Goodbye, Ms. Chips

by Dorothy Cannell

  “I am sorry.” Under other circumstances, I would have asked her if she was sure she had locked the trophy case on the afternoon the Loverly Cup was taken and if she remembered noticing any suspiciously lurking figures. As it was, I stood thinking how lucky I was to be married to a man who didn’t make my eyes twitch when talking about him.

  “You and me should have a lot in common, Mrs. Mossop, seeing as how I’m in the same line of work as yourself,” Mrs. Malloy said in a gratified voice, “or was, that is, before me health started to fail. Ellie here never did think much of her Aunt Petal going out cleaning. But like I told her, it’s God’s work, isn’t it—doing for others what they don’t want to do for themselves? See life from a different perspective when you’re kneeling on a floor with a bucket, is what I always say.”

  Mrs. Mossop’s expression changed subtly. It couldn’t be said that she brightened or that her voice took on a chirp, but I sensed that she warmed to the opportunity of airing professional grievances. Mr. Mossop could be shoved in the background for a few minutes.

  “One of the women staying here—her with the Roman nose—she looked at me like I was dirt when I came in. I don’t know if that’s better or worse than the ones that look right through you like you’re not there. To some of the teachers and that toffee-nosed Matron—she’s the worst—you’d think I was no more than a rag on the floor to be walked over. The things we get to hear by way of being invisible!”

  Mrs. Malloy nodded sagely.

  “I could write a book. Then again, it’s likely different working at a school instead of doing houses where there’s a divorce in the works or the mother-in-law moving in just when the drains is acting up again—and then should the smallest thing get broken or go missing … .”

  She paused effectively.

  “I’ve been worried sick that I’ll be blamed for that silver cup going missing. I’m just glad Luanne wasn’t around here to get looked at funny. She’s gone up to the Hall to help Mrs. Brown. Poor woman! Luanne says she has dreadful nightmares. Wakes up screaming.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said.

  “Tells you everything, does Luanne. Not one to keep her mouth shut. That’s what got her out of here. Stuck out her tongue at Mr. Bumbleton.”

  “Sounds like you’re fond of her,” said Mrs. Malloy, in her most companionable voice.

  “Like a daughter.” Mrs. Mossop’s sad little pug face scrunched up even tighter. “Mossop and me wasn’t blessed with children. A heartache at the time, but I see now it was for the best. He wouldn’t have liked them, however they turned out. Can’t stand the little bit of family he’s got, let alone my poor sis—”

  She was interrupted by Rosemary’s raucous voice from the sitting room. “Who’s out there jabbering in the hall?”

  “I’ll be off.” Mrs. Mossop shrank back into a mouse with a squeak for a voice before scuttling out the door.

  “It’s us!” I shouted sideways. “Ellie and Aunt Petal. We’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Mrs. Malloy’s eyebrows arched way above her iridescent lids. “Leave it to me, Mrs. H, to find out what that poor woman knows about the Loverly Cup.”

  “That’s what we’re about,” I said, “gathering up a probably useless amount of information.” I was like a child who’d had enough of the party and wanted to go home.

  The sitting room door bounced open, and Rosemary cast her shadow.

  “Hello, there!” I said. “Did the police return with any more questions about Ms. Chips?”

  “No, and please don’t get us talking about her again,” Rosemary snapped. “I’m sorry about what happened to her—it’s awful, no doubt about it—but going on about her good points won’t bring her back. Let’s move on.”

  “Isn’t she a ray of sunshine at the North Pole?” Tosca chirruped from within. “She’s still in the snits because her husband, the oh so wonderful Gerald, has not yet rung up. I ask why she does not phone him and get slashed to shreds because I smile.”

  “Oh, God! Why can’t you hole up in the potting shed and smoke yourself to death?” Rosemary charged back into the sitting room with Mrs. Malloy and me at her heels. We found Phil seated on the sofa, leafing through a magazine.

  “How did the lunch go with Ariel Hopkins and Carolyn Fisher-Jones? I’m just back from the school. I saw Gillian in one of the corridors, but she brushed right past me. I really don’t think she saw me. I nearly said something to Matron, but didn’t, because she’s already got enough on her plate.”

  “Are you planning on becoming Matron’s permanent second-in-command? Is that why you’re reading a medical journal?” Rosemary sloshed gin into a glass, ignoring the bottle of tonic.

  “I prefer it to the fashion magazines in the rack,” Phil replied mildly.

  “Not a sudden desire to play doctor? Or should I say, play with one if you can get him out of Tosca’s clutches?”

  “I don’t think this bickering is good for me in my frail condition.” Mrs. Malloy tottered over to the sofa and held out her hand for a drink, which I duly presented.

  “If it upsets Phil, I will cancel my dinner date with the handsome and kind Dr. Roberts,” Tosca offered from her chair. “I am not a man snatcher … although I might be tempted down that path if your Gerald should show up and prove to be all you say, Rosemary.”

  “You are a pernicious woman!”

  “You have had a bad day. Did you get word that your little dog lost its bathing cap or refused to take a shower before getting into the pool? Never mind, Rosie! Perhaps it is better suited for the long distances—swimming the channel, for instance.”

  “You!” The furiously vibrating finger pointed at me. “I saw that smile!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “I’ve also made the occasional joke at Howard Hound’s expense, and it wasn’t kind.”

  “Laurence! His name is Laurence!”

  “Do not get the fancy French knickers—which I didn’t steal—in a twist!” Tosca purred.

  “I will not be ridiculed!” Sobbing noisily—grotesquely was the word used later by Mrs. Malloy—Rosemary fled the room.

  “What now, girls?” Tosca’s lips curved into a cat smile. “Do we get out the ark?”

  Phil set aside the magazine. “Why not give the woman a break? This has been a dreadful day, and she probably minds more about Ms. Chips than she’s saying. I’m going to my room. I offered to go back to the school in a couple of hours so Matron can get out for a break this evening.” She stood up, facing Mrs. Malloy and me. “Do either of you have plans?”

  Mrs. Malloy said she was all set on a lazy evening, and I explained that I was visiting a casual acquaintance.

  Tosca had once again arranged her legs in a weirdly contorted pyramid. “Sorry! I forgot to tell you, Ellie, that Ms. Critchley telephoned to ask you to meet her at seven where her car is parked if you would like to go out for some driving. She is nice-sounding, and I told her you would be in squeals of delight. Perhaps we should all stay in and be sad for Ms. Chips. But for me the dinner date is as the doctor orders.”

  “I’ll phone Dorcas back,” I said.

  “No need.” Tosca rearranged a foot on her shoulder. “She said if you do not meet her at seven she will know you do not feel up to it and go back inside the school.”

  We divided up, only Tosca remaining where she was. Mrs. Malloy admitted to being ready for a lie-down after the events of the previous night. When she went into the study and Phil to her bedroom, I telephoned Ben and had a comforting talk with him, followed by merry conversations with the children.

  Returning the receiver to its cradle, I thought about going to see how Rosemary was doing but decided she wouldn’t thank me for finding her with a tear-sodden face. Phil’s charitable view that her awfulness was the result of deep unhappiness was all very well, but I was getting a little tired of human nature. Lying down on my bed, I willed the soothing colors of the room to calm me and closed my eyes. There was plenty of time for a nap before getting ready
for the evening, and I did feel sleepy; even so, I was convinced I’d have trouble dozing off with my mind jumping from one thought to another. Wrong! I conked out as if hit on the head with a blunt object.

  My dreams were the usual hodgepodge but nothing nightmarish. I was seated at Matron’s desk while Carolyn confided that her parents were set on her achieving a great musical career and refused to accept that she didn’t have the talent so she was going to be a veterinary assistant instead. At which point she turned into Deirdre Dawson, who said she hated Gillian because that was her job as dorm prefect. I was explaining that only bad people get what’s coming to them when a tap on the door woke me and Phil poked in her head.

  “I thought you might need rousing, Ellie, if you’re going to meet your friend at seven. It’s a little after six. The bathroom’s free if you need it and I made some sandwiches, although perhaps you are going out for a meal.”

  “Thanks, I’m not sure what Dorcas has in mind.” I smoothed a hand over my face and sat up.

  “See you tomorrow if not before.”

  “Phil?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Rushbridge told the Home Skills class that one of the guests staying at the Chaplain’s House is an actress. Is that you?”

  She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “It was silly of me to hide it. I did tell Gillian when she was here yesterday. There’s something just too awful about misleading a girl of her age. She said you’d told her I’d worked as a veterinary assistant … which is true, after a fashion; I played the part in my most recent play. I do stage work mainly: provincial theaters.”

  “A TV shampoo advert rang a bell”—I shifted on the bed—“with Aunt Petal.”

  “I did one last year.”

  “That was it.”

  She laughed. “And occasionally for breakfast cereal and furniture polish. They pay well for someone in my league—fairly steady work but nothing that’s come near to making me famous.”

  “Did you always want to act?”

  “Always. My parents were horrified; they’re dears but quite Victorian in their ideas.”

  “It seems an exciting life.”

  “It has been; it was the one I wanted. I wouldn’t trade the times of waiting tables till all hours of the morning or selling cosmetics door-to-door to pay the rent.” She came farther into the room, and I saw she was wearing a simple but elegant black dress and high heels. “The reason I decided not to say anything was because—”

  “You didn’t want half the school begging for your autograph.”

  She laughed. “Even mediocre actresses get that sort of reaction sometimes; it comes with the territory, and much of the time I’m flattered and sincerely appreciative. I came here, though, because I wanted to reconnect with my past, and that seemed easier to do if I left my present behind. But as I said, I did tell Gillian, and given her hope of making musical performance her career I hoped it forged the beginning of a bond between us. That’s why it worried me when she looked right through me when we came upon each other in the school corridor this afternoon.”

  “Yesterday in the kitchen she looked almost happy.” I sat looking up at Philippa.

  “We’d talked about the risks and rewards of putting what talent one has in front of an audience. I’ve a feeling, however, that she and I aren’t quite in the same category—that where I have a small gift, hers is enormous. That didn’t come from any boasting on her part. It”—Phil spread her hands—“just came through. And now, having cleared my conscience to some small degree, I’d best let you get ready.”

  She slipped out the door, leaving me to slump back on the bed. Why hadn’t I grabbed the opportunity to confess my sin of omission toward her when I was Gillian’s age and she only a year older? I would have continued to sit, pondering my cowardice, if my watch hadn’t shown me it was time to scuttle, were I to have any hope of meeting Dorcas in the parking area by seven. No time to do much with my face and hair. But if I intended on following through with my plan of showing up on Lady Loverly’s doorstep and dragging Dorcas along, it behooved me to put my best foot forward. I wasted no time agonizing about deficiencies. Shrugging into a brown sheath dress and stepping into matching sandals, I called the job done and was about to head out onto the landing when Mrs. Malloy called “Cooee!” and came into the room.

  “Had a good nap?” she wanted to know.

  “Fine. You too, I hope. And that’s enough about the Land of Nod. There’s something I have to tell you. Nothing to do with the case, but interesting.” I proceeded to impart the news about what Philippa did for a living, with gratifying results. Mrs. Malloy swayed like a ship caught in a storm on the high seas.

  “Well, who’d have thought it! And what put you on to it was my saying she looked familiar and mentioning that shampoo advert? Well, let’s call me clever dick and leave it at that! A real live actress under this roof! Breathing the very same air as you and me! Sharing the loo with us, drinking from the same bottle of milk. We have to get her autograph! The looks I’ll get when I tell them at the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association! Eyeballs rolling all over the place is what it’ll be.”

  “Not a word to Rosemary and Tosca. It’s for Phil to tell them, not us.”

  “What do you take me for, Mrs. H?”

  “Someone I shouldn’t be chatting with when I’ve got to run.”

  “’Course she’ll have just been modest, saying as how she isn’t famous.” The eyes beneath the neon-coated lids took on a dreamy glow. “I’m sure, now I come to think of it, that I’ve seen her other times on the telly.” Perceiving the futility of trying to bring her back to earth, I bade adieu to deaf ears and made my escape.

  Alas, the world is overly full of people desperate to touch the hem of celebrity. Seated beside Dorcas some five minutes later on the drive to the green, I forgot my demand for discretion from Mrs. Malloy. I provided the facts—without embellishments, assured of their raw captivating charm. “We mustn’t spread this around,” I belatedly instructed.

  Dorcas emerged onto the main road at a crawl. “Decent of Miss Boswell to come clean. And jolly kind of her to take an interest in Gillian. Mrs. Rushbridge, who’s up and about now, told me she’d had a word with Mr. Middleton about how ill the girl looked, so she’s going to be staying with him and his sister for a few days. Mrs. Battle approved the arrangement, of course. Had a word with her before leaving the school. Said I’d stop by the Middletons’ during our drive and report back on how Gillian is doing. Hope you don’t mind, Ellie.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Still can’t come to grips with Chippy’s death. Poor old Rushbridge feels terrible. Says if she’d taken better care of her teeth she might have done her own dorm duty. Heart broke for her. Would feel the same in her place. Know Mrs. Frenton feels bad. Had a date and couldn’t fill in.”

  During the remainder of the drive, I filled Dorcas in on what I had gleaned since my arrival. Even to my own ears it sounded a lot of hodgepodge. There was, however, one thing I left out, a crucial one at that—my finding the Loverly Cup in the niche behind the clock. Had I done so, Dorcas’s code of honor would have required me to inform Mrs. Battle immediately, and that I was not ready to do.

  I fell silent when we came to a standstill alongside Ms. Chips’s house. Dorcas briefly bowed her head over hands that clenched the wheel. Then, climbing out of the car, we beheld Mr. Middleton descending the last few rungs of his ladder, propped up against the apple tree. He had the ubiquitous Harpsichord in his arms and a markedly disturbed expression on his face. Surprise at seeing us staring at him, perhaps, or had it dawned on him that, despite all the meows to the contrary, his cat was never going to change? Was he facing the sad truth that he would continue to put up with stress to life and limb because theirs was a codependent relationship? Were such thoughts preferable to the heartache of thinking about the woman who had been his longtime friend and more recent neighbor?

  “Are you here to collect Ariel Hopkins?” He w
aved his furry orange bundle by way of greeting, his kindly smile rimmed with sadness.

  “We didn’t know she was here,” I said, looking at Dorcas, who shook her head.

  “She came with Wilma Johnson some fifteen minutes ago, hoping to see Gillian, which Ruth and I thought very kind but better left for another day. We felt awkward making this suggestion to Wilma as well, but she seemed to accept that Gillian needs to hibernate for a little while.”

  This seemed unusual of Matron. “Where is Ariel?” I asked him.

  “Wilma took her into Marilyn’s house, although”—Mr. Middleton cleared his throat—“I suppose it must be said it’s hers—Wilma’s—now. Apparently Mrs. Battle let slip to her this afternoon that Marilyn had left her the house and its contents.”

  “We’ll collect Ariel,” Dorcas told him gruffly. “Shouldn’t be left to Matron to take her back. Woman may want to linger with her memories … . So sorry, mustn’t become emotional. Good old Chippy! Know she wouldn’t want that. Condolences on your loss, Mr. Middleton. Bound to miss her abominably.”

  “Indeed, indeed, as will my sister. Ruth would like to see you both—but another time, if you understand—about Gillian. As I just said, she wasn’t up to a visit from her great-aunt.” He continued to stand holding Harpsichord, his manner as kindly and courteous as always, but there was a pensive look in his eyes that suggested he was thinking of something else.

  Dorcas and I proceeded up Ms. Chips’s path, to be greeted by a surprised Ariel opening the front door before we rang the bell.

  “I saw you through the glass panel.” She adjusted her specs as if doubting the evidence of her eyes. “Have you come to fetch me because you were cross that I came to see Gillian? When we were having lunch, I suddenly got this goose-bumpy feeling and decided I just had to talk to her, but first I need a word or two with Elizabeth Anderson. Anyway”—Ariel paused to suck in a breath—“by the time I went looking for Gillian, I heard she’d gone to stay with the Middletons. But luckily, as I was going disconsolately up to the common room after supper, I ran into Matron; and when she said she was going to visit Gillian, I wheedled a lift.”