The Embroidered Sunset

by Joan Aiken

  It was pointless, of course, to stand waiting in the empty street, hoping for a miracle; Lucy set off walking at a rapid pace. Mrs. Tilney’s first: perhaps Aunt Fennel was there, perhaps she was safe; perhaps. All the unformulated doubts, the half-beliefs that Lucy had entertained regarding Aunt Fennel’s fears now returned, nagging and pricking; the old lady’s dread projected itself on to Lucy and assumed in the grey dimness, a sudden reality, all the more threatening because of its unknown nature. The existence of That Other One, which hitherto Lucy had treated with scepticism, now all at once became possible, probable, certain; she caught herself listening for the echo of footfalls behind her on the cobbled hill, and shook her head impatiently.

  Dear Max, here we are caught up in a proper old horror-comic. All we need now is an eerie shriek and some vampire talons reaching out of the brume. Oh Max, why the devil did I let myself go off junketing with that smooth-tongued Turk? I thought I could find out some more about Aunt Fennel’s pictures and who had them; no, but that’s not the whole truth, I thought it would be fun, he seemed genuinely friendly.

  And it had been fun too, she thought angrily, reaching Mrs. Tilney’s gate at a half run, only now all the pleasure, in retrospect, had turned sour and seemed a heartless piece of irresponsibility while the old lady might be lost and wandering.

  But perhaps she was safe all the time at Mrs. Tilney’s.

  Suddenly very tired, Lucy leaned against the door-jamb, pressing the rusty bell. For a long time there was no answer. But surely somebody must be in the house, all the aged infirm residents could not simultaneously have decided to go out in such murky and inclement weather? Probably they were too deaf to hear the bell. But what about Mrs. Tilney herself?

  At last the door was opened by a frail man whom Lucy remembered to have been among the other motionless gargoyles ranged in front of the TV set; he peered suspiciously round the edge of the door, ostentatiously pulling a fawn plaid muffler up to his ears against the wreaths of fog that instantly began drifting in among the umbrella-stands and bicycles in the crowded hallway.

  “Is Miss Culpepper here?” Lucy asked. His face remained quite blank; he seemed either deaf or withdrawn into some unapproachable region of himself; having let Lucy in he evidently felt that his responsibility was ended and limped back into the parlour. Lucy, following, scanned the group who were now seated patiently, like old dogs round a fireless hearth, watching the blank TV; apparently it was not yet time for the evening’s programmes to begin.

  Aunt Fennel was not among them.

  “Is Miss Culpepper upstairs?” Lucy asked loudly. One or two heads slowly shook, either in non-comprehension or denial. “Well, can you tell me where Mrs. Tilney is?”

  “Isn’t she in the kitchen?” an elderly voice presently volunteered doubtfully. “The kitchen’s where she mostly is, afternoons.”

  If so, why not answer the bell, Lucy thought, but she thanked the speaker and retreated, picking a cautious way between thin old legs and out-thrust white sticks.

  The kitchen, filled with the usual miasma of stale frying and unclean, aged animals, also contained the solution to why Mrs. Tilney did not answer the bell. She slept in a basket-chair among her pets, her head nodding forward at an uncomfortable angle, a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s on the floor beside her. From time to time she let out a rattling snore. The room was in its accustomed state of filth; a large washbasin full of potatoes stood on the table waiting to be peeled, for supper presumably.

  Looking at the empty sleeping face with its open mouth, slack and dribbling, its broken purple veins, crumpled cheeks, and air of total surrender, Lucy experienced a disconcerting reversal of feeling; instead of a drunken harpy who made a living by exploiting poor old people in worse case than herself, Mrs. Tilney suddenly appeared ill, exhausted, pitiable. Lucy looked with a kind of anguish at her gnarled swollen hands, shiny with grease from washing dishes. There seemed no sense in rousing her from a sleep of such exhaustion; besides, from the moment of entering the house, Lucy had felt in her bones that Aunt Fennel was not there. However she climbed the stairs to make sure, negotiated the guardian Venus on the upper floor, and looked into the room where Aunt Fennel slept with the two other old ladies. Nobody there. A handkerchief and spare tin of raspberry leaf pastilles lay on a chair where they had been discarded that morning. The room smelt of fusty old ladies. Standing by the bed, wondering what to do next, Lucy had an unexpected burning stab of pain in her side; she could not decide whether its origin was mental or physical; it felt like the clench of grief on her heart. Not only grief: shame. I have lost my family, she thought, and it was due to my own stupidity and carelessness.

  Two hot difficult tears found their way down her cheeks.

  Impatiently she shook herself and hurried downstairs. Mrs. Tilney still slept; the old gargoyles still waited trustfully in front of the blank screen; Lucy let herself out into the fog.

  Her obvious next step was to call the police; she started hurrying down the steeply tilted little terraced streets hunting for telephone booths, which seemed scarcer here than red herrings that grow in the wood. Better make for the harbour and shopping district. She wished she had not left her duffel coat in little PHO when she went off with Adnan to the fun fair; the sea-mist struck dank and chill through her cotton shirt and jeans.

  Where could Aunt Fennel be? What could she be doing? In the last few days the old lady had become so completely, trustingly geared to Lucy’s directing force that it seemed almost impossible to imagine her suddenly taking independent action, going off into the fog on some ploy of her own. Down to the drugstore for powdered elm bark or lettuce soap? No, because all the stores were shut, early closing day, and Aunt Fennel knew that perfectly well, for she had reminded Lucy to buy writing paper and shampoo before lunch.

  Unexpectedly a tall black shape like a ninepin loomed up out of the dimness; with immense relief Lucy realised that it was a policeman crunching ponderously along, pausing to peer into foggy alleys and through the windows of parked cars.

  She hailed him hopefully.

  “Can you help me, please? I’ve lost an old lady and a car.”

  “An old lady and a car?” He scrutinised her with not unreasonable doubt. “What kind of a car, then?”

  “A plum-coloured Austin A.30.” And what kind of an old lady, Lucy thought. You might well ask. A unique old lady, an ambiguous old lady, an irreplaceable old lady.

  “Was the old lady driving the car?” the policeman asked.

  Even in her distress Lucy found it hard not to chuckle at the thought of Aunt Fennel, green eyeshade in place, white linen hat pulled well down, careering off through Kirby at the wheel of little PHO.

  “No, that’s what’s so mysterious, you see; the two mishaps seem to have been quite separate.”

  “Where had you left the vehicle?”

  “In Market Street, outside Fawcett the dentist’s. And the old lady was inside the dentist’s.”

  “Oh well, if you left the vehicle in Market Street, it will probably have been towed away by the police.” The constable sounded reproving; he put away his notebook. “That’s a no-parking zone, didn’t you know? Didn’t you see the double lines? Your best plan is to go down to the station and make inquiries there.”

  “The station?”

  “The police station. Round the other side of the harbour. That’s what you ought to do.”

  Lucy felt an easing of her heart. This seemed such a rational explanation that she wondered why it had not occurred to her already.

  “And the old lady? Do you think they towed her away too?”

  His face remained blank and unresponsive.

  “Is this old lady subject to fainting fits or blackouts?”

  “Not so far as I know. She’s my aunt, Miss Culpepper.”

  Out came the notebook again.

  “How do you spell that?”

&
nbsp; Lucy spelt it for him, slowly, twice, but noticed with irritation that he still got it wrong as he laboriously wrote it down. “Well, you’d better ask at the station about her too, that’s all I can advise,” he said then, unhelpfully. “If there’s been any report of an accident they’ll be able to tell you there.”

  “Well, thanks,” Lucy said without joy. “What’s the quickest way to the police station?”

  He gave her directions, but seemed quite surprised when she followed them, as if he suspected her of perpetrating some dubious teen-age joke.

  Kirby police station was solidly built of granite in a rococo style; it looked like a setting for the kind of grim fairytale in which people are shovelled into ovens or rolled downhill in barrels of nails.

  But the middle-aged sergeant who interviewed Lucy seemed not unfriendly.

  “You lost a car, miss? A pink Austin, registration PHO 898A? Can I see your licence, please?”

  Lucy handed over her papers and waited, with the usual feelings of anxiety and guilt, while he studied them for a long time in silence. How stupid it is, she thought irrelevantly, that society always makes one feel guilty for the wrong thing. I am to blame for losing Aunt Fennel, but if they punish me it will be for doing something that I didn’t even know was forbidden. Wilbie’s always saying that the tax authorities ignore his legitimate expenses and oblige him to invent a lot of false ones. Though that’s not a very good analogy; whatever society did to him, I bet Wilbie would be as crooked as a pair of dividers. Why did I think of him?

  Having entered her mind, the thought of Wilbie would not leave, but stuck there like a burr; she imagined how angry, how disinclined to help he would be if he knew of her present predicament.

  “You got yourself into the jam, Princess, you get yourself out again! Of all the goddam stupid things to do, getting into parking trouble abroad! If there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s stupidity. No, I will not pay your fine.”

  She wondered how much the fine would be, if there were a choice of fine or prison. The question seemed trivial compared with her worry about Aunt Fennel. Except that if she had to go to prison, who would look for the old lady? She was on the point of bursting out with this when the sergeant handed back her documents and turning shouted over his shoulder,

  “Harold!”

  A distant voice answered indistinguishably.

  “Pink A.30, registration PHO 898A, left in Market Street 2 P.M.? We got the owner here.” Then turning back to Lucy he said, “Well, we won’t be hard on you this time, as you haven’t been in this country long. But don’t do it again, mind!”

  “You’re not going to send me to prison?” She could hardly believe her ears.

  The sergeant grinned. “Not this time.”

  “And you’ve really got the car?”

  “It’s down in the yard at the rear.”

  “What about my aunt? Is there any hope you’ve got her up your sleeve too?”

  The return of little PHO had given Lucy new heart; she felt like a snail that has had its shell restored.

  “Ah, now, I’m afraid we can’t work miracles, young lady! We’ll keep a look-out for your aunt, that’s all we can promise. Can you give me a description of her?”

  Lucy did so, but the sergeant shook his head.

  “Kirby’s full of old ladies like that.”

  “You’re telling me. But where could she have got to?” Lucy cried in despair. “She’s nearly deaf, she’s almost blind, she walks so slowly—”

  Are those things the truth, she suddenly wondered. Have I a totally false conception of Aunt Fennel? Has she been skilfully deceiving me all this time?

  “Probably gone into Joe Lyons for a cup of tea,” the sergeant suggested bracingly, shepherding Lucy to the door. It was plain that, while sympathetic, he thought she was making a great pother over a trifle, for which some perfectly reasonable explanation would soon present itself.

  “Now, you just step round to the back, miss, and pick up your car—sign this and give it to the constable on duty there—and then if I were you I’d go up to the old lady’s lodgings again; ten to one she’s found her way home by now. But keep in touch with us, and I’ll put out a call for her. Oh, and miss—”

  “Yes?”

  “If you find she has turned up at home, you won’t forget to let us know, will you? We don’t want to go wasting time and manpower looking for someone that isn’t lost, do we?” He smiled at Lucy benevolently. “Now, don’t you worry; if she’s been in any accident we’ll hear soon enough.”

  And what good will that do, thought Lucy glumly, going down some back steps to a dusky, mist-filled yard where little PHO stood humbly among a lot of police Jaguars. A traffic policeman was waiting impatiently to oversee the removal, so Lucy did not wait to put on her coat, which was bundled on the floor at the back with the blanket and sleeping-bag, but switched on lights and heater and hurriedly drove away.

  I’ll go back to Mrs. Tilney’s first, she thought, that was good advice. But if Aunt Fennel still isn’t there, then what shall I do?

  By the time she reached Reservoir Street true dark had descended, thickened by the fog. She drew up outside Mrs. Tilney’s (the massive pile of junk in the front yard was visible by the dim diffused light of a street lamp ten yards off) and reached into the back for her duffel coat.

  Her hand encountered something warm, which moved.

  Lucy had had a long, tiring, and anxious day; her nerves were not in a good state. She let out a yelp of pure fright and snatched her hand back.

  A timid, quavering voice said, “Is that Lucy?”

  “Aunt Fennel! My goodness, is that you?”

  Hardly able to believe it, Lucy tipped forward the passenger seat and scrambled into the rear.

  Feeling around among the tangle of coat, blanket, and kapok-lined bag, she found a hand, an arm, a bony shoulder; the old lady was tightly jammed in the small gap between the front and rear seats, with the duffel coat pulled over her head. Gingerly, carefully, Lucy helped extract her from this awkward slot and eased her on to the back seat. Even now she could hardly believe that Aunt Fennel was really there; she hugged the old lady, felt her up and down, hugged her again.

  “But, Aunt Fennel, what were you doing there? Did you go to sleep and slip down? What happened? I’ve been worried to death about you—I thought somebody must have abducted you! Didn’t you wake when the police towed the car away?”

  Two frail old arms came out and went round her neck; a claw-like finger was laid across her lips.

  “Hush, dearie! Where are we?”

  Aunt Fennel was whispering; Lucy suddenly realised that she was trembling, and tense as a bow-string. Something had frightened her badly—was frightening her still.

  “We’re outside Mrs. Tilney’s. D’you want to go in? Pack up your things?”

  “Is there anybody in the street, dearie?”

  Lucy scanned the short, dimly lit terrace.

  “Not a soul.”

  “Let’s wait a little while, just the same. In—just in case.” Aunt Fennel was silent a moment; Lucy could feel the pounding and fluttering of her heart, even through velour coat, cable-stitch cardigan, serviceable jersey dress, corset, vest, and liberty-bodice. Or was it Lucy’s own heart, thumping in a sudden acceleration of fear?

  “You see, dearie,” Aunt Fennel was whispering. “I saw him.”

  “Who? Who did you see?”

  “That Other One. I’d come out of the dentist’s, and you weren’t there.” There was no reproach in the mild voice.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Fen. I was a pig, not to get back in time.”

  “It didn’t matter, dearie. You’d left the car unlocked, so I got in and sat in it.”

  “That was sensible.” Lucy hugged the old lady again. Finding the car taken she had cursed herself for her negligence in leaving it unloc
ked; what a stroke of good fortune this had turned out to be.

  “Was that when you saw That Other One?”

  “Yes, dearie. I was sitting in the car when he came along; he went into the dentist’s. But he didn’t stop; he came out and stood looking up and down the street. He didn’t see me though; well, of course, he wouldn’t expect me to be sitting in a car, you see. Didn’t look.”

  “How far away from you was he?”

  “Just along the pavement.”

  “You were able to recognise him?”

  “Oh yes, dearie. He has a special way of walking; bouncy; I’d know it if I met him in China. And those things he smokes too; I smelt them. I’d know him anywhere.”

  Professional observation, Lucy thought; the artist’s eye. After her own recent agony of anxiety she was more inclined to take Aunt Fennel’s story seriously; this sounded like genuine evidence.

  “What happened then?”

  “He went off along the street. And I hid down behind the car seat, in case he came back again looking for me.”

  “But, Aunt Fennel—why are you so positive he’d be looking for you?”

  “Why else would he be in Kirby, dear?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t he live here?”

  “Oh no, dear. Goodness only knows where he lives.”

  “What does he do? What’s his profession?”

  “I don’t know, dear. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

  The blank end again; there was no getting past it. “But Aunt Fennel—what did you think when the police came and moved the car—did you think it was him taking it—or what?”

  “No, dear, I heard their voices. I was worried of course,” the old lady said simply, “but I knew you’d come and find me in the end.”

  Sometimes Lucy felt unequal to Aunt Fennel. This was one of the times. She swallowed, drew in a deep breath, squeezed the old lady’s hand and, after a moment, said, “Well, I’d better finish those bits of packing and we’ll be off. Do you want to stay in the car? I can lock you in.”