tall lady, with silver hair worn in a tight bun, piercing grey eyes, and a wrinkle free countenance, greeted him. McGee was befuddled by the contradictory hair and youthful complexion. He had expected a woman in her mid-forties. It was hard to tell. She was wearing a flour- covered pinafore over a tweed skirt and high-necked blouse. The arms, crossed below her ample bosom, implied impatience.

"So what's he been up to this time?"

"Who?"

"Oh never mind. What can I do for you, McGee?"

"I was wondering if you could help me with some enquiries. Do you mind if I come in?"

Mrs. Merson instinctively looked down at his footwear. Apparently satisfied, she ushered him inside. McGee, on her insistence, removed his helmet and cape and hung them on pegs behind the door.

"This way, McGee." Mrs. Merson held out her right hand guiding him in to the front parlour. "Wait there a minute. I'll go and get you a chair." It was obvious that he was not intended to sit in any of the chairs already in the room. They were draped in dust covers. She returned quickly with a well-used wooden chair, and motioned for McGee to sit down. She took up position on a stool in front of an upright piano, crossed her ankles, and held her hands in her lap. "So?"

McGee wondered where to begin. "Do you play the piano?" seemed an innocuous way to start.

"Yes, quite a lot actually. I give music lessons to local kids. That explains the precautions I take with the furniture."

McGee had noticed that the legs of a highly polished walnut table were protected with black stockings.""Do you get much business?"

"Just on Saturdays. Is one of my pupils in trouble?"

"No. In fact we are curious as to the whereabouts of your husband."

"You too?"

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't seen him in more than a year. He up and scarpered, let me think..." Mrs.Merson paused as she tried to recall. "Must have been last August."

"Why didn't you report him missing?"

Mrs. Merson guffawed. "He's not missing. He's off with another of his fancy women. He'll turn up again when the novelty fades."

"But a year?"

"Yes. I must admit it's a bit longer than usual, but Tom, me and the hired hands are managing quite well without him."

"Who's Tom?"

"Tom Garrett, our farm manager, he really runs the show."

What about your husband? What did he do?"

Mrs. Merson gave a cynical laugh, not noticing McGee's use of the past tense. "Look McGee, let me put you straight about Jack Merson. He thinks of himself as a gentleman farmer, tooting around in that green Jag of his, but let me tell you, he's no farmer, and definitely no gentleman."