Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “May I see you again?” Ernest asked towards the end of the evening, after several more dances.

  Annie thought for a moment. She was not attracted to Ernest, and wasn’t even sure that she liked him all that much. His air of studied respectability and his lack of humour made him heavy going, and if she was honest, she found him rather boring. On the other hand, he had nice eyes, and a boyfriend was a boyfriend. Annie had never had one, and Ernest was certainly better than no boyfriend at all.

  “Yes. All right. Thank you.”

  They arranged to meet the following week. Ernest had access to a friend’s car, and more importantly, petrol. He would pick her up.

  “A boyfriend and a car!” Mavis was much impressed. For her part, she had managed to pick up a soldier, but he had no transport and his leave was nearly over, so their chances of meeting again were slim. “You are lucky!”

  But as the weeks went by, Annie began to wish she hadn’t met Ernest at all. Their weekly outings (for a walk or perhaps a drink) were unimaginative, and their conversations (mainly centring round Ernest’s job and Ernest’s life so far) unbelievably dull. She disliked his kisses, which were wet and loose, and tickly on account of the moustache, and was becoming nervous at what was obviously his increasing attachment to herself. On the other hand, as Mavis pointed out, respectable young men were thin on the ground with a war on. Annie should count herself lucky and stop complaining.

  But in the end, events were to take a turn which would remove any decision from Annie’s hands and change the direction of her life in a way she could never have imagined.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Andrew

  “Where’ve you been?” Janet sounded exasperated. “I’ve been trying your mobile, but then found it on the hall table. What’s the point in having it if you don’t carry it with you?”

  “It’s my day off.” Andrew took off his coat and went to put the kettle on. “It’s nice to be out of touch occasionally. Besides, this was an emergency. I didn’t even think to take it with me.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  “Annie Bentley.” Andrew put a teabag in a mug and fetched milk from the fridge. “She was in — a bit of trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “It’s a long story. She got a bit tiddly, and left her husband’s ashes on the bus.”

  “She what?”

  “She seems to have taken to drinking, and I suppose it makes her do silly things. The police phoned me to collect her. She hasn’t anyone else.”

  Janet, who rarely did silly things, had little patience with those who did.

  “She ought to be — put somewhere. Someone in her condition needs proper care.”

  “No. She doesn’t,” Andrew said. “She just needs time and a bit of understanding. She’s quite capable of looking after herself most of the time. She just has these lapses.”

  “Well, it seems to me that these lapses, as you call them, are becoming a nuisance. And besides, why are you getting yourself involved? She isn’t even a churchgoer.”

  “I am getting involved,” said Andrew carefully, “because I care about her. It’s my day off. On my day off I can do what I like. I work for my parishioners six days a week. If I choose to spend part of the seventh day with Annie Bentley, what is it to anyone else?”

  “If you’ve got time to spare on your day off, then you could be doing something about that leak in the porch,” said Janet, banging pans about on the cooker (always a bad sign). “Not running round at the beck and call of some old woman who’s losing her wits.”

  “Annie is not, as you put it, some old woman.” Andrew raised his voice. “She is someone I’ve grown fond of, and who I think I can help. You know nothing about her. You haven’t even met her, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Are you a shouting at me?” Janet’s voice was icy.

  “Yes. I rather think that I am.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing Josephine’s not here to hear you, that’s all I can say!” (Josephine was the secretary who sometimes helped Andrew out with his paperwork. She was elderly and very deaf, and her services were entirely voluntary).

  “As I think I’ve already said, it’s my day off. Josephine rarely comes on my day off. What would be the point? Besides,” Andrew added, with the dangerous sensation that he was about to overstep a mark which he had been hovering near to for some time, “I don’t bloody care what Josephine thinks, or come to that, what anyone else thinks. Okay?”

  “How dare you swear at me!”

  “Quite easily, actually. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t done it before. I shall be in my study if anyone wants me.”

  Our first row, Andrew thought to himself a few minutes later, safely closeted in his study with his mug of tea and the newspaper. Well, perhaps not a real row, but it had had the potential to become one. He had often been tempted to shout at Janet, but had been aware that he would gain little satisfaction from something which was almost inevitably going to be one-sided. Janet’s cold contempt had shown this to be indeed the fact. She wasn’t interested in why he was angry; she wasn’t at all interested in Annie, who to her was just a nuisance. What had mattered to her was that Andrew had raised his voice; he had actually sworn at her. Her self-control in the face of his undoubted rudeness would keep her in Brownie points for some time.

  As he toyed unsuccessfully with the crossword, Andrew’s thoughts went back to what had been altogether a rather extraordinary afternoon. There had been the incident of Ernest’s ashes and the bus, of course, but then there had been Annie’s story. He had found it strangely compelling, and after a while had seen not the small rather dishevelled figure telling it, but the young Annie who had worked out her war on the family farm. Annie had shown him a faded photograph of herself as a girl, and Andrew had been impressed. The girl Annie had been leaning against a gate, laughing into the camera. Boyish in her shirt and trousers, her fair hair blown about her face, she had looked very young and undeniably pretty.

  Andrew wouldn’t have recognised her, and the thought, although hardly a surprising one, made him feel oddly sad. This Annie — the new, young Annie — was someone he would never know. He could hear about her and he could become involved in her story, and yet he would never really know her. The years which lay ahead and which he had already gathered were to hold much unhappiness, were as yet unknown to the girl in the photograph.

  After her tale had come to an abrupt end (“I can’t tell you the next bit yet. I’m not ready,” Annie had said firmly), Andrew had helped her tidy away the coffee cups.

  “Ophelia’s coming soon. I keep trying to put her off, but I know she’ll come sooner or later. I expect Billy’s behind it. He’s always bossing people about.” Annie paused. “The house is in a bit of a state, isn’t it?”

  Andrew, who rarely noticed such things, looked around him. The house had an air of dusty neglect probably unknown in Ernest’s time. The small rooms looked cluttered and uncared-for, and Annie herself was wearing a skirt and cardigan which even he could see could do with a wash.

  “I’ve let myself go, haven’t I?” Annie said, as though reading his thoughts.

  “You’ve probably been feeling low,” Andrew said, avoiding the question. “But if you could cut down a little on the drink, I’m sure you can soon have the place shipshape. Or maybe Ophelia could help you?”

  “Oh, no,” said Annie, shocked. “I couldn’t possibly do that. She might tell Billy, and then goodness knows what would happen. I suppose I’d better throw away the whisky, hadn’t I?” she added rather bleakly.

  “Why not allow yourself just a small one at bedtime,” Andrew suggested. “No need to throw it away.”

  “Would you like one? Shall we have one now?” There was a twinkle in Annie’s eye.

  Andrew thought of Janet’s reaction if he were to arrive home smelling of drink, and laughed.

  “No. I’d better not. I must be going. But I’ll come and see you again soon, if that’s all right?
”

  Now, however, gazing out of his study window (the lawn needed mowing), Andrew decided that a drink was just what he needed, although he rarely had one this early in the evening. And if Janet found out, then so be it; after what had just happened, he had very little to lose. He unlocked his desk cupboard and brought out a bottle and a rather grubby glass. I’m no better than Annie, he said to himself, holding the glass up to the light, frowning at the traces of amber fluid and the smeary fingerprints.

  He poured himself a generous measure.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ophelia

  At the precise moment that a bemused bus driver was discovering the mortal remains of Ernest on the back seat of his bus, Ophelia was being summoned to the matron’s office.

  “It’s not that you’re not good enough at your work, Ophelia,” said the matron, opening a file with Ophelia’s name on it. “You’re hard-working, and the old people seem fond of you.”

  “But?” said Ophelia helpfully, with the familiar feeling that she was about to clock up yet another failure.

  “But?”

  “Yes. But. I’ve done something wrong, haven’t I?”

  “You mean you don’t know? After this morning, you really don’t know what you’ve done?”

  Ophelia gazed out of the window. Tiny fluffy clouds dotted the milky blue sky of a glorious May morning. It was a day to be happy, not a day to be carpeted by this conscientious but humourless woman, whose mission in life, it seemed to Ophelia, was to make her life and the lives of everyone else around her as joyless as possible.

  “No. I don’t know,” she replied with perfect honesty. “I’ve no idea what I’ve done.”

  The matron sighed.

  “Edie O’Brien. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Oh yes. Of course.”

  Edie had escaped that morning wearing nothing but her nightdress and slippers (she had refused to get dressed). This happened fairly regularly, for despite strong locks and as much vigilance as was possible, Edie seemed to have a sixth sense where unguarded exits were concerned. Usually, she got no further than the garden, so no one was unduly alarmed, and Ophelia had been given the job of looking for her.

  Today, this had proved more difficult than usual, because for once Edie had managed to bypass the grounds, negotiate a complicated gate and get out into the street. As Ophelia scurried after her in what she hoped was the right direction, she wondered how it could be that someone as frail and confused as Edie, not to say as unsuitably clad, could disappear so thoroughly in so short a time. But disappear she certainly had.

  The road was busy with traffic, and this was an especial hazard, for Edie spent her time drifting in and out of a pre-war time-warp, where cars were fewer and slower. She thus had little awareness of the dangers posed to her, and was quite likely to launch herself across the road and under the first vehicle which came along.

  After fifteen frantic minutes, Ophelia had finally ran her to ground sitting on a bench eating an orange.

  “Oh Edie! There you are!” Ophelia sat down beside her. “Where did you get that orange?”

  “Found it, didn’t I?” said Edie, sucking contentedly, juice dribbling down her chin. “Don’t get many of these, what with the rationing. Nice here in the sun, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve got to go back now,” said Ophelia, mopping up orange juice with her handkerchief. “Matron will be worried.”

  “Bugger matron,” said Edie cheerfully, and then, suddenly returning to the twenty-first century, “Let’s go for a nice cup of coffee, shall we?”

  Ophelia hesitated. She ought to get back. People would start to worry. On the other hand, the idea of taking Edie, nightdress, slippers and all, out for coffee suddenly appealed. She had some change in her pocket, and it would be a treat for Edie, who received few visitors, and rarely recognised those she had.

  “Come on, then,” she said. “But we’ve got to be quick.”

  They found a quiet cafe, and Ophelia chose a corner table where she hoped they wouldn’t be noticed. After all, Edie’s nightdress might at a pinch be taken for a summer frock, and the slippers would be concealed under the table. Edie herself, who had returned to the days of rationing, was overjoyed to see all the sugar, and having added a generous quantity to her coffee tried to persuade Ophelia to fill her pockets.

  “You don’t know when you’ll get the chance again, girl,” she whispered. “The Germans will have all our sugar off us if we’re not careful.”

  “Edie, we’ve got to go,” Ophelia said, when the coffee was finished and Edie was spooning the sugary dregs into her mouth. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

  “Oh, them,” said Edie with contempt. “They can wait.” Ophelia looked helplessly round. Edie could be very abusive when crossed, and had even been known to throw a punch, so she could hardly ask for help to get her on her feet. She could phone the home and ask for assistance, but she didn’t especially want to draw attention to this little expedition.

  “Come on, Edie,” she begged. “Please? Just for me?”

  “For you?” Edie snorted, munching on her sugar. “Don’t even know who you are. Why should I be doing you favours?”

  The situation could have continued for some time, but fortunately, the distant siren of a fire engine came to Ophelia’s rescue.

  “Air raid!” she said, with sudden inspiration and vague memories of a history lesson involving life during the Blitz. “Quick, Edie! We’ve got to find shelter!”

  Fortunately, Edie had spent much of the war in London, and knew all about air raids. Hand in hand, they hurried out on to the pavement and set off back down the road, Edie stumbling and cursing, both of them by now attracting some very odd looks. A police car stopped, and the driver, sensing a problem, offered his assistance.

  “We’re fine,” Ophelia said. “Just getting ourselves to the air raid shelter.”

  “Bloody Germans,” said Edie.

  “Would you like a lift? I’m going that way myself.” The policeman winked at Ophelia.

  “That would be lovely. You’d like a ride in a car, wouldn’t you, Edie?”

  “Don’t get many cars like this, do you?” said Edie, graciously allowing herself to be manoeuvred into the back of the police car. “Just wait till mother sees me!”

  Fortunately, nobody saw them, and when they arrived back at the home (“Very posh for a shelter. I’ll come here again,” remarked Edie) it would appear that no one had missed them, either. Thankfully, Ophelia settled Edie back in her chair, went back to her work and thought no more about it.

  But now this.

  “So you do remember?” said the matron, sensing victory.

  “Well, I remember going to find Edie this morning, but I brought her back safely,” Ophelia said.

  “And what exactly were you and Edie doing all that time?” The matron’s pen tapped irritably on the desk. “Well, I’ll save you the trouble, Ophelia. You were seen together in a rather scruffy cafe. Someone was public-spirited enough to telephone me this afternoon. It would seem that you took a vulnerable old lady out for coffee, without permission, and in her nightdress!”

  From the matron’s tone of voice, Ophelia might as well have strangled the vulnerable old lady with her own dressing-gown cord.

  “It was Edie’s suggestion.” But even as the words left Ophelia’s mouth, she knew that she had condemned herself.

  “Edie’s suggestion! Well now, what a brilliant idea, Ophelia. And why don’t we all follow Edie’s suggestions, or come to that, her shining example? Why don’t we take off our clothes and run around naked? Or use obscene language and throw Horlicks at the night staff? Since when have we followed Edie’s example?”

  “I thought it would be nice for her,” said Ophelia. “The old people never get out; never do anything normal.”

  “And what exactly do you mean by that? Would you care to explain yourself?”

  Ophelia thought of the narrow, ordered existence of the residents. Some, like Edie,
barely noticed their surroundings, but there were others who did and whose still-active minds were stifled through lack of stimulation and interest. She thought of the circle of armchairs round the television, which was always on, and which nobody watched. She thought of the colourless flavourless food and the endless cups of stewed tea; the dreary daily round of dressing, eating, being taken to the lavatory and kept clean; the sheer uselessness of the existences of people who had once had their part to play but had now been made redundant by an ungrateful society. The high spot of the week might be a game of bingo, and how humiliating that must be for a man or woman whose idea of a night out had once been an evening at the theatre, a concert or a game of bridge. And yet if people didn’t take part, they were blamed for not being sporting; for not wanting to join in.

  And then there were the recorder recitals by the Brownies, who came in order to get earn their musicians’ badge (no badges for the residents who had to listen), and at Christmas the carol singing, the gifts of soap or chocolate from the worthy ladies from age-related charities, and the dull, mechanical sound of the handbell ringers. There was no escape from any of these treats. All had to be endured. It could have been because she herself had suffered from being crammed into a variety of moulds into which she wouldn’t or couldn’t fit; or perhaps because she had taken the trouble to get to know the residents properly. Whatever it was, Ophelia had come to feel passionately about the way they were compelled to lead their lives.

  “We don’t treat them as people,” she said now. “They might as well be animals in a zoo. Aren’t they worth a bit more than that?”

  “Are you telling me my job, Ophelia? Do you think you could run this place on the budget we are given better than I do?”

  Ophelia hesitated. She knew she should back down and save the day (and possibly her job). Taking on the matron was something which few did and even fewer survived. And yet what had she to lose? The job was hardly irreplaceable, and wasn’t it time someone made a stand? It probably wouldn’t make any difference, but it just might make the matron think a bit, and she felt she owed something to Edie and all the others. She would still be able to visit them. Not even the matron could prevent her from doing that.