by Cathy Ace
Althea reached out to touch her son’s arm, which he graciously allowed to remain within her grasp, after initially flinching.
‘Henry, I am getting old. I know it. But I am still in good general health and my mind, as the terrible events of today have painfully illustrated, is as sharp as it has ever been. But, recently, I have been listening to some books that have made me think anew about planning for my twilight years, and I believe I need to take more responsibility for my final plans.’
‘Listening to books? What do you mean?’
‘Henry, I realize that you’re still in the twentieth century when it comes to utilizing technology. Fortunately I am not. Yes, it is true that I do not care to have a telephone in my pocket all the time, or even in a room where I am sitting, but that is purely because I do not care for interruptions. But books that one can listen to as one walks to the village, or potters in the garden? What a wonderful invention. I can pop them in my pocket and listen to them on tiny little things which fit inside my ears.’
‘Really?’ said Henry. ‘Is that comfortable?’
‘Quite, my dear,’ replied Althea. ‘I have gained an enormous amount of pleasure listening to some wonderful voices reading poems I haven’t heard for many decades. It’s been quite a surprise to me to discover that pieces I learned by rote as a child still come back to me, and I am able to speak the words aloud as though I had seen them on the page just a short while ago.’
Henry gave the matter some thought. ‘Have you been walking to the village reciting poetry that you’ve been listening to at the time?’ asked Henry abruptly.
Althea looked puzzled by his attitude. ‘I believe I have been, yes. Why?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Oh nothing, nothing at all. It’s just that I think some people have seen, and heard, you doing it and might have thought that you were … well, you know, chatting to yourself.’
‘You mean as though I’m going batty?’
Henry nodded.
Althea smiled. ‘Well, I’m not, dear. Though why chatting to oneself should be viewed that way is beyond me. Sometimes the most sensible person with whom one can carry on a conversation is oneself. Or one’s dog.’ She smiled down at McFli, who’d been given several very special treats for having made such a big discovery.
Henry sat back while Jennifer Newbury cleared the dinner things and placed a pot of coffee on a tray at the end of the table.
‘We’ll serve ourselves,’ said Henry, sounding rather distracted.
After he’d done just that he said to his mother, ‘There was an incident in the village that concerned some mushrooms, Mother. Do you recall? You had a bit of a turn. You, apparently, felt it necessary to throw all the mushrooms from the little stall outside the general store across the street. Do you remember why you did that?’
Althea looked puzzled. ‘Really? Is that what I did?’
Henry adopted a gentler tone. ‘I’m afraid you did, Mother. Several people saw you, and there was quite a commotion. Don’t you remember that Ian had to come to collect you and bring you home? You said that the mushrooms were inedible, so you threw them away.’
‘Oh, Henry, you sometimes only hear what you want to hear. I remember now how I tried to tell you what had happened, but you were terribly cross with me. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have your own child chastise you? Well, no, of course, you wouldn’t. Well, let me tell you, it is a very unpleasant experience. The reason I threw those mushrooms, not into the street, but into the rubbish bin, was because I had been inside the shop moments earlier when I overheard the new woman who runs the place telling someone on the phone that she was hoping they’d all be sold by the end of the day because they were well past their sell-by date, so she’d ripped off all the packaging to make it look as though they were local and good to eat. Mushrooms become dangerous when they are old, Henry. I acted out of a desire to prevent anyone from becoming ill.’
‘They can’t have been too bad if people were still prepared to buy them,’ sulked Henry.
‘I think you’re rather missing the point. The point is that I didn’t have what you described as a “turn”, I had a very good reason for doing what I did. I would have paid the woman for the wretched things if only she hadn’t created such a fuss.’
A silent truce held for a few moments, then Althea rang the little bell that sat at her elbow. Jennifer appeared at the door.
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Telephone, please, Jennifer. Henry will dial for me, thank you.’
A few moments later Henry listened as Althea consoled Mavis at the loss of her mother, then pass on the news about the discovery of the body. He only heard half the conversation, so his mother relayed Mavis’s side of things after he had hung up for her.
‘The cremation will take place next Monday. Mavis will stay with her son until Tuesday. It sounds as though it will just be the three of them, plus the matron from the mother’s nursing home, at the service, which I think is terribly sad. Maybe we should go too? Yes, maybe I shall. Who do you think will come to my funeral, Henry? Would it be a good turn-out, do you think?’
‘I will not discuss such matters with you,’ replied Henry abruptly.
‘Well, I’d better warn you now that I want the “Liberty Bell” played as they carry my coffin up the aisle,’ said Althea.
‘I’m sure that whatever music you want can be arranged,’ replied Henry more gently. ‘I don’t think I know that piece. Does it mean something special to you Mother?’
‘Yes, it’s the theme music from the Monty Python TV series. I want that exact version, and I want it timed precisely so that the farting, squelching sound is made as my coffin is placed upon the stand at the altar.’
‘Mother, you cannot do that. You are a duchess.’ Henry was scandalized.
‘I am a person with a sense of humor, Henry, never forget that. You, sadly, do not possess one at all, it seems, which I believe is one of the reasons you are, usually, so unappealing to women. They do not care for stuffed shirts. So you’d better get on with wooing that Stephanie girl who is continuously making goo-goo eyes at you. She doesn’t seem to mind that you are the person you are. In fact, I’d go so far as to say she rather likes you, warts and sense of humor bypass and all, dear.’
‘Stephanie Timbers couldn’t possibly care for me in that way, Mother,’ said Henry sadly. ‘Besides, whatever she and I might think of each other, I know you wouldn’t approve of her as a possible duchess.’
Althea Twyst shook her head. ‘Henry, my dear boy, sometimes you are such an idiot I can hardly believe that your father and I created you. You know very well what I was when your father met me. I’ve told you often enough. I was a dancer and a pretty poor one, at that. You cannot believe me to be so much of a snob that I’d think Stephanie Timbers unsuitable for you? Good grief, Henry, what must you think of me? I won’t say I’m not sorry that she’s not named Tracey, or Kylie, or Apple Sunshine, or something like that. Some names don’t lend themselves to titles as well as others, that’s true. But, for heaven’s sake, just be a man and say something to the poor girl. She’s intelligent, she understands country life, could make a real go of this place, and she’s still young enough to pop out a couple of children. As the sad death of your brother illustrated, the need for both an heir and a spare is critical for those of us with a line to continue. It was quite clear to me at dinner the other evening that you and she click. If you don’t do something about it, I shall, so get going.’
‘Oh, Mother!’
‘Yes, Henry, I shall say something myself, if you don’t. Get on with it. I believe she’s your last hope of keeping the title alive.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Mavis had truly believed that Monday had been the worst day of her life; the dreadful, desperate rush to reach her mother’s bedside and the ultimate inability to communicate with the woman who had brought her into the world, before she herself left it. Mavis couldn’t imagine how it could get any worse. But it did.
Tuesday brought her the stark realization that she had tasks ahead of her that would force her to become ‘the relative to be managed’, rather than simply a grieving daughter.
Mavis MacDonald absolutely understood the balance of sympathy and professionalism that the matron of the Castle Douglas home was using to manage her. Throughout her nursing career, and especially as the matron of an establishment where her charges were all expected to die, she’d done it herself often enough.
She arrived at the large, rambling house set back from the Castle Douglas road out of Dumfries at eight thirty on the dot on Tuesday morning, and applied herself to paperwork and clearing out her mother’s belongings. She knew very well that rooms in such a nice place were always in demand, and it was the matron’s responsibility to allow as little time as possible to elapse between residents.
By the time she stopped for a late lunch comprising some fruit and a couple of sandwiches she’d made for herself in her son’s tiny kitchen that morning, Mavis was happy with her allocation of small mementos to her mother’s friends, the bagging up of items to be taken to the charity shop, and those items she felt she wanted to keep, for the time being. She’d spent time meeting the people who had known her mother during the last few years of her life, and had enjoyed hearing their stories about her. She’d laughed more than she’d cried, and she was sure that was a good thing. Her son was collecting her later in the day, so she decided to sit in the grounds, on a seat her mother had favored before her first stroke, and take some time for herself.
‘I’m glad I found you,’ said Matron McGregor as she sat beside Mavis on the wooden bench. ‘We took these from your mum when she was taken ill, just in case. I don’t know what you want to do with them. Sometimes people like to give them to the undertaker, to allow for a more lifelike appearance for their loved ones, but I don’t know what you want.’
She handed Mavis a set of dentures, encased in a plastic bag.
Mavis regarded them dubiously. Looking at the matron she said, ‘I know from my experience at the Battersea Barracks that they’ll be of no use to anyone else.’
‘Och, no,’ replied the matron with a smile. ‘All made to measure. They’d not fit anyone else. It’s a shame, too. Randy only made them a year or so ago. Your mum liked Randy. Always joking about together, they were, like wee kiddies. Did you find the sets he gave her to paint?’
Mavis had mentally wandered back to the days when her mother egged her on to do naughty things, with devilment, giggling like a wee girl herself. ‘Sorry? The what?’
‘Randy, he’s our man for teeth. Believe it or not he does all the old folks’ homes round these parts from his van. Got these brand new machines that take photographs of the patient’s mouth, then they make the molds from that. Print the molds they do, if you please, with 3D printers. Aye, it’s amazing what they can do these days. And so good for the older ones, of course. They always hated having to put all that goop in their mouths and bite down for an age. Not that I can blame them. But now? Randy just waves a wand with a very bright light thing in their mouth, then prints up an exact copy of everything. He works on it back at his laboratory to make the dentures themselves, then brings them back. Your mum thought it was great fun, so he gave her the molds for her to work on in her art sessions. The molds with teeth in them, not the ones where they just had gums. You see, it’s not like in the old days now, the dentists don’t have to keep the molds forever, they just print a new one.’
Mavis gave the matter some thought. ‘I didn’t think to go into the art room,’ she said sadly. ‘Mum hadnae been up to anything like that for so long, it didn’t occur to me.’
‘Och, come with me. Of course, her pieces are some of our favorites, but you’re welcome to them if you’d like. I’ll show you. They’re all still on display on the windowsills. Her great-grandsons might like a set each. They are the sort of thing that boys would enjoy, vividly painted, jolly old dentures.’
When her son collected her, Mavis didn’t have much to load into his car. She was surprised at how little of her mother’s life was worth keeping. But two sets of comical dentures made of printed material, were in her pocket. Her grandsons fell upon them with great glee when they got home from school, and she was glad to know they would have something to remind them of their great-grandmother that would make them laugh, not cry.
By the time she received the phone call from Althea, she was very tired. She’d made the mistake of putting her feet up after an early cup of tea and had dropped off to sleep. Not something she ever did. Mavis knew she sounded sleepy when she answered the phone, but, as soon as the dowager mentioned that a body had been dug up on the estate, she was suddenly wide awake. Her faith in Althea was proved correct. She felt relieved. An odd sensation on such a fraught day.
She thanked the dowager for her solicitousness, accepted her kind suggestion that she attend the funeral, and sat quite still for a moment, wondering who the poor dead man might be. Althea had told her that Henry would be telephoning Carol with the news too, so Mavis felt quite happy to settle to a nice meal of spaghetti bolognese with her two grandsons, and tried to put the matter out of her thoughts, but she found that, when she wasn’t thinking about the dead man at Chellingworth, she was thinking about her dead mother. She didn’t know which was more depressing.
THIRTY-FIVE
Christine’s Tuesday began badly. She’d hardly slept, she was so worried about Annie. At least, that’s what she told herself. The truth was that she couldn’t help but keep thinking about Alexander Bright, and she was cross with herself about it. Eventually she fell into a very deep sleep, so she didn’t wake until almost ten a.m., then ran around in a panic trying to get out of her flat and up to the office.
Her plan for the day wasn’t so much a plan as a vague idea of what she’d do when she got to the office and had a chance to talk things through with Carol. But, while she was sitting in traffic on the way to Battersea Bridge, she got a call from Alexander, who suggested that they should meet for lunch at the Hoop and Stick pub in Mile End. Christine jumped at the chance for a couple of reasons, and told herself that visiting the pub where Wayne Saxby sponsored the football team that wore the black and blue bobble hats was a very good idea indeed. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it herself, then told herself that she was tired and it would have come to her when she’d talked to Carol.
It wasn’t going to be easy to get to the East End from where she was; she had to decide whether to cross the river and drive along the Embankment north of the Thames, or stay south and cross at Tower Bridge. She suspected it would take just as long either way, so she decided to cross the river right away, and hug it for as long as she could. She’d lived in so many places in her relatively short life – Ireland, the south of England, Switzerland, Oxford and then the years she’d been a nanny in the USA and Canada – but London had found its way into her heart and the Thames had become terribly significant to her. She felt it to be the most important part of London and she found herself drawn to it.
It took her twice as long to reach her destination as she had hoped, but that gave her a chance to have a quick word with Carol who was at the office. She informed Christine that, yes, the Hoop and Stick pub was one of the places that had ordered the black and blue bobble hats. Christine phoned Alexander when she’d parked on Carlton Square, a couple of streets away from the pub itself. He told her he was already inside, that he was about to buy her lunch, and that she should steel herself. Christine entered the pub not knowing what to expect. A bare wooden floor, an eclectic collection of wooden furnishings, a dart board and a bar bedecked with a long row of all sorts of small-brewery beers quickly told Christine that she was in an old building that had been largely gutted and redecor-ated to appeal to a younger clientele.
Alexander was sitting at a corner table, studying a menu, and leapt up to greet her, which he did with a kiss on the cheek. By far the two best-dressed people in the place, the other patrons were mainly wearing a unif
orm of jeans and shirts – even the women – or, in a couple of cases, scrubs under jackets. Sanitary issues aside, Christine wondered why people wouldn’t want to get out of their work clothes before coming to the pub, but reasoned they might be on their lunch breaks, which some of them clearly were, because they were eating and drinking what looked to be soft drinks.
Sitting next to Alexander, Christine felt abnormally flushed. He handed her a menu and directed her attention to a blackboard behind the bar, where there appeared a list of food items, some crossed through.
‘I think we should order some food,’ whispered Alexander, ‘but also keep an eye on the blokes at the far end of the bar. See the one with the teeth? Do you think he could be your Tristan Thomas, the antiques dealer from Wales?’
Christine held up her menu, as though to get a better light on it from the window, and was able to turn to see the man to whom Alexander had referred.
Turning back again, she said, ‘Well, he certainly seems to have enough teeth to be the man Annie described in her report, and I think I can catch a Welsh accent from that corner. I tell you what, I’ll go and have a proper listen.’ She was out of her seat before Alexander could pull her back.
Standing at the bar, close to the four men who were eating and drinking together, Christine caught an unmistakable Welsh accent from the oldest, skinny man with too many teeth, a broad cockney from the man with gray hair and an expensive shirt, another broad cockney from the very young man with short, dark hair and a habit of hunching his shoulders as he spoke, and a more tempered London accent from another older man, who bore a resemblance to the youngster of the group, which extended even to the hunching habit.
‘Is all the apple crumble really gone?’ asked Christine of the grizzled barman who finally attended to her.
‘Sorry, love. Very popular it is. Goes quick. Drinks?’
Christine looked over at Alexander, who seemed to be drinking orange juice. ‘Just a fizzy water, please. Ice and lemon, thanks. I’ll give the food some more thought. Do we order here at the bar?’