The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  He asked her how much she had got in the Post Office and when she told him he almost laughed, it was so ridiculous. Houses in Cornwall were fetching top prices now, they didn’t even call them houses any more, they called them investments.

  He massaged her hand. ‘You’ll ’ave to borrow. You know that, dun’t you, my lovely?’

  The hand twitched within his and her body shook slightly but she nodded and was still again. Then she whispered, ‘’Ow much would you be askin’ . . . Chippy?’

  He named his price, smiling down at the parting in her hair as she twitched and shook again. ‘Less for you, a’course . . . Lucy,’ he added.

  But as he reached for her other hand, she withdrew the first.

  ‘I cain’t find that sort of money.’ She sighed. ‘It was a lovely thought, a lovely dream, but . . .’

  He grabbed for her hand and lowered his price. And at last, doubtfully – oh so doubtfully – she agreed to half the figure he had first named. He was taken aback when she led him into her kitchen and drew up some kind of agreement in the back of Barbara’s school exercise book.

  She said, ‘I know this binds me to you, Chippy. But I don’t mind – honestly. I trust you completely. When you offered to take on my son for a seven-year apprenticeship, I knew then that we would be tied to you. You are such a good businessman. I’ve always admired that.’

  He was completely disorientated. He knew he was a good businessman – seven years of cheap labour from a lad who was simple and would fetch and carry and do what he was told – that was good business. So this must be the same. She was right, of course. He had to bind her to him legally. And this bit of lined paper would do it. He signed it with a flourish. And she signed underneath. Just as it should be. He smirked. ‘Shall we seal it with a kiss?’

  She smiled. ‘Here are the girls. They’ve been to the church, Chippy. They will need love and comfort now. Perhaps it’s not the time . . . yet.’

  Denny imploded into the kitchen. She had gathered the cats from beneath the rhubarb and hurled the two of them into her mother’s arms, weeping copiously. Lucy held her and sat down in her rocker. The other two came in, holding hands and looking very solemn.

  He said, ‘I’d best be off.’ He looked at the table to pick up the exercise book but it was not there. Denny lifted her head and wailed her grief despairingly. He picked up his ancient hat and left. The ‘contract’, such as it was, would be safe enough with her. That was the thing about Lucy Pardoe; you could trust her completely.

  That night when the visitors had all gone and the cottage was tidy, Lucy told the girls they would have a little walk.

  Ellie was astonished. ‘’Tis dark, Mum. And the girls . . . they’re tired out.’

  ‘I got to walk up to the phone box in the village, Ellie. I’ll ’ave the torch with me. I en’t leavin’ you ’ere on your own.’ She took down the cocoa tin which held money for the electric. ‘We’ll get a bag o’ chips from the fish shop. Eat them on the way home.’

  It was starting to drizzle; proper rain, not like the heavy, leaden drops of yesterday. Ellie thought her mother was frightened for some reason and the two little ones enjoyed it all immensely at first. Then Denny’s wet feet rubbed in her sandals and she grizzled. Lucy picked her up and joggled her along.

  They crammed into the phone box and Lucy fished out William Mather’s card, fed in a whole shilling and dialled nought with painstaking care. She read Mr Mather’s personal number from the card and waited while she was connected and the ringing started. At last a voice said, ‘Hello,’ and she sobbed with relief as she recognized it. She shouted, ‘Hello,’ back, then remembered and pressed the button.

  ‘Hello. Is that Mr Mather? This is Mrs Pardoe.’

  ‘Mrs Pardoe? Are you all right? I’ve just come in the door. What a bit of luck.’

  She had worked out the time carefully. An eight-hour drive and he would take the girl to her own house first and stay a while, explaining to her parents exactly what had happened. He might stay for a meal but most likely not as he was no longer a fiancé.

  ‘I’m in the phone box in the village, Mr Mather. We’re all squeezed inside ’cos it’s raining. You said you could ’elp me. We do need ’elp. All of a sudden, we do need ’elp.’

  She let the pause go on while he imagined four bodies in a phone kiosk with the rain running down the windows. Denny started up her wailing again and he must’ve heard that too.

  He said, ‘I’ve got a notepad here, Mrs Pardoe. Read off the number on your dial, can you? When your money gives out, the operator will phone you back.’

  The shilling was plenty of money because Lucy did not waste a precious second of her time.

  ‘I need to borrow money. A lot of money. I want to buy Pardoe Cottage and I want to pay for it quick-like. Before the landlord can change ’is mine. Is that possible?’

  He was just as direct. ‘Certainly. With cash. You are sitting tenants after all.’ There was the tiniest pause. Then he said, ‘I will leave early tomorrow morning, Mrs Pardoe. Be with you at midday. Tell the vendor your solicitor is coming to see you. I take it he would be happier with cash than a cheque?’

  She gasped. ‘Well . . . course. Who wouldn’t be?’ She could picture Chippy’s face as hundreds of pound notes were counted on to the kitchen table.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. And within banking hours.’

  He did not let her thank him. The line clicked and hummed and that was that. The girls were agog. They trailed back, eating their chips, lifting their small faces to the rain just as Daniel had always told them to. Lucy wondered what she was doing, why she was doing it. Dr Carthew had told her to buy her cottage and offered her a loan and she had barely heard him. And then Chippy had offered her his ‘gift’ – no rent rise at Michaelmas and a kiss and a cuddle now and then. And she had been angry in a different way. And the girl owed her something. She might not be engaged to William Mather but in a way that made it harder for her to bear.

  When Barbara and Denny were in bed with the cats, Ellie stared out of the window and whispered to her mother, ‘I cain’t believe it will be ours, Mum. Ours. Oh . . . Egg would love it so much. He’ll be so happy for us, Mum.’

  She did not understand why Ellie’s words held no joy for her. She thought, with sudden panic, that she could not stay here. Not now.

  She whispered back, ‘We dun’t never own anything, Ellie. We just borrows it for a time.’

  Ellie smiled up at her joyously. ‘That’s what the vicar said to us, Mum. When we sat by Egg’s coffin. He said about borrowing things. Like you want to borrow something from Mr Mather.’

  Lucy hugged her daughter and rocked her back and forth.

  ‘I dun’t know what I’m doin’ any more, Ellie. I must get and see Dr Carthew in the morning before Mr Mather do arrive . . . Poor man, all that long drive home and he has to turn back straight away again. Poor man.’ She looked at Ellie’s bed, turned back ready for her. ‘How would you like to sleep in your dad’s place for tonight, Ellie?’

  They lay side by side, both thinking they would not sleep in spite of the doctor’s pills. But within ten minutes they were gone. And they slept the night away.

  Five

  ROSEMARY VICKERS STARED at her daughter’s down-bent head as they sat together at breakfast, and wondered for the umpteenth time how a few days could make such a catastrophic difference to a life. Last Sunday, just five days ago, Connie and William Mather had been engaged to be married and had gone off on their first holiday together. Rosemary had kissed Connie goodbye through the open window of the big comfortable car, reassured her with one of their special looks that the natural linen frock and hat were just the thing for the journey and the other, more casual sundresses teamed with the espadrilles Rosemary had brought back from her own holiday in Brittany would be ideal on the beach, then transferred her gaze to William as she said happily, ‘Look after her, my dear.’

  William had smiled back just as happily. When he had asked her i
n his lovely old-fashioned way whether it would be ‘all right’ to ask Connie if she would like to marry him, she had said, ‘Do you love her, Mr Mather?’

  His reply had been careful and precise. ‘That goes without saying, Mrs Vickers. It’s whether she can love me. I am thirty-six and she . . .’

  He had hesitated and she had supplied, ‘Younger than her years?’ He had looked as if he might be going to nod. She went on briskly, ‘I have been overprotective, Mr Mather. Perhaps I have tried too hard to be father as well as mother.’

  ‘Ah . . . Mrs Vickers.’ He had said the right things. The sort of things that mothers long to hear and rarely do. After all, he was a solicitor.

  She had smiled and cleared her throat and said, ‘Perhaps I should call you William. And I would like it if you would use my name – it’s Rosemary.’

  It had all been so . . . ideal. She had ignored the fact that Connie might well be too young for him; perhaps more flattered than in love. Connie kept telling her mother what a wonderful man he was. How he put his clients at ease. How some of the women fell for him hook, line and sinker. It was as if she was trying to convince herself.

  And then the phone call last night, only four days later, William tightly withdrawn, Connie . . . incomprehensible. Just four days and the whole wonderful thing was in ruins.

  They were tired – of course. It would all blow over. As they levered themselves out of the car – like two elderly people – Rosemary had already gathered from the phone call that there had been an older woman; an actress of sorts – Rosemary had never heard of her. Apparently she had turned up at this boarding house in Cornwall. And the landlady of the place – Blue Seas – sounded a complete dragon. Rosemary had tried to make it all funny and told Connie that seaside landladies had to pass a dragon test before they were allowed to welcome any guests. Connie had greeted this sally with a sob; it was hard to tell as the telephone line to Cornwall was strange. Or perhaps it was Connie being strange.

  Then William had taken the receiver and told Rosemary that they were coming home the next day, hoped to arrive between six and seven o’clock and, by the way, they had decided against an engagement. The call was cut off at this point. Rosemary did not believe it of course. A lovers’ tiff.

  They had both been stiff from the journey. Connie leaned on the car, returning her mother’s welcoming hug with one arm. Then, while Rosemary’s wildly questioning expression was making her eyes pop, Connie said she needed the bathroom and disappeared indoors.

  William stated a few facts very briefly as he carried Connie’s luggage into the hall of Fairways. Rosemary gathered they had witnessed a drowning, as a result of which their engagement was at an end. It sounded such a tragedy. But hardly the sort of tragedy to affect them and their engagement?

  ‘I’m sorry, William. So very sorry. But I don’t understand why . . .’

  William said in his solicitor’s voice, ‘Connie will fill in the details.’ He had not known whether to call her Rosemary or Mrs Vickers. He had left. They had been driving for eight hours; he looked tired, gaunt. She hovered by the front door, a hand held behind her for Connie to take as she came down the stairs – which she did not – her other hand waving to William and saying, ‘It will be all right . . .’ which he also ignored.

  Connie told her another garbled story about an earthquake and a tornado and a beach attendant who couldn’t swim but who was a special human being and had drowned in a tidal wave. Rosemary was appalled to hear that the Cornish weather was so dangerous. The brochures extolled the golden beaches and the sub-tropical plants and semi-precious stones and said not a word about tidal waves and tornados. She had to assume that Connie was exaggerating and made up her mind to phone William and get the proper version.

  On Friday morning she looked out of the window and saw Connie walking slowly from the back gate on to the footpath that wound through the golf course. She went into the hall and dialled William’s home number. There was no reply. She dialled Jessup’s number and asked Arnold’s secretary whether William was there. The secretary was surprised.

  ‘He’s still on holiday, Mrs Vickers. He’s not due in the office until Monday week.’

  Rosemary had to assume that William too was taking a before-breakfast walk. It was another shock to realize he had not told Arnold Jessup that his holiday was over. She gnawed her lip and went into the breakfast room. Connie had laid the breakfast. She heaved a sigh of relief. The poor girl was doing her best.

  When Connie appeared half an hour later, Rosemary had grilled bacon and made toast and convinced herself that everything was all right. She asked whether Connie had had a nice walk; she ate some bacon and nibbled toast and poured coffee. Connie stared down at her plate, cut a triangular shape of toast and put it in her mouth.

  Rosemary believed in being direct so she asked about William and the engagement. Connie did not even look up. She said in a strange monotone, ‘We weren’t really suited, Mummy.’

  Rosemary said, ‘I think you were. Are, actually. You just have to think of him in a different way. Not as – as . . .’ This was difficult ground but she pressed on. ‘Not as an Arnhem survivor. Not as your boss at work – a rather clever solicitor, by all accounts. You have to see him as a partner, my love. Someone you can look after and someone who will look after you.’

  Unexpectedly Connie nodded. Rosemary felt encouraged. She said in her most matter-of-fact voice, ‘Darling, you’ve got another week at home. Then you will go back to work again and things will settle down.’

  Connie looked up at that. Her stare was blank. She said very loudly, ‘Mummy, haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? I can’t ever see William again. None of this is his fault and he cannot be burdened with someone like me. Especially in his work.’ She looked at her mother and Rosemary put a hand to her mouth as she saw anguish fill the blank eyes. Connie said, ‘I am responsible for Philip’s death. He was precious – to his mother and his family and it’s possible that his American family do not even know of his existence! And if I hadn’t . . . if I’d kept my problems to myself . . . my God, Mummy, I am twenty-two years old, I’ve worked at Jessup’s for two years. I’ve done nothing with my life until now – and now I have killed another human being!’

  Rosemary caught her breath. Almost twenty years ago she had said to her own mother that there was nothing left to live for. And her mother had simply switched her gaze to where Connie was tentatively stroking three tiny kittens in the cat basket. And Rosemary had whispered, ‘Forgive me.’

  Now, sitting there looking again at her daughter, her reason for living, she felt a rush of tears and thought at first they were sheer nostalgia; then knew the truth. There was no new life for Connie.

  She could think of nothing relevant to say. To feel responsible for someone else’s death was absurd, of course. She had to squash that right now. She sat back in her chair, clasped her hands and said, ‘Darling, I’m sorry to be so obtuse. You haven’t mentioned America before. And who is this Philip?’

  Connie looked at her for another long thirty seconds, then made a sound of despair, pushed back her chair and ran from the room.

  By Sunday – a week after their departure to Cornwall – Rosemary thought she had the full picture. She knew that Mrs Heatherington had been the true motive for the holiday, she knew that Mrs Pentwyn wanted to get rid of Connie because she had found out that Connie had slept with William, she knew that Connie had felt both love and fear about doing so . . . Rosemary refused to be shocked. She could tell that there had been a tenderness, a comfort both taken and given during that night. But she also understood that Connie had been shocked by it; shocked to feel that she had given herself to William . . . to another human being. That she might actually belong to him. When he had been obsequious – Connie had actually used that word, which Rosemary felt was unfair – towards Mrs Heatherington, she could see that Connie might have felt that she had been deceived, even exploited. And it was very unfortunate that she had overheard the lan
dlady’s vitriolic words on that second night. Rosemary shuddered at that.

  Then there was the boy. Rosemary was less sure about the boy. It was obvious that Connie saw him as some special creature belonging to the land and the sea . . . It did not fit in with the reality of his job at the beach shop. He was young, Connie made him sound about fourteen. He was a great reader. He liked American crime novels. His father had been an American soldier, drowned in the disastrous training exercise in Devon. His mother had married a local man and had three other children, girls. The man had adopted the boy and they were very close. And then he too had been drowned.

  Rosemary did a quick sum and realized the boy was either fifteen or sixteen. Connie made him sound younger. Later, when she spoke of his ‘seizure’, Rosemary thought he must be simple.

  She said, ‘He sounds . . . unique. But perhaps . . .’

  Connie said, ‘He could read. He read avidly. That’s why I called him Philip, for Philip Marlowe. He was reading Raymond Chandler. He was named for his father, Egbert. And known as Egg. Somehow I couldn’t call him that.’

  Rosemary suggested tentatively, ‘Perhaps that was why he went into that dreadful sea when he couldn’t swim?’

  ‘It wasn’t a dreadful sea when I went in, Mummy. It was completely still. I realize now that it was unnaturally still. But people came to the cove because it was calm. The other beaches were for surfing. The cove was for swimming.’

  ‘I see.’ Rosemary shook her head even so. From the way Connie was talking, this poor boy had been euphoric and the only way he could express it was to go into the very element that had killed both his fathers. Was the euphoria a result of the slight earthquake? Had that sent him into a seizure? Or the drumming rain? Surely not . . . Could it possibly have been a death wish?

  She said on an upward voice, ‘And then William pulled you out. I’ll never forget that, Connie. He really is a wonderful man.’