A Serious Widow

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  With a quick glance round to make sure none of his parishioners are within earshot, he goes on, “Been wanting to discuss that matter with you we talked about last week.”

  “Oh, yes, that – Well, you see, Tom, since then –”

  “Because I’ve had a word with the nephew, and he seems very –”

  “Tom, let’s get out of the traffic a bit here.” I draw him around the corner to an unfrequented alcove displaying dog collars and dishcloths. In a crowd his slight deafness is more apparent than usual; furthermore, accustomed as he is to having no competition in church, he tends in public to pitch his voice louder than is welcome at the moment.

  “There; that’s better. You see, Tom, a lot has happened since I saw you last. I’ve tried several times to phone you, but – The thing is, I’ve found myself a job in a handicraft shop. And a will of Edwin’s has actually turned up, leaving me the house. So I’m not in such a needy position as we –”

  “No! Really? A will leaving you – well, my dear, I do congratulate you! That’s excellent news. Excellent!” Smiling broadly he frees one hand from the wire grip of his basket to pat my shoulder. His shopping, I see, consists of several TV dinners, a large chocolate bar and a bottle of club soda. My basket, on the other hand, is loaded with eggs, flour, sugar, vegetables and a large chicken, and I now set it down on the floor to ease my arms.

  “And that’s not all,” I continue, edging us aside while an old lady in a fur coat pauses to examine the dog leashes. “I’ve got a lodger now.”

  “A lodger!” he echoes, staring at me.

  The old lady, having chosen a blue leash, exchanges it for a red one. Then she changes her mind again, and in attempting to replace the red one on the rack, knocks the whole display to the floor. Tom gallantly stoops to retrieve and replace them while she drifts pensively away, perhaps having suddenly remembered she hasn’t got a dog. Tom rises, flushed with exertion. Rather testily he says, “Whatever do you mean – somebody’s actually rooming with you?”

  “Yes. You see, my neighbours the Wrights – you don’t know them; they’re not churchgoers – anyhow her old father needs a bit of looking after, and so I – well, the whole thing was done on the spur of the moment, and …”

  “Purely a temporary arrangement, then,” he says more pacifically.

  “Well, I’m not sure about that.”

  But he brushes this aside. “I still think, my dear, you should really consider Miss Waterman. Her nephew is very anxious to meet you. He’s greatly concerned about her and he seemed delighted to know you might consider … Of course I haven’t committed you to anything, and they might agree to a live-out arrangement if you prefer that.” He fixes me with a commanding gaze that makes me fidget nervously with the clasp on my handbag. Patiently he waits for me to answer.

  At last I find my voice, surprised to hear it emerge quite clear and steady.

  “Tom, as I told you, I have a job now downtown. But even if I didn’t – I’m afraid the very sound of Miss Waterman appalls me. Please don’t be annoyed – you’ve been so good and kind, and I do appreciate it, but now I have this job and a home of my own, I have to tell you that wild horses couldn’t get me into that bungalow with the ham radio and the three Pekes.” This declaration, firm as it is, leaves me rather breathless. With dismay, I see that Tom is becoming not only justifiably irritated, but quite unfriendly. The timid little woman he thought he knew has metamorphosed into someone he does not really like much, if at all. My first impulse, of course, is to apologize, and the second to retract. That was what Nana taught me a good girl did when faced with male opposition. It’s the reflex of a lifetime that makes me say, “I’m really sorry, Tom. I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me, and I’m grateful for it. Only you see for the time being I’m committed –”

  “It’s up to you, of course,” he says stiffly.

  There is an uncomfortable pause. This is obviously the moment to go on to phase two and recant; but somehow, stubbornly, the words refuse to come. And really, I tell myself, there seems no good reason why they should. Surely I needn’t become the hireling of Tom’s missionary friend simply out of politeness or fear of giving offence – specially when there are other things I much prefer to do. Just the same, Tom’s displeasure makes me so uncomfortable it’s all I can do not to hang my head like a child in disgrace. I make a last, lame effort to placate him and my own conscience.

  “You see, Tom, I’ll be paid for looking after … Mr. Long is going to be a paying guest, so –”

  “I quite understand,” he says, in the huffy manner of one who does nothing of the kind. “Of course if I’d known this before, I wouldn’t have wasted anybody’s time. Regrettable all round. However, I’ll tell Waterman at once that your circumstances have changed and you’re not available. Now I must really get along. Good day, Rowena.”

  He makes off with his basket so crisply I have no chance even to say goodbye. It’s clear I have lost more than the chance to have my groceries carried home. For a few minutes I stay there among the dog leashes feeling downcast and guilty. Then I begin to remember with some complacence my speech about the wild horses, and my spirits lift a little. Once outside in the sunshine, I suddenly break into a broad smile, which manifestly puzzles passersby.

  It’s unfortunate that Marion should have chosen to drop in on Sunday just when I am on my knees in the kitchen trimming Sebastian’s toenails. They are in a sorry state – horny and overgrown, curling over his toe pads like claws, and I’ve been working on them for half an hour. While he soaks one foot in a basin, I clip and file away at the other, and we are so busy arguing about determinism that neither of us hears her key in the lock. When she appears at the kitchen door and says, “Hello, Mother,” we both start as if caught in some clandestine act.

  “Oh – there you are, dear,” I say, trying to dispose in haste of Sebastian’s large, naked foot so that I can stand up. “This is Mr. Long. Seb – my daughter, Marion.”

  She took the news of my employment on Queen Street with something almost like approval; but when I phoned her soon afterwards to explain I now have a boarder, she was quite openly dubious and disapproving. At that, I avoided burdening her with any details. Without actually lying, I described him lightly as elderly, and implied he was quite active. Now her clear eyes rest judgementally on his white head, the cane hooked over his chair back, and his gnarled, blueish feet. The floor around us is liberally splashed, and bits of yellow toenail lie scattered about.

  “Well, I was just – we were just finishing up here – would you like some tea, dear?”

  “It’s all right, Mother, don’t get in a flap.”

  “Well, perhaps you could fill the kettle while I –”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Sebastian contemplates her trim, uniformed figure with ironic curiosity. “In the police force, are you, Miss Hill?” he asks.

  “Division Commissioner with the Girl Guides,” she tells him crisply.

  “I’ve always admired the Guides,” he says. “They combine moral uplift and practicality in the most ingenious way. Christianity and knots. It’s a combination I’d have thought only a man could take seriously. It’s a fact, isn’t it, that Baden-Powell from the start turned over the Girl Scout movement to his sister? I think he suspected the female branch would never stay the course for giggling.”

  “If so, he was wrong, wasn’t he?” Marion returns coolly. “We’ll celebrate our eightieth anniversary next year.”

  “I celebrated mine some time ago,” he says, grinning. “But it’s nothing to brag about. Au contraire, in fact.”

  This is not a good beginning. Seb’s mocking conversational style, which I enjoy so much, seems to her, I can tell, merely silly. With little ceremony I dry his feet and thrust them into his broken old slippers. “Will you have tea down here with us?” I ask him, trying to telegraph wordlessly the hint that a sense of humour is not one of Marion’s chief assets. With a twitch of his heavy eyelids he gets this m
essage, but interprets it to mean he’d better disappear.

  “No, thanks, Rowena, you ladies enjoy your visit alone. I’ll go on upstairs. Charmed to have met you, Miss Hill.” Creakily rising, he takes possession of the cane and begins to shuffle off. I start to offer my arm, but he impatiently waves me back. “I can manage perfectly well,” he says, and I let him go without protest. Through the kettle’s shriek I strain to hear him reach the landing safely. With relief a few moments later I hear the creak of the bedroom floor, which means he has made it to his room. It irritates but does not surprise me that Marion’s presence has so put us on the defensive. I might have known in advance that she would take a dim view of Sebastian’s personality. The nakedness of his feet no doubt created a bad first impression, too, and this seems to me unfair. To conceal these thoughts and quell certain anxieties about the future, I fold the towels and empty the basin, creating small talk as I do so.

  “Well, dear, how are things with you? When do you and Bernice move into the new place?”

  “Not till April first. I told you that the other day.”

  “Yes, I remember now. And she’s quite … recovered now, would you say?”

  “Of course. From the start it was all mostly a performance.”

  If that’s true, and you know it, how can you possibly be so matter-of-fact about it? I wonder privately. She claps the lid on the brown teapot and drops the knitted cosy over the brew. “And this lodger of yours,” she asks, turning to look squarely at me. “How’s that working out?” With reluctance I meet the challenge.

  “Why, just fine, dear. He’s no trouble really. In fact –”

  “Oh, come on, Mother. Of course he’s trouble. Looking after anyone that age is a big responsibility. The thing is, does it make sense to take it on? It might be a good idea to rent out your spare room, but it would make a lot more sense to have a single woman here, with a job – someone who’d be out all day. As it happens Moira Baxter in our office is looking for a room – bed-and-breakfast sort of thing. Her diabetes is no real problem as long as someone keeps an eye on her. Decent type, Moira. You’d like her.”

  There is a brief silence.

  “I like Mr. Long.”

  “That’s fairly obvious,” she says tartly, “or he’d hardly be getting a pedicure in your kitchen. It doesn’t alter the fact that it’s crazy to take on an old man in bad shape, on top of this new job of yours. For one thing, he’s bound to deteriorate as time goes on. You know that’s true, Mother.”

  “Marion, I –”

  “The whole thing was decided on impulse, you told me so yourself. Tom, I know, thinks the whole arrangement is quite deplorable. And when the Wrights get back from wherever it is they’ve gone, they’re sure to agree with me. That old man is too much altogether for someone like you with no training or –”

  She pours tea with brusque efficiency into our cups and gestures me towards a chair, which I do not take.

  “Tom has reasons of his own for disapproving that I’d rather not go into right now. As for the Wrights, let’s let them speak for themselves, shall we?”

  “By all means. But you’d better be ready for it, Mother, because –”

  “And if it comes to speaking, Sebastian and I are both entitled to a voice as well, surely.”

  “Nobody said you weren’t. I’m simply trying to point out that you’re proposing to take on a real burden – a thankless kind of custodial job with no future. With somebody like Moira, you’d at least have your privacy and no problems. I’m thinking of you, Mother, that’s all.”

  “Are you, Marion?” I say sadly. “Well, I suppose you believe you are.”

  “That’s a peculiar thing to say. Honestly, since Dad went, there are times when I wonder whether you – whether you aren’t – well, in some ways maybe you’re still in shock. But it’s obvious that ever since that will turned up you’ve been –”

  “Been what? A little less easy to manipulate?”

  Two angry spots of colour have begun to burn in her cheeks. “I really am beginning to think your common sense is gone,” she says tartly. “If you honestly can’t see the foolishness of having a senile patient in the house instead of –”

  “Marion.” I take a moment here to muster my forces, inadvertently creating an impressive pause. “Your intentions are good, I suppose, though there’s plenty of room for doubt about that. The point is this: I have never since your teens burdened you with unwanted advice. I have nothing to say about your own living arrangements, for instance. Now it’s high time you returned the compliment. For better or worse, I’m an adult capable of making my own decisions. What’s more, you owe me, whether you like it or not, some tact and consideration. No matter how much your nature and judgement differ from mine, they don’t entitle you to dismiss me as if I were nobody.”

  With something like astonishment I find myself able to reach the end of this pronouncement without once faltering or melting into tears. It is clear that Marion, too, in her fashion, is astounded. Her face could not express more consternation if the cat had suddenly risen to his hind legs and begun to quote Shelley. With frigid dignity she pushes aside her cup of tea and gets to her feet.

  “I’m sorry my concern offends you,” she says. Pulling on her coat she makes off down the hall in long strides. But when she turns at the door with a stiff farewell nod, I see, just for the fraction of a second, that she is afraid to say anything more. For the first time in our joint lives, in fact, she is afraid of me. And this brings me a dry, grim kind of satisfaction I’m half ashamed of – but only half.

  “I was in this neighbourhood to see a client,” Cuthbert says, blinking at me through his thick glasses, “so I thought I’d drop in for a minute … just for a bit of a chat.” He leans forward to place a decorous kiss on my cheek.

  “Of course; come on in, my dear. Always nice to see you.”

  I whisk his coat into the cupboard while he tugs down his waistcoat and adjusts his tie as if preparing for some obscure kind of confrontation. “How’s your job going?” he asks.

  “I’m enjoying it. The owner is a nice woman. She makes me feel efficient – strong – capable.”

  “That’s nice,” he says vaguely. “Well, I have nothing new to report on the legal front. Of course Hill’s lawyer’s been put in the picture – literally – I faxed him a copy of the new will – so we should have no problem at all. What I actually dropped in to tell you was –”

  “Come on in here, Cuthbert. We were just about to have a drink while dinner’s cooking.”

  I usher him into the kitchen where Sebastian is ensconced doing the Times crossword instead of shelling peas as requested. He rises slowly to greet the guest, his old cardigan drooping from his bony shoulders.

  “This is Cuthbert Wesley, Seb, my, er, lawyer. Sebastian Long.” They shake hands, exchanging a glance of mutual assessment and curiosity. “Rowena’s spoken of you,” Seb remarks rather grudgingly, as if this fact to some extent validates Cuthbert’s existence.

  “Yes. How d’ye do,” says Cuthbert without enthusiasm, pushing up his glasses with a short forefinger. I hastily measure out malt whiskies and bestow one on each of them, hoping to create a more cordial atmosphere. “Do sit down, both of you. Better still, go into the sitting-room; I’ll join you in a minute as soon as I deal with these peas.”

  “I like it here,” says Seb, repossessing his straight chair. “So do I,” says Cuthbert, and sits down opposite him. I add potatoes to the roasting pan, shove it back into the oven, and then get to work on the peas. As soon as all of us are seated, one of those deadly social vacuums develops, in the form of a silence more assertive than any noise. Seb swirls his drink moodily and squints through the bottoms of his glasses at his puzzle. Cuthbert fidgets with his silk tie. I rack my brains for something to say. “Hasn’t the weather been lovely,” I finally bring out in a tentative voice. And the setting sun, as if to snub this platitude, breaks out of a dark cloud bank to flood the window with radiance.

/>   “Oh, it promises to be a lovely spring, all right,” agrees Cuthbert politely. “Rowena tells me you’re from the Old Country,” he says to Seb. “You must miss the early daffodils and things.”

  “I don’t miss the early rheumatics, I can tell you that.”

  Cuthbert looks down at his polished shoes. Wittgenstein, who has taken a violent fancy to Seb, now leaps into his lap and begins to knead vigorously. Seb dumps him off without ceremony. “Get off, you old sex maniac,” he says. Cuthbert clears his throat.

  “I understand you were a philosophy professor, Mr. Long. That must have been an interesting career.”

  “In the end,” remarks Seb, looking severely across the table, “the concept that every proposition has more than one complete analysis brought on a sort of intellectual hernia, from which I suffer to this day.”

  “Er – you don’t say. I never took Philosophy at Queen’s.”

  “Well, it’s hardly something one takes like a pill.”

  “Too abstract and theoretical for me. I’ve got a very literal sort of mind.”

  “Then you probably saved yourself a lot of heartburn.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I have to drink and run, Rowena. Thanks for the whisky, but I must get along now. Nice to have met you, sir.” And he offers his hand to Seb. “A pleasure,” murmurs Sebastian without much conviction. I follow Cuthbert into the hall.

  “Pity you can’t stay, dear. Perhaps you could come for dinner some time soon.”

  “Sorry to rush like this, but you see, I really just dropped in to – I forgot you had a lodger, to tell the truth – but I wanted to tell you … something personal.” Here he lowers his voice till it becomes almost inaudible. In the not very clear light of the hallway, his face looks dark, and peering closely I see that he is blushing.

  “Something personal?” We retreat towards the front door and I, too, cautiously lower my voice. Sebastian’s hearing can be acute at all the wrong moments. “What is it, then?”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know right away that … I mean, it’s right you should be the first to …”