Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  It did not last. Little more than a year after Alfred’s death Grandmother Georgina recognised and confronted her own mental deterioration. Typically, she laid her plans; under no circumstances would she allow the name of Lynchet to sink into obscurity. There was only one thing to do: using what time she had left, she prepared Nella for the future. No, not Nella’s future — who cared about that? Alfred. His reputation, his career …

  And so the Toddies passed into Nella’s guardianship. Brought up in Grandmother Georgina’s unforgiving exactitudes, she could not help feeling anything except a stunned distaste for these characters who called table napkins serviettes and to whom gracious living was embodied in a pink glass, musical cocktail cabinet. But … common as they were, they were also the source of Alfred’s wealth and fame; and there was always Grandmother Georgina’s advice: Think of them as servants for whom you are responsible. It becomes quite easy in time.’

  The Toddies, a rampantly sentimentalised 1930s family, were lovingly depicted down to the last detail. Mum, Marcel-waved, striving for gentility; pipe-smoking Dad in his Fair Isle pullovers, cherishing an image of himself as a bit of a rascal; assorted small Toddies, variously winsome or repellent. A large family of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, in and out of scrapes. A fatherly policeman dealing clips on the ear to young scallywags. Recognisable Clerehaven locations for which most residents cursed Alfred. (Inez’s friend Sam, a minutely informed reader of crime novels and watcher of hospital traumas, said, ‘Honestly, I’ve never been able to understand their appeal. You can’t say it’s the stuff of human life. They’ve never been human.’ ‘I rather think that’s the point,’ Inez said.)

  Nella’s schooling in the management of these characters was unremitting; bludgeoned into her duty to Alfred — at first terrified — she found herself confronted by an amazing, undreamt-of circumstance. Power.

  Power to carry out negotiations, conduct business with his agent, liaise with the television company, dictate terms to publishers and editors. Without knowing quite how it happened, she became an authority on every aspect of her brother’s work: she judged competitions, appeared on radio phone-ins, gave talks on the social significance of what she insisted was a drama series but everyone else called soaps.

  The old lady’s baleful presence banished, Alfred’s could be said to be enshrined. He had not been an academic, had no writing reputation; whatever had been on the horizon of his striving, no one ever knew. The reality was he had achieved a meretricious fame, with which his grandmother and his sister colluded, as something admirable. This hollow reputation had room for both of them: Grandmother Georgina fostered his memory and reputation — until it was Nella’s turn. From the periphery of his life, excluded and ridiculed, she moved to the centre, came, by some process no one understood, to be acknowledged as his inspiration.

  She gave up her modest job and with increasing confidence took to her new life, her evolving self — without managing ever to acknowledge any change had taken place. There was an existential aspect to this: what she came to understand of herself was that she had always been in control, interesting, positive. There was the trifling matter of her physical appearance, but she had forgotten what it once was, how ridiculous and frumpish she had been. Forgotten, too, that her transformation in this respect she owed to Inez.

  *

  One summer afternoon and Nella was standing in front of Blossom’s department store, gazing at the model in the window. The darkest grey, pinstriped, sleekly tailored suit, luxurious cream silk blouse; high-heeled patent court shoes.

  Grandmother Georgina, from the earliest stage, had shaped Nella’s fashion sense, dictated her appearance and would countenance no deviation. You’re short — the girlish type. So Nella wore fussy dresses with puffed sleeves, abundant bows and frills; strappy shoes, coats of garish plaid; had her hair done in sausage curls. If ever it was necessary for her to wear a hat, it had a veil with velvet dots. She made the occasional, feeble move towards individual preference … Well, if you think you can get away with something sophisticated, don’t let me stop you making yourself ridiculous. The battle, the humiliation, the continuous taunting made her so miserable she never dared to wear the offending items more than once.

  But there, in Blossom’s window, was the image of herself she had always secretly nurtured.

  ‘Why not?’ A pleasant, positive voice beside her. Inez. Nodding to the window. ‘Nella, why not?’

  ‘Urn, well, no … Grandmother Georgina always — ’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Nella. She’s been dead for months.’

  Yes. But her spite went on haunting this poor woman in her late forties, her ludicrous dressiness: short, squat, a Shirley Temple look-alike. For God’s sake, can anyone remember who she was?

  ‘Come on, seek, there’s a good dog.’ And ushering the faintly murmuring Nella, Inez had them in the lift to Ladies’ Fashions before Nella could find a good reason to protest.

  The trying-on session was lengthy. Nella, giddy with a sense of freedom, listening carefully to advice from Inez, from the store assistant, gazed, entranced, at constantly changing versions of herself. Eventually, Inez yawned and said, ‘Nella, I have a hair appointment, upstairs. In five minutes.’

  Nella received this inattentively.

  ‘You can have it. Honestly, you’ve got pretty hair but … er … ’ The bobbing rolls of curls, sagging, unravelling. ‘Come on.’

  It was true, Nella’s hair was silky and fine, a rich chestnut with the gentlest wave. After it had been shampooed, cut, sculpted into shape, Nella gazed, wide-eyed, not knowing herself.

  ‘Super,’ Inez said. ‘Now let’s have something to eat, I’m starving.’

  High tea at Blossom’s meant grilled gammon and egg, sauté potatoes, peas, wafer thin bread and butter. Caramel cheesecake to follow. When friends came up to the table, they said with genuine surprise, ‘Nella — I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you.’

  Nella preened, glowing with a faintly superior look of bewilderment. What is all the fuss about? Because this, after all, was her true self, compliments were her due. If it had anything to do with Inez, she managed, in a remarkably short space of time, to put it from her mind.

  On this occasion, she insisted on paying the bill — ‘My treat, I so seldom get the chance to shop with a friend. I’m so busy these days.’

  Inez found this infinitely pathetic — when had Nella ever shopped with friends? She expressed her thanks, helped carry parcels to the car park. Nella eyed her Citroën 2CV. ‘You know, Inez, Grandmother insisted I buy one of those. She said it gave me a young, dashing image.’

  Inez could think of nothing to say except, ‘Er … ’

  ‘But I’ll tell you what. I’ve always hated it. What do you think about … ’

  She’s got the bit between her teeth now, Inez thought. Good for her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Although Nella was late for the Friends of Clerehaven meeting she was in her seat when the evening began. Jaynie did not arrive until half-way through the slide talk, ‘Rediscovering the gardens of Clerehaven’s Manor House’. She caused maximum disruption, and so stunned the speaker with her smiling apology he forgave her instantly.

  When the talk was over, questions asked and answered, during which Jaynie was fidgeting to boiling point, she was free to launch herself on the chairman, Evelina Barber.

  Evelina, a delicate, graceful woman whose silvery voice and perfect diction proclaimed her years as a drama teacher, was most affectionately regarded by everyone; Inez and Dora were her particular friends.

  Jaynie descended, brandishing the large folder she called her research which caused groans and occasional panic in everyone. She said to Evelina, ‘Look, I’ve got this photograph. You remember it?’

  Inez whispered to Dora, ‘Hallo, Evelina, how are you? Such an interesting meeting … ’

  Evelina, bemused as the photograph was thrust beneath her face, fished for her spectacles. ‘Well, I — ’

/>   ‘It was in your garden, you can’t have forgotten.’

  ‘Er … ’ Evelina said, looking for her place in a time long past.

  ‘It was that garden party you gave for the Marie Curie foundation — and it happened to be your mother’s eightieth birthday, too, so the party was for her, as well. Then she died a couple of weeks later, so I don’t see how you can have forgotten.’

  The photograph was of a mixed group in summer clothes, at least twenty people. As far as Jaynie was concerned there was only one: herself, as a teenager. ‘I had a fringe then, well, just a short one. See. It suited me because of my cheekbones. I never had puppy fat like other teenagers. But I grew it out just after that and combed my hair straight back. Aah — ’ Nella had so far managed to avoid Jaynie; incautiously, she passed too close. Jaynie’s hand — ornate rings, clashing bangles — snaked out, fastened on her wrist. ‘See, Nella, I bet you haven’t forgotten, that’s us at Evelina’s garden party when we were youngsters together. See, you’re near the end of that row.’ ‘I’m not,’ Nella said, refusing to look, shaking her hand free. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  Jaynie’s laughter shrilled. ‘Of course you were — no one could mistake that bright pink dress with the frills. My mother used to say it was called spearmint pink in Lancashire — you know, they used to have those Whit week walks, something religious, and all the mill workers wore new clothes and they wore either Whit week blue or spearmint pink. And — see — your face was exactly the same bright pink because you’d had too much sun and then afterwards you felt ill and Daddy drove you home … ’

  Inez and Dora exchanged signals: This is too awful What can we do?

  ‘ … and there’s Victor, your young brother, Evelina. Well, was. Did something that killed him, gliding, or falling out of an aeroplane or something …’

  The only way Inez could have expressed her outrage would be to shout, ‘This woman is bloody unbelievable.’ It would scarcely help the situation.

  ‘Oh, gosh, now I’ve forgotten. What was it?’ Jaynie worried, frowning prettily.

  On an automatic reflex, in a scarcely audible voice, Evelina said, ‘A ballooning accident … ’

  ‘Yes. Well, there you are, people do these dangerous things — I’ll never know why. Oh, God, he was good-looking, wasn’t he? All the girls after him, but he always said he was going to marry me when I grew up. Do you remember, Evelina? I’m your cavalier he used to say to me — made me promise to marry him when I was old enough — ’

  Inez and Dora, giving up on the idea of stopping the unstoppable, resorted to diversionary tactics. Clear, carrying voices: ‘Evelina, that business about altering the constitution — ’

  ‘If we don’t have our arguments lined up for the AGM — ’

  ‘There’s going to be the most awful debacle.’

  ‘What, what?’ Evelina said, flanked by two solid bodies, firm hands beneath her elbows. ‘Dora … Inez … what?’

  ‘We are removing you, physically, from that bloody woman,’ Inez said out of the side of her mouth. ‘Now, come on, before Dora handbags her.’

  Later, they walked together, the three of them, through the mild night to Evelina’s Victorian house in The Crescent; like Evelina, it was outdated, gracious, welcoming. ‘What we all need,’ Evelina said, ushering them into the drawing-room, ‘is a jolly large drink.’

  ‘What a civilised suggestion,’ Inez agreed.

  Evelina made for the drinks tray, murmuring, agonised, ‘Jaynie Turner. Why in heaven’s name did she have to come and live here?’

  Dora volunteered, ‘To find herself, she said.’

  Inez gave a muffled, mad shriek.

  And during the next hour, as they gossiped, who was it said, ‘With any luck someone will murder the blasted woman’?

  *

  At mid-morning of the following day, Nella collected her post. She was beautifully turned out and, as she was expecting visitors, so was the house. Polished, tidy, flower-filled; a simple, tasty buffet lunch ready prepared by the submissive daily lady who found Nella a reasonable, if forbidding employer.

  Nella took the post, and a cup of coffee, and sat before the fire in the sitting-room. She had worked through her guilt at defying Grandmother with surprising speed. Now she was free to enjoy making her everyday life pleasant, easy, even attractive, in direct defiance of Grandmother’s belief that there was some positive moral value in being uncomfortable. Nella tried hard, but the central heating was antiquated and with a house of such a size, the work of renewing it seemed exorbitant. It never seemed to warm up, even at the height of summer; to counteract this, Nella indulged herself in baronial log fires that would have brought down on her all the rage of Grandmother’s parsimony.

  Sorting through the mail, she all at once sat rock-still, regarding the postmark and address on a typewritten, grubby envelope. After a while she stood up, paced the sitting-room in silent agitation, eventually — with a rush of anger — snatched up the envelope and opened it. There was no greeting, no signature. Just a typewritten sheet of paper. She read it several times, sat down suddenly and remained staring down at it, clutched crumpled in her podgy, manicured hand. After a while she roused herself.

  In accordance with the final sentence she destroyed the letter by putting it in the fire, watched it burn; then she went away and busied herself as was necessary. It was some time before she returned, composedly poured herself a drink, looked round the room — assuring herself of its solidity, its permanence.

  She had devised this fortress for herself, nothing could assail her.

  She spoke out loud, petulantly, ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me. There’s nothing I can do.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Midday, Friday, Inez sat at a table at the Cosa Nostra Bistro. She was to meet June — her friend from Byehaven — for lunch. June had sent a message to say she was delayed. As she was always delayed, Inez had brought a book and, with a glass of wine, settled herself contentedly to wait.

  Distracted by a tapping sound she glanced up and, on a lightning reflex, away again.

  Jaynie, exquisite, immaculate, was peering through the window, shielding her eyes to see through, and rapping on the glass.

  Why can’t the silly cow just open the door and walk in … ? Oh God, that’s the last thing I want.

  A waft of exotic scent, a perfectly made-up, perfectly featured face. Jaynie took a seat opposite Inez, ordered coffee and launched into her idea for the Clerehaven Summer Festival. A fashion parade — what else?

  ‘ … and we could all take part. Well, not all, not everyone’s the right shape. But I’ll make a pretty good showing on the catwalk … And I’ve already spoken to Marguerite Dean, you know, she’s got Attitudes — just about the only decent boutique in town — I bought this from there last week …’

  Of course you did. Since you came to live in Clerehaven Marguerite’s paid off her mortgage.

  ‘ … I’m to phone tomorrow to fix up a meeting to discuss practicalities. She’s very keen on the idea. Now, you must help, Inez.’

  ‘You want me to be the strapping one in Sensible Clothes.’

  ‘What? No, you never wear anything sensible. You’ll have to be on the organising side. Well, you’re — you’re arty, you can see to the production.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Jaynie had more to say on the subject. Inez stopped listening and wondered if Jaynie would notice if she returned to her book.

  ‘Inez — I said you and Dora Hope can liaise.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You can co-ordinate operations.’

  ‘We can.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jaynie expounded — principally on what she would wear and what she would look like. Inez sank into a stupor, roused, an uncounted time later, to register Jaynie was saying something about an assignment. There was a telescoping of comprehension: key words assignment … liaise … operations strung themselves together in her mind.

  ‘Good God, you’re going to cover the war in Bosnia.’


  Jaynie responded with a pained expression. ‘Inez, half the time I don’t know what you’re talking about. No, I’m having my hair done this afternoon — ’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose that is an essential preliminary,’ Inez murmured.

  ‘I always believe in looking my best when I’m pursuing my research, it’s more professional … ’

  Inez’s eyes were fastened on the door for the first glimpse of the late-arriving June. She had decided on her course of action.

  ‘ … although men never expect women to be professional, just feminine and silly and pretty. And, after all, the first stage of a relationship can be pretty tricky — although it’s a long time since … ’

  June opened the door, saw the unmistakable back view of Jaynie and made a desperate face. Inez leapt up — ‘June, thank goodness, we’ll miss our train … ’ — made a whirlwind exit, grabbing her coat from the stand and dragging June with her. ‘I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it … ’ — pulling her coat on against the bitter wind.

  Keeping pace, June said, ‘We’ll go to Emilio’s. You don’t think she’ll follow us?’

  ‘God, no, she’s got to pay for her coffee, I’d paid for my wine. Anyway, if she does I’ll empty a jug over her.’

  *

  On Monday evenings, old Mrs Hanks went to bingo and Inez took charge of the armadillo. A leisurely walk, cherished by both because it had the legitimacy of exercise and fresh air and invariably led to Inez’s favourite pub, the One-eyed Rat. This was in one of the side streets that led down to the river, a not-much-visited part of town; unassuming, changing little over the years. The swinging sign showed a rat with an eye-patch and wearing a striped jersey dancing the hornpipe. A friendly notice in the window informed passers-by, ‘You are welcome to bring your sandwiches at lunchtime.’