Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Yes, but I can stop.’

  ‘So can I.’

  Michael Beddows nodded. ‘Yes, you stop when you are asleep. Well, one assumes that you do. Richard, your father was a drinker. Although I have not seen him in months, I do know what his problem is. So, you locked him upstairs, didn’t you? And, although I asked to see him, I was not allowed. Why is he up there? To keep him away from the very substance that you now abuse.’

  ‘He refused to see you.’

  ‘Did he? Well, I am summoned by him now. He is with Polly Fishwick in Woodside Cottage and I am due to visit him after I leave here. So he wants to see me now. What have you to say about that?’

  There was nothing to say. Richard Chandler turned his back on the visitor and waited for the door to swing shut after him. He would bide his time. He had no option but to bide his time …

  Mike Beddows drove round the edge of Chandlers Copse. The leaves had started to fall, and as he parked his car outside Woodside Cottage he heard autumn crackling beneath his wheels. He seemed to have spent his whole time lately with the Chandler family – the fracas last night, the certification of Richard; now Henry had been added to the cast of players. The whole business had lasted just a matter of hours so far, yet it felt like a lifetime.

  Stepping out, he felt that satisfying crunch as his shoes flattened more of nature’s debris. Childhood had been so simple – conkers, apple-stealing, pennies paid by farmers to the young who had helped at harvest time. Now, life was rather complicated, and the next complication stood falsely straight and tall in Polly Fishwick’s open doorway, navy-blue suit that was rather too large at the shoulders, a gleaming white shirt, tie, shining shoes.

  ‘Good afternoon, Dr Beddows,’ said Henry. ‘Do come in. Pol has made tea for us all.’

  Mike followed the old man into squalor that showed signs of an attempt at tidiness – newspapers and magazines piled in a corner, small bundles of clutter not quite hidden under chairs dirty enough to warrant a health warning. ‘And what can I do for you?’ he asked Henry Chandler.

  Pol, in a cleanish apron, placed a plate of biscuits on an upturned orange box covered by a rather garish scarf in red and white. There was a paper doily under the offerings and it was curling at the edges, probably as old as the house.

  ‘No, thanks, I have eaten.’ Mike could not manage to trust Pol’s cups, either. He sat down, glad that he was wearing dark clothes. ‘Mr Chandler?’

  ‘I want you to take my name off that list,’ said Henry.

  ‘Which list is that?’

  ‘The loony list, of course. I am not insane – am I, Pol?’

  ‘But you were never on any list, Mr Chandler,’ the doctor replied. ‘Had you been declared insane, I would have known. As far as I understood, you had taken yourself upstairs and you were behaving badly, but you were never on any kind of list.’

  Henry swallowed, Adam’s apple mobile beneath age-thinned skin. ‘But he took over – Richard took over. How did he do that if I was still master of my house?’

  Pol sniffed. ‘Forgery. You don’t need the doc, Hal, you need your lawyer.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Henry stood up. ‘You might as well give me the once-over while you’re here. And I understand you’ve carted my son off.’

  ‘He’s away, yes,’ replied Mike.

  The old man was in remarkable health, pulse steady, blood pressure just about right. But with his shirt open, Henry seemed alarmingly thin and Mike wondered whether he had been fed adequately. This had never been an unpleasant drunk. Married to a harridan of a woman, Henry had drowned himself in alcohol, had followed the Chandler tradition of hard living, hard drinking and the various illnesses resulting from those activities.

  ‘You don’t drink any more?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘No, I don’t.’

  Mike Beddows smiled as he put away the tools of his profession. ‘Well, you’ve a few years left yet. Eat well, walk as far as you can and stay away from fast women. As for the rest of it – the bank accounts and so forth, that is for your lawyer, as Mrs Fishwick says.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Henry struggled to fasten his shirt and tie, was pleased when Pol did it for him. ‘Why is Richard in hospital?’ he asked. ‘Is it because of what he did to Jean?’

  Mike paused on his way out. ‘I cannot tell you – part of my job is to keep my mouth shut. But go home, Mr Chandler.’

  ‘See? I told you it was safe.’ Pol turned from the old man and spoke to the medic. ‘His grandsons came for him, but I told them to come back later, after you had been. And I told him that his son had gone, but he got it into his head that he was going to be locked up again. He does get a bit confused.’

  The doctor almost growled. ‘So would we if we got kept upstairs. Get that lawyer. Goodbye, Mrs Fishwick. Would you like a lift?’ he asked the old man.

  ‘No, thanks. I want to talk to Pol.’ Henry sank into a lumpy armchair as soon as the doctor had left. ‘I’ve things to do, Pol – do you think Jean will help me?’

  With her eyes clouded by tears for which she could not account, Pol nodded. For a few hours, she had enjoyed the company of Grandad all over again. She was going to miss him. He had been good company, had relished fried egg and chips at lunchtime, had played draughts with her. There was no side to old Hal, no bluster. Oh, he had led a rum life, but he was all right now and she wanted him to stay.

  ‘You understand me,’ she heard him say. ‘When I can’t remember everything, you help. You showed me how to play draughts again. I can remember when you are here.’

  Pol swallowed a sob.

  ‘Come with me,’ he begged.

  Pol, the tough woman who had clobbered her spineless husband with a frying pan, who had tolerated Richard Chandler’s behaviour, who didn’t care about anyone, threw her pinafore over her head. She could not bear this.

  He struggled to his feet and put a thin arm round her plump shoulders. ‘What is it? What’s upset you?’

  ‘Your son wanted that. Wanted me to come and keep you quiet.’ She allowed him to see her tears. ‘But the missus wouldn’t have me there.’

  ‘It’s my house,’ he answered. ‘And I decide what happens there. Jean’s all right, you know. Once she gets used to you—’

  ‘No. I’m a whore, Hal. That’s all I am as far as she’s concerned. And you can’t blame her. I mean, she was fine with me this morning, but she’s not well, because he tried to strangle her. And as for that Mrs Whatsername – her with the face – well, she’d leave for a start.’

  ‘Foster. They call her Mrs because she’s the housekeeper, but she never married. That saved a good man, eh? And she’s all right, too. Come on, Pol, help me to get straight.’

  She smiled weakly. ‘You go home first. When you want me, send for me. But I’ve been there once today, Hal, and once was more than enough for me. One of your grandsons – well, if looks could have killed, I would have come out of there in a box with brass handles.’

  He sat down again and watched her as she dried swollen eyes. This was a good woman, a fine woman. She should not be living here in a place with a leaky roof and rotted window frames. Pol had embodied his final rebellion, had encouraged him to seek medical and legal advice, was the salt of the earth. He wanted to keep her by him, because she appreciated him, even seemed to care about him. After just a few hours, she had become a firm friend. ‘Right, have it your way,’ he said as his grandsons’ car drew to a halt outside. ‘But don’t disappear. I need you – you’re the bookmark in my memory. You understand me, Pol. I seem to work better when you’re around.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘There’s a few spaces in there, you know, and I need somebody who will keep putting the jigsaw together for me. Don’t let me down, Pol. Never let me down.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she managed, the syllables fractured by emotion.

  He disappeared. Polly sat and listened as the sound of the car engine faded. Never in her life had she felt so isolated.

  When Meredith arrived, Jeremy and Peter were nowhe
re to be seen. She found Sally Foster and learned that the boys had gone to fetch Grandfather. ‘But he bites,’ she said when given this information.

  ‘Apparently not,’ answered Sally. ‘It seems that your father had his reasons for keeping us away from Mr Henry. A lot of his behaviour came from the drink, and then, when he improved, he decided to fight back.’ Sally paused, a hand pressed to her side. ‘Well, I can see from your face that you know about your father. Your mother has gone up to change.’

  Meredith made off upstairs and found Jean seated in front of her dressing table. Unaware of her daughter’s presence, she was examining the mark on her throat. Realizing that she was not alone, she flung the scarf round her neck and turned. ‘Meredith – I am so glad to see you.’

  But the younger woman remained where she was. How could her father have done that? And to Jean, who was an excellent wife, no moaning and groaning, no complaining when her husband came and went, when he visited his mistress, when he was too drunk to stand? ‘Mother, I am so sorry.’

  ‘This is not your fault.’

  ‘I could have stopped him. I could have—’

  ‘Exactly what your brothers said, my dear. Well, your father is away and we have the time now to work out what must be done.’

  Meredith perched on the edge of the bed. Her strong young legs were suddenly incapable of supporting her; she wanted to run to Mother, to hold her and comfort her, but her knees were on strike. Oh, that dreadful purple mark – what a mess. Hidden now, it remained vivid in Meredith’s mind, the evidence of her father’s badness. She hated him. Why wouldn’t he die? And it was wrong to feel like this about a parent …

  ‘Sally is not well,’ said Jean.

  ‘He hit her, too, or so I understand.’

  Jean nodded. ‘He did. And now he is declared unfit in his mind.’

  ‘Rubbish. He is a drunk, that’s all.’

  Jean stood up, walked across the room and sat next to her daughter. ‘I could not phone you – my voice was affected. And Peter tried to visit you last night, but you were out. Anyway, here we all are, quite safe, danger over and gone.’

  Meredith fiddled with her hair. This habit had pursued her from infancy and she indulged it whenever she was nervous. ‘So, what about the house? Do you stay here, do you move – which? Oh, what a mess.’

  Jean took hold of her child’s hand. ‘The mess was always there, sweetheart, but there was a thin coating of icing over it. At least we all know where we stand now.’

  ‘Until he comes out of hospital.’

  A huge sigh fought its way past Jean Chandler’s sore throat. The immediate future promised to be interesting, to say the least. It seemed that her father-in-law might not be as crazy as had been supposed. And Henry could well be the key to longer-term plans. ‘Wait and see,’ she whispered.

  The front door slammed. ‘Your brothers and your grandfather,’ said Jean. ‘Come along, let’s see what is what, shall we? Smile. You are so pretty when you smile.’

  Meredith managed a slight stretch of her lips. ‘Pretty? Wait until you see Peter’s conquest. She is a stunner. I shall never be as pretty as Marie. He will tell you about her himself, I am sure. And Jeremy is smitten, too, but he has not the same serious nature as Peter.’ And Josie would suffer no fools, Meredith pondered absently. She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Keep quiet about it – I am speaking out of turn.’

  They walked downstairs together and found the twins in the drawing room with Henry. The latter had claimed the winged chair: the master’s chair, the seat usually occupied by his son. Jean walked to his side. ‘Pa?’

  He stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you rescue me?’

  ‘We were not allowed near.’

  Henry tutted, his dentures clicking as he moved his tongue. ‘Well, I want a cup of tea and my solicitor – in that order. And a biscuit wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Meredith felt her shoulders melt towards relaxation. There was, after all, a senior male figure at Chandlers Grange. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she told the old man. Then she sat at his feet and her heart broke.

  Henry put a withered hand on the soft hair of his sobbing granddaughter. He might not have been quite the full shilling, but he would pull himself together, by goodness, he would. This girl deserved better – they all did. ‘Get some tea,’ he told Jeremy, ‘and you,’ he pointed at Peter, ‘you can phone Chapman. Tell him to get here quick smart, I’ve a few words to say to him and some of them will not be pleasant. Lawyers – huh!’

  Jeremy went into the kitchen to find Sally, but returned immediately, face pale, his expression one of bewilderment. ‘Nan’s unconscious on the floor,’ he gabbled. ‘And sweating. She looks odd. Peter, leave the solicitor for now – go and fetch Dr Beddows. Mother – come and look.’

  Peter dashed to the telephone as Jeremy and Jean ran into the hall. Meredith pulled herself together and followed them, while Henry, exhausted after his adventures, remained where he was. He had to remember things. Who was on the floor? Oh, he needed Pol.

  Jean mopped her housekeeper’s face with a flannel. Meredith and Jeremy, helpless and surplus to requirements, could only watch and wait. Nan Foster’s breathing was shallow and her face was the colour of parchment. The clock ticked endlessly slow seconds – when would the doctor come?

  Michael Beddows, who seemed condemned to keep repeating this journey, entered the grange once more. Crouching beside the supine form, he assessed the situation and came up with the only answer. ‘Ambulance,’ he snapped at Meredith. The woman was bleeding internally. Clearly in shock, she required surgery immediately. ‘Hurry,’ he shouted in Meredith’s direction.

  Peter spoke up. ‘Wouldn’t the car be quicker?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘She needs a stretcher. I shall go with her.’ He opened the motionless woman’s mouth and searched for obstruction. ‘She is in for a hard time,’ he informed the gathering. If she made it, she would be lucky, he told himself. Like everyone else in the room, he suffered a pang of hatred that was dedicated solely to the author of this piece, that disordered and vicious fool who was currently where he belonged.

  As they waited for help, each person present stared at the woman on the floor, wondering why on earth this had happened, willing her to breathe, hoping that she would survive the journey. When the ambulance finally arrived, they followed the attendants to the vehicle. Jean made a decision. ‘I shall come, too,’ she said. ‘This is my closest friend and we are all she has in the world. I shall go with her to the hospital.’

  The three children of Richard Chandler stood on the gravel path while the ambulance pulled away. Once it hit traffic, it would be blue lights and bells, but for now it moved in relative quiet, though swiftly. ‘We had better look after Grandfather,’ said Meredith once the vehicle had disappeared.

  ‘If she dies …’ Jeremy shook his head and went inside.

  Peter took hold of his sister’s hand. ‘Come on, old fruit, we’ve a thirsty old man in there – thank goodness he wants just tea and not whisky.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.

  ‘So am I,’ replied Peter. ‘It’s a good thing that we go through life blinkered against tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘If we could see things coming, we could perhaps stop them.’

  ‘Could we?’ he asked, his hand tightening on hers. ‘Could anyone stop Father? I suspect not. Grandfather was a drinker, but I am sure he never hit anyone until he got locked away.’

  She bit her lip hard. ‘We have a wicked father,’ she said, her voice still low. ‘God forbid that any of us should follow in his footsteps.’

  They went inside to reacquaint themselves with a grandfather who had been stolen, and had now returned. And the clock continued to mark each slow, painful second.

  * * *

  Anna stood outside her little home and watched as the ambulance pulled away. What the devil was going on now? That was the second emergency vehicle within a matter of hours and
she wondered who was ill this time. The news that her nephew had been taken away was the sole topic of conversation in the village shop – its occupants had clamped their loose tongues as soon as Anna had entered to make her purchases. God, what a mess. She would have to go up to the grange again, because her whole family seemed to be falling apart.

  She fed Pierrot and Columbine, scarcely noticing when the geese snapped at her fingers. The chickens were already settled with food, so she pulled on the dark coat and slammed the fedora onto her head, tilting it slightly backwards in an effort to keep the damned thing still. Ah, there was a wind. Practical as ever, she strapped the hat down by wrapping a scarf across its top and under her chin. It was time to face her grand-niece and -nephews and whatever else awaited in the big house. Meredith was there – she had passed Anna’s window less than an hour ago.

  She entered by the rear door, found a silent and empty kitchen, walked through to the drawing room. ‘Henry,’ she cried when she found her brother in his wing chair. ‘There you are.’

  ‘Don’t pretend to care,’ he snapped. ‘That Pol woman looked after me.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Woodsman’s wife.’

  ‘Yes.’ She peered into the hallway. ‘Where is everyone?’

  The old man scratched his balding pate. He needed to sort things out in his head and there was no Pol to prompt him. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I shall get there in a minute.’

  Anna sat opposite him and waited.

  ‘The girl and the boys are upstairs … er … Meredith, Jeremy – stupid names – and the other one.’

  ‘Peter,’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m not daft – I was getting there. My son, damn him, has been locked up somewhere because he took a swipe at … at Jean and the nanny. And …’ Telephone. Solicitor. No, it had been the doctor. ‘And the ambulance came and took the nanny and Jean away, because the nanny collapsed.’ Triumph wreathed his features. ‘See? I remembered all of it.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  He stared at her hard. ‘Why did you let him do it? Why was he allowed to shut me away like that? Does no-one care?’