A Friend of the Family

by Marcia Willett

  After a while the music stopped and another sound took its place: an insistent, rhythmic shrilling. The noise went on and on, penetrating Felicity’s drugged torpor. With an immense effort she tried to drag herself back to wakefulness. Her lids fluttered a little and she tried to raise herself but she was too tired, too heavy, too peaceful to care about it. Her hand swung clear of the chair and the empty glass rolled away over the carpet. Her snoring breaths grew slower and presently the telephone stopped ringing and there was silence.

  ‘. . . AND EVEN NOW, WITH the funeral over, I can’t believe it,’ Kate wrote to Cass. ‘I keep thinking of things I might have done or said. Oh, Cass, she lay there for two days. Isn’t it dreadful? To get over George and then have some other guy kick you in the teeth. Nobody knows about that but me so don’t breathe a word, not even to Tom. Thea and George are away on holiday so they don’t know yet and there were only a few people at the crematorium, mainly Navy. She didn’t seem to have any family. It was terribly depressing. I kept remembering things when we were all young. Parties and balls and things. Awful. I still can’t believe she did it on purpose. Her GP says that so many of these deaths are accidents, that people have a few drinks and then forget how many tablets they’ve taken and just take more and more. Felicity of all people! She was so tough, so hard. But when she came to lunch it was as if something had broken, like she’d been encased in a hard shell all those years and it had been smashed by her love for this man and she was left all tender and vulnerable and unprotected. You felt that there was another Felicity who had been there all the time and none of us knew it. God! The sadness of it. I can’t help thinking of those last awful hours when she was all alone and how desperately unhappy she must have been. But even more amazing, totally unbelievable! You’ll never believe this, never in a million years! She changed her will the day before she died, almost as if she knew. Cass, she left everything she had to me . . .’

  Nineteen

  IT WAS KATE WHO told George. Anxious lest he or Thea should hear of it from one of Felicity’s cronies—who might feel that in some way George was to blame—she discovered from Maggie Tabb the date of their return from holiday and telephoned the following morning. It was sheer good fortune that George answered. Thea, he explained, was wrestling with the washing machine and two weeks of dirty washing and when Kate told him that she had something very important that she wanted to say to him privately his tone became puzzled and a little wary.

  ‘Come on, George.’ Kate’s nervousness and horror at the task in store lent an edge of impatience to her voice. ‘It’s really serious or I wouldn’t ask. You know me well enough for that. Surely there’s some shopping Thea needs. You could offer to get it while she’s busy.’

  With a certain amount of reluctance George agreed to the meeting place which Kate had already decided on, well away from prying eyes and wagging tongues: a lane that ran beside a pine wood just beyond Princetown. It led on to the army ranges and wasn’t much used by anyone else but there were two lay-bys placed at intervals and Kate parked in the second one. It was a wild blowy day and Kate remained huddled in the car watching for George’s Rover. She was already beginning to question her choice of locality in which to tell George the tragic news. When she knew that she was going to have to be the one to tell him she had imagined a series of encounters, none of which had seemed suitable. For Kate, the moor had always been a healing place. The high tors, the sweeping grasslands, the great elemental force of it all must surely help him to assimilate and bear the things that she had to say to him. Now, she began to wonder. Had she been attributing her own emotions to George? Panic seized her. Well, it was too late now and, although it was windy, at least it wasn’t raining. Perhaps they could sit inside the car. Even as the thought occurred to her she instinctively rejected it. The cramped interior of a car was not the place for this. At length, in the rear-view mirror, she saw George’s car approach and watched it pull in behind. George waved and, as he got out, she left her own car and went to meet him. He held out both hands to her and she took them and kissed him on the cheek. The wind roared round them, buffeting them as they stood together, howling through the wood.

  ‘Hello, George.’ She held on to his hands and smiled at him and had to raise her voice above the gale. ‘Sorry about the secrecy and silence stuff. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. Felicity’s dead.’ She said it quickly, holding his hands tightly against her breast. ‘She died of an overdose of her migraine tablets but her GP is quite certain it was an accident.’

  She registered his expression of disbelief and horror and felt that it was important to keep talking. Or rather shouting. It was awful to be saying these terrible things at the top of her voice whilst the wind snatched the words from her lips and whirled them into the grey void.

  ‘She’d met another man during the last few weeks and had been quite swept off her feet by him. She came to see me. So I know that it’s true. She told me so herself. She was in a desperate state. They’d been lovers and then he’d gone off without a word and she was terribly unhappy.’ She felt the convulsive start that George gave and guessed that he was drawing the parallels between his own behaviour and this unknown man’s. She gripped his hands and shook them, determined to make her point. ‘It was nothing to do with you, George. She was waiting to hear from him, you see, and the doctor thinks that she got into a state and took some tablets after she’d been drinking. They found the glass.’

  ‘Felicity never took her tablets when she’d been drinking,’ said George flatly and Kate strained to hear his words. He squeezed her hands, released them and began to feel for his cigarettes. ‘You know that. It was an absolute rule. She must have been in a very bad state, or it was intentional.’

  His expression was bleak and Kate folded her arms across her breast as the wind screamed through the tops of the pines and the trees creaked beneath its force.

  ‘George.’ Kate realised that her teeth were chattering and that she was shivering but whether from cold or nerves she couldn’t tell. ‘Honestly, George. It was nothing to do with you. She told me all about this man. She was completely head over heels in love with him. I’d never seen Felicity like that before.’ She bit her lip as she realised that she’d been tactless and then decided to let it stand. ‘She was almost unbalanced by it. Perhaps that was the trouble. Why she took the tablets when she’d been drinking. She was in a terrible state when I saw her.’

  George turned from her, trying to light a cigarette in the shelter of his jacket. When he’d succeeded he inhaled deeply, greedily, and then turned back to her.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Over a week ago. Accidental death was decided and she’s . . . they took her to the crematorium in Plymouth. Where her mum went.’ For some reason Kate couldn’t get her tongue round the word ‘cremated’. It seemed worse, somehow, than ‘buried’. ‘I was there and one or two of her friends. Pat. And Barbara. Oh, George. I’m sorry.’

  George, who had been staring over the moor watching the tall fading grasses flatten beneath the wind, looked down at her. He tried to smile.

  ‘Sorry. Dreadful shock.’ He shook his head. ‘Bless you, Kate. For everything. For telling me. And being there. You know. Look, don’t think I’m being rude but if you don’t mind I’d like to be on my own for a bit.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Kate hesitated. ‘You’ll be OK?’

  He nodded and, leaning forward, he kissed her. She put her arms around him, hugged him and then left him, the wind tearing and dragging at her, and climbed with relief into the shelter of her car. Her eyes were watering and, dashing her sleeve across them, she peered in the mirror at him as she started the car. He was still standing quite still, smoking his cigarette. Helplessly she pulled out of the lay-by and drove slowly back to the main road. He raised a hand to her as she passed him and she drove on wondering if she’d handled it properly. How on earth did you tell a man that his mistress of twenty years’ standing had died of an overdose? Chilled to
the bone, trembling like a dog, Kate turned the heater to maximum and pulled on to the main road.

  George watched her go and then turned back to his contemplation of the moor. The whole thing was unbelievable. Felicity dead. He shook his head, frowning out on the grey forbidding landscape, and, flinging away his cigarette, thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Felicity dead. It seemed unreal. That anyone as vitally alive, as forceful, as positive as Felicity should have passed into a mere handful of dust was inconceivable. He remembered her biting tongue and caustic wit, her fierce glance—judgmental, condemnatory—and her passion. He recalled the black hair, the flashing eyes, her sharp features and the overall impression of speed and movement: a bird in flight or, more recently, a bird of prey. George felt a stab of remorse and shame. During these last two years he had feared her, hated her, wanted her out of his life. And now she was. Permanently removed, gone for ever. He swallowed and, wrapping his arms across his chest, dropped his head. He remembered when Mark had first introduced her to him at a party. She’d been wearing one of the new mini-skirts and was as brown as a gypsy. He’d taken the thin fingers and raised them to his lips and she’d laughed, raising her black-winged brows.

  ‘How fearfully French,’ she’d mocked and her black eyes had danced and flashed, captivating his stolid, very English heart. ‘Not a Frog, are you?’ What a long road it had been from that gay beginning to this lonely end. He thought of her, pleading with him in London, desperate, lonely, and him, forgetful of their shared love that had spanned twenty years, caring only for his new love, mindful of a new life and indifferent to her misery. He lifted his head and felt the first drops of rain, cold on his face. Suddenly, he longed to be back at the Old Station House, feeling Thea’s warmth, rejoicing in the knowledge of their unborn child, their offering to a hopeful future. No use to dwell upon the past and all the mistakes that it contained. Thea would help him to bear the pain of it, to see it in proportion.

  He stumbled to the car and lowered himself into the driving seat, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the rain from his face. He drove back to the road and turned towards Tavistock, switching on the windscreen wipers and huddling into his coat. Several times he wiped the moisture from his face and it wasn’t until he was nearly home that he realised it was not rain upon his cheeks but tears that slipped unbidden from his eyes and, though he tried, would not be checked.

  ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY George returned to Northwood and in the evening Thea telephoned Polly and told her the whole story. Polly was shocked into silence and Thea was able to pour out her own horror, which she had not been able to do with George. He had needed comfort and support and Thea thanked God that she had seen Felicity, changed out of all recognition by her happiness, and that they had had that moment of reconciliation and understanding. She had been able to tell George about that, confirming Kate’s story of another man, and it had helped George in his attempt to come to terms with the tragedy. Thea remembered how she and Felicity had hugged each other and felt grateful. She said all this to Polly several times before she hung up, exhausted, but comforted and relieved to get it all out of her system.

  Polly replaced the receiver thoughtfully and Paul glanced up from his book.

  ‘So what was that all about?’

  ‘Awful.’ Polly shivered a little. Ά friend of Thea’s has died. She fell in love with a man who didn’t care for her that much and when he left her she took an overdose.’

  Paul’s expression indicated a faint contempt for the irrationality of female behaviour. ‘Bit extreme, isn’t it?’

  Polly pulled herself together and regarded him. ‘Depends on how strong your feelings are, I suppose,’ she said, deliberately omitting to tell him that Felicity’s death was viewed as an accident.

  Paul shrugged. ‘Or how weak your intellect.’

  Remembering the great drama which had surrounded Fiona’s recent discovery, Polly raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it’s simply that you’ve never experienced any great emotion outside a laboratory,’ she suggested.

  Paul stared at her. A contemptuous look curled his lip a little. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said and picked up his book.

  It was only later that Polly noticed the possible ambiguity in Paul’s answer. After all, Fiona spent a great deal of time with him in the laboratory.

  WHEN DAVID CONTINUED TO get no reply from Felicity’s telephone number he decided to go down to see her. He thought of writing to her but felt, on reflection, that it would be better to have it out face to face. It was only right to talk the whole thing through thoroughly and then, if Felicity were prepared to take the chance, they would take up the threads and go on together. He was still very much in two minds as to whether the relationship would work but he was, by now, deeply ashamed of his behaviour and wanted to make amends. He was very fond of her and the more he thought about it the more he thought it was worth a try. Things were still very strained with Miranda and he was glad to leave her with Tim at Broadhayes and drive the well-known road to Mary Tavy.

  Felicity’s car was in the track but there was no reply to his ring and the place seemed deserted. He wandered round peering in at the windows and then gave up and drove away, wondering what to do with himself until he could go back and try again. Of course, she might have gone away. He remembered that she sometimes took a taxi to the station if she intended to be away for any length of time and he pulled in at the local garage from which this service was run.

  The young man who operated the pumps raised a hand to him, recognising him from his previous visit, and David, who had filled the car up at Moretonhampstead, pulled well over on the forecourt and got out.

  ‘Hello there. How are you? I’m trying to find Mrs Mainwaring. Don’t happen to know if she’s away, do you?’

  The young man’s shocked expression alerted him and he felt his heart give a little tick.

  ‘You ’aven’t ’eard then, sir? Oh,’twas terrible. The poor lady’s dead. Took too many of ‘er tablets, seemin’ly. Lyin’ dead she was fer two days before anyone found ‘er. Shockin’, isn’t it, sir?’

  David felt for the car behind him and leaned back against it. The young man looked at him closely. ‘You all right, sir?’

  David nodded. ‘When . . . when did she . . . die?’

  The young man shook his head consideringly. ‘ ‘Twas a few days ago now. Might be a week. Funeral was yesterday. Sorry to give you such a shock, sir. Fancy you not kno win’.’

  ‘I . . . I’ve been away. I had no idea . . . ’

  ‘ ’Course,’er ’usband’d died recently, so I ’eard. ’Spect you knew all about that.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I knew about that.’

  ‘Kept ’er self very pri vit, she did. Didn’t use us much. Took ‘er car down to the Citroën garage in Plymouth. Filled up ‘ere sometimes, she did. Used the taxi but she weren’t one to chat. Poor soul. Terrible thing. Sure you’re all right, sir?’

  ‘Nobody knows why she should . . . why she did such a thing?’

  The young man pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘P’raps she couldn’t get over ‘er ‘usband. Navy ‘e was. You didn’t know ‘er too well then, sir?’

  ‘Not too well. Friend of a friend.’

  A car pulled in at the pumps and the young man nodded and turned away. After a moment David opened the car door and got in. He sat for a moment and then, with a tremendous effort, started the engine and pulled away, raising a hand to the young man. Presently he found himself on the open moor and turned off the road as soon as he could. He switched off the ignition with a trembling hand and gazed out over the misty uplands. Surely, surely it could not be true? He thought of her happiness, her response to his love, the way that she had given all of herself. He remembered her voice on his answering machine and how it had changed from from friendly enquiries to desperate pleadings. He recalled Miranda saying, ‘I told her that you didn’t want to speak to her,’ and gripped the steering wheel in both hands as a wave of anguish engulfed him.
He had killed her. She had loved him and trusted him and he had killed her. Never mind what she had been or done before; to him she had shown love, generosity, passion, and he had taken it all, used it and then flung it back in her face. Too cowardly to tell her the truth, he had left her imagining that he would return and then let her discover, quite brutally, that it was all over. Shame and grief wrenched at his breast and resting his forehead on the wheel he began to cry.

  Presently, exhausted by the great tearing sobs that shook him, he raised his head and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window beside him. Tiredly he stared out over the quiet indifferent landscape and finally a small measure of calm returned. He felt numbed, beyond thought or reason, and, when he could sit no longer and there seemed nothing else to do, he started up the engine and drove back to Broadhayes.

  Twenty

  IN THE END, MIRANDA agreed to be married from Broadhayes in the local church. It was such a perfect house to be married from and, unlike her home in Chelsea, there was room to put up their relations and friends. Anyway, David, at this time, would have made an indifferent host. Even by Christmas he still seemed unable to recover from the shock of Felicity’s death. Naturally, none of them felt able to mention it to Thea and she, sublimely unaware that they knew of Felicity’s existence, never mentioned her to them. They had none of the comfort of being able to tell themselves that her death had been accidental and even if David had known this to be the case he would have been unable to accept it. His whole being shrank from the horror of what he had done and when he came face to face with himself in the looking-glass each morning as he shaved, he saw the visage of a murderer.