“I’ve explained all that, Marion. I had dinner at Cuthbert’s one night, and the other time I was over at Tom’s.”
“Well, I hope they drove you home, that’s all. Elderly women out alone after dark aren’t safe any more, you know.”
“You’re not worried about rape, are you?”
“There’s no need to exaggerate, Mother. Not that it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to take a couple of kung fu lessons. I could teach you, if you’d only be serious about it.”
“A serious widow,” I say, repressing a smile.
“What?”
“Nothing. Well, I suppose we’d better be getting on. There’s just one more thing I want to buy.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Just a little bottle of malt whisky.”
“Malt – but whatever do you want that for?”
“Not for me. It’s for a friend.”
“What friend?”
“It’s Pam Wright’s old father, Sebastian Long. I’ve been to see him a few times. He’s laid up with a broken toe.”
“But what’s that to you, for goodness sake? Malt whisky costs –”
“I have money put aside,” I say stiffly. “I don’t expect you to pay for it.”
“That’s not really the point, Mother.”
“What is the point, then?” I look at her squarely and for once she glances away, looking a little uncomfortable. “Oh, all right,” she says. “You could make him a gift of a bottle of port or sherry for half the price, but there it is, if you want to throw money around …”
I pinch my lips together and say no more. Sulkily she follows me to the liquor outlet, muttering, “I’ll wait for you out here. It’s a zoo in there.”
It takes me a long time amid the crowds milling around the many shelves to find the malt whisky, and, as she predicted, the price gives me rather a shock. By now, though, my blood is up. I join the line-up at the cash desk and carry away my purchase with a feeling of solid achievement.
Someone is following me down McKenzie Street. As if it isn’t enough to have had problems first with Marion, and then with putting Cuthbert off for the evening, this has to happen. I step out more briskly. Half the battle, I’ve heard, is to look purposeful and confident, so I try to put as much as possible of these qualities into the muscles of my back. But the squeak of my boots on the hard-packed snow is echoed by a steady footfall behind that seems to keep pace. The long shadow of the follower swings out under the street light, stretching as if to touch me. Not daring to look back, I hurry on, fighting the temptation to break into a run. Why on earth have I waited till after dark to do this errand? Why didn’t I listen to Marion’s advice and warning? The answers to these good questions are far from satisfactory. I’ve waited because I am afraid to encounter Mrs. Blot on duty. And I didn’t listen to good advice because it came from Marion.
Meanwhile the steps behind me are quickening. I risk a swift glance back. A tall young man in toque and mittens raises a hand in greeting and calls, “Hi there, Mrs. Hill. I thought it was you.” It is young Max Wright. “On your way to Sebastian’s, are you?”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to gasp. “I am.”
“That’s nice for him. I’m just here to check the furnace is working – it conked out earlier today.”
“Your mother lent me a key back when Sebastian broke his toe, but I’ve been too busy to get round till now. I have a little Christmas present for him.”
“Great,” he says cheerfully. With an agile leap up the steps ahead of me, he unlocks the door and ushers me through with a polite flourish. The house is as usual dark inside but for a faint glow on the upper landing, and there is the same odour of solitude haunting the place; the same silence.
“Hoy!” calls Max up the stairs. “Ancestor! It’s Max. I’m here with a guest for you. I’ll just case out whether he’s still alive,” he adds in a lower voice. After dropping most of his outerwear in a heap on the floor, he bounds up the stairs two at a time in his socks. I follow sedately, after leaving my own things tidily in the hall cupboard.
In the bedroom I find Max vigorously stuffing pillows at Sebastian’s back. “There you are, then,” he says. “It’s only seven, after all. You can sleep any time. Here’s Mrs. Hill to see you.”
“Who?” the old man asks crossly.
“Mrs. Hill, Seb.”
“Never heard of her.”
“From next door. You met her at our place.”
“That’s no excuse.”
Max rolls his eyes at me meaningfully. “I’ll just run down to check that guy really did fix the furnace,” he says and disappears.
“Interference,” mutters Sebastian, following some dream or train of thought we have interrupted. “That plastic credit-card Mulroney and his interference. That furnace,” he adds, staring at me, “has been perfectly all right for thirty years, whatever is the boy on about?”
“I’ve brought you a little present,” I say, holding out the gift-wrapped box. He glances at it without interest and waves it away with one skeletal hand, like someone brushing off a fly. Then, peering at me with his faded eyes, he says, “Oh, it’s you, is it? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Rowena, the best present you could bring me would be a cyanide pill.” But his voice is more robust now, and he hitches himself higher on the pillows. “Well, sit down,” he adds, “you make the place untidy.”
“I just dropped in to wish you a merry Christmas,” I say, pulling a chair nearer the bed.
“If you’re referring to the birth of Christ, that may be a cause for celebration, though in my opinion it’s a highly debatable point. But if you mean this annual orgy of overspending and overeating we call Christmas, I say bah, humbug, and bugger it.”
“I can tell you’re enjoying yourself from the language,” remarks Max, who has soundlessly reappeared. He has a tin of beer and two glasses expertly gripped in one hand, and a bottle in the other. With neatness and speed he pours whiskies for us and pops open the beer for himself. “Cheers,” he says. “The furnace is okay.”
Sebastian bends his long face over his drink in a prayerful attitude before taking a noisy sup of it. “I could have told you that,” he says. “Nothing wrong with it at all.”
“Just checking,” Max says easily.
“Well, have you learned anything of significance at Queen’s this term?” he asks, staring at his descendant critically. “If so, let’s hear what it was.”
“Sure. I’m definitely getting better at the essays. Not the contents – I mean getting them in on time. Only one was late this month – like penalty-time late. Of course I had to sit up two nights in a row on bennies and coffee to do it, but what the heck.” He smiles at us with such charm that even Sebastian’s pessimistic face softens a little.
“Universities only postpone learning,” he remarks. “As witness that ingenuous confession. What is it you’re studying – we used to call it reading, which denotes a more adult activity – but it’s some pseudo-science like Sociology or Astrology, isn’t it?”
“Political science, Seb.”
“You mean P.P.E. – Politics, Philosophy, Economics. I went to a civilized institution where things were called by their proper names.”
“Queen’s is connected to Glasgow, which makes it half civilized,” Max counters mildly. “And did you know, Seb, that some universities in the U.K. offer a package called Canadian Studies these days? Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
The old man blows out a snort so powerful he has to push his upper plate back where it belongs. But Max is on his feet.
“Sorry, folks, but I’ve got to rush off,” he says, swigging off the last of his beer.
“You only just got here,” Sebastian says, frowning.
“Well, you know. Partying. ’Tis the season and all that.” Without self-consciousness he bends down and kisses his grandfather’s cheek. Sebastian’s thin hand briefly touches the boy’s fair hair. “Decent of you to come over,” he says. “Now don’t get drunk and
puke all over your host’s place tonight. Try to be a gentleman about it.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” he says cheerfully. We hear him thump two at a time down the stairs. After a brief pause the front door bangs shut behind him.
“That is a very nice boy,” I say. “Why did you needle him so, you wicked old man?”
“Because he’s young and I’m old, of course. Give me another shot of this. No, he could be worse, that lad. Never been in trouble with the police – so far, at least – and that’s about the best you can hope for at that age. Now don’t think of going just because he’s gone. You’re quite safe with me. Unfortunately. Once upon a time you wouldn’t have been – but that was long ago. Neutered as an old tom now. That’s something you females can never know … Once the balls are gone, the whole things’s gone – all might, majesty, dominion and power, which is prayer book for virility – all of it gone, and you’re left helpless in the hands of the women.”
“Well, maybe there are worse fates than that,” I say defensively; but halfway through I think of Mrs. Blot, and my voice lacks conviction.
“I doubt it,” he says, as if he has thought of her, too.
“You’ll be at Pam’s for Christmas Day, I suppose.”
“Yes. The goose will give me indigestion. So will she. Widow, aren’t you? What family have you got? Lots of children? The trick is to have none at all, or dozens, on the off chance that one of them might turn out to be congenial.”
“I have one daughter,” I say, and leave him to infer whatever he chooses from that.
“It was nice of you to drop in,” he says. “Just sweeten this a trifle, will you? And where’s this present, then? I’ll open it now.”
I hand him the parcel and he tears off the wrappings, which drift to the floor to join the Times, a pocket chess set and several books. “Ah,” he says approvingly. “I was afraid it might be a tie. What an excellent woman you are.”
“I thought you might like to keep it up here … for convenience.”
He gives me a keen look. “Not only excellent but perceptive and intelligent to a high degree. Ah, how you do light up when you smile, Rowena. You should do it more often.”
“I’m getting … a bit more practice now,” I say carefully.
“Like that, was it? Well, enjoy yourself while you can. It all goes soon enough.”
“You must have had plenty of good times in your life, Seb. Is it good to remember them, or not?”
“They’re gone, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but still –”
“No, remembering is a mug’s game, unless you enjoy irony. Here I am, a crippled old husk, breathing polluted air, drinking poisoned water (when I can’t get this stuff) and existing in a world where there is actually a government that puts its own citizens in front of a firing squad and then bills the family for the bullets. A chamber of horrors, this planet, and it seems to get worse all the time. But tell me this, Rowena –” and he reaches out a bony hand to grip my wrist “– tell me this; with so much corruption and misery everywhere in this rotten world, why are there moments like this when I want so much to stay in it?”
Cuthbert arrives while I am setting out red candlesticks on the white damask tablecloth embroidered by Nana long ago, and used only on festive occasions like Christmas Day.
“You don’t mind me coming a bit early,” he says, slipping his arms around me. “I was hoping, in fact, we might have a little time to ourselves before Marion comes … a little time for …” The rest of his sentence trails away as he nuzzles my neck and draws my ear lobe between his lips.
“Dear, I’ve still got far too much to do – look at this table not set yet – why don’t you give me a hand? The silver’s in that chest and the –”
“Busy, busy,” he mutters. “Give me a kiss.”
“Cuthbert, there just isn’t time. Now do –”
“Well, I was saving this for later, but why don’t you open it now?” And he pushes a small box into my hand. It bears the logo of a famous jeweller, and my heart sinks. His round face is bright with anticipation. “Oh, Cuthbert, what have you done? You know I can’t –”
“Go ahead. Open it.”
When I shake my head he catches up my free hand and with his fingers over mine pries up the lid of the box. A diamond ring in a pretty setting winks up at me wickedly.
“It took me ages to choose,” he says, looking at it with pride.
“But dear, I’ve told you a hundred times why we can’t do this.”
“Put it on, Rowena. I want to see it on your hand.”
To placate him, I slip it on my right hand. It is much too big, and with relief I put it back into its case. “They can make it fit, you know, dear,” he says anxiously. “Don’t you like it? I thought it would be the perfect Christmas present.” All his happy exuberance faded, he draws away from me with a rather petulant frown.
“Cuthbert, it was a sweet thought, but surely you see –”
“It’s too soon, is that it?” he asks, eyes anxious behind the thick glasses. “Too soon after – But I thought –”
“Well, that’s part of it,” I say hurriedly. “But not all. There’s no time to go into all this – Marion will be here any minute. But you do see I need more time … As you know, it’s not been three months since Edwin –”
As I say this, a sense of unreality overtakes me. Is it possible that all this can have happened in the eleven weeks since that day in the cemetery? “You seduced him,” murmurs Prince Charles. “Everything has consequences,” Clive used to say. “You should smile more often,” is Sebastian’s advice, and I recognize it as wisdom, though three months ago I didn’t know he existed. So many truths make me feel besieged. As for this affair with Cuthbert, I’ve never had much taste for farce, but here I am, living in one of my own making. And at that moment I hear Marion stamping snow off her boots outside the front door. My scalp tightens in the beginning of one of my tension headaches.
“Cuthbert, dear, I’m going to put this away upstairs,” I tell him, hastily dropping the small box into my apron pocket. “Remember, now; not a word. We’ll talk about it all later.” I am halfway up the stairs, my heart drumming, by the time Marion steps inside with a neat plastic carrier full of parcels.
“I thought I’d come early and give you a hand with dinner, Mother.”
“Lovely, dear. Merry Christmas. I’ll be down in a moment.” I push the box out of sight in a bureau drawer and go swiftly down again to forestall any confidences Cuthbert may be tempted to make. When I join them in the dining-room, he is unwrapping his set of CDs and trying to keep a faint, self-pitying reproach out of the glance he throws me. “How nice,” he says. “Thank you both very much.”
He embraces me and then gives Marion a peck on the cheek. This appears to surprise but not displease her. She is wearing the blue knitted dress I’ve made for her. As I hoped, it fits well and the colour sets off her pale complexion becomingly. It pleases me that she is wearing it. I give Cuthbert’s arm a furtive squeeze, and he brightens a little. Marion’s present to me is a huge bottle of herbal shampoo and a year’s supply of panty hose, all of the same colour and exactly the right size. “Thank you, dear,” I say hurriedly, hoping she will not notice that Cuthbert has apparently brought me nothing. “Just what I wanted. Now then, you two, let’s get to work. The turkey will be done before we get this table ready.”
An hour later the ravaged turkey has been removed and we sit in paper hats over plates on which only a scrape of plum pudding remains. To my relief the meal has gone off smoothly, with no reference to delicate subjects like formal or informal engagements. Cuthbert has not been as chatty as usual, but he now pours the last of the wine into his own and Marion’s glasses, saying with determined good cheer that it might as well be polished off. Just then the front doorbell rings. My heart gives an apprehensive jump. Please, no, I ask the Almighty silently; but when I open the door, there is Tom in his cassock, carrying a big poinsettia. The night is frosty,
with a large, bright moon, and his cheeks are red as apples.
“Merry Christmas, Tom,” I say, forcing cordiality into my voice. Once in the hall, he gives me a kiss on the mouth, which Marion joins us just in time to witness. Cuthbert, putting his head round the dining-room door, looks rather glumly at the newcomer. My headache quietly begins to intensify.
“Come along,” I tell them all, “we’ll just leave everything and sit down in here with our coffee. Will you have brandy with it, anybody? I think I will.”
“Certainly,” says Tom, rubbing his hands together. “Glorious feast though it is, Christmas is pretty exhausting for the clergy when it falls on a Sunday. It means two services after midnight mass … and the worst of it is I have a hard time feeling Christian about these people who turn out in force just twice a year. They pack the place so we have to set up extra chairs and drag communion out for two hours, whereas next week at evensong, I may well be the only soul in the place. Yes, I really could use a little fortification. Thank you, my dear.”
“I’ll have some, too, please, Rowena,” says Cuthbert. I give him a meaningful glance, which he ignores. We both know he has had more than his share of the wine. His face has a slightly swollen, shiny look under the pink paper hat he wears, suggestive of an inebriated baby.
“And what news is there, my dear, of that area commissioner appointment?” Tom asks Marion. He notes the new dress and allows his eyes to travel over it in a way that makes her edge her knees together and touch the high neckline defensively. “Sugar for your coffee, anyone?” I ask. Nobody answers me. “No news yet,” says Marion. Tom’s eyes are lingering on her legs.
“Your coffee, Tom,” I say a little sharply.
“Ah, thank you, Rowena.”
“Sit here beside me,” Cuthbert says, catching inaccurately at my hand as I pass the sofa. To avoid argument I sit down, leaving a prudent distance between us.
“The rumour is that Babs Harrington will get the job,” Marion goes on. “Well, if blue eyes and a big smile is what they want, of course –”
A Serious Widow Page 16