‘I know. He called me mad. And when I still had the whisky in my system, I really was mad, you know. Now, I give them hell, because hell is what they deserve. But I am not completely insane.’
She placed the poker on the hearth. ‘All right. So, why did you keep grabbing girls, then? If you’re not crazy, you could be arrested for that.’ She found herself unable to work out how his mind functioned. There was sense in him, that was certain, so why had he advertised himself as insane? According to Dave Armstrong, some of this man’s habits were positively revolting.
‘I haven’t the brain I used to have,’ he admitted. ‘But if you put an animal in a cage, it loses its wits. It gets angry, too. I fought my jailers, sometimes because I was raging, sometimes because I could not quite work out what was going on around me. At first, the drink was still in me, so I was seeing things, hearing things. That was when they decided that I was past saving.’
Polly poured milk into a pan, stirred cocoa, cold milk and sugar into a paste, waited for the pan to boil on the fire. What on earth did the old man expect of her? Shrivelled by age, he remained strong enough to require watching by grown men, angry enough to be out of his head from time to time.
‘I want you to fetch the doctor tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I have to make sure of some things. He hasn’t seen me for months, so he probably thinks I am still crazy.’ He paused, held his hands out to the fire. ‘I want my proper status returned to me. The grange is my house, not Richard’s. He has stepped in, and from what I have heard he is drinking so heavily that he could not tell the difference between tripe and treacle. That milk’s coming to the boil.’
Polly rescued her pan, made his drink. The difference between tripe and treacle? That was the line which finally convinced her. Henry Chandler was bruised, but sane. He was even amusing in a sense, was quite a pleasant old man. She had heard about delirium tremens, about the nightmares that needed to be overcome before sense returned. ‘So there was nothing wrong with you apart from the drink?’
He grabbed the mug of cocoa and wrapped thin, almost transparent fingers around its heat. ‘I think age has caught up with me. But I have made up my mind—’ He took a gulp of cocoa. ‘Tell me your name again? Wasn’t your husband the woodsman?’
‘I’m Polly Fishwick, usually called Pol. Derek was the woodsman, till I half-killed him. He’s gone off now, Chorley, I believe, working in some sort of factory. He found out that—’ Should she? Should she tell him? ‘I was going with your son, Mr Chandler.’
Henry nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. Well, you weren’t the first and you’re not going to be the last. He’s beaten up his wife, you know. I almost stayed behind, because she was on the floor – so was that housekeeper of hers. But I didn’t. I like Jean – she’s been a good mother to my grandchildren. They wouldn’t have let me stay downstairs – the two thugs were right behind me. My bodyguards. I am a prisoner and I don’t deserve to be, because there are times when my mind is clear. It’s clear now and they can all bugger off, because I am not going to be trapped in my own house. It’s not right. I am digging in my heels.’
That was yet another long speech for a supposedly disordered old man. Polly sipped at her own cocoa. She still had no idea of what to do. Here he sat in his nightshirt, mug of cocoa in his hand, a very old man on a very cold night, and she needed her bed. He was showing no sign of moving, looked as if he might be preparing to dig in for the whole night. ‘You can sleep on the sofa, then.’ Her eyebrows lifted of their own accord, because the words had emerged on their own, with no help at all from their speaker.
‘Thanks.’
‘More cocoa, then? Bit of toast?’
He grinned, displaying dentures whose edges had inflicted many wounds on the persons of Dave Armstrong and others who had been elected to mind him. ‘Thank you. We shall do very well, you and I, Pol. Yes, we shall do very well indeed …’
Anna Chandler, her dark coat wrapped tightly about her frame, stood in the garden of Woodside Cottage. Through a small gap in the curtains, she watched the scene, her brother and Pol Fishwick sharing cocoa, the poker returned to its holder, the occupants of the room relaxing in each other’s company. She had tried to stop him, had wanted to catch him, to guide him to the gatehouse and safety, but did she need to?
Through the frail glass, she caught snatches of their conversation and decided to leave well alone. Pol was displaying a level of understanding that belied her reputation. So, what had happened, then? How on earth had Henry managed to escape from confinement? Anna had seen him dashing past her house and towards the woods, had grabbed her coat, had followed him here. Would others be in pursuit?
He must not be found. As soon as she was satisfied that her brother was safe, Anna walked back into the woods. Here she had played as a child and, with the moon full, she had no trouble in negotiating her way homeward. Her steps quickened; yes, she must get back, must be there when the questions were asked, because there would be questions …
Some fifteen minutes later, as she entered her own home by the back door, she heard them knocking at the front. Quickly, she threw off her coat and hat, then ran to the door and opened it. Two louts stood on her doorstep. ‘Yes?’ she snapped.
‘We’re looking for Mr Henry,’ said one.
‘Asleep in bed,’ she replied. ‘One foot over this doorstep and you shall know the meaning of trouble. Do you understand?’
Eddie Barford and Stan Clarke looked at each other. Was she telling the truth? Gossip hereabouts said that she had left home because of her brother’s containment upstairs – so – was the old man here? Or was she just playing for time? ‘We’ve to take him home,’ said Stan. ‘They want him back at the grange before he catches his death of cold.’
‘He is home,’ she replied in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Now, leave my property before I fetch the shotgun. This is Henry’s place of residence now.’ They could have overcome her quite easily and she knew it; she also knew that they dared not touch her. ‘Go,’ she shouted, ‘get away from here and do not come back.’
They stepped away and Anna, pleased, slammed the door home. A bad attitude was useful at times, she told herself as she prepared for bed. They would not return, because Miss Anna Chandler was feared easily as much as the fiercest headmistress. Smiling to herself, she lit her last cigarette of the day and ascended the steep and narrow staircase. Tomorrow promised to be interesting … exceedingly so.
Dr Michael Beddows placed his bag on the table and surveyed the scene. Had it not been tragic, the situation might even have been described as funny, because here sat a man with a huge ego, a man who acted as if he owned the village and all its residents – and that man was trussed up like a Saturday afternoon matinee cowboy at the mercy of redskins.
‘Untie me,’ roared the trapped man. ‘Doctor, they held me at gunpoint and—’ A sudden eruption of vomit cut off the remainder of Richard Chandler’s diatribe.
‘Nan and my mother are in there,’ said Jeremy, plainly unmoved by his father’s distress. ‘I think they are all right, but he tried to strangle Mother and he punched Nan Foster very hard in her stomach. Will you look at them, please, Dr Beddows? They deserve attention.’ He cast a withering glance in the direction of the drunk who was secured to an Edwardian carver. ‘His illness is self-induced. Oh, by the way, Grandfather is missing. His two guards are out looking for him.’
Peter blinked away the wetness from his eyes, found himself thinking of a fireside in Bolton, of a man and a woman who clearly belonged together, of laughter and friendly insults and apple pasty with love baked into it. Was this self-pity? Was he wishing that he had been born poor, that he had grown up in the shadows cast by chimneys, in air polluted by fumes and smoke? Father was in a dreadful state. Covered in vomit, face purple and stained with dried blood, the man looked like a tramp, a vagrant. Oh, God, yes – anything at all rather than this …
Mike Beddows picked up his bag and went to look at the women. Anger simmered, but he sat on it, was determinedly
professional as he examined two decent people who had deserved none of this. And had Richard learnt nothing from the behaviour of his own father, an old man who was now locked away for most of the time? So, he was on the loose, too … Oh, this threatened to be a very long night.
He returned to the scene of Chandler’s crimes. ‘They will be sore for a few days,’ he advised the sons of the family, ‘but there is no permanent damage. They have refused X-rays and do not wish to involve the police. So …’ He sat down and stared at Richard. ‘So, that leaves this fellow. Not a pretty sight.’
Richard’s breathing was erratic; his stomach heaved again, but delivered nothing. The edge was wearing off now; the cloak of drunkenness no longer embraced him, was refusing to protect him from reality. He was tied to a chair, to his own chair in his own house. And his own sons had placed him here, had confined him, had even poured away his whisky.
The doctor was staring at the bin. ‘That’s quite a blend,’ he commented.
‘At least three brands,’ replied Jeremy, ‘one of them a twelve-year-old single malt. Better in there than in his stomach.’
Mike Beddows considered the problem. Two women had been attacked, an old man had escaped and Richard Chandler was magnificently drunk. He had attended the women, could do nothing immediate about Henry. Now he had to decide the fate of Richard.
The latter raised his head and glared at the twins, eyes sliding from one to the other, cracked lips parting as he gasped against the urge to vomit. ‘I’ll kill the pair of you,’ he threatened.
Dr Beddows made his decision. The man was clearly dehydrated, was mad enough to renew his attack once given water and released from bondage, seemed capable of threatening lives all over again. ‘I shall get an ambulance,’ the doctor announced. ‘Your father is in need of treatment. I shall also need the signature of a second doctor – your father may need to be forcibly removed, so I shall need a colleague.’
Peter’s shoulders sagged with relief.
‘Yes, it’s rather a case of removing the rotten fruit to save the good.’ There was sarcasm etched into Jeremy’s statement.
They sat and waited for the vehicle that would remove Richard Chandler from Chandlers Green, near Bolton, Lancashire.
‘Where are you sending him?’ Jean’s voice came from the drawing-room doorway. Her hair was a mess, lipstick smudged, eyes red with weeping.
‘He will go into a nursing home that deals with such … such cases. He will be treated for whatever ails him.’
Jean approached the central table, Sally Foster hot on her heels. ‘Can he be cured?’
‘Not unless he wants to be,’ replied the doctor, ‘and he is probably unaware of his dependency – or unwilling to face it. He will be weaned off the drink. We can only try.’
Jean Chandler placed a hand at her throat. It was as if his tightened fingers were still there and she wondered how near she had come to being dead. Placing herself in the one remaining chair, she shivered involuntarily. ‘My father-in-law must be found,’ she croaked. ‘He is too old to be out in weather such as this.’ A huge sigh escaped from her lips. ‘So, now we house two alcoholics.’
The doctor made no reply. He realized that Jean Chandler’s verdict was correct, yet he remained unwilling to discuss tomorrow until tonight had been tidied away. The man in the chair needed fluids; he was possibly suffering from alcohol poisoning – and suffering was his duty, was the price that must be paid. And the other good people in the household owed nothing; therefore, removal of Richard Chandler was the only sane option.
A second doctor entered the house and agreed with Dr Beddows’ diagnosis. Papers were signed and placed in an envelope. The ambulance arrived and Mike Beddows went out to talk to its crew, returning quickly with two white-coated men and a straitjacket. He glanced at Jean, at Peter, at Jeremy, then, finally, he spoke to Sally Foster. ‘Take them all into the drawing room and close the door.’ The tone of the doctor’s voice made clear the fact that he would brook no argument.
The four residents of Chandlers Grange sat and listened while the supposed head of this disordered household was restrained by professionals. His objections to the process were loud; Jeremy sat on a sofa, one arm clutching at his mother. Peter held the shaking hand of Nanny Foster while all hell broke loose on the other side of the door.
Finally, Mike Beddows entered the drawing room. ‘Two things,’ he announced. ‘The boys who were caring for old Mr Chandler have arrived; your aunt pretended to be sheltering him, but they were not satisfied by her explanation, so they carried on the search. He is in the woodsman’s cottage.’
He smiled wryly. There were two women round here with whom he would prefer not to tangle – one was Anna Chandler and the other was Pol Fishwick; those two boys had faced both within minutes. But the old man was safe, at least. As long as Pol Fishwick did not arm herself against him, that was.
‘Pol Fishwick?’ croaked Jean. ‘He is with … that woman?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Apparently, he is in Polly Fishwick’s cottage and he has fallen asleep on her sofa. According to Polly, he is perfectly lucid and has eaten with her. Secondly, your husband is about to be removed, Jean. I cannot help him – he needs specialist treatment.’ He looked at the huddled forms and cursed inwardly. ‘The demon drink makes some lives hell.’ Shaking his head, he left the arena with the colleague who had helped him certify Richard Chandler as insane.
Jean rose to her feet. ‘We should all sleep,’ she advised her companions. ‘Grandfather is safe and we can do nothing tonight.’ She glanced at Jeremy. ‘Tomorrow, you and the village boys must bring him home. For the moment, we have all had more than enough.’
‘I don’t know whether I am coming or going.’ This statement was delivered by Leena Martindale who, under the watchful eye of her daughter, was supposed to be selecting furniture for her new home in Chandlers Green. ‘I’ve had enough.’ She sat down abruptly, an elbow leaning on the wrap-around fireguard. ‘I’ve got your father running round talking about damp courses and four-poster beds, then there’s you.’
Marie raised an eyebrow. ‘Me? What about me?’
Leena motored on. ‘On top of all that, there’s the dry rot, the wet rot, the roof and the guttering – it’s like a war all over again up yon. Last time we went, there were four men on the roof and they’d lost the fifth bloke – he was last seen in the back garden and they were talking about sending for tracker dogs.’
Marie tried not to smile. ‘What about me?’
‘You could lose a platoon in that jungle. Any road, he was at the shop getting baccy and a paper— What do you mean, what about you?’
‘You said there was me.’
‘And I don’t like the colour they’ve painted the house, I’d sooner have blue. A nice Wedgwood—’
‘Mother?’
‘What?’
‘Me? About me?’
Leena relaxed and stretched out her legs. ‘Well, I can’t take it off you, can I? That’s the trouble with being a mother. Now, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going—’
‘You already said that.’
‘I know I have, so shut up. Like I said, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, and you don’t know whether you’re coming or stopping. If you’re coming, I can take some of this stuff with me. If you’re stopping, I won’t take it. But if I don’t take it and buy new, then if you decide you are coming after all, I’ll have new stuff and old stuff and I don’t know what I’m talking about.’
They both dissolved into tears of laughter. These roundabout conversations were becoming a part of daily life now that work on Claughton Cottage was under way. To add to the troubles, Alf and Bert spent almost every evening in this very room, plans spread all over the table, arguments burgeoning while the beer jug emptied, both men hot under the collar as they discussed the merits of pebbledash versus the virtues of cement rendering, whether to have a greenhouse, which roof tiles to use, whose turn it was to go up to the off-licence for a refill.<
br />
‘Mam?’
‘What?’
‘I won’t stay up there. I’ll visit a lot, but I shan’t want to live there. It is lovely, really. I’m sure I’ll enjoy the break when I get there, a bit of peace and quiet, but that’s all.’
Leena hooted again. ‘Peace and quiet? You must be joking. Did I tell you about the owls? Night birds? Tell the feathered beggars that, because they come and go in daylight, too. And what about them cows as got in from the back field? They left deposits everywhere. Now, as well as all that, there’s the pub. Your dad has become attached to it. They have fights there, because they take their darts and their cards very serious. You could get hanged for cheating.’
Marie settled back. Mam was going to leave her most of the furniture, Josie and Aggie would be moving in, she had met a very charming young man and she might stand half a chance of getting out of that flaming job. If she wasn’t very careful, Marie Martindale was in danger of becoming extremely happy.
Alf came in. He was grumbling under his breath. Hot on his heels, Bert Ramsden was in argumentative mode. ‘You can’t beat slate. I’ve been in this here business for donkey’s years and I have a lot of faith in slate.’
‘Who’s paying for these alterations, eh?’ replied Alf. ‘Me, that’s who. And that small bedroom needs a new window frame – I don’t care what you say about splicing wood in where the rot is.’ He stopped, realized that his wife and daughter were both staring at him. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘What?’
Leena stood up. ‘Me and our Marie are going to bed. Your supper’s in the oven and I am beginning to wish we’d never bought that house. More trouble than enough, is Claughton Cottage.’
Alf blinked. He and Bert had taken a couple of pints in the Chandlers Arms, because it was becoming plain that Leena was sick unto death of plans and building talk every night. ‘Course, everyone in the Chandlers is an expert when it comes to renovations.’
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