Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘But that was then!’ he muttered and sighed.

  Five minutes later, still in his nightshirt and dressing gown, he entered the kitchen. He gave a strangled cry as he jumped with fright. Stanley was sitting at the table and the pistol was resting on it.

  ‘Morning, Father! Nice surprise, eh? Your favourite son has popped in to say “hello”!’

  Albert sat down quickly before his trembling legs gave way beneath him. ‘What . . . what do you want, Stanley?’ he asked, his voice hoarse, his heart beginning to thump uneasily.

  ‘I want to know if you’re pleased to see me, Father? Are you?’

  ‘I’d be more pleased if you hadn’t brought a gun with you!’ Albert felt rather proud of these words. They had taken a considerable amount of courage – but his son looked unimpressed. In fact he looked amused by his father’s attempt at a rebuke.

  ‘But you see, I feel safer with the gun. Less chance of you packing me off back to Ceylon to that man you considered a friend!’

  ‘He is . . . was a friend! We were at school together.’ In fact they had lost touch shortly after Stanley arrived at the plantation and, unwilling to deal with the possibility of bad news, Albert had secretly been relieved. ‘No news is good news, Monica!’ had been his mantra.

  Stanley raised his eyebrows. ‘He was no friend to me!’

  ‘Maybe you behaved badly – the way you did at home.’ Now Albert desperately wanted to know what exactly had happened out in Ceylon but he was afraid to ask because that would mean facing up to an unpleasant truth. Maybe it was best that he did not learn the truth because it might be unbearable. He had managed to stifle his conscience over the intervening years and he now felt too old to cope with unpleasant revelations and consequent guilt.

  Now he said, ‘We thought it for the best, Stanley. You know what you were like – quite unmanageable. Your poor mother was afraid of you, to be frank.’

  ‘And now you’re afraid of me! I like that!’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Albert lied, ‘but I am fearful for you. I don’t know what sort of havoc you intend to create, apart from what you’ve already done. It was heartless to frighten your Aunt Dilys.’

  Stanley shrugged. ‘Just her bad luck to be born a Pennington. We’ve not been blessed as a family, have we.’ It was not a question.

  Albert regarded him with growing despair. ‘If you think I deserve to die then shoot me, Stanley, but you will pay for it with your own life and I should not care to have that on my conscience.’

  ‘On your conscience?’ The question was a sneer. ‘If I shoot you, you will be dead and will no longer have the luxury of a conscience!’

  Albert shook his head. He wanted this encounter to end but he saw that it could only end one way and he felt obliged to make a last desperate attempt to justify his actions. ‘I’m truly sorry it turned out this way, Stanley. I thought that the discipline of life abroad would help you. I was at my wits’ end.’

  ‘That made two of us!’

  ‘I wanted to send you away to school earlier but Monica refused to even consider the idea.’

  ‘It seems that your one aim was to get rid of me. Out of sight, out of mind!’

  ‘No!’ cried Albert although he knew in his heart there was a germ of truth in Stanley’s interpretation. He stiffened as Stanley picked up the gun, studied it almost absently, then dropped it back on to the table. ‘But Mother thought I needed understanding,’ he reminded his father. ‘I heard her say so. She wanted me to see a doctor but you refused.’

  ‘I thought they might lock you up in a mental home!’

  ‘I expect they hoped to set my head to rights but you couldn’t face the shame, could you, Father? The humiliation! Friends and family whispering behind your back. Because you’re a weak man.’

  ‘I was strong enough to get my own way!’ Albert snapped. ‘Strong enough to send you away!’ He took a deep breath, regretting the harsh words. He must not let Stanley upset him, he told himself. He must stay calm and in control. Lowering his voice a little he said, ‘You must recall how you were at that time. Out of control and possibly dangerous. You fired an arrow through the neighbour’s window! Poor Mrs Gladwell. You might have killed her. No wonder she took against you. It’s a wonder she didn’t report you to the police, then and there.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have called me a hooligan.’

  ‘You broke a bough off her cherry tree!’

  ‘It was overhanging our garden! Mother asked her to trim it back but she refused.’

  Albert sighed. ‘Monica thought you would end up in prison!’

  ‘I did end up in prison – but not in this country! But you don’t want to hear about my problems, do you, Father?’ He leaned forward. ‘But you have to, because here I am with no money and no home and no job – and with a gun which I intend to use . . . on my ever-loving father!’

  Albert heard the words with a weary acceptance. He had somehow known for so many years that there would be what his son had called ‘a reckoning’. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he didn’t. But it was coming. Albert told himself he would not utter a word of pleading. He would not give Stanley that much satisfaction. He looked his son in the eye and said, ‘Go ahead. Do it. It might make you feel better to know that you have revenged yourself.’

  ‘Oh I will – go ahead, I mean! I don’t need your permission!’ He reached for the gun and levelled it at Albert’s head. ‘Head or heart?’ He said. ‘You can choose.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Stanley. It’s cheap!’ His voice shook but he kept his gaze fixed on his son’s face.

  ‘But that’s fitting, Father, because I am cheap. Dirty, starving, shabby, worthless. Can’t get cheaper than that!’ He glanced round the room. ‘Maybe you should kneel on the floor . . . or stand against the wall over there! Yes!’ He pointed with the gun. ‘On your feet, Father! Stand over there. And close your eyes.’

  ‘No! I won’t close my eyes! I need to see you pull the trigger!’ He stood unsteadily and stumbled forward to take his position against the wall, his arms held stiffly by his side. Please God, send me a heart attack! he begged silently. Then whatever happens, my son will not be hanged for murder!

  Stanley stood up and levelled the gun. ‘Any last thoughts?’ he asked. ‘Any last words?’

  Albert heard himself say, ‘I loved you once! I’m so sorry!’ He didn’t close his eyes but they filled with sudden tears so that his sight was immediately blurred.

  He heard Stanley say, ‘Goodbye, Father!’ and then the shot rang out. Oh God! Albert waited for the pain or whatever it was he should expect. Or had Stanley missed! He waited.

  There was a heavy crumpling sound. Brushing the tears from his eyes, Albert saw Stanley lying on the floor. The gun was still in his hand and blood was oozing from a hole in the side of his head. The wall to his left was spattered with blood and soft tissue.

  ‘Dear God in heaven!’

  Slowly Albert approached his son. He lowered himself to his knees and steeled himself to look more closely. Despite the bullet hole in his son’s head, Albert couldn’t quite believe that he was dead. Stanley’s face showed no sign of anger or grief – no sign of anything, in fact. He looked peaceful, thought Albert with a rush of mixed emotions. The tense mix of anguish and anger, so plain to see before the shot, had been replaced by an expression of calm acceptance. Acceptance of his fate?

  ‘Oh Stanley. My poor angry little boy!’ The tears returned to Albert’s eyes as he knelt down beside the body of his son and took the limp right hand between his own and kissed it. ‘I didn’t want any of this to happen,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t want everything to go so terribly wrong. Monica was right. I should have listened to her. I should have helped you instead of . . .’ He began to sob in earnest, deep, painful tears full of regret and guilt. Awkwardly, he pulled his son up and cradled his head in his arms. This was how it should have been, he thought. I should have ‘loved him’ back to health and sanity. We did love each other once, when he was
small and biddable but then . . .

  With an effort he pushed the unpleasant thoughts from his mind. There was no point in dwelling on past mistakes because there was no way to put them right. Perhaps there never had been.

  He caught sight of the gun and for one glorious moment he saw a way out for himself – a way out from the years of remorse that awaited him.

  ‘Shoot yourself, Albert!’ he whispered.

  But no! He couldn’t take the easy way out. That would mean ruining Hettie’s life, too, and he must not do that. He’d done enough damage. When his wife discovered what had happened here, she would be devastated and that would be bad enough. He would spend the rest of his life trying to help her recover from this tragedy.

  He hugged his son more tightly as time passed, until the clock in the hall struck the hour and he knew he must let Stanley go. He kissed him and gently laid him down where he had fallen.

  Time to telephone his wife and begin the long journey of painful contrition which lay ahead. Then he must notify the police. Breathing heavily, he clutched at the edge of the table and began to haul himself to his feet.

  Forty minutes later Hettie and Dilys sat in the taxi in a bleak silence. They were on their way to Hettie’s home but had decided to call in on Montague and break the news in person. Then they would leave him in the care of Daisy Letts and continue to the chaotic scene they could expect at the scene of the shooting.

  Arriving, the two women hurried inside and Montague was fetched from the summer house to sit with Daisy in the sitting room and hear the bad news.

  Stumbling a little over her words, Hettie managed to inform them that Stanley was dead. ‘I have to be with Albert, and Dilys has agreed to accompany me,’ she told her small but seriously shocked audience. ‘I can’t face it on my own. The police will be there and Albert will be in a terrible state.’ She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘It could have been worse, I know. It could have been Albert who was shot.’

  Daisy said, ‘They might both have been shot! He could have shot his father and then turned the gun on himself!’

  All heads turned in her direction.

  Hettie said, ‘I’ll thank you, Daisy, to keep such terrible thoughts to yourself! What has happened is a family matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I only meant—’

  ‘You are here to listen, Daisy! Nothing more. None of this is your concern.’

  Montague said, ‘That poor boy! What a sad ending to a troubled life. But at least he spared his father. That must count for something.’

  Stunned by the realization that there might have been a double tragedy, Hettie’s self-control faltered and she blinked furiously.

  Daisy said, ‘Is Albert all right? It must have—’

  ‘What a stupid question!’ Hettie cried. ‘How can he be all right? He’s just seen his son die!’

  ‘I meant, he must be badly shocked and will need you. Now that we know what has happened, we shouldn’t keep you any longer. You could get along to your home. I can look after Mont— I mean Mr Pennington.’

  Dilys said quickly, ‘Daisy’s right, Hettie. Albert must be our first concern.’

  Hettie bridled at her sister-in-law’s words. ‘Albert is my husband, Dilys! I’ll be the judge of what’s best for him!’

  Montague intervened. ‘I agree with Daisy. We won’t keep you talking here. Telephone us when you know more about what is happening. I expect the police are waiting to speak with you and they may want to remove Stanley’s body to the mortuary.’

  Hettie flushed with annoyance. ‘My husband is there,’ she pointed out. ‘Stanley is his son, not mine. Albert is apparently unharmed and has his wits about him so can no doubt deal with the police and sign whatever forms are necessary.’

  Dilys glanced helplessly at her brother.

  Daisy said, ‘If I could be of help and Mr Pennington doesn’t mind, I could come with you.’

  Dilys said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Daisy . . .’ and looked at Hettie.

  ‘What do you think you could contribute?’ Hettie demanded.

  Daisy ignored her tone of voice. ‘Answer the front door, make pots of tea, fetch and carry – that sort of thing. You probably won’t feel up to it.’

  Montague nodded. ‘You go with them, Daisy. You’ll be invaluable.’

  Hettie finally recognized the value of Daisy’s offer and gave in grudgingly and soon the three of them were on their way to Widcombe Hill.

  It was even worse than Daisy had expected. As the taxi drew up outside, a man and a police sergeant were talking together on the front step and they glanced up at the new arrivals.

  ‘And you are?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘I’m Henrietta Pennington, Albert’s wife and this is Dilys Maynard, Albert’s sister.’ She did not bother to mention Daisy.

  ‘We came as soon as we could.’

  The other man said, ‘I’m Doctor Woods. I was called to the scene in time to find your husband suffering a minor heart attack brought on by shock. A relatively mild attack and nothing to worry about, I’m pleased to say. He has—’

  ‘Oh no! Oh God!’ Hettie blanched, one hand to her heart.

  ‘He has returned to bed, Mrs Pennington, and I have given him a sedative to help him relax and hopefully sleep.’

  ‘I must go to him!’ she gasped and hurried into the house before anyone could stop her.

  The policeman addressed himself to Dilys. ‘The deceased has been taken to the mortuary but his body will be released after examination. Your brother will be asked for a statement about what occurred here, but not until he is well enough to deal with it. We are assuming, from what he was able to tell us, that the victim first threatened him but then shot himself. We have taken possession of the gun and that will be examined for fingerprints.’

  Dilys said, ‘So, sergeant, you are not bringing any charges?’

  ‘I have not said so but it seems unlikely. However, suicide is itself a crime and there are certain procedures.’

  The doctor pulled out his watch and tutted. ‘I shall have to be on my way.’ To the policeman he said, ‘You know where to find me if necessary.’ To Dilys he said, ‘My condolences, Mrs Maynard. This has been a terrible tragedy.’ He raised his hat and walked briskly to his motor, started the engine and climbed in.

  The police left also, promising to be in touch and asking to be advised of any further relevant developments.

  Daisy and Dilys watched the two men drive away then turned, and without a word, went up the steps with heavy hearts, and into the stricken house.

  Left to his own devices Monty realized he was shaking from the shock and he felt alone and vulnerable. He poured himself a glass of malt whisky and, carefully considering his options, made his way into the summer house, taking The Times with him. He hoped to relax and read the paper and hopefully distract himself from the terrible news and all that would follow. He was glad his brother had not been shot but did not envy him the gossip which would follow Stanley’s suicide.

  He tried to think sensibly and sent up a short prayer of thanks for the fact that the family need no longer live in fear, wondering where poor misguided Stanley would strike next. Children could prove a great disappointment, he told himself. Maybe it was as well that he and Cressida had had no family although, at the time it had been a cause of considerable heartbreak.

  It was sheltered in the summer house, the afternoon sun was comforting and the familiar smell of warm wood soothed his jangled nerves. He settled himself on the cushions, sipped his drink and wondered about the future – his own and that of everyone else. A hopeful robin hopped close and Monty smiled.

  ‘Nothing for you here,’ he said. ‘Unless you drink Famous Grouse!’

  He watched the few clouds that moved sedately past, finished his drink and dozed off.

  When he opened them again he was startled to see a visitor dressed all in black, walking towards him across the grass. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the approaching figure which looked vague
ly familiar.

  ‘Miss Dutton?’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘It is, sir. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. May I sit down?’

  Without waiting for his answer she made herself comfortable on an upright chair, took a handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose.

  He regarded her through narrowed eyes. She looked a little thinner than he remembered and definitely less jolly. Her eyes, peering out from beneath the black felt hat, lacked their old sparkle. He wondered if she were ill . . . or perhaps it was her sombre outfit. He had never seen her in black and now decided it didn’t suit her.

  She said, ‘I rang the bell but no one answered. Then I thought you might be out here. I still can’t get used to your being up and about.’

  ‘It’s been a trying day. I find it very restful here.’

  ‘I’ve been asking around in the village,’ she confessed, ‘and I don’t think you have found my replacement yet.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he agreed, ‘but we have interviewed a few people and will be considering others. Miss Dutton forgive me, but . . . are you in good health? I don’t mean this harshly but you do look a bit peaky. Under the weather, as they say.’

  She sighed. ‘I’m in perfectly good health, sir, but my mother is not. She died two weeks ago.’

  Now he understood. Miss Dutton had lost her mother and was grieving. ‘My dear Miss Dutton, I’m so terribly sorry!’

  ‘Thank you. I’m pleased to say she died with me beside her and resting in her own bed. It was very peaceful.’

  Montague thought of Stanley’s angry and emotional death but said nothing. This was not the time.

  ‘I’m sure she died happy,’ he said. ‘She was very lucky to have such a devoted daughter.’ Suddenly a great hope rose in him as he put two and two together. Miss Dutton wanted her old job back – and she could certainly have it! What luck that they had not settled on anyone else in the few weeks she had been gone. Daisy had done her best to fill the void but she, too, would be pleased to see her friend return.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t consider returning to me, would you, Miss Dutton?’ he said. ‘I think we were a happy little household and could be again.’