Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  Annie took the plant and sniffed it.

  “It’s got no scent,” she said, disappointed.

  “I don’t think it’s meant to have. It’s a —” Ophelia consulted the label — “it’s a hydrangea.”

  “A hydrangea. Fancy that.” Annie paused. “I don’t know much about plants. Ernest did all that sort of thing, you see.”

  “And mum sent a casserole.”

  “What sort of casserole?”

  “I think it’s beef.”

  “That’s all right, then,” Annie said. “Ernest would never eat pork, you know. He had a Jewish grandmother. The vicar’s coming tomorrow,” she added, leading the way through to the living-room.

  “The vicar?” That must be the priest fellow her father had referred to.

  “Yes. He comes round and I — I tell him about my life.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Yes. There’s things I’ve never told anyone before.”

  “But you tell the vicar?”

  “Yes. He thinks it will help me. I’m not sure, though. It can be a bit upsetting.” Annie paused. “Do you want some of this stew?”

  Ophelia had stopped off for a sandwich at a service station, and wasn’t particularly hungry.

  “No thank you. Just a cup of tea would be nice.”

  “Or you could have some whisky,” Annie said. “I always have one at bedtime.”

  “Whisky?”

  “Yes. I found some in Ernest’s cupboard, and I find it helps. It helps the vicar, too. He told me so.”

  “Does Dad know? About the whisky, I mean.”

  Annie gave her a pitying look.

  “Of course not. And you’re not to tell him, either.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Ophelia, much entertained by the idea of her grandmother and the whisky-swilling vicar.

  Two large whiskies later (“I only usually have one, but this is a special occasion,” explained Annie), Ophelia and Annie were becoming relaxed and confidential.

  “I lost my job, you know,” Ophelia said. “Dad was furious.”

  “I know. He told me,” Annie said.

  “I’m a terrible disappointment to them.” Ophelia twisted her glass round between her fingers. She noticed that it wasn’t entirely clean.

  “Good thing you weren’t a boy,” observed Annie. “Billy wanted you to be a boy, you know.”

  “I bet he did. I wonder what they would have called him,” Ophelia mused. “Siegfried, perhaps, or Horatio.”

  “Maximilian,” said Annie. “They were going to call you Maximilian. Maximilian Ernest William Bentley. What do you think of that?”

  Ophelia laughed. “I think I’m quite glad I’m female. Not just because of the name, either. A disappointing son is somehow much worse than a disappointing daughter, don’t you think?” She put down her glass. “Tell me about this vicar of yours. What’s he like?”

  “He’s nice. I didn’t like him at first; I thought he was just interfering. But after he buried the chickens, I felt a bit better about him.”

  “What chickens?” A combination of tiredness and whisky, combined with Annie’s propensity to leap from one subject to another, assuming complete comprehension on the part of her listener, was beginning to make Ophelia’s head ache.

  “Ernest’s chickens. I starved them. By mistake, of course. But I think it was for the best. I’ve never been very good with chickens.”

  “So I gather.”

  “And Andrew’s kind —”

  “Who’s Andrew?”

  “The vicar. He’s kind and he’s — interested. Not many people are interested. I can tell him anything, and he just listens. I’ve told him things I’ve never told anybody, and he just takes it all in.”

  “What sort of things?” asked Ophelia, intrigued.

  “Personal things. Some of them are very personal. I thought he might be shocked, but he didn’t seem to be. I’ve told him the worst part, though, so now it’s a bit easier.”

  “You don’t look the sort of person to have a shocking past, Gran,” Ophelia said. “It all sounds very mysterious.”

  “Not very mysterious really. But such a waste, Ophelia. Such a waste.” There were tears in Annie’s eyes which had only a little to do with the whisky.

  “A waste of what, Gran?”

  “A waste of — of me.”

  “Oh, Gran.” Ophelia put her hand on her grandmother’s and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “Everyone would be awfully upset if they knew,” Annie said, blowing her nose.

  “Like who? Who would be upset?”

  “Well, your parents, Ernest’s friends (not that he had that many), his committee people. Billy must have had an idea about some of it, but he never said anything, and Ernest always told me not to tell anyone. ‘It’s private,’ he said, and perhaps he was right.” Annie looked suddenly fearful, as though the ghost of Ernest were standing behind her shoulder waiting to pounce on her for her indiscretion.

  “But maybe now he’s dead — well, maybe that changes things a bit?” Ophelia suggested.

  Annie smiled, and squeezed Ophelia’s hand. “Maybe. One day I might even be able to tell you,” she said. “I think I’d like to tell you. One day.”

  Later on, as Ophelia lay on the lumpy mattress in the little back bedroom (thank heavens she had brought her own duvet; the musty blankets piled on the chair smelled of mothballs and damp), she felt an unaccustomed surge of affection for her grandmother. There was obviously a lot more to Annie than she had previously thought.

  She was surprised to find that she was looking forward to getting to know her grandmother better.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Annie

  Although Annie had known that she couldn’t put off a visit from Ophelia for ever, she had still been less than pleased when it had finally been arranged. She couldn’t quite rid herself of the uncomfortable feeling that Ophelia was being sent as some sort of spy, to assess her progress following Ernest’s death, but more than that, having settled into her new routine, she was reluctant to have it disturbed.

  For years, Annie’s life had been dictated by the needs and expectations of Ernest, and while it had taken her time to adjust to her new freedom, she found that she was beginning to enjoy it. Andrew had recently asked her if she was happy, and Annie had thought it a strange question. After all that time with Ernest, she had long since ceased to expect happiness. There had been small pleasures — a favourite television programme, the feel and smell of a shiny new magazine, a rare evening of bingo, the carefully measured sherries Ernest used to pour for her (Annie had come a long way since those sherries) — but happiness had become a forgotten luxury. And now, in her newly-widowed state, surely she couldn’t be expected to be happy, could she? Or could she?

  Annie had pondered the question after Andrew had gone, and to her surprise she had concluded that nowadays, she did experience moments of something approaching happiness. Free from the restraints of running the house to Ernest’s exacting standards, and more importantly, free from the fear of any repercussions should she be found wanting, Annie was able to please herself, something she had never in her life been allowed to do before. If she didn’t feel like cooking, she opened a tin. If she wanted to stay in bed in the morning, that’s what she would do. If she wanted to watch daytime television, then she would watch it, revelling in the tasteless chat shows which Ernest had so deplored. And while she was no longer letting things go in quite the way she had at the beginning, and was managing to resist the temptation to take refuge in the whisky bottle when things got difficult (except, of course, at bedtime), she was in some small way beginning to enjoy herself.

  Annie was lonely, but then she had always been lonely. Apart from Billy, she had no family left, and while she had many acquaintances, she had few she could count as friends. Ernest had discouraged her from forming close friendships with other women, anxious that female confidences might lead to indiscreet disclosures on her part, an
d he himself had hardly been much in the way of company. Since his retirement, his committee work and the garden and his allotment had kept him occupied, and Annie had seen little more of him than she had when he was working. But now, she had Andrew’s visits to look forward to.

  She anticipated these with pleasure, and was disappointed on the rare occasions when something else came up and Andrew was unable to call round to see her. Andrew had told her a little about himself and, reading between the lines, Annie had come to suspect that like herself, he had found his life to be less than fulfilling. She didn’t know the cause of his sadness, but it was undoubtedly there, and had she been bolder, she might have asked him to tell her more.

  Thus, Ophelia’s proposed visit had come as an unwelcome intrusion into Annie’s new, even cosy, life, and she had done little to prepare for it. If Ophelia wanted to come and stay, she must take her as she found her. She had no idea how she was going to entertain a young woman, or indeed if she was expected to entertain her at all, but that too was up to Ophelia. No doubt they could watch some television together, and Ophelia would probably bring a book to read (as a child, she had constantly had her head in a book). Beyond that, and the purchase of a few random provisions (she was somewhat disconcerted to find on her return from the supermarket that she had bought no less than three tins of anchovies; what on earth did one do with anchovies?) Annie had made no plans whatsoever.

  Had she known Ophelia better, things would no doubt have been a great deal easier, but because Annie had had an uneasy relationship with Sheila, the contact between them had been irregular and any visits brief. She and Ernest had very occasionally stayed at Billy’s and Sheila’s house, but, in rare agreement, had not enjoyed the visits. Annie had hardly dared to sit on the leather sofas in case she disturbed the carefully arranged cushions, and Ernest never liked being away from his allotment and his chickens. As for Ophelia, in the beginning, Annie had looked forward eagerly to being a grandmother and the opportunity of forming a relationship with her new grandchild. The little back bedroom would be ideal for Ophelia when she came to stay, and Annie had even bought a second-hand cot in anticipation of her visits. But Annie, it transpired, was not to be entrusted with the care of a young child, and contact was limited to brief cameo appearances by an uncomfortably overdressed baby closely attended by her overprotective parents. Annie had been allowed to hold Ophelia, and later on, occasionally to read her a story or help her with a jigsaw, but the child was soon swept away in the back of the family saloon car, leaving Annie feeling that she had just experienced a royal visitation rather than a normal family get-together. As Ophelia grew older, Annie still hoped that she might be allowed to come and stay, but when Ophelia wasn’t away at her boarding school she always seemed to be busy being improved in some way, and there appeared to be little time for anything else. Gradually, Annie gave up hope, notching up the experience as just one more of life’s disappointments, and by the time Ophelia had reached her teens, Annie felt that she hardly knew her at all.

  Thus over the years the two families had maintained a certain distance. Billy had kept up regular dutiful contact, and Sheila occasionally telephoned; school photographs arrived and were duly framed and placed on the sideboard; gifts were exchanged at birthdays and Christmas, and the rare, awkward visits had taken place, but otherwise they had played little part in each other’s lives. Once, only once, Annie and Ernest had been invited to stay for a never-to-be-forgotten family Christmas, in the course of which Sheila, overwhelmed by all the extra work, had what could only be described as a panic attack, leading to the partial incineration of the turkey, and Ernest and Billy had had a memorable row about, of all things, the timing of the Queen’s speech. All things considered, Annie had long since regretfully decided that minimal contact was probably best for all concerned.

  But in spite of all her misgivings and her initial annoyance at the late hour of Ophelia’s arrival, Annie had been pleasantly surprised by her granddaughter. She appeared to have grown into a thoroughly sensible young woman, with none of the airs and graces of her parents, and very approachable. Of course, she still wasn’t much to look at, poor girl, but that wasn’t her fault, and she did have nice eyes and a pretty smile. They had had quite a pleasant little chat over their nightcap (Annie had dreaded having to go without her whisky during Ophelia’s stay, for she could hardly have sat drinking it on her own), and she thought that they might get along well enough together after all.

  It was only as she was preparing for bed that Annie realised that with Ophelia in the house it would be quite inappropriate for Andrew to come tomorrow. Monday was his day off, the day he usually managed to call in and see her, and Annie had been especially looking forward to telling him the next part of her story. In the beginning, it had been a struggle to get started, but now it was as though some torrent inside her had been let loose and needed to continue its escape. When he had left the house the previous week, she had felt almost overwhelmed by the pent-up emotion generated by the vivid reliving of her past, and had hardly known how she was going to wait until his next visit. But she couldn’t talk to Andrew properly in front of Ophelia, and she could hardly ask her granddaughter to leave the room. And while it wasn’t just the whisky talking when she had told Ophelia that she would like to be able to tell her story to her some time, that time was a long way off and might well never come.

  In the event, it was Ophelia herself who brought up the subject over breakfast (crackers and marmalade — Annie had forgotten to buy bread) the next morning.

  “If your vicar —”

  “Andrew.”

  “Andrew, then. If he’s coming over today, I can take myself off and have a little drive round.”

  “Are you sure?” Touched by such thoughtfulness, Annie was nonetheless anxious not to risk Ophelia’s change of heart by any demurral on her own part. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind at all. It’s a lovely day. I’ve got the car. I can explore a bit.”

  Andrew arrived just before eleven, and Annie made the introductions. There was nothing unusual in their meeting — hands were shaken, a few pleasantries exchanged — nevertheless, long afterwards, she wondered that she hadn’t noticed what was happening in that room when these two very disparate people met for the first time. But then how could she have?

  As everyone knows, love at first sight is a myth, only ever believable to the individuals concerned.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Annie’s Story

  The week following Annie’s visit to the doctor seemed one of the longest of her life. Suspended in a limbo of fear and uncertainty, she went about her tasks with a desperate fervour, feeding and milking, cleaning and mucking-out as though her life depended on it, volunteering to do the jobs she normally eschewed, even giving up her afternoon off so that Mavis could go into town.

  “What on earth’s got into you, Annie?” Mavis asked. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything, but I can’t help wondering. Looks like you’re trying to win some sort of prize.”

  And in a way Mavis was right. The prize Annie was working so desperately towards was to be allowed to stay at home. She would work on the farm to the end of her days, and willingly, if she didn’t have to marry Ernest. If she could just stay at home she would never complain again. She would prove to her father that she was indispensable. Neither of her brothers would be taking on the farm: Tom was in a military hospital having lost a leg, and would no longer be capable of hard physical work, and Jack was now an officer and had long since decided to stay on in the army and make a career of it, whether or not the war should come to an end. Surely her father would — must — need her. How else would he cope as he grew older? She was cheap and experienced. She was sure he would soon see that he couldn’t manage without her.

  As for the baby, strangely enough she didn’t give it much thought. She had some vague idea that so long as she could stay on the farm, the problem of the baby would sort itself out. Hidden away in
the countryside, surely it would be possible for a baby to go more or less unnoticed. Perhaps her mother might even be persuaded to pass it off as her own. Just so long as she could stay where she was, Annie felt that all her other problems would be solved.

  Her parents had said nothing further about what was to be done, and Annie didn’t dare broach the subject herself. She longed to throw herself on their mercy — literally; to cling and sob and beg; to hold and to be held. She craved reassurance that she was still loved and above all, forgiven, for worst of all was the feeling that she had somehow forfeited her right to be treated as their daughter. Never before had she needed comfort and security as she did now, and her parents had never seemed so distant, although they continued to act almost as though nothing had happened. They went about their work as usual, but her father’s tread was heavy and he seemed suddenly older, and more than once there were signs that her mother had been crying. It was as though they too were in a state of uncertainty; they, like her, were waiting. And, of course, what they were waiting for was a reply from Ernest. What was it her father had said? “Everything depends on Ernest.” Annie shuddered. If Ernest held her future in his hands, what hope could there be for her?

  But then, why should Ernest respond at all? It was quite clear that he didn’t love her, and it wasn’t Ernest who was to be encumbered with the fruits of his behaviour. Annie began to hope. If Ernest never turned up, then everything would be all right. Things would soon return to normal, and they could all get on with their lives.

  But Annie’s hope was short-lived. Ten days after he had sent his letter to Ernest, her father received a reply. Annie never found out exactly what was in it, but it seemed that Ernest was prepared to visit her parents to discuss the situation.

  “You’ll have to keep to your room on Saturday, when Ernest comes, our Annie,” her father said. “Your mother and I need to talk to him in private. We’ve things to sort out.”