Deathline

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘What about your husband’s early work?’ she asked, two days later, taking Beatrice her afternoon cup of tea. ‘The poetry that made his name at Cambridge? Some of that must have been published, surely? Jan and I only found manuscripts in the study desk.’

  Beatrice looked puzzled, then wretched. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘There used to be a drawer more or less full of little magazines he contributed to. How very odd. No one’s been up there but Wendy and me, and anyway it’s hardly the kind of thing that would get stolen.’

  ‘Could he have taken them himself?’ She hated to ask it, but thought it must be what Beatrice suspected.

  ‘I think he must have. That last time he went was different, somehow. I don’t think I quite realized how different at the time. If he had decided he wasn’t coming back, he’d have taken it all, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. And I think he must have taken his outline for The Soul’s Journey too. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he would. So it’s no good, is it? We’ve not got enough to work on.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ They needed this project. ‘Think, Beatrice. Just suppose he’s been holed up somewhere, writing away at The Soul’s Journey, and it suddenly comes out, posthumously or otherwise, and makes a big splash. Then everyone will want to know about him. What we have to do is concentrate on your memories of him, get them down in some kind of order, and then see what we have got.’

  ‘The life without the works.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  This worked well. Beatrice really did scrawl down notes of things she remembered, even dreams that seemed to her to cast light on her vanished husband and his work. As soon as Helen had got the house reasonably straight each morning she went upstairs, notebook and biro ready, to help Beatrice embroider on the previous day’s jottings. Her memory for the far past was remarkable, a sad contrast to her grasp of the present, which was visibly slipping away. ‘Jan?’ she would ask, when Helen spoke of a telephone call, or, worse still, she would not ask it, but a hunted, haunted look would come into her face that warned Helen she was trying to remember and reluctant to admit that she could not.

  She was surprisingly vague about Paul Tressiker’s early years: ‘He didn’t much like to talk about them.’ He had come from Liverpool, no money; she thought there was something odd about his father, his mother seemed to be in charge of the household. Then at Liverpool Collegiate he had been spotted by an English master, who took him under his wing, helped him with his Cambridge entrance. ‘Got him in there, I think,’ said Beatrice. It was with him that Paul had kept in touch, rather than with his parents, once he was safely at university. Oh, yes, they had been alive when she had come back to England with Paul but there had been no question of going to see them. ‘He didn’t even go to their funeral.’ They were killed in the blitz, she explained. She thought it had been a relief to him.

  She would much rather talk of happy moments on the trip west after she and Paul had first met. There had been a field of flowers in New Hampshire, a brilliant night at a lakeside hotel in Chicago. ‘Oh, such happiness.’

  But she always jibbed at talking about the visit they had made to the house on the Hudson river for Benedicta’s engagement party. ‘It was a disaster. I don’t want to talk about it. I should have known better.’

  ‘Did you like Benedicta?’ Helen asked one wet Wednesday morning when they had been talking about what Beatrice called ‘the disastrous visit’.

  ‘Like her?’ Beatrice thought about it. ‘No, I don’t think I did. I loved her, of course, my twin sister … but like? I don’t think she was very likeable, you know. Maybe that’s why I felt I needed to get away. She had to be the best, always, you see, have the best, did Ben. She didn’t mind about Vassar, my doing well there, that wasn’t her patch, but she wasn’t best pleased when I turned up with Paul for that party … Her engagement party…’

  As always happened, sooner or later, she was beginning to drift off into one of her catnaps, and Helen sighed with frustration, shut her notebook and went out to do the shopping. The belated cheque from Finch & Finch had finally cleared through Beatrice’s bank account and she had invited Frances to supper to celebrate.

  ‘Come into the kitchen for a mo.’ Helen greeted Frances like the good friend she had become. ‘I need your advice.’

  ‘Yes?’ Frances had expected this.

  Helen poured their habitual drinks. ‘Frances, I had no idea it was going to be such a lot of money. I don’t quite know what I ought to do.’

  ‘Like what?’ Frances had settled on her usual stool.

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to get in touch with Beatrice’s family in the States? Let them know she is still alive? Give them a chance to do something about her?’

  ‘A chance to come over here and make her life a misery, do you mean? That’s what she thinks would happen. Of course I raised it with her back at Christmas, when we drew up her will, but she was adamant she didn’t want them to know anything about her. There’s been no contact, you know, all these years. It must have been quite something, that engagement party of her sister’s.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you what happened?’

  ‘No. Just that they left the next day, she and Paul, and that was that.’

  ‘But surely, Frances, the family could find her if they wanted to, through the lawyers and the trust. They must be in touch. She heard when her father died, after all.’

  ‘Years ago. Anything could have happened since then. The trust fund arrangements are strictly between Finch & Finch and a Boston firm; nothing to do with the family.’

  ‘It’s wild, Frances.’

  ‘Not really; just the way the law works. Specially in the hands of a firm like Finch & Finch.’

  ‘Have they forgiven you yet?’

  ‘Up to a point. They don’t forget easy, those Finches. Mind you, I am beginning to think that Finch minimus might be quite human given half a chance. He’s only a nephew, you know, not the direct line and rather there on sufferance. I’ve caught his eye once or twice when junior and senior were carrying on about the good old days when gents were gents and wondered if he didn’t feel much the way I do. But he’s very much on probation still, just like me.’

  ‘Did you ever hear anything about that call from Ellen Fanshaw, back at Christmas?’

  ‘Not a word. They are clients, of course. I checked on that, so it may have been something totally different.’

  ‘But we both doubt it,’ said Helen. ‘There’s Beatrice’s bell, let’s take up her glass of sherry, while the quiche heats up. It looks delicious.’

  But Beatrice had wakened in one of her occasional bad tempers. ‘What were you two plotting in the kitchen?’ she asked querulously. ‘Colluding and conniving down there! I never did like secrets.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ It made up Helen’s mind for her. ‘I’m sorry, Beatrice, I was asking Frances if she didn’t think we ought to get in touch with your family in the States. It doesn’t seem right not to let them know what’s going on here.’

  ‘You mean that I’m going off my head? And have them descend on me like a plague of vipers? Badger me into my grave with talk of wills and money and family duty? You don’t know my family, Helen Westley. I do.’

  ‘Well, you can’t really,’ Helen ventured. ‘It’s over sixty years, surely, since you left home? You may have a whole fleet of delightful young great-nieces and nephews by now.’

  ‘Benedicta’s brood? And that fish-faced banker of hers? Two generations is much too short for any improvement in that stock. I was almost glad when Paul made it so clear he didn’t want children. They might have turned out like my sister Ben. Poison. We won’t speak of this again.’ She drained her sherry glass. ‘And I don’t want any supper. Too tired. Go away, both of you interfering young bitches, and let me rest.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Back in the kitchen, Helen looked ruefully at Frances. ‘My mistake. What a fool—’

  ‘No,’ Franc
es interrupted her. ‘I think it was worth a try. If the family comes down on us after her death as, frankly, they well may, we can honestly, both of us, say we did our best. And at least she didn’t have another stroke, just got cross, that’s something to be thankful for.’

  ‘Yes. I was scared rigid.’

  ‘So was I. When does Hugh Braddock come next?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow, bit of luck. He often drops in after his Friday surgery and we give him a glass of something. He does her good.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘Yes. Damn, the quiche is burning.’

  ‘Goodness, I’m glad to see you.’ Helen had left a message with Hugh Braddock’s receptionist, to make sure he came. ‘I did a silly thing.’ She described what had happened. ‘I’m furious with myself. She’s hardly eaten since, and slept a great deal, rather back to the way she was when I first came, except she ate then.’

  ‘No work on the project?’

  ‘No, dammit. She just says, “What’s the use?” and goes to sleep again.’

  ‘That’s too bad. But, do remember, she’s said all along that what she wants is to die. She may be beginning to. It sounds a little like it. How much right have we to interfere?’

  ‘You say that?’ She was amazed.

  ‘Yes, I do. But only to you. Quote me, and I’m a done doctor.’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  ‘I know. I think I’ll see her alone today, give her a chance to grumble about you if she wants to. Maybe the sherry bottle in twenty minutes?’

  ‘Right.’ She retired to the kitchen, surprised and angry to find herself close to tears.

  ‘And here’s our sherry, just in time,’ Hugh Braddock greeted her arrival. ‘I’ve promised Beatrice that there is to be no more talk about getting in touch with the family, if any, and she has promised me to have another go at living.’

  ‘I’d like to see Jan again,’ said Beatrice. ‘I liked her, didn’t I? And spring. Maybe even a little touch of summer? Are the snowdrops out yet?’ She sipped at her sherry.

  ‘Snowdrops?’ Helen asked, baffled.

  ‘In the graveyard out back. Paul used to come home specially from town, when they were out. There’s a passage about them in The Soul’s Journey, something about spring and hope and revival. You haven’t found that?’

  ‘No,’ Helen told her. ‘But there are just a few snowdrops in the back garden, so I bet they are out in the graveyard. I’ll go and look, if you’ll promise to be good.’

  ‘Not much choice, have I?’ But they were friends again.

  ‘Mind you go,’ said Hugh Braddock as she let him out. ‘I’d forgotten what store she set by those snowdrops. That’s the worst thing about the poor bloody National Health these days. No time to think properly about your patients, or if there is you are just too tired. And you’re one too, remember.’

  ‘One?’

  ‘Of my patients of course.’

  ‘But I never registered—’

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘No?’ Surprised at his vehemence.

  ‘All that red tape,’ he explained. ‘And no need while you are staying with Beatrice. But I’ve been meaning to read you a lecture on looking after yourself. You are Beatrice’s lifeline after all.’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear that she recognizes it. So: Doctor’s orders; you’re to get out every day. Don’t interrupt. Shopping doesn’t count. A proper walk. Across the graveyard, or down the river, whatever. Fast as you can. Breathing. You’re going to need all your strength presently. She’s gone downhill a bit, this last week, no good pretending she hasn’t. And I’m afraid I promised her all over again that we won’t put her into hospital if we can possibly help it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Helen. ‘That’s what cheered her up. I’m glad you did.’

  Hanging their small wash in the garden on Monday, Helen paused to look at the little drift of snowdrops along the path. A gleam of sunshine picked them out and suggested that spring might really be on the way.

  ‘I’m going to look for your snowdrops this afternoon,’ she told Beatrice, settling her for her nap. ‘Do you promise to be all right?’

  ‘Give them my love,’ said Beatrice.

  The gate in the garden wall was harder to open than ever after all the rain, but this time Helen had brought secateurs and was able to cut her way down the overgrown path. Reaching the edge of the thicket, she stopped, entranced. Between her and the little church, all among the ancient gravestones, washed a greenish-white tide of snowdrops. Spring. A blackbird called a warning. Hope? She must bring her camera, try to capture this for Beatrice to share. Could she pick some for her, or would it be sacrilege?

  She moved forward, very carefully, trying not to tread on a single one. Turning the corner of the church she almost ran into a tall, black man who was absorbed in cutting back the pervasive brambles from a grave.

  ‘Sorry!’ They both started back and exclaimed almost in unison.

  Then, ‘You must have come through the door in the wall,’ he said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see what’s on the other side.’

  ‘A garden.’ She took in the clerical collar under his shabby windcheater. ‘This is your church?’

  ‘Surprising, isn’t it?’ His smile lit up the handsome, strong-boned face. ‘It certainly surprised me. Nobody seemed to want this poor little church; talked of defrocking it; so sad to see one go. So I got volunteered. I’ve only just started but I’m having such a good time. Would you like to see?’

  ‘Yes, please. But I’m not really a church-goer.’

  ‘Not so much a church, more a group.’ He turned to lead the way down the path beside the little building. ‘I’m letting the sunshine in.’ The main door stood open. ‘It had stood empty much too long; so sad. Dry rot in the pews. We had to have a great clear out, as you can see, but it makes a wonderful space. Go carefully, there’s a step down.’ He took her arm to guide her into the dark, cool building.

  ‘Not all that dark,’ she said, surprised, as her eyes got used to the light. Plain, greyish glass in the windows let in spring sunshine to show the simple, empty little building with its surprising dark red plastic chairs stacked along the walls.

  ‘It’s an undistinguished building, I’m afraid.’ His tone was apologetic, he might have been introducing a plain, dearly loved child. ‘Not a single feature for Pevsner. I think the locals simply cobbled it together out of the abbey ruins after the destruction. Even then it was handily away from the centre of things, you see. The heart of the town had moved up the other hill after the Black Death, to where the new church is.’

  ‘New?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, like New College. It’s a good building. You’ve not seen it?’

  ‘No, I’ve not been here long, and I’ve been quite busy.’ She almost felt she was apologizing. ‘I’m looking after the old lady who lives in the house beyond the wall. She’s not a bit well. She told me about your snowdrops, she and her husband used to come every year. I was wondering …’

  ‘You want to take her some. Of course. God and I can spare them. And when you say not well…’

  She recognized it as a professional question. ‘She’s eighty, tired of life a bit, but doing fine till she had a fall before Christmas, a couple of little strokes, Dr Braddock thinks.’

  ‘Hugh Braddock, that’s good. I’m surprised he hasn’t told me about her. May I call? She’s in my parish, such as it is. I did have a go, when I first came, but I was ferociously turned away from one of those houses at the top of the hill, rather lost my nerve. I’m ashamed. I’m keeping you too long.’ He had noticed her quick glance at her watch. ‘Come and get your snowdrops,’ leading the way back into the sunlight. ‘You’ve left her alone?’ And then, surprisingly, ‘Quite right. It can develop into a kind of tyranny, the not leaving alone. The question is, who is being protected, and against what. You’ll find the longest ones along the edge of the thicket.’ He led the way. ‘I confess to picki
ng them myself for selected parishioners. Mind you, I look on the whole of both Leynings as my parish, really. This has always been a church for the protesters, the dropouts. I’m sure of that. Catholics creeping here under Henry the Eighth, Protestants under his daughter, Mary. Now I try to talk to doubters of all kinds, including, I sometimes think, myself. Try us some time. Ten thirty every other Sunday. And I guarantee to finish at half past eleven so those who wish can get the roast into the oven. There.’ They had been sociably picking, side by side, now he handed her his little nosegay, reached into a pocket and produced an elastic band. ‘When’s a good time to call?’

  ‘Mornings. Not too early. But she’s no more religious than I am.’

  ‘She’s still my parishioner.’ He produced a battered diary from another pocket. ‘Wednesday, about eleven, and I’ll plan to stay long enough for you to do a couple of errands?’

  ‘Unless she refuses to see you. She can be ferocious.’

  ‘Don’t you think curiosity will get me in? There aren’t that many black vicars in Sussex.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ She liked him better and better. ‘She’ll want to know all about you. Thanks.’ She took the little bunch. ‘They’re lovely. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Wednesday.’

  ‘Here.’ He reached into yet another pocket and produced a card. ‘My number, in case she really does refuse. Don’t fret about the unpronounceable name. Everyone just calls me Peter.’