Scared to Death

by Anne Morice

“That’s true, but it will do me very well, all the same. There are only one or two small things I must get today and all the rest can wait till Monday.”

  “All what rest?”

  For a moment, to judge by her expression, she was tempted to remind me that curiosity killed the cat, but must have then recollected that I was no longer nine years old, for she replied in a faintly embarrassed way, as though she were now the child:

  “Well, I had it in mind to buy one of those long playing records, but since I really have no idea what they cost I was afraid it might sound silly to ask to pay by cheque.”

  “It won’t cost as much as five pounds, if that’s what’s worrying you. Have you got the right kind of player for it?”

  “What? Oh, you mean gramophone. Good heavens, no, what would I want with a contraption like that? I’m not buying this for myself.”

  “Oh, a present then?”

  “That’s right. For Camilla. I happen to know the name of one she’s particularly keen on. One of those groups. Dirty Dick, it’s called, although there are actually four of them, I gather.”

  “Why? It’s not her birthday.”

  “I know that, dear. She was born in March. Her grandfather used to give her one pearl for every year of her age. The idea was that when she was eighteen they’d all be strung together to make a necklace. Unfortunately, he died before there were quite enough for that.”

  “So why give her a present if it’s not her birthday?”

  “Ah well, you see, she’s a little bit down in the dumps, poor child. Sometimes an unexpected treat does wonders to cheer her up.”

  “What’s the trouble? Lovers’ tiff?”

  “Not that I know of,” Tilly said primly. “And I should say it’s most unlikely. What quaint ideas you get in that old head of yours, Tessa! No, she’s just rather run down and depressed and I can’t seem to shake her out of it. I’ve suggested all sorts of little jobs to occupy her, or even take a book out in the garden now we’ve got this lovely weather, but no; all she ever wants to do is sit in her room and listen to records. Of course, she’s at a loose end, now they don’t need her any more to help with the Festival, and I expect she misses her Grannie, poor dear!”

  This was too much to take, even from Tilly, and I had difficulty in suppressing the somewhat brusque expletive which her words provoked. As though taking it as uttered, though, Tilly said defensively:

  “Oh, you may laugh, and I know they didn’t always hit it off, those two, but it’s a funny thing, Tessa. You’re too young to understand this, but when you’ve been used to a person almost all your life you do feel a dreadful sense of loss when they go, you can say what you like. It’s just the same with me. Mrs. Mortimer could be very trying at times, don’t I know? But I still can’t take it in that she’s dead. I keep expecting her to walk in the room and start complaining about something and then, when I remember that I’ll never see her again or hear her grumble about anything ever again, I get quite a pang, I really do.”

  “But it’s different for you, Tilly. You didn’t actively dislike her. You’re incapable of disliking anyone.”

  “You don’t understand, dear. That’s not surprising and I trust it will be many, many years before you have this sort of experience in your own life, but if you ever do you’ll find it’s no help to remember the bad things about people when they’re dead, or the times when you hated them. It only makes matters worse. Then you’ve got your own remorse to cope with, on top of all the other.”

  “Yes, I can imagine, and I suppose that’s what’s bugging Camilla now?”

  “Well, of course it is, dear. We all know that there were times when she resented her grandmother and that she had good reason to; but now she’s regretting that she didn’t try harder to be patient, specially since she’s been left all this money and realises Mrs. Mortimer can’t have thought half so badly of her as she liked to make out. It’s quite a normal reaction and it will pass in time, but the trouble with Camilla is that she will go to such extremes. Just now she’s managed to work herself up into such a morbid state that I feel it’s almost unhealthy, to be honest with you.”

  “Morbid in what way?”

  “Well, harping on death all the time. Keeps asking me if I think Mrs. Mortimer knew she was dying and if she was frightened by it; and whether I’ve ever thought about my own death and how I’ll face it when it comes, and all this sort of thing. On and on until I could shake her.”

  “Yes, it must be intensely boring, but, as you say, she’s always been a martyr to her moods and I daresay this one will fade just as quickly as all the others.”

  “It can’t fade too quickly for me, I can tell you that much, but I’m not so optimistic. This one should have run its course already. It came on, oh must be almost three weeks back, when she insisted on making a will. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Well, I know it’s sensible and practical and all that, now that she’s got so much to leave, but really, for a girl of her age! Don’t you call that morbid?”

  “Did you tell her so?”

  “No, I didn’t. Like a fool, I encouraged her. I can see my mistake now, but just between you and me, Tessa, I took it as one of those little self-dramatising heroics that Camilla still hasn’t quite grown out of, and I thought once she’d got that off her chest she’d be all right again and settle back into her old self. It was stupid of me not to twig that this one went much deeper, because ever since then she’s been getting worse than ever.”

  “What about Bernard? Can’t he snap her out of it?”

  “Bernard’s not here at present, more’s the pity! He’s had to go to Scotland for a few days. They’ve got a rich client who inherited a big estate up there. He’s much too grand to come south to see his lawyers nowadays, so the partners have to take it in turns to visit him every so often in his castle. At least, they’re supposed to take it in turns, but Bernard being the only bachelor, it usually falls to him.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “Well, that’s another thing. He was to have caught the early plane this morning, so as he could take Camilla to the fireworks tonight, but he telephoned to say he couldn’t manage it. Reading between the lines, it sounded as though the old man was making a great fuss about keeping him up there for the weekend. Helena sees that as a big feather in his cap and I daresay it is, but Camilla said he sounded as cross as two sticks about it, and of course she’s most dreadfully disappointed, poor girl.”

  “How about Ferdy, then? Can’t he take her to the fireworks?”

  “Old Ferdy’s on the loose too, bless his heart! There’s a big race at Ascot this afternoon. To let you in on a little secret, Tessa, he had to borrow the money to get there, which is why I’m so short. Still, he’s promised to try and get back this evening.”

  “Let’s just hope he’s had the foresight to buy a return ticket!”

  “Yes, that’s a point, isn’t it? I know he’ll do his best, dear old boy, but somehow or other things don’t always turn out quite right for him. I suppose . . . ?”

  “What?”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t ask this, but if anything should happen that Ferdy couldn’t be here in time, you’ll be going with Robin and Mr. Crichton, won’t you? I don’t suppose you’d be a dear and take Camilla along? So much more fun for her than being with an old stick like me.”

  It was never easy to oppose Tilly. That subtle blend of childlike trust and governessy authority had crushed my resistance more often than I could count, but this time I knew that surrender would only leave me with an even more formidable battle to wage and, putting it diplomatically, I said:

  “If it were just Robin and me, I’d say yes like a shot, but you know how it is, Tilly? Toby and Camilla have never been able to hit it off. They bring out the worst in each other and I honestly don’t think it would make a very jolly evening for her, if he was in one of his snappy moods.”

  Tilly neither argued nor acquiesced, but bowed her head in a resigned kind of way, as though
one more disappointment were only to be expected. Shortly afterwards she gathered up her belongings and bustled out to the street, leaving me with the uncomfortable sensation of having betrayed the childlike trust, punched several holes in the govemessy authority and thrown in quite a dollop of ‘et tu, Brute!’ as well.

  I looked in at the record shop a few minutes later, meaning to repair some of the damage to my self-esteem with assurances that we would look out for her and Camilla at the fireworks and maybe all meet up for a drink at some point, but she was not there and I was stuck with my guilty conscience for at least another two hours.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  1

  At five forty-five that evening I presented myself at the Town Hall basement, decked out in accordance with my sponsors’ instructions, in actressy type clothes and make-up, the draw for the raffle having been scheduled for six p.m.

  There were not more than fifty people present and the prize was won by a frail looking, elderly man, who wisely donated it to be auctioned off with the others. He then pushed his luck by opening the bidding at five pounds and three minutes later was writing out a cheque, looking understandably more frail and elderly than before.

  By this point the local auctioneer was firmly in the saddle and when one or two more works of art had come under his hammer Marge, who had been practically squeaking with suppressed excitement, muttered to Vi that she supposed it would be all right if the three of us now drifted away. Vi nodded and led the way up the stone staircase into the daylight.

  “Thank you, Tessa,” she said, “you did that very gracefully. And now, where’s your car?”

  “Nowhere,” I replied. “That is, Robin is using it this afternoon to play golf. It’s all right though because he’s going to pick me up at my local at seven, so I’ve heaps of time to walk.”

  “Where’s your local?”

  “Jolly Angler. Opposite the Chapel.”

  “We may as well deliver you there,” Marge said in an over-casual voice. “I wouldn’t mind a drink myself and our car’s right here in front of us. We get special parking privileges when we’re on Festival business.”

  “I didn’t,” I remarked, as we sped down the temporarily deserted High Street.

  “Didn’t what?” Vi demanded.

  “Get special parking privileges. I was on Festival business for two and a half weeks, not counting rehearsals, and nobody offered any to me.”

  “Have you heard the news?” Marge asked, unable to contain herself any longer.

  “What news?”

  “You were getting paid for it, that’s the difference. There’s still some justice left in the world,” Vi said, gliding to a halt on a double yellow line.

  “Oh, is that the news?” I enquired, following them into the Starboard Lounge.

  Ferdy was already there, seated at the bar. He normally patronised the humbler saloon next door, so I concluded that the big race at Ascot had been won by the right horse.

  “Have a drink!” he suggested when I stopped to congratulate him, while Vi and Marge, with a good deal of wrangling and chopping and changing, were installing themselves at a corner table.

  “No, thanks. As you see, I am not alone.”

  “Heard the news?”

  “That seems to be to-night’s password. Where did yours come from?”

  “Tilly. I just rang up to let her know I was back. She sounded paranoiac. Ranting on and on until the pips had gone about three times.”

  “What about?”

  Vi, now on her feet again, was bearing down on us and Ferdy leant sideways and spoke three words in my ear.

  “Two scotch, please! One with a dash!” Vi said, rapping out her commands to the barman. “What about you, Tessa?”

  “Gin and tonic, please!”

  “And one gin and tonic! Ferdy?”

  “Oh well, thank you very much. I’ll have half a bitter, if that’s okay?”

  “Aren’t you coming to join us?”

  “It’s awfully kind of you, but I don’t think I’d better. Tilly’s coming to collect me, you see. She’s not allowed to leave the car outside and she wasn’t sure when she’d be able to make it, so I have to keep an eye on the road.”

  “Why not give her a ring?” I suggested, “and, if she hasn’t already left, tell her not to bother. Robin will be here in a minute and we can drive you home.”

  “Oh, really? Well, okay then,” he said, clambering slowly down from his stool. “The only thing is . . .”

  “I know,” I said, fishing in my purse. “Here’s some change for the call box.”

  It was mean and ungrateful, I know, after all their kindness, but it is no use pretending. The temptation was too much to resist and I did not even try very hard:

  “Here’s to you!” I said, raising my glass to each of them in turn. “And I can’t wait to hear your news. But before you begin on that, did you know that Bernard had eloped?”

  2

  Such pulling of the carpet from under the feet of my dear friends had not been purely for laughs, for it had occurred to me that, even allowing for Ferdy’s well known incompetence with mechanical objects, I could not depend on a delay of more than five or six minutes in which to conclude his business on the telephone and rejoin the party. At this point Vi and Marge would both have instantly clammed up and started talking about the ground conditions at Ascot, very likely just as the climax of the story was in sight. Furthermore, it was probable, if not certain, that they had heard of Bernard’s elopement from Helena, whose whitewashed account intrigued me far less than the unembroidered version from Farndale. There was also the fact that I had set matters up in such a way that Robin would be able to hear it too, and from the beginning, which in fact was exactly how it turned out.

  Ferdy’s absence exceeded the time I had allowed for it by approximately thirty seconds and he and Robin came into the Starboard Lounge together. Robin, who was also in an advanced state of nervous tension about the parking hazards, or pretending to be, refused a drink and, after a flurry of goodbyes and promises to look out for each other at the fireworks, we bundled into the car and set off for Farndale.

  Not that I had hoped for much enlightenment from Ferdy, who, besides taking so long to reach the point of any subject unconnected with horse racing, was not disposed to treat this new disaster very seriously. Certainly, it had its comical side, as Robin pointed out:

  “Elopement seems such an old-fashioned word. It conjures up pictures of dashing young blades in top hats, clinging to ladders, while young ladies make a perilous descent from their bedroom windows; and coach and horses thundering through the night to Gretna Green. Are you sure you’ve got it right, Ferdy?”

  “I’m only repeating what Tilly told me. It was her word, not mine.”

  “Did she happen to mention who he’d eloped with?” I asked.

  “Some woman, I gather.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort, I suppose.”

  “Not anyone very young is what I mean. Tilly kept talking about this scheming woman.”

  “I think perhaps all females become women when they start to scheme,” Robin suggested. “Scheming girl doesn’t carry quite the same venom.”

  “I daresay this one really is a woman though, because she’s got a husband already, and some children. Tilly kept asking me how she could be so wicked as to abandon those poor little innocent children. As though I could tell her!”

  All this was substantially true, as we discovered on reaching the house a few minutes later. Tilly came tearing out, distraught and dishevelled, to thank us for bringing Ferdy home and to offer us a drink. The invitation was not couched in very pressing terms and Robin was already making deprecating noises before it was out, but, fortunately for me, there was another car parked by the front door, and at such an awkward angle that it had left no space for ours to turn in.

  “That’s Helena’s,” Tilly explained. “I’m afraid she was in a hurry and the difficulty is that she’s upstairs, talking to Camilla. I�
��d rather not disturb them, if it can be avoided, not for another five minutes anyway, so do come in and sit down for a minute and then I’ll see what can be done about getting her to move it.”

  Once inside, however, it quickly became a problem of how to get out again, for, having mopped her eyes and apologised about four times for being such an old goose, the combination of sympathetic murmurs from Robin and a stiff whisky from Ferdy unloosed the floodgates and the five minutes had doubled before the story brought her round to Helena again. The gist of it was as follows:

  Bernard had evidently been less than candid in implying that he was prolonging his visit at the request of his host because, in fact, he had already left the castle when he telephoned and, in passing the judgement that he was as cross as two sticks Camilla must have mistaken vexation for embarrassment. A letter to his parents, already posted by then, had not been delivered until they had left for their respective offices, which was probably just as well, for it would not have made very cheerful breakfast time reading. As a matter of fact, it did not make very cheerful lunchtime reading either because another way in which Bernard had deceived everybody was in letting it be understood that he had taken on these trips to Scotland in a spirit of self-sacrifice, whereas he had actually gone out of his way to ensure that they fell to him, purely to gratify personal wishes.

  In short, on a previous visit, some two years earlier, he had met and become passionately attracted to a young woman named Anthea Sorkorski, who was from a local family, but married to a Polish hairdresser. Since then they had corresponded between visits and on one occasion, not long after he became engaged to Camilla, had spent three days together in London, when Anthea was there for a manicuring course, ostensibly to supplement the family income.

  However, they had both now decided that they could neither any longer make do with these clandestine meetings, nor give each other up and, for the time being, were living in lodgings in Paisley.

  They were confident that Anthea’s qualifications would obtain her a well paid job and Bernard, for his part, proposed to invest such capital as he possessed in a small holding and spend his days working on the land. No decision had yet been reached about Anthea’s two small children.