by Anne Morice
“Why on earth should he want to do that?”
“He didn’t want to, my dear, far from it; specially when he was all dressed up in his dinner jacket, poor man. But Helena’s such a dear and she knew what a worry it was for me.”
“Why? Has it gone wrong?”
“The motor keeps cutting out, tiresome old thing, it’s been driving me wild. I unpicked the plug, but there was nothing wrong there. Then dear old Ferdy had a go at it, but he’s not very mechanically minded and it played up worse than ever after that.”
“But I don’t understand, Tilly. Why on earth didn’t you ring up the dealers or send for an electrician?”
“Ah well, you see, dear, it’s not as simple as that, not in this household, at any rate. Mrs. Mortimer gets quite upset at having to pay for repairs of that sort and that wasn’t good for her at all, in the state she was in, even before this last go. She said that, what with the V.A.T. and the man’s time and all the rest of it, it would work out almost as expensive as buying a new machine, and I daresay it would.”
“Then why not buy a new machine?”
Tilly sighed: “Yes, you’d think that might be the best solution, but the trouble is that Mrs. Mortimer has never had to do any housework herself, at any rate not for a good many years, and she can’t understand how much time it takes up. When Ferdy tried to get round her to buy a new one she said it was quite unnecessary because the work could be done just as well, or better, with some elbow grease and a good stiff brush. Ah well, I daresay it will have to come to that before much longer. Robert did his best, but he said that what it really needs is a new motor.”
“What a shame! But, to get back to Mrs. Mortimer, was she all right when she came home from the theatre?”
“Right as rain. I’d just gone upstairs to slip on a dressing gown, but I heard the door, so I went down again at once.”
“Did Alice come in with her?”
“Oh no, dear. One evening together would have been quite long enough for those two. Neither of them would have been anxious to prolong it. At least, if Alice did just see her into the house, as she’d promised, she can’t have stayed more than a minute or two because she’d gone by the time I got there. Mrs. Mortimer was in the kitchen. I knew she’d be hungry after such an early dinner, so I’d got the sandwiches all ready and I made her a pot of tea. I regret that now, as you can guess. It was probably drinking all those cups of tea that started the trouble. Still, one can’t foresee these things, can one?”
“So then what happened?”
“Well, we sat and talked for a bit while she drank it and then Ferdy came in. He’d walked all the way home from the Town Hall, so he was feeling thirsty too, but he had something a little stronger; whisky, I think it was. It tells you what a good mood Mrs. M. was in by the way she never made any fuss about his helping himself from the bottle, so I thought it would be quite safe to leave her in his charge and I went up to bed. It had been quite a long day. I heard them both come up a few minutes later and say good night and then I must have dropped off because I’m afraid that’s the last thing I remember.”
“But she was absolutely okay up to that point? No shocks or doppelgängers along the way?”
“Nothing wrong at all. As I say, she was in better spirits than I’d seen her for weeks. She’d been telling me all about the play. She really enjoyed it, you know, specially your part, she said you were splendid! Now, isn’t that nice? I meant to tell you straight away, because I knew how pleased you’d be and, instead of that, I’ve gone babbling on about my silly old self. It’s your own fault, dear, for being such a sympathetic listener.”
Tilly was expert in paraphrasing other people’s comments in more flattering terms, so I did not allow Edna’s favourable opinion to go to my head and she went on: “Well now, I don’t know about you, but all this talk of tea has given me quite a thirst. How would it be if I went down and made us both a nice cuppa?”
“Why not let me do it, Tilly? That’s one department where I could make myself useful.”
“Oh no, my dear, it’s very sweet of you, but I know just where to lay my hands on everything, so it’ll be twice as quick if I go and it’ll do me good to stretch my legs a bit. You just sit here quietly and I’m sure you won’t have any trouble. Don’t forget, though, if you’re the slightest bit nervous, or if there’s any change at all, just come out on the landing and give me a call.”
She folded her sewing away in her usual calm, methodical fashion, then got up and walked out of the room, her slippers making no sound on the thick pile carpet, and pausing only momentarily to glance across at the mound on the bed, as she went by.
For some while after she had left the room, I obeyed instructions, sitting perfectly still, hands folded in my lap, trying not to count the minutes until she returned. However, as time went by, a new sensation began to creep in and I gradually became possessed by a compulsion to get up and go over to the bed. At the time, I put this down to the relaxing effect of Tilly’s chatter, which had soothed away my fears. In retrospect, though, I was more inclined to attribute the impulse to another influence altogether, for I could never afterwards quite rid myself of the belief that, from the first moment of our being alone together, it was the patient herself who had been willing me to get up and move closer to her.
I had detected no sound or movement, but her eyes were open and, as I approached, she fixed them on me with an agonised stare of appeal, which in fact was rather more terrifying than anything I had imagined, although strangely enough it still did not enter my head to back away or call for help. Instead, I moved closer, bending forward and tentatively putting out my right hand towards hers, which had now begun to flutter out some message of its own, and having no idea how to respond to this except with conventional soothing gestures, as to a sick child.
The stricken look flickered momentarily into the more familiar one of anger and impatience at my obtuseness and, brought up sharp by this, I made a stern effort to understand precisely what she was asking of me.
There were two bedside tables and on the one on her right, where I was standing, were a carafe of water, two tumblers, some bottles of pills and medicine and a jotting pad, with a felt pen attached to it by a cord. Although wavering and unsteady, Edna’s hand left me in small doubt as to which of these objects it was seeking and I took up the pad, placed it on the sheet in front of her, fitted the pen between her thumb and forefinger, then held the pad by the two top corners to keep it steady. Throughout this operation her eyes followed my every movement and before she began to write they met mine in a final anguished look of appeal.
I cannot tell what Tilly’s reactions may have been when she re-entered the room and took in this scene. She moved so quietly that my first intimation of her return was the gentle clink of china as she set the tray down. However startled though, she must have recovered instantly because when I turned my head she nodded and beamed at me approvingly:
“Is this all right?” I asked softly, to which she nodded again and smiled, setting out the cups and plates as though this were the jolliest little tea party in the world.
“Excellent, Tessa! Couldn’t be better. Carry on just as long as you can get her to. You’re a real brick!”
Her congratulations were premature, however, for when I turned back to Edna I saw that the pen had fallen from her hand. Her eyes were closed and a large tear was trickling down to the corner of the rigid, misshapen mouth. I removed one hand from the pad to signal to Tilly, who was beside me in a flash.
“Everything all right, my dear?” she asked, addressing Edna, who did not respond by so much as a quiver. “Just tired, I expect? Never mind, you’ve done very well. Try and have a little nap now and get some of that strength back. How about a sip of tea? Lift your hand if you’d like some.”
The right hand remained as inert as the left and Tilly touched me gently on the shoulder, as a signal to move, at the same time replacing the pad on the table and tearing off the top page. She studie
d the scrawled message with an anxious frown, then, sighing and shaking her head, walked over to a little pearwood bureau, which stood in the alcove of the second window, and tucked the slip of paper into a pigeon hole.
“Bravo, Tessa!” she said, pouring out the tea. “You did very well indeed. I knew I could count on you, in spite of what you said. She has these very occasional spurts, which I feel is such a hopeful sign. As you see, though, they don’t last long and it was so sensible of you to stay with her and stimulate this one as far as you could. Dr. Martin says that the longer she remains in a torpor the less chance she has of making a full recovery, so every little effort on her part is a step forward.”
“Could you make any sense of what she had written?” I asked.
“No, none whatever, unfortunately; but I don’t consider that so terribly important, do you? Whatever it was that came into her mind is probably forgotten now, in any case. What matters is that something did come, however fleetingly, and it roused her into a kind of awareness.”
“All the same, Tilly, I should think it might help to know what it was. Before she started to write, she seemed so . . . well, terrified is the only way to describe it. If she has something on her mind which frightens her so badly, wouldn’t it be a good idea to try and find out what it is?”
“My dear child, of course she’s terrified! Wouldn’t you be, if you woke up one morning and found yourself unable to move or speak? It’s almost too appalling to think about, but my point is that it’s better to have these moments of awareness, however distressing for her, than to remain in a constant stupor. That way there would be no hope at all.”
It had struck me that Tilly was talking round the question, rather than answering it directly, presumably having some reason of her own for being unwilling to discuss this particular attempt by Edna to communicate, still less to show me what the attempt had resulted in. I was wrong, however, for after a moment or two of silence she put her cup down, stood up and moved in a very deliberate way to the desk. Bending down, with her back to me, as she groped in the pigeon hole, she said:
“I’d like you to see for yourself how futile it is at this stage to try and decipher these fragments of nightmares which she tries to pass on to us. This is not the first one, but it makes no more sense than the others. Not to me, that is, but you’re a bright girl, so you may succeed where I’ve failed. Tell me what you can make of it.”
She was absolutely right, as I might have known. There appeared to be three separate words on the slip of paper, one below the other and although I stared at them with all the concentration I could muster I got no further than admitting that the first and third were illegible, while the second, if it was a word, made no sense at all. They looked like this:
2
Ferdy was hoeing a flower bed beside the front door when I came out and he asked me to give him a lift into Storhampton. I think he had prepared himself for this opportunity, for he was rather too cleanly dressed for the gardening role and the bed was already immaculate.
As it happened, I had not intended to go near Storhampton, which was choked from end to end with car loads of Festival visitors and Roakes Common, where I was bound for, lay in the opposite direction. However, he was such a diffident, unassuming creature that I could not bring myself to disappoint him, although I did point out as soon as we were on our way that there were two cars languishing on the premises and, since Edna was no longer in a position to object, I wondered that he did not avail himself of one of them. To which he replied that he did not hold a driving licence.
Thinking that he might have been disqualified for some reason, I said no more, but he then explained, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, that he had never owned a car, never expected to do so and had therefore never seen the necessity to take out a licence.
I was somewhat stunned by this news, but it reminded me that Ferdy had always been noted for his extremely simplistic approach to life, although opinions varied as to whether this proved him to be slightly half-witted, or a lot brighter than some. He was not celebrated for his enthusiasm for the arts, either, so I asked him what had drawn him to Storhampton.
“Only the railway station,” he replied. “I’m going to London.”
“Oh, I see. Which train?”
“Well, the first one that comes in, I suppose,” he replied, looking at me rather blankly. “So long as it’s going in the right direction.”
“It didn’t occur to you to look one up in the timetable?”
Ferdy sighed: “I didn’t know what time I should get to the station, did I?” he said, speaking slowly, as though to an idiot child, which I was rapidly beginning to feel like.
“Will you be coming back to-night?”
“More likely to-morrow or the next day. I’m not really needed here any more, you see. For the time being, at any rate.”
“You mean the garden can take care of itself for a bit?”
“No, I don’t mean that. Sorry, Tessa, but I thought you’d be clued in. Tilly wanted me here to keep an eye on Edna and ward off her spook. You heard about her spook?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not likely to be troubling her again, just at present, and even if it does there’s not much I can do about it.”
“On the other hand, I suppose it could still be a help to Tilly to have you around?”
“Do you honestly think so? Well, in that case . . . but how exactly? I mean, I can’t drive and I’m not at all domesticated. Besides, she’s got Camilla there.”
“But Camilla’s not very strong and I was thinking of things like lifting and lugging about and so on. Specially at night, because I imagine the nurse will only be on duty in the daytime.”
“Then Tilly will just have to take her head out of the sand and call on Bernard, won’t she?” Ferdy asked in his most bland voice.
It was fortunate that we had not set out to catch any particular train because, in order to reach the station, it was necessary to penetrate deep into the heart of Storhampton, then over the bridge to the opposite bank of the river, which bisected the town, and then along another half mile of the narrowest and most crowded shopping streets. We had now embarked on the first stage of this hazardous journey and, since Ferdy had not offered to get out and walk the rest of the way, which was perhaps understandable from his point of view, we were edging along at the rate of about two yards per minute. I did not complain about this, however, because we also seemed to be edging towards something else.
“You are implying that Bernard spends his nights at Farndale?”
“Yes, the only reason I know about it is that they got locked out one night, which caused a right old fuss. Camilla had lost the key, or she’d given it to Bernard and he’d lost it, I can’t remember now. Anyway, Tilly explained to me that it was something to do with Camilla using his car. He can bring her home at night and then she drives him to the office in the morning and takes the car on.”
“Honestly, Ferdy!”
“I know, comical isn’t it? But it all comes from Camilla being so keen to toe the line and keep in with my stepmother. I can’t tell you why, but there it is, she’s always been like that. And of course Edna would have been down on them like a ton of bricks if she’d found out there was this immorality going on under her roof. And there’s Tilly keeping her conscience quiet by going around pretending it’s all just a matter of convenience, which I suppose it is, in a way. Anyway, they won’t need to cover up now and if Bernard does have to lend a hand in the night it won’t matter because, as far as I can make out, even if Edna did recognise him, she wouldn’t know if it was Saturday or Christmas Eve.”
“Was Bernard staying there last night?”
“Suppose so. Why? Why not, I mean?”
He was groping in his pockets and answering in an abstracted way, so I said:
“Nothing much. I was only thinking that it now turns out that there were probably no less than four people within yards of Edna when she came crashing
down on the landing and yet none of them heard her, or knew a thing about it. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“I suppose so. No, not particularly.”
“What on earth are you looking for, Ferdy?”
“Money. Thought I’d got some with me, but I must have left it behind. It doesn’t matter.”
“It must matter. How will you buy a ticket to London without any money?”
“Oh, that’s okay, they’ll always take a cheque. It’s just that I’m out of fags.”
So when I finally drove away from the station the balance sheet looked like this: one hour late getting home and one pound poorer; and on the credit side: one more petty little deceit of Camilla’s to add to the collection. It hardly seemed worth the outlay.
CHAPTER TEN
Mindful of the gnawing, insatiable vanity of the creative writer, I was careful to give Toby a full, verbatim report of all the flattering words which had been poured out in praise of his play, before filling him in with recent events at Farndale House. Even the mellow mood which this spade work engendered, however, did not prompt him to treat them very seriously. He had always detested Edna and my description of her present unhappy plight hardly moved him at all.
“I didn’t expect you to burst into tears,” I complained, “but I did hope you would agree with me that it is all distinctly fishy.”
“What is?”
“Well, four people, four mark you, all with their faculties properly tuned up, and not one of them saw or heard a thing.”
“How do you know? One of them may have seen and heard a great deal and decided it was all for the best. I know I should have.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Toby, not even you. Certain reflexes take over in a crisis of that kind and, however much one may dislike a person, one doesn’t just step over the corpse and leave it on the bathroom floor.”
“Then what are we arguing about? Since it has been established that no such reflexes were functioning last night, it must follow that none of the four did see or hear anything. It may be exceptional, but it is not fishy.”