by Hazel Holt
On a sudden impulse I stood up and got out my address book. Marion was on my Christmas card list, so I knew where she lived. I got her number from Directory Enquiries and, not knowing in the least what I was going to say, I dialled. The voice that answered was low, pleasant and definitely foreign.
‘I do hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time,’ I said, ‘but do you think I might have a few words with Marion? She does know me, though we haven’t seen each other for years. My name is Sheila Malory.’
‘Oh yes, I know, Shei-la.’ He gave my name two distinct syllables. ‘Marion has spoken of you. When you were children in Taviscombe.’ He pronounced it ‘Taviscom’. ‘I am sure she would be delighted to speak with you. Poor Marion, everything is very sad for her, for us all, you know. She will be happy to hear a new voice. It will cheer her. Wait one moment and I will fetch her.’
After a few minutes, when I began to wonder what on earth had possessed me to embark on this ridiculous enterprise, Marion picked up the receiver and said, ‘Sheila! What a nice surprise! How good of you to call.’
‘I just wondered how things were,’ I said rather feebly. ‘How is your mother?’
‘About the same. We’ve brought her home now. There’s nothing more they can do for her in hospital and we thought she’d rather be here than in a hospice. I know they’re marvellous but, well, she just wants to lie in her own bed by the window and look out over the loch.’
‘Of course. But it must be a dreadful strain for you.’
‘Well, it’s sad, of course, but she’s a marvellous patient and quite cheerful. One good thing, it’s quite easy to get domestic help up here – our Mrs Buchan is a real treasure – so we can just concentrate on being with her, me, Van and the children. It’s been a surprisingly happy time; isn’t that strange!’ I found it difficult to reconcile this calm, resolute, cheerful woman with the awkward girl I had known, plunging about physically and emotionally. It would seem that Marion had, quite simply, grown up.
‘How long has she been back with you?’
‘Oh, about six weeks now. I’m afraid it can’t last much longer, though. The doctor’s not very hopeful; he says probably only a few more weeks. She’s very frail now.’
‘I’m so sorry ... You must be worn out.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a bit tiring. We’ve none of us been out of the house, except for the odd hour in Inverness to do the shopping, since she’s been back, and that gets a bit wearing. Mrs Buchan would take over, I know, but we feel that time is so precious that we don’t really want to be anywhere else. Well, you’ll know what it’s like. Aunt Edith told me about your mother – I’m sorry, I meant to write, but...’
‘Yes, of course. You’re lucky to have Van...’
‘He’s wonderful. Mother adores him, he hardly ever leaves her side. He’s taken his easel and painting things into her room now and they sit together and he paints the loch.’
‘I’m so glad.’
There was a small pause then Marion said, ‘Is there any news of Aunt Edith? Is she all right? Thelma rang in a bit of a state.’
‘No, I’m afraid we still don’t know what’s happened – where she is.’
‘It’s a most extraordinary thing. Poor little soul, I do hope that nothing awful’s happened to her. She was always very kind to me. I used to hate going down there to stay – well, you remember how ghastly that house was. Uncle Julian and Thelma – terrible! Poor Aunt Edith, they led her a dreadful life, but she always tried to smooth things over when I did something stupid or clumsy (which was quite a lot of the time!). And when we were alone she gave me little treats – chocolates and once a pretty lace collar for a dress, bless her! I do hope she’s all right. We haven’t told Mother. They weren’t very close after they came back to England, but it would worry and upset her. Well, you can imagine.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll let you know if there’s any news, but it does seem a complete mystery.’
‘I bet Thelma’s raising hell.’
‘You could put it like that.’
‘Going on about that bloody Trust, I suppose. That woman is obsessed with money; I suppose she hasn’t got anything else.’
‘No children, you mean?’
‘No children and a husband who is equally obsessed. Anyway, I imagine she didn’t want any children. She doesn’t like them. She was always foul to my lot whenever we called in to see Aunt Edith when we were in the south.’
‘It’s probably just as well,’ I observed. ‘She’d have been a ghastly mother. Just think of it!’
‘Don’t. No, really Sheila, what can she get out of life? I don’t understand it, I mean what’s it all for? When she’s built up that business, made yet another fortune, what then? Money won’t buy you happiness, don’t they say? Well, I suppose it’s easy enough for me to say that; we’ve always been comfortable. But it isn’t the things that money has bought that I value. Does that sound priggish? I suppose, just now, seeing Mother and what really gives her happiness in these last days, well...’
‘You’re right, Marion,’ I said warmly. ‘And it’s only at times like this that one actually stops to think things out clearly and set out one’s real values.’
‘How strange – that’s more or less what Van said the other day. I’m glad it’s been like this for me and I do, honestly, pity Thelma if all she can think of when her mother is missing is the money. It must be terrible to live without love.’
We talked a little more and then I said, ‘I mustn’t keep you – you will have things to do.’
‘Yes, I must go and settle Mother for the night. Thank you so much for calling, Sheila. I do appreciate it. I’m so happy to have had this talk. Bless you.’
I rang off, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself.
Of course, it might have been a tremendous act, setting an alibi for them all, but somehow I knew it wasn’t like that. I remembered clearly enough, from my own experience, the feeling of isolation and self-containment in a household where one of the members is dying. The world outside doesn’t seem to exist and one has to make a positive effort to communicate with anyone beyond that circle. I recognised in Marion’s voice the same note that must have been in mine in the weeks before Peter died. I was still amazed at the new Marion, so unlike the heedless girl I knew, but she had always been a good-hearted person and such an experience might well have brought out the best in her. And, ultimately, you can always tell, especially over the telephone when there is nothing else to distract you, when someone is really sincere and Marion, I was absolutely positive, was sincere when she said she didn’t care about the money.
Next morning I had to nerve myself to go and visit Rosemary’s mother in West Lodge. Although she had made a good recovery from her stroke and was certainly marvellously well looked after by Rosemary and the faithful Elsie, Mrs Dudley was bored and had wanted a change of scene. ‘And, of course,’ Rosemary had said, ‘her friend Mrs Bascombe has just gone into West Lodge for a few weeks while her daughter’s away, so Mother had to go too. I wouldn’t mind,’ she added, ‘if it meant that I could have a little break and it’s quite convenient to have her there, under cover, just now, but I have to go down twice a day in case she wants anything special – and to prove to Mrs Wilmot and all the other patients what a devoted daughter she has!’ So I said I’d pop in one morning – not because I wanted to see Mrs Dudley, but because I thought it might ease things a little for Rosemary.
Armed with a pot of primulas I made my way to West Lodge.
Mrs Dudley, expensively dressed, her face carefully made up and her hair recently set, was sitting in an armchair in one of the best rooms, looking out over the promenade and the sea. I saw that she had already settled in. There were vases of flowers, a box of chocolate mints, several of the more expensive magazines and a new biography of a minor member of the royal family.
She greeted me with a gracious smile and looked critically at the primulas.
‘How kind of you, my dear. I must make sure
they water them properly; primulas do tend to die off in a warm atmosphere.’
‘You look very comfortable,’ I said, hoping to placate her.
‘They do their best, I suppose, and certainly they charge enough, but the service isn’t what I’m used to. Just press that bell, my dear, for coffee.’
‘Anyway, you’ve got a nice view.’
She cast a disparaging look at the promenade below. ‘I must say, it doesn’t give me any pleasure to see how dreadfully Taviscombe has gone down these days. Just look at those terrible people.’
A family party, a mother, father and two small children, all wearing brightly coloured Bermuda shorts and T-shirts, were making their way down the steps to the beach. A little further along a young couple were unloading a windsurfing board from the roof of their car, watched with interest by two elderly ladies with white cardigans over their summer dresses.
‘Well,’ I said rather feebly, ‘it is holiday time.’
‘In the old days,’ Mrs Dudley, said, ‘we never used to have summer visitors like that. People used to come down for the hunting – and, before the war, they used to play polo on the Castle lawns. We had members of the aristocracy and Maharajahs. Indian princes, you know,’ she explained, in case I did not fully appreciate past grandeur. ‘They hired houses, of course. Polo is still played in the best circles, but you couldn’t expect Prince Charles to come down here, not with the sort of riff-raff we get in the town nowadays.’
Maureen from the kitchen, now apparently promoted to Ivy’s job, put her head round the door.
‘Did you ring, then?’ she enquired.
Mrs Dudley stiffened. ‘Please come into the room properly; I cannot talk to anyone half in and half out of a doorway. That’s better. Now we would like some coffee. In a proper pot and on a tray. And some decent biscuits. The last lot you brought me were dry and one of them was broken.’
Maureen gave me the ghost of a wink, said, ‘Righty-oh,’ and left.
‘This place is getting very slack,’ Mrs Dudley continued. ‘But bad as it is, it is still the only nursing home in Taviscombe that I would consider.’
‘How are you, now?’ I asked. ‘I must say you’re looking very well.’
‘I always make the best of things,’ Mrs Dudley said complacently. ‘Dr Hughes felt I should have a little extra care and attention. And, of course, I didn’t want to be a burden to Rosemary. She leads such a busy life, always running about, doing things for Jilly. I scarcely ever see her these days.’
Her shameless effrontery made me catch my breath and she continued, ‘No, in spite of everything, Dr Hughes agreed that West Lodge was the best place for me for a week or so. I did have my doubts, as you can imagine, after that affair with Mrs Rossiter.’
‘It still seems to be a complete mystery,’ I said. ‘We’re all very worried.’
‘She was always a poor little creature,’ Mrs Dudley said. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had lost her memory and was wandering about somewhere. Probably senile.’
‘Oh, surely not!’ I exclaimed.
Mrs Dudley ignored my interruption as she ignored any contradiction of her opinions.
‘A sad little person. I mean, she had that beautiful house and all that money, and what did she make of herself, I ask you! She could have run the county!’
‘I don’t think she wanted...’
‘That’s not the point. People like that have a duty. Noblesse oblige. Though, of course, I imagine that was the whole point. Not noblesse at all. She wasn’t born to it and that makes all the difference.’
‘I don’t really think...’ I began but Mrs Dudley swept on.
‘Nouveau riche. Her husband, now, Colonel Rossiter, his was a very old family – North Devon, related to the Trahernes, the cadet branch, but still ... But old Mr Westlock, well, he was only a tradesman, in quite a small way of business. My mother used to tell me that she remembered him keeping a little drapery shop in East Street in Taunton. That was before the Great War, of course. So many things changed then...’
‘But he made an immense fortune in South Africa,’ I said.
‘Yes, but it was still trade, whatever you might say—’
She broke off as Maureen came into the room with a tray.
‘Sorry, Mrs Wilmot’s got the only coffee pot for her elevenses,’ she said cheerfully as she slammed the tray down on a small table. ‘Still, it’s only instant any road, so I don’t suppose it’d have tasted any different.’
She was out of the room before Mrs Dudley had time to protest. I handed her a cup of coffee and passed her the plate of biscuits.
‘These dreadful thick cups – and plain digestive biscuits – I really will have to have a word with Mrs Wilmot!’
‘Did you know Mrs Rossiter before she was married?’ I asked to divert her attention from these enormities.
‘Oh, yes, indeed. When their father brought them back to England in the late ’twenties, Maud, Edith and I used to meet at dances. Quite plain girls, I always thought, though of course expensively dressed. The county didn’t take to them. Mr Westlock had bought a large estate this side of Dulverton. He tried to set himself up as a country gentleman, hunting and shooting and using a stretch of the Barle for fishing, but he was never accepted, not by anyone who mattered. He wanted to get those girls off – especially difficult with the mother dead, though I believe she was quite common, so it might have been a blessing that she died before they came back to England. Of course some of our old families were really quite poor after the war and weren’t too choosy about marrying into money, however it had been made. Maud married the son of a baronet but it was a Scottish title and he was the younger son and, anyway, he was very sickly – tuberculosis, I believe – and he died quite young. Maud could have done better for herself, I would have thought, but she seemed to be fond of him.’ Mrs Dudley looked faintly surprised, as if she couldn’t imagine anyone being fond of a younger son.
‘And what about Edith? Wasn’t there anyone she was fond of?’ I couldn’t believe that anyone could have been fond of Colonel Rossiter.
Mrs Dudley seemed pleased by my interest. This was the sort of conversation she liked best of all, picking over the past (discreditable, if possible) of what she called ‘our better families’ – a combination of snobbery and malice that she greatly enjoyed.
‘Edith? No, I don’t think so. She was always very subdued, a meek little mouse of a thing, no go in her. Men don’t like that, you know. I did hear that she had formed some unsuitable attachment in South Africa, but whatever else he might have been, Mr Westlock was a good father to those girls and saw that they married eligible men.’
‘Poor Mrs Rossiter – what was wrong with the young man in South Africa?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. No money, no family – though that was hardly surprising in a place like South Africa, a dreadfully common country I always think. Worse than Australia, even. No, Julian Rossiter was a difficult man, I do admit that, but he had that splendid house and a position in the county. Considering everything, I think Edith did very well for herself.’
I thought of Colonel Rossiter, standing scowling in the ornate doorway of that large gloomy house, and I shuddered.
‘Not that it did old Mr Westlock any good. He died quite soon after Edith married Julian Rossiter – a shooting accident, if you please. The most expensive guns, I believe, but of course, he simply wasn’t used to such things.’
She spoke disparagingly, as if only the landed gentry had any right to kill themselves with guns by Holland and Holland or Purdy.
‘How sad.’
Poor little Mrs Rossiter, married off against her will to a disagreeable man, her father dead and her sister far away in Scotland. No wonder she had always seemed a sad figure, even to a child. And then to have a daughter like Thelma!
‘It was a pity that she had to come into West Lodge,’ I said. ‘I know that the Manor was too big for her after Colonel Rossiter died, but I would have thought that she could ha
ve had a little cottage somewhere, or a flat...’
‘Certainly I wouldn’t have left the Manor.’ Mrs Dudley said. ‘I always think that people should stay in their own homes as long as they can. I,’ she said firmly, ‘would never dream of leaving Ashgrove and all my beautiful things. These sort of places are all very well in their way’ – her gaze rested contemptuously on the tray with the coffee cups – ‘but one is used to a certain standard.’
‘Well, of course,’ I said, ‘you do have Elsie to look after you and Rosemary is marvellous.’
‘Well, naturally, Elsie is devoted to me. She’s been with me for years. She came to me straight from school when she was fourteen,’ Mrs Dudley said, blandly ignoring all reference to her daughter, ‘so I’ve been able to train her in my little ways. And, of course, she knows that I’ve remembered her in my will – something quite substantial.’
I reflected that however substantial Elsie’s legacy was she would certainly have earned it.
‘Of course.’ I pursued, ‘you’re very lucky that, although Martin’s in Doncaster, Rosemary lives down here. Poor Mrs Rossiter – Thelma and Alan are so far away. Though I’m jolly sure that, even if she’d been here, Thelma wouldn’t have looked after her mother as Rosemary looks after you!’
‘We have always been an exceptionally close and devoted family,’ Mrs Dudley said with a degree of self-deception that took my breath away. ‘I have always done my very best for my children – left on my own to bring them up from quite an early age – and I know that they feel it is a privilege to do the odd little thing to help their old mother.’
She gave me a smile of saccharine sweetness to which I did not respond and she continued, ‘Thelma, of course, is a very good businesswoman. She has a real head on her shoulders. She should have been the son. Alan was always a poor thing, took after his mother. All this Africa nonsense, I’ve no patience with it! No, Thelma realised that her mother couldn’t cope on her own and that West Lodge was the only answer.’