Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  An attendant peeled the cloth away from Sally Foster’s face. Meredith and Peter, who had never seen anyone dead before, remained in the doorway while Jean made her farewell. The doctor stood beside Jean and heard her words. ‘You look so young,’ she began, smoothing a thread of hair into place. ‘I thank you for years of loyal friendship and for all you have done for my family.’

  Mike Beddows brushed a tear from his face.

  Jean bent forward and kissed the forehead of her dead friend. ‘He will pay, my dear. Oh yes, he will pay.’ She straightened, turned on her heel and walked to the door.

  Mike paused before following her. Had he heard correctly? Was Jean Chandler intending to take the law into her own hands? Surely not. This was a God-fearing woman of principle, one whose backbone had, of necessity, strengthened in recent days. Was she going to kill her husband? As he looked down into Sally Foster’s face, he felt a bubble of fear rising in himself. These two women had been close, had been driven closer to each other by the machinations of Richard Chandler.

  ‘Are you coming, Dr Beddows?’ called Jean. ‘We must get back home – there are things to be done.’

  He sighed and took one last look at Sally. Things to be done? Jean Chandler was speaking like a housewife whose chores awaited her return; she was too cool for his comfort. It was as if today’s events had reached some rock bottom in Jean, because there was determination behind the shock. Yes, she was bruised right down to her foundations, and the doctor dreaded the outcome. In his area of work, he dealt with the sick, the dying and the furious. He had met anger in its many forms and he would have preferred to bear the brunt of a strong man’s ire than to share space with the cold fury of a woman who had seen the edge.

  Mike Beddows followed the Chandler family along the green-floored corridor, breathed in the stench of disinfectants, a smell with which he had become familiar during his student days. Jean led the way, was the first to reach reception, the first outside, the first to arrive at her son’s car. As he climbed into his own vehicle, Mike Beddows tutted under his breath. This had been a nasty day; and judging from the expression on the face of Jean Chandler, there would be more unpleasantness ahead.

  Jeremy took the news reasonably well, mostly because he was too exhausted to feel anything at all. The hours during which his mother, Meredith and Peter had been absent had all melted into a blur of activity. Henry Chandler had vowed never to set foot upstairs in the grange again, with the result that his grandson and a handful of village boys had been employed in the business of furniture removal.

  ‘Where is your grandfather?’ Jean asked.

  Jeremy ran a hand through tangled hair. ‘He is in the small drawing room with a wardrobe and a load of other stuff. He will use the downstairs facilities and intends to have a small bathroom built on to his quarters. He is the lucky one, because he is asleep.’ He sank into the wing chair. ‘Poor Nanny Foster.’

  ‘And Aunt Anna?’

  ‘Cooking,’ warned Jeremy.

  Normally, someone would have made a remark about Anna’s cooking, as she was famous for culinary disasters, but both breath and energy seemed to have been removed from members of the Chandler clan. The three young ones remained in the drawing room while Jean, after dredging up the necessary energy, went to impart the bad news yet one more time.

  Anna, battling furiously with a paring knife and a potato, placed both on the table when Jean arrived. ‘Well?’

  ‘She died.’

  The old woman swallowed noisily. ‘Did she die because of my nephew’s actions?’ she asked after a silence of several seconds.

  Jean nodded.

  ‘Then what is to be done? He cannot be excused, Jean. He must pay the price for his crime.’

  Jean sat down. Everyone ‘knew’ what needed to be done. The doctor, Meredith, Peter, even herself – yes, she was well aware of the facts. But her mind, as clear now as the proverbial bell, had needed no engine to drive it to its own conclusion. ‘Anna, he has been certified insane because his behaviour was so bad when he was taken away. There is a possibility that the killing of Sally might be judged a mere aberration, something he did while in his cups – an accident, even.’

  ‘I see.’

  Did Anna see? Did she really? ‘He could be confined to a hospital, but I want …’ The words died.

  ‘You want?’

  Jean inhaled; something in the oven was burning – she would have to tell Sally. Oh, Sally. ‘I want him here, Aunt Anna. I want him punished properly. The law is often blindfold and labours under too many restrictions.’

  A wall clock in the hallway outside chimed the hour, the aged mechanism seeming to cough its way towards nine. The two women stared at each other and, in that fraction of time, they achieved full contact. Jean breathed again, wondered what Anna had managed to destroy this time. The something in the oven continued to burn – where was Sally? No, no – why would her soul not accept the truth? The clock finished its job, whirred a sigh of relief and gave itself a rest that would last for another quarter-hour. Jean could not tell Sally about the burning. There was a will in a bureau in Sally’s room; Sally no longer needed a room. Sally’s preferred method of self-disposal had been announced years ago – she wanted cremation. ‘You must move back into the grange.’ Jean’s voice was damped down to a near-whisper. The meat in the oven was being cremated.

  Anna took a less than clean handkerchief from a sleeve and wiped her face. She had not wept, but beads of perspiration ran down her forehead – the room was far too warm for her liking. She longed for a cigarette, but Jean was staring at her so hard that she felt almost riveted in her current position.

  ‘There is some cold pork,’ Jean informed her husband’s aunt.

  Anna remained motionless. It had taken a lifetime for Jean Chandler to reach the uncomfortable place in which her psyche now resided. The silence continued, each woman maintaining full eye-contact with her companion. They hated him and that hatred filled the room, mixing with a thread of pale blue smoke that had begun to emerge from the oven.

  ‘Cold pork,’ said Anna eventually, ‘and yes, I shall be here in residence when the damned fellow returns, though I wish to keep the gatehouse. My independence is precious to me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And it was as simple as that; at nine o’clock on an autumn evening, two women reached a decision too awesome for words. The bitterness left unexpressed was easily as acrid as the room’s atmosphere.

  When all unspoken business was concluded, the pair worked in tandem, Anna frying chips, Jean dividing up yesterday’s pork and some small tomatoes. Sally had cooked the pork and there would be Sally’s scones with butter and strawberry jam. ‘I don’t think I can eat,’ announced Jean when the meal had been thrown together.

  ‘Of course you can,’ chided Anna. ‘You will eat to remain strong for your family; you will eat to remain strong for yourself. Most of all, you will eat because I order you to. We shall have much to face, you and I. By the way – what is the official explanation for Sally Foster’s death?’

  ‘A fall downstairs and a collision with the hall stand.’

  ‘And the doctor will say nothing?’

  Jean thought about that. ‘He is a doctor, so he keeps secrets. Also, I am the only witness.’

  ‘Very well.’ Anna clattered a tangle of cutlery into the centre of the large table. ‘We shall eat in here. Sit,’ she snapped. ‘I will call Meredith and the boys. And, by the way, my brother, who is now ensconced in your sitting room, has spoken with the lawyers. He is back in command.’

  Jean felt a slight smile threatening to emerge onto lips that were parched and stiff. ‘Really? That will upset someone, I suppose.’

  ‘It will indeed. My goodness, the apple-cart promises to be truly upended. Tell me – how do you feel about Polly Fishwick?’

  Jean pondered. ‘I have no feelings about her.’

  ‘Good, because she will become one of our soldiers – I believe Henry will insist upon her imme
diate enlistment.’

  While waiting for her children to arrive at the table, Jean entertained a thought that might have been amusing under different circumstances. Richard Chandler would return home to his reinstated father, his aunt and, quite possibly, his mistress. Polly didn’t like him either. In spite of everything, Jean managed two slices of pork and a few chips. Yes, she needed to keep up her strength …

  Sally Foster had always been neat. A place for everything and everything in its place had been the good woman’s motto. Now, her place would be in a coffin and the funeral director would be responsible for that final tidiness.

  Jean opened the little bureau and picked out the will. Underneath the large envelope lay a smaller one, Jean’s name executed on the front in the dark blue ink so favoured by her friend. She opened the latter item first; it had been written yesterday, the very evening on which Sally had been attacked. She read the date, then placed the page on a bedside table; her eyes had clouded over and she could not see well enough to read.

  Even through the fog caused by grief, Jean could pick out the room’s familiar objects. How many times had she cried in here? How many times had this sweet woman comforted her? There was little of Sally here. Photographs of the three children decorated the mantelpiece, various stages of their lives portrayed and kept in order of age. Order. Yes, this had been an ordered adulthood, had been about controlling the immediate environment, because Sally Foster’s youth had been chaotic. Passed from one family to another, back and forth to various orphanages – how apt her surname had been. And then Sally had fostered the Chandler family and had made a good job of that. There had been fun, days at the seaside, a fortnight in Devon, holidays in Scotland. On those occasions, Richard had not accompanied the family; his absence had made the holidays all the sweeter.

  When her tears had spent their course, Jean applied herself to Sally’s letter again. It was difficult to read and the reason for Sally’s poor handwriting became plain as Jean managed to decipher it. These short paragraphs had been written by a woman in pain.

  To Whom It May Concern via Mrs Jean Chandler or her executors.

  I am Sally Foster of Chandlers Grange, Chandlers Green, Nr Bolton, Lancashire.

  On the above date, I witnessed an attack on my employer, Mrs Jean Chandler of this same address. She was viciously assaulted by her husband, Mr Richard Chandler. He tried to strangle her. When I rescued her, he hit me very hard in my stomach and I feel unwell. Should anything happen to me as a result of his criminal behaviour, accept this as testimony.

  Mrs Jean, I have written the above in case one or both of us might become ill or even be killed by him. He has done it once and may well do it again. My pain is bad, though it will probably pass, but, having witnessed your husband’s total loss of control, I am keen to leave this dated message alongside my will. He is a bad man and should be dealt with.

  I sign this document formally with my full name, Sally Margaret Foster.

  Jean Chandler reread the message, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. It should be taken as soon as possible to her lawyer. The will would have to be read by a solicitor and this, too, should be handed over. Murder or manslaughter, the man should be dealt with. And yet … And yet what? Why was she holding back? For her children, for herself, for the good name of the family? Or was she taking control now, just as Sally had done? A plan was forming itself, its inception not a part of her conscious mind. It dwelt at a level where thought did not reside, was a component of a deeper seam that contained instincts whose nature was almost animal.

  She would go to her bed now. As Anna Chandler had said several times this evening, Jean would be needing her strength.

  ‘I am not doing it, Miss Chandler, so you might as well stop wasting your breath.’

  ‘You have not listened properly.’ Anna righted the wobbly hat and looked round the living room of Woodside Cottage. ‘He isn’t there,’ she repeated yet again. ‘He is in a hospital drying out, Mrs Fishwick.’

  ‘And when he’s dry, he comes home, right?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I expect so. He was raving so loudly that he was certified unfit for society. That will need to be reversed – but yes, I have no doubt that we shall be enjoying the pleasure of Richard’s company within weeks.’ The hat was becoming a trouble, so Anna removed a hatpin whose length was remarkable and placed the headgear on Pol’s dresser. ‘This cottage belongs to my brother. We need to move you out while we render it fit for human habitation.’

  Pol folded her arms. ‘Then I shall go to town and find a job. I’m not living in that crazy house. What do you want me for, anyway?’

  ‘For my brother, who has taken a liking to you. Also, for stewardship.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Anna sighed as she noticed a chip on one of her nails. How best to explain this woman’s role in the future of Chandlers Grange? ‘A couple of nights ago, I stood in your garden and watched you dealing with Henry. You did very well. He is a bruised soul who has just retrieved his own dignity. You helped him do that.’

  In spite of her better judgement, Polly was flattered. Yes, she was good with old people. Perhaps she might get a job in an old people’s home, one of those private places up at Heaton, though that might be hard work, she told herself. ‘I like him,’ she admitted with reluctance, ‘but I can’t stand Richard Chandler. I want to get as far away from him as I can. I’d sooner have a job emptying Hitler’s chamber pot than live in the same house as that bloody man.’

  ‘And stewardship is a responsible matter, you know. Collecting rents, making a note of anything that needs doing on the tenant farms. You would be given some smart clothes and a room next door to Henry’s. Your food, heating and lighting would be free, very few expenses of your own.’

  How many more members of this damned family were going to try to bribe her into compliance in one form or another? ‘I’ve been offered a job already by that flaming nephew of yours and he can bugger off, too. He wanted me to spy on the folk who are moving into Miss Forrester’s old house.’

  ‘Claughton Cottage?’

  ‘Aye. I were supposed to be nice to them.’

  Anna knew the reason for that. She had discovered the name of the man who had bought the cottage and had added two and two together. Martindale. Yes, there had been trouble during the war, and a Martindale had played a part in an early come-uppance of her nephew. Perhaps the imminent arrival of Mr Martindale had pushed Richard into his most spectacular binge so far. ‘What did he ask you to do?’ Anna kept her tone light, as if she were discussing the weather or a recipe for fish.

  ‘Well, I had to pretend to be her friend. I would have kept this house and he would have paid money into the bank for me.’ Pol sniffed loudly. ‘He’s sly.’

  Anna marked the understatement and managed not to laugh. ‘You know how he treated his wife the other day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the housekeeper died.’

  Clearly stunned by this information, Polly sat bolt upright. ‘Did he kill her?’

  The visitor waited a few seconds before replying. ‘He was not completely without guilt. There was an accident during the fracas. She died last night in the infirmary. Her spleen was ruptured.’

  Polly Fishwick shivered involuntarily. She hadn’t liked Sally Foster, because the woman had been a bit stuck up and hadn’t been one for acting friendly in the village shops, but— Dead? ‘Bad bastard,’ she cursed softly. Lifting her chin, she addressed Miss Anna Chandler. ‘His wife knows I used to be his mistress. What would she want me there for? I’ve never heard of anybody as wanted their husband’s bit of stuff hanging round the house.’

  Anna squashed another grin. For a bit of stuff, Polly Fishwick was extraordinarily large. ‘Henry wants you – he needs you. As for Jean, she is sweet-natured and forgiving—’

  ‘She’s not like you, then.’

  Anna’s mouth twitched. ‘No. She married into my family, so she shares none of my blood. Polly, remember that Jean has just lost her
housekeeper. She will need all kinds of help.’

  ‘I’m no good at housework.’

  Anna’s gaze wandered round the cluttered room. ‘I can see that. To be perfectly truthful, I am no great shakes at it myself, but we cannot be good at everything, can we? These are exciting times, Polly. Jean has told me that the youngsters are going to set up a business in Bolton. There will be much to do.’

  Polly was wavering. For some stupid reason, she liked this daft old bat with her too-big clothes and strangely elegant nails. ‘I could do a trial,’ she offered hesitantly. ‘But, Miss Chandler—’

  ‘Anna. Call me Anna.’

  ‘Well, whoever you are, I’m still saying the same thing. Once he gets out of the hospital and finds me up yon, there’ll be bloody murder.’

  There had already been bloody murder, mused the older woman. ‘And there’ll be three of us and one of him. Also, don’t forget that Henry has taken back the reins – he is in charge now.’

  ‘Aye, but the other bugger’ll kill me.’

  Anna glanced through the open door at the object hanging next to the window. ‘Bring your trophy along,’ she said mischievously, ‘we can hit him with that.’

  Polly looked at Anna. Anna looked at Polly. Then the laughter started. The mirth was the glue and, within ten minutes, Polly found herself agreeing to a month’s trial at the grange, though she refused to bring the battered pan.

  Meredith arrived at 34 Emblem Street with her brother and a letter. The missive, addressed to Mrs Martindale, was from Jean. ‘I still think it’s a stupid idea,’ muttered Meredith as she stepped out of the car. ‘Marie’s mother hasn’t been well – that’s the reason for the move.’

  Peter shrugged. ‘Marie’s mother will be lonely up there. Look how they live.’ He glanced up and down the street, wondered how many people were crammed into these tiny dwellings. They were on top of each other, never short of company.

  ‘There’s something going on,’ Meredith said. ‘I think Mother is out of her mind. Great-Aunt Anna has always been crazy, but Mother? Our father murders Nanny Foster and—’