by Anne Morice
‘Was there a nurse with her on the night she died?’
‘Oh, as to that, I couldn’t say,’ he replied carelessly. ‘There was undoubtedly one on the premises, but unfortunately my mother-in-law had a phobia about their sitting up with her in her room. Of course Betsy gave in to her, as usual, and they’d rigged up some kind of camp-bed on the landing. The point I’m trying to get through to you is that there was someone within call twenty-four hours a day and absolutely no cause for Betsy to interfere at all.’
‘Interfere? What a funny word!’
‘How else could you describe her popping in and out every two seconds to see if her mother needed anything? It was Betsy who needed something, you may as well know. She needed to be needed. It’s quite a worry, now that the needer-in-chief is no longer with us.’
‘Cheer up! I daresay you’ll still need her?’
‘Oh, indeed. Though perhaps not enough to satisfy that voracious appetite. My needs are shamefully simple, I fear. So what’s to become of poor Betsy? It must be so frustrating to be one of Nature’s doormats, with no one around to wipe their feet on you.’
‘There’s still Margot, don’t forget. She’s an expert trampler. Is she here, by the way?’
‘I believe so,’ he replied, looking vaguely around, so that for an awful moment I thought he meant she was in the room. ‘Upstairs, putting on her black crêpe and feathers, I dare say. Did you know that Margot was once on the stage?’
‘No.’
‘Well, her career only lasted for two and a half hours, so you can’t be blamed for your ignorance. Probably long before you were born too, but it seems she was quite a proud beauty in her youth.’
‘I can believe that.’
‘What may surprise you, however, is that she considered herself God’s gift to the theatre. She chalked up a few weeks at RADA and then they talked some lunatic into putting up the money for a revival of Mary Rose, with Margot in the name part, believe it or not.’
‘What happened? Disaster, I suppose?’
‘It beggars description. She was so appalling that when she came on to take her call the gallery rose to its feet and booed her with one voice. Whereupon she collapsed on the stage in hysterics and they had to bring the curtain down in rather a hurry.’
‘How curious! All the years I’ve known Betsy and she’s never once mentioned it. But then, she wouldn’t, would she, being her? And it’s not exactly the kind of story which Maud would have been likely to boast about. All the same, I don’t quite see what it has to do with the present situation?’
‘Nothing whatever. It’s just that I find it rather funny, in view of her snooty attitude to the theatre nowadays. And it always amuses me to know what made the grapes turn sour. However you’re quite right, as it happens. Margot is going to make a beautiful cross for Betsy to bear. In fact, she’s started already.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s come up with the insane idea of using Maud’s capital to convert this ghastly manse into flats. The plan is that Betsy and I should live in one of them, as kind of glorified caretakers, the others to be let furnished at vast profits which they would share between them. Isn’t that typical? We have all the work and worry and Margot walks away with half the lolly.’
‘On the other hand you’d be living rent free, I suppose, and you couldn’t possibly want to keep the whole place going just for the two of you.’
‘Oh, quite; but that’s not the only alternative, is it? Personally, I’d infinitely prefer to sell the dreadful place, lock, stock and stables, and use Betsy’s share to buy a cottage somewhere on our own.’
‘And what’s to prevent you, if Betsy wants that too?
Margot can’t force you to fall in with her schemes. I take it from all this that everything has been divided up between them?’
‘So I believe. I forget the details, but I understand that’s the essence of the matter. It doesn’t bother me, as you may imagine. I’m ashamed to say I don’t share the universal passion for material possessions. Food and shelter and the chance to work without interruption are about the extent of my worldly ambitions, I’m afraid.’
Jasper’s denigration of his own virtues was one of his least endearing habits and one, moreover, in which he was liable to become somewhat repetitive, so I got up, saying it was high time I went and gave Betsy a hand.
‘Yes, you run along and do that,’ he said graciously, picking up a book as he spoke.
(ii)
The pantry was a glorified passage, separating the hall from the kitchen, and Betsy was there with her younger nephew, Digby Roche. The perennial dun-coloured outfit had been replaced by a grey and white tweed skirt which I had not seen before and a black pullover which did quite a lot to light up the lingering reddish tints in her hair. One could hardly repress the feeling that it was a pity that funerals did not occur more frequently in the family.
There were two heavy, old-fashioned dressers facing each other against opposite walls and Betsy stood at one, a pile of cards in her hand, reading out names and addresses. Digby, hunched over the shelf of the other, laboriously copied them down in an exercise book. He was making such heavy weather of this task and writing in so squiggly and cramped a hand as to give the impression that it was the first time for many years that he had actually put pen to paper. He was an unprepossessing youth in many respects, having inherited the family colouring but none of its distinction or charm, and the advantages which Nature had withheld were in no way compensated for by the fact that he had recently acquired a long, mothy moustache and taken to puffing his hair up into a red gold haystack.
‘Ah, there you are, my dearest duck!’ Betsy said with a perceptible note of relief. ‘Would you be an angel and take over, while I give Albert a hand? So naughty of people to send flowers when we asked them not to, but I think we ought to make a note of everyone who did, before the cards get thrown out. Most of them are from very old friends and I know they’ll be hurt if we don’t acknowledge them.’
‘Dunno why you bother,’ Digby mumbled. ‘Why not, you know, send the whole lot round to the hospital and forget about it?’
Betsy sighed. ‘I know; that’s Margot’s idea, but I expect the poor nurses have quite enough to cope with, without having a lot of extra flowers dumped on them. Still, if you don’t feel like carrying on, I’m sure Tessa will take over, and perhaps you could do something about organising the cars? They’re parked all over the drive and Mr Pettigrew will be arriving quite soon. It’s most important to keep a clear space for him by the front door. Could you see to that for me, Digby darling?’
‘Yeah, okay, but I better see how Mum’s getting on. She might need some help too.’
‘Yes, how thoughtful of you! Very likely she does, but you won’t forget about the cars, will you, dearie? I particularly don’t want Piers and Sophie driving in and leaving no space for poor Mr Pettigrew, even if Sophie is pregnant.’
‘Still pregnant?’ I enquired. ‘That’s quite a miracle, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and we’re all so delighted that she looks like bringing it off this time. All right, my darling Digby, run along now, but don’t forget.’
‘Who is poor Mr Pettigrew?’ I asked, when we had rattled through the remaining cards and moved on to the kitchen. ‘And why does he rate such special treatment?’
Albert was not in evidence and, judging by the state of things, had not sufficiently recovered to resume his duties. There was a mound of unwashed crockery stacked up on the draining-board, including the familiar red thermos.
Betsy emerged from the larder carrying some biscuit tins and a wrapped loaf:
‘Gerald Pettigrew? Don’t you remember? He’s Mamma’s solicitor.’
‘Oh, him! But I thought he was dead.’
‘No, that’s the old man. He looked after Mamma’s affairs for years but young Gerald took over the senior partnership about six months ago. Well, he’s not all that young now, I suppose, but he and I used to see a lot of each other when
we were children, and it’s always hard to accept that people you’ve known then grow old, just like everyone else. An ugly old mug he was, too, but such a dear; steadfast and true. He insisted on coming down today, poor old Gerald. I said he wasn’t to bother, because we could easily call and see him in his office, but he wouldn’t hear of it, even though it must be rather a strain for him. Could you get me some butter out, my honey-bee? I expect there’s some in the refrigerator.’
Somewhat mystified, I did as she asked and the flow continued:
‘That’s mainly why I thought we should lay on something for them to eat when they get back from church. God knows, I don’t want to turn it into some sort of grotesque cocktail party, but I usually try to have a little something ready for Gerald when he comes down. After all, it’s not as though he could stop off at an hotel for a meal.’
‘Why ever not, Betsy? I suppose he’s got two legs, hasn’t he?’
She gaped at me for a moment, then turned away, laughing.
‘No, my duck, I’m afraid that’s just what he hasn’t got. They were shot to pieces in the war, when he was in the Navy, and he’s paralysed from the waist down. Poor Gerald, he’s always so plucky and jolly about it. If you only saw him sitting down you’d never guess there was anything wrong, but he has to be carried about like a baby and put in and out of his wheelchair. He has a folding one now, which goes in the boot of his car.’
‘Goodness, Betsy, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
‘Why should you, my lamb? My fault for not mentioning it, but we’ve all got so used to it that we hardly think of it any more.’
‘Does he have someone to look after him?’
‘Oh yes, Peter. A dear man. He drives the car and does everything for Gerald, just like a sweet old nannie. The story goes that Gerald saved his life in the war, but I don’t know how true it is. Now, do you suppose sandwiches and wine will be enough, or ought I to try and make something which can be heated up when they get back? Oh dear, I do wish Albert’s wife had just had the decency to stay until all this was over. I could go quite mad when I think of her dishing up beautiful meals for that grubby little Ted Williams while we’re all in this state. And Albert’s such a nice, clean, considerate man. I can’t make her out at all.’
‘No accounting for the human heart,’ I reminded her, thinking of Jasper, as it happened. ‘I could knock up a few cheese straws if you like? They’re rather my forte.’
‘Oh, Tessa, could you really? You are a dear child! And that would give me a chance to get some of this washing-up out of the way. I’ve tried putting it into the machine, but it doesn’t seem to work very well for me. You’ll find some flour in the larder and I expect you know how to use the oven, don’t you?’
‘I’ll soon find out,’ I assured her, ‘but let me come there and wash my hands before I start.’
She had placed the red thermos in the sink, filling it from the hot tap, and she moved it to one side.
‘So you’ve got over your phobias, whatever they were?’ I asked her.
‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’ she answered placidly.
‘Well, people don’t normally go staggering around the place and throwing fits because of an old thermos,’ I pointed out. ‘From which I concluded that this one had disagreeable associations for you.’
‘You’re quite right, but wasn’t I an old silly? Just because poor Mamma had her last drink from it before she died, I had to have all these stupid nightmares. I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that the milk might . . . well, you know . . . have gone a bit sour or something, and it had upset her. The slightest physical shock was enough to bring on an attack, you see, which could have been fatal, and for a time I worked myself into a fine old state about it.’
‘But you don’t any longer believe there was anything wrong with the milk?’
‘No, no, I’m positive there wasn’t. To be honest, Tessa, I don’t think the idea would have got such a hold on me in the first place, if it hadn’t been for Jasper. I very foolishly mentioned it to him and he got quite worried about it. That did alarm me, because you know what he’s like in the ordinary way? But he actually wanted me to get Dr Macintosh to have the remains of the milk analysed. I agreed to do that, just to put his mind at rest, you know, but then we couldn’t find the thermos and that made everything worse than ever; but of course it was all nonsense.’
‘But you hadn’t drunk any of the milk yourself, presumably?’
‘No, but it wouldn’t have helped much if I had. I might not have noticed if there’d been anything wrong.’
‘Why’s that? Have you lost your sense of taste?’
‘No, my dove, but I always stir some of my lovely malt mixture into it. Some people can’t bear it because it’s so sweet, and at the same time rather fishy-tasting, if you know what I mean; but so good and nourishing, specially if one hasn’t had time for more than a snack or two during the day. Anyway, it’s all over and done with now and we can forget about it. Albert is most meticulous about these things and when I plucked up courage to question him he assured me that he had filled the thermos himself, from an unopened bottle which had gone straight into the fridge that morning.’
‘What I don’t understand, Betsy, is what the nurse was doing, so that you had to be waiting on Maud at all at that time of night.’
For some reason this sent her into a fluster again:
‘What nurse? What are you talking about, Tessa?’
‘Jasper told me there was one on duty all night. Not true?’
‘Oh, you’re becoming as bad as all the rest of them,’ she said pettishly. ‘Always on at me to leave everything to those nurses, but why should I? They were all right, up to a point; very efficient, I daresay, when it came to medical matters, but they didn’t take the same interest. You couldn’t expect it; specially Maureen, the night nurse. She was a nice enough little thing in her way, and so pretty; but a bit careless sometimes, you know. Besides, it was a pleasure for me to look after Mamma and take care of those little extra things which a nurse wouldn’t bother about.’
‘So half the time, I suppose, you sent them off to the pictures and did the work yourself?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I was tempted to, many times, but I wouldn’t have dared, when Dr Macintosh might pop in at any hour of the day or night. They’d have got into awful trouble if one of them hadn’t been on duty. No, my darling, what happened that last time, the night Mamma died, was that I heard her bell ringing, so I just put my head round the door to make sure everything was all right and there was Maureen fast asleep on her camp-bed on the landing. I didn’t stop to wake her and when I discovered it was just that Mamma was feeling thirsty there wasn’t any need for it. I’d thought at the time that Albert’s wife had put a little too much salt in the consommé for dinner, and I simply went back to my room and fetched her some milk from my thermos. But she only drank a little drop, because she complained that it tasted so horribly bitter. So I went down to the kitchen and heated up some more from a fresh bottle, and sat with her for a little while until she went to sleep. But you see, my dearest, she never properly woke up again. She must have gone into some sort of coma, I suppose. Perhaps I dozed off too, because all I remember is hearing these terrible gasping noises . . . Then, of course, I ran and got Maureen at once. Luckily she was . . . she was awake by then, but it was too late to do anything. Poor Mamma died before Dr Macintosh could get here and I’ve been plaguing myself ever since with the idea that there was something wrong with the milk. I hadn’t dared utter a word to anyone but Jasper, but you’re such a sharp little Tessa, aren’t you? And to be honest with you, my dearie, it’s quite a relief to bring my silly ghosts out into the daylight. I was overwrought, you know, that’s all it was; and now we can both forget every word about it, can’t we, my lamb?’
The kitchen door opened before I could give any assurances, false or otherwise, on this point and Piers, Margot’s elder son, came in. As usual, he was a fairly brea
thtaking sight, being tall and elegant, and combining a Michelangelo profile with his mother’s beautiful dark eyes; and he and I were no doubt in perfect agreement in considering him to be one of the most handsome young men alive. We might conceivably have differed over his character, however, and furthermore his charm, although rigidly within the authentic Stirling pattern, was somehow forced and self-conscious, often causing those on the receiving end to feel embarrassed rather than exhilarated.
‘Teeny crisis, Auntie darling,’ he informed Betsy, when the hugging was over, ‘Sophie is convinced that the miscarriage is imminent. I don’t suppose you have any milk of magnesia, or anything of that kind handy?’
‘Oh dear!’ she wailed, sounding deeply concerned. ‘I don’t know, Piers. We may have, but would that really be the best thing for her? Oughtn’t we to ask darling Dr Macintosh to call? He’s going to the funeral in any case, so it wouldn’t be any trouble for him.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely, of course. Sophie would adore it, but in the meantime some magnesia would be a great help in staving the thing off. This is her fourth miscarriage in four months, so one gets to know the form. Perhaps darling Tessa could find some for us, if you’re terribly, terribly busy?’
‘Yes, would you, Tessa?’ Betsy asked me. ‘It will be in Mamma’s bathroom cupboard, if we have any, and Dr Macintosh’s number is on the pad by my bed. Just ask him if he would be very sweet and call in on his way to the Church.’
‘And do break the good news to Sophie, my angel,’ Piers added. ‘It will pep her up enormously to have a real live doctor taking an interest. Oh, but aren’t you the good, kind Tessa? Whatever should we do without you, I ask myself.’
I did not wait to hear the answer to this question but nevertheless paused outside the door to catch what followed it and heard Piers say, still in his fulsome, overpitched voice:
‘Oh, by the way, Auntie darling, I hate to bother you when you’ve got so much on your poor old plate, but there is just one tiny thing.’