Femmes Fatal

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Yes!” The doctor squeezed the neck of his stethoscope as if trying to choke himself. “Morning, noon, and middle-of-the-night stuff. Flo hasn’t been herself since she joined that Fully Female organization. You haven’t joined, have you?”

  “Heaven forbid!” I said, flustered.

  “For your sake and your husband’s, I pray you never do.” His bloodshot eyes darted to the door. “You didn’t spot my wife out there in the waiting room?”

  “No.”

  “She could have been disguised.” He was now tying the stethoscope into knots. Worse, his face was getting tied up in knots. “Flo likes to stage these little surprises. I have no idea when she will fling open that door and bare her teeth … the lot … at me. The woman has turned into a vampire. She’s insatiable. Last night when I got home … before I could take off my hat, she had flung me across the dining room table. We were to have played bridge.”

  “Mrs. Melrose cancelled?”

  “No. And thank God the doorbell rang in the nick of time. I’m too old for this, Mrs. Haskell. I’m looking forward to retirement and the two of us sitting in the garden, wearing straw hats and holding hands.”

  “She does like to sketch.” I offered what encouragement I could while snuggling Abbey and Tam closer. Poor darlings, they were both rubbing their noses, a sure sign they were pooped.

  “Sketch!” Flinging down his stethoscope, Dr. Melrose ground his teeth. “Do you know what subjects now obsess her artist’s brain?”

  “Uhmmmm …” Full well I remembered Flo telling me at the Hearthside Guild meeting that she was into painting nude dudes. She had even suggested that Ben would make a lovely subject. But for all I knew she had told Doc that she was into still life, which could have passed as a varnished version of the truth if she instructed her subjects not to move, not even to scratch their goose bumps.

  “Mrs. Haskell, Flo is into Male Anatomy.”

  “Really!”

  “Localized areas of the Male Anatomy.”

  It took a moment for the penny to drop, whereupon I was truly shocked. Perhaps I have an impure mind. But to my peasant way of thinking, there is a big difference between an artist who paints only hands and those who focus on what books such as Voyage to Valhalla address with euphemisms. The Princess Marvel might feast her eyes on Lord Derick’s manhood to her little Nordic heart’s delight, but Flo Melrose was not getting her paintbrush within an inch of my Ben’s—

  “And I’m not the only one to be driven crazy!” Dr. Melrose was on his feet and bumbling around a tray of instruments. “Do you seriously believe that Huffnagle woman’s death was an accident? Mark my words, her husband couldn’t go one more round and ended the high jinks by tossing that electrical appliance into her bath.”

  “Murder?” I gasped.

  “A mere figure of speech.” Dr. Melrose pursed his lips and waved a hairy hand. “And difficult to prove, lucky devil.”

  “Well, as Reverend Foxworth always said, and I am sure the new incumbent would echo, let Heaven be the judge.” I popped the babies in the Porta-Pram and began edging towards the door.

  “Not so fast!” He held up a syringe, whose wicked point glinted in the sun streaming through the prison-sized window. “This is no fun for Mummy, but Alice and Tom must have their jabs.”

  Appallingly rude of me, I know, but I wasn’t about to let that sleep-deprived man come at my babies with, for all I knew, the wrong serum. Shouldering the door open, I fled through the waiting room and was in the car with my angels safely installed in the backseat before drawing one full breath.

  Driving up Cliff Road at a maternally responsible rate of speed, I wondered anew if I had done something awfully silly in joining Fully Female, even assuming Dr. Melrose had lost his professional perspective regarding the Huffnagles. What Ben would say if—when—he found out was the big question. The male ego is unfathomable. He might be delighted at my investing time and energy in preserving our marriage or he might think the whole thing an insult to his manhood—in the broadest sense of the word.

  I was on that stretch of road where the iron fence of the churchyard breasts the hill when I saw a man emerge from the archway of yews. Unfortunately, he didn’t see me and ploughed across the road a hair’s breadth from the nose of the car. If not for my ladylike speed, he would either have ended up on the bonnet or gone whopping over the cliff edge into the waiting jaws of the hungry sea, whose belly-rumbles came up to us loud and clear.

  The wind ruffled Mr. Gladstone Spike’s scanty hair while the rest of him seemed quite undisturbed as he peered into the car window.

  “Mrs. Haskell, a pleasure to run into you.” His gentle smile informed me no pun was intended. The man had no idea that St. Peter had been standing at the Pearly Gates shouting, “Next!”

  “I’m on my way home from taking Abbey and Tam to the doctor.”

  “Ah, lovely!” he said.

  I asked after his wife and suddenly it wasn’t only his hair that was ruffled. His eyes took on the glazed look which I would forever after associate with this morning. “Eudora is well, I thank you. Busy, as one would expect.”

  “The parish is fortunate to have her.” My voice was now on automatic. The twins were growing restless. Without turning round I knew that Abbey had Tam by the nose and that any minute a roar would go up equal to anything Cape Canaveral could offer.

  “Eudora is a splendid woman.” From the sound of him, Mr. Spike might have been breaking the news that she had an allergy to incense which might force her into early retirement. “A saint. I have never stopped counting my blessings that she married me.” He stepped back from the car and stood stoop-shouldered, a wintry figure even on this April day, staring straight ahead, as if somewhere on the blue horizon lay the answer to a question of deadly importance.

  “Most kind of your husband, Mrs. Haskell, to send over the box of ginger biscuits. My wife will send a note, I know, but do thank him on behalf of both of us.”

  “I will.” Revving up the motor, I explained I was in a rush to get home for the babies’ lunch, and he lifted a hand in what appeared to be both farewell and blessing. As I drove away, he stood framed in my rearview mirror. I had assumed that he was out for a midday stroll, but something about the turn of his head, the alertness of his shoulders, made me wonder if he might be waiting for someone.

  Some days are full of surprises. I entered Merlin’s Court by the garden door with the babies loaded in my arms to find a man in my kitchen.

  “Mr. Bludgett,” I said, addressing the little man with the Charlie Chaplin moustache, “how did you get in?”

  He stopped doing whatever he was doing to the washing machine and looked at me with his good eye. The one under the puckered lid was doing its own thing.

  “Sorry to give you a scare, Missus.” He looked as though he would have liked nothing better, but as I am sure the Reverend Spike would adjure, Thou shalt not judge by appearances. “When I got no answer to me hollering, Missus, I tried the door and found it was open. Figured you wanted the washing machine fixed before it was any older, so Bob’s your uncle.”

  “I’m pleased to see you.”

  “Here, let me take one of the little buggers.” Suiting words to action, Mr. Bludgett scooped Tam out of my arms.

  “Thanks.” I was unbuttoning Abbey’s coat. “And please don’t mind us. We’ll try not to get in the way while you work.”

  “Don’t you worry.” Mr. Bludgett might have been looking hopefully at the kettle, or he might not. Either way I didn’t have time to make him a cuppa until I’d changed the babies and got them fed.

  “If you’d like to make yourself at home,” I began, heading toward the hall door with a baby tucked under each arm.

  He read my mind like a shot. “No trouble, Missus. I’ll brew up.”

  “The tea’s in the copper caddy.”

  “Say no more. My Moll says I’m like a bloodhound around the kitchen. She can’t never hide anything from me. Last week she baked a cake�
�not for our anniversary or nothing special. It was a thank you cake … for the night before. She’s a great one, my Moll, for those little extras what make a man feel cherished. Anyway, to make a short story long, she hid it in the top cupboard above the cooker, but I nosed m’way to it. How we did laugh, the two of us, when Moll caught me holding the tin. ‘Someone needs a spanking!’ she said.”

  Oh, my goodness! Now we were getting into the kinky stuff. Hot with embarrassment, I mumbled, “There should be some Dundee cake in the Houses of Parliament tin,” and hurried from the room.

  After changing the babies, I raked a comb through my hair and sized myself up in the nursery mirror. By no stretch of the imagination was this the face to launch a thousand ships. Not even a few rowboats. Bother. But no time to wallow. One must not forget that time was on the march. If I was not to make Public Enemy Number One of Mrs. Malloy, I must make ready for Fantasy Night with my number one husband. Should I follow the example of Moll Bludgett and bake Ben a cake? That would be like taking coals to Newcastle. Anything I could bake, Ben could bake better, but surely food eaten with the soul comes satisfaction guaranteed. The babies in the twin pack, my eyes on the ticking grandfather clock, I hurried back across the hall to the kitchen. There I found Mr. Bludgett with a cup of tea in his hands and a rubber pipe roped around one shoulder. Was he anticipating a flood?

  Abbey and Tam made clear that they were expecting luncheon, spit spot. Doing kitchen drill with a man underfoot has never been a favourite form of recreation for me. Blundering over hoses and navigating the narrow canal between washing machine and kitchen table, I got the babies resettled in the playpen, all the while trying to read the Fully Female manual one-handed. Understand, a Fully Female member must read her manual as faithfully as a Roman Catholic priest reads his office. I wasn’t looking for recipes, but at the end of Chapter Three I came upon a Fully Female Fondue that sounded just the ticket.

  RECIPE

  MARINADE: Fill a bath with warm water gently seasoned with Fully Female Fantasy and soak for one half hour, turning when needed to avoid pressure points. Remove from liquid, pat dry, and oil lightly with Fully Female Herbal Balm.

  DRESSING: We suggest Ranch—a lively blend of cowboy boots and a cute little holster, no additions or substitutes. Or you may choose French—very basic, and certain to appeal to the most finicky husband. Wear your favourite negligee, weave a satin ribbon through your hair and slip your tootsies into your slinkiest mules.

  GARNISH: Spray your lovely self and your love nest with Fully Female’s Parfum de Passion and, if desired, dust your shoulders with powdered sugar.

  SERVING SUGGESTION: Set your table with your finest linen, china, and cutlery. Arrange fresh flowers artfully …

  As recipes go, this one was certainly gripping, but I was beginning to wonder if we would ever reach the climax, the part where we artfully arranged dinner on a serving platter. Ah, now we came to it—Bird of Paradise Fondue, which from the look of it was really an erotic way of saying Fried Chicken. The only culinary challenge I foresaw would be locating the fondue pot. At one time we had owned two, but Ben, being the purist he is, had given away the electric one. I did ask myself whether it was consistent with responsible parenting to deep fry, but … oh, what the hell! Do people who make a cult of abstinence really live longer? Or does boredom make it seem longer?

  Dip chicken portions in batter seasoned with Healthy Harvest Herbs and cook in hot oil until a succulent, sexy doneness. Serve with a tasty side dish and veggies from your friendly frozen foods section. By taking these shortcuts, dear Fellow Female, we ensure you are not overdone when your love-dove walks in the door. We want him to find you gently simmering. Let him bring you to a rolling boil when the fondue candle begins to dim …

  “Mrs. Haskell?” Mr. Bludgett brought me back to earth with a thud. Dropping the manual, I turned to find him with the coil of rubber rope poised in his hands and, for a sickening second, thought he was going to lasso me. Ridiculous. He wanted to talk washing machine, but somehow I could not separate the reality from Bludgett the Burglar, Menace to Society.

  “Yes?” I kept one eye on the twins who were gripping the sides of the tumbrel—I mean, the playpen—their periwinkle eyes unblinking.

  “I think I’ve found the problem, Missus.”

  “Really?”

  “And there’s two ways you can go.” Mr. Bludgett patted the washing machine lid, a gesture so poignant he did not need to spell out his meaning. We could choose to keep old Nellie alive by artificial means, hooked up to life-support hoses. Or we could let her go with dignity to the great scrapyard in the sky. If making a unilateral decision, I would have opted to boot the old girl out the back door. But Ben has this obsession with keeping mechanical objects going long after their day. Take his car, for instance. He plans for it to outlive him and has made provisions in his will for its ongoing care.

  “Mr. Bludgett,” I said, “my husband is devoted to this washing machine. Is there any way to save it?”

  To my amazement, Mr. B’s moustache quivered and he gripped the rubber hose with unsteady hands. They were not as hairy as Dr. Melrose’s bear paws, but I realized two strong men in one day were reduced to trembling in my presence. What was this town coming to?

  “Mrs. Haskell, no need to tell me you went and joined Fully Female; I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice when you talk about the mister. My Moll’s the same. What a woman! Every day’s a honeymoon. She’d give me her first waking breath and her last. Only one thing spoils our happiness …”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “I get to thinking about …” Mr. Bludgett was twisting the rubber hose as if trying to throttle it. “Thinking how I went and had … immoral doings with … that woman.” No need to identify the scarlet woman. The name Miss Gladys Thorn was etched in the air like a cartoon caption. I didn’t know what to say. The old saw, It takes two to tango, sprang to mind, but moralizing takes time and we still hadn’t made a decision about Nellie and … oh, knickers! Someone was at the garden door.

  Rap-tap-tap.

  A silly, coy knocking. Fury bubbled into my throat as I peered through the pebbled glass panel and espied the tall narrow figure. Cousin Freddy! How dare he show his face here after his hideous charade at Fully Female! Impersonating a woman of the cloth! It might work as a music hall skit, but I was not amused. Yanking open the door, I hurled my voice in his face.

  “Set one foot inside my house, you festering wart, and I kill you.”

  The person at the door was Miss Thorn.

  Before I could find my voice, which had gone into hiding, she was backing down the steps, stumbling over her feet as well as her words.

  “So sorry, Mrs. Haskell!” Her mushroom eyes burned into my soul. “I was in this neck of the woods and thought I would return your sweet husband’s handkerchief.” A flutter of white flag before she clamped it to her lips and fled down the driveway, a gaunt black figure pursued by the hounds of hell. I felt dreadful. I thought about racing after her to the bus stop and laying my apologies at her feet. The spirit was willing but the flesh, alas, was hopelessly out of condition. I took the coward’s way out and closed the garden door.

  Mr. Bludgett looked as though he would have liked to pin a medal on my chest. “You’re a Fully Female woman all right, fighting for your man like that.”

  “The washing machine,” I said sternly.

  Mr. Bludgett prowled around Nellie the way a dog prowls its basket before settling down, then he beckoned me closer. Watched by my children, I edged forward. He took time out to scratch his moustache, heightening the suspense, then thumped a fist against Nellie’s side as if knocking on wood. “Try that, Missus, and see how you go on.”

  “What? Give her a thump every time she stops?”

  “You got it.”

  I felt curiously let down, as I suppose one might after picking a coffin ensemble from Mr. Fisher, only to pass the medical with flying colours. While Mr. Bludgett repositioned Nellie i
n her cubbyhole, I scurried around the kitchen trying to find my Chocoholic Cookery Book, the one with the foolproof recipe for devil’s food cake.

  Not on any of the shelves. Papers went flying as I ransacked the drawers without success. As frustration reached its zenith, I remembered Dorcas had made a cake for my birthday using that same book. Probably it was still in her room.

  From the look of him Mr. Bludgett would be a while finishing up and Abbey and Tam were contentedly conversing in goo-goo talk, so it seemed quite safe to slip upstairs for a few moments. But is life ever to be trusted? Those few moments turned into a good ten minutes. Looking through Dorcas’s room without invading her privacy was a tricky business. I wasted precious time staring at drawers I couldn’t bring myself to open. And all the while I knew that cookery book was there; I could feel its presence; I became obsessed by the need to find it. There is something horribly menacing about lost objects. I always picture them tucked away in their hiding places laughing at me. Typical of the games such objects play!

  I had finally given up and was on my way out the door when I saw the Chocoholic Cookery Book lying in full view on the lower shelf of Dorcas’s bedside table. Grabbing it up, I was suddenly very much aware of being gone longer than planned from the kitchen. Racing downstairs, I prepared my apologies to Mr. Bludgett. The kitchen door went crashing inward with more force than intended and I found the room empty. No Mr. Bludgett. No Abbey and Tam.

  That wicked man! Why, oh why had I not trusted my first instincts regarding him? He was worse than a burglar! He was a kidnapper! He had taken my babies! Without knowing how I got there, I found myself outside in the courtyard. The soft April afternoon had turned grey. Trees rustled against a sky as ashen as my face. The stable door batted open, and dead leaves, blown from the compost heap, whirled in front of me. Sunshine is no talisman against evil, but somehow the dying of the day made everything more hopeless. When next I got my bearings, I was in the stable. O wild and foolish hope! How could they be here when Mr. Bludgett’s van was gone? I didn’t deserve to have children. Any mother worth a pinch of sense would have telephoned the police at once. Charging back indoors, I experienced another shock wave as unreality came crashing in.