“For a lifetime cut of the take, I suppose.”
“He told me he is himself a musician and had played with several reputable rock groups.”
“Did he mention that they had all gone under?”
“What’s that?” His expression put me in mind of Abbey’s and Tam’s when I went to shut off the nursery light.
“I said”—I cleared my throat—“that they were all from Down Under. Has my cousin offered to put you up at the cottage?”
“He talked about it, but very kindly pointed out my practicing would keep him awake at night. He suggested I might be more comfortable in the rooms over the old stable.”
What could I do but assure him he was most welcome and hope that Ben wouldn’t have my head when he got home?
Mr. Savage’s spectacles glistened. I swear there were tears in the grey eyes that matched his suit when he said, “I will serenade you in the very first song of my own composition.”
“That would be nice.” Ben had once written a soup recipe for me, which had been lovely in its way.
“It will be a paean to your nobility of spirit and bounteous benevolence.” Mr. Savage’s tears were burned off by the radiance of his smile. He reached across the table for my hand and would perhaps have raised it to his lips if the table had been shorter or his arm longer. My fingers had only so much stretch. Pop went my dressing gown seams. Ping went a couple of buttons across the room. The chill I experienced when this garment parted down the middle was unsettling, but it was nothing to the icy quiver that seized me when I looked up to see my mother-in-law standing in the doorway.
“Don’t let me interrupt you, Ellie.” She forced a brave smile even as she sagged against the wall. “And don’t worry that I will say a word about your goings-on to my poor son. Doesn’t he have enough to suffer with his father deserting him?”
How could I come across as anything but fast when I informed Mum that my acquaintance with Mr. Savage was barely an hour old and he followed up this unwise confession with the news that I had invited him to move in? It being expedient to get rid of the man, I sent him off to inspect his quarters, and the moment the garden door closed on him I set about clarifying matters with my mother-in-law.
“The man was living at the bus shelter.”
“I’d rather not know all the gory details.” Mum tottered to a chair and covered her face with her hands.
“He will be staying only until he becomes a successful rock star.”
“This is all my fault! The sins of the mother shall be visited upon the child.”
“You mustn’t talk like that,” I soothed, dragging a chair around to sit beside her. “I know things look bleak at the moment, but you and Dad have thirty-eight years invested in each other.”
“Don’t mention that man’s name to me.”
“Mum, he went for a swim—”
“An illicit swim.”
“Agreed! But he didn’t go to bed with Tricks.” I tried to put my arm around her, but she flinched as if struck. Eyes bright with tears, she stared through me as if I were a pane of glass.
“I should have listened to my parents when they begged me not to marry Elijah.”
I started to say that she had listened, that she hadn’t married him, and that this was the root of the entire problem, but I bit down on the words.
“You can’t turn back the clock.” I risked touching her hand, remembering with a bitter pang how she had said the exact same thing to me in connection with her friendship with Tricks. “But perhaps you could talk to a priest about your situation?”
“I’m too ashamed. Being the True Faith, Catholicism has to maintain its standards. No, I don’t expect you to understand”—sniff—“seeing as I hear the Church of England will take just about anybody these days.”
“If you think it would help”—I began gathering up the breakfast plates—“I could take you to see Reverend Eudora Spike. She’s extremely nice and a wonderful listener.”
“A woman priest?” Mum shuddered.
“At the moment she’s a deacon, but that will in all likelihood alter now that there’s been a change in policy regarding women in the priesthood. But it was only a suggestion. I don’t want to push you into anything against your will.…”
“I’d much rather not, but by all means you go and have a chat with her. Far be it from me to hold you back from your faith, such as it is, Ellie.”
“Perhaps I should pop in at the vicarage. I do need to talk to Eudora about the St. Anselm’s Summer Fête.” That was true enough, and if I could get some spiritual guidance at the same time, all the better. But first things first. I was crossing the kitchen on my way to fetch the twins down to breakfast, when Mrs. Malloy walked in with Abbey, followed by Jonas holding Tam. Oh, to look at the world through their guileless blue eyes!
The next ten or fifteen minutes vanished in the happy business of getting my darlings into their booster chairs and breakfast into their mouths. Jonas had made the chairs with detachable trays that fitted neatly over the edge of the table. The man was so handy it really was a crying shame he had never married. It wasn’t until I was unclenching my daughter’s paw in order to wipe it off so that it wouldn’t stick like glue to every thing it touched that I mentioned not having seen Sweetie since the previous night.
“She’s taken to her bed,” Mum said, stony-faced.
“Probably indigestion,” Mrs. Malloy consoled me. “I saw her, bright and early, under the hall table, chewing on that statue you made so much fuss about yesterday.”
Abbey, sensitive little soul, let out a shocked squeal, but Tam applauded the disclosure by pounding his cup on his metal tray, and shouting, “That funny!” The male mentality! Or so I unjustly thought until brought up short by Jonas.
“I b’aint a religious man, but I always reckoned that St. Francis a right ’un, what with him leaving his father’s palace to live in a potting shed and take care of his furred and feathered friends.” Clomping over to the hall door, he turned to look at Mum, his eyes kind under the unpruned, wintry brows. “So if it’ll put a smile on your face, I’ll go find him and put him back where he do belong.”
“Thank you.” Mum gaped at his retreating back.
“Typical!” Mrs. Malloy traded Tam his cup for a piece of toast. “Men are all alike when it comes to a damsel in distress.”
Shooting a load of dishes into the sink and creating another Niagara, I was pondering the veracity of this statement, when the window facing me cracked open and a surreptitious voice spoke.
“You in there, Mrs. Haskell? Front and back rub-down, same as usual?”
“That’ll be lovely,” I said, and upon catching Mum’s eye, made haste to add, “It’s Mr. Watkins. He’s the window cleaner.”
“If you say so, Ellie.”
In dire need of occupational therapy, she fetched down her crochet work from a shelf of the Welsh dresser. From its size, I could guess only that the article-in-progress was destined to be a swimming pool cover. Sitting down at the table, Mum said, “You get dressed, Ellie, and go and see your woman priest. You don’t have to worry about the twins, I’ll take proper care of them.” The glance she fired at Mrs. Malloy made clear she would not welcome any assistance from that quarter. She did add, however, upon picking up her crochet hook, that she would make Jonas a hot drink for elevenses.
Did this suggest a change of atmospheric pressure within the house? Possibly. But the outside world did not look so promising when I set out to walk to the vicarage half an hour later. The clouds were massing, dark and threatening overhead. An occasional spatter of rain got me in the eye, the sea gave a distant roar like a lion at the zoo ready to devour the first piece of meat dropped its way, and Mr. Watkins on his ladder looked none too happy. But I didn’t need blue skies and sunshine to experience an exuberant urge to spread my arms wide and soar like a gull. I was free! Free to run down Cliff Road and fantasize about Dad being brought to his senses when he discovered Mum was making hot drinks for an
other man. A bachelor, no less!
All I needed was a talk with Eudora to put me back on track. Our vicar was a sensible woman. And the vicarage was an equally straightforward house, without fuss or furbelow. Its windows smiled a gentle welcome as I passed under the lych-gate. And the front door was flung wide as I traversed the mossy path, as if to let me know I was welcomed with open arms.
“Is that you, Mr. Watkins?” inquired a voice as I mounted the time-worn steps. Behold Mrs. Edna Pickle in slippers and floral apron. She was minus her curlers, but her hair did not look as if it had been combed that morning, and her figure sagged comfortably as if taking a holiday from its corsets. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Haskell. We was expecting the window cleaner yesterday and he didn’t turn up. No ambition, that’s his trouble. If it’s not too cold for him to turn out, it’s too sunny.” She frowned dolefully.
“He’s at Merlin’s Court, doing our windows.” I followed her into the narrow hall with its dark brown varnish, faded strip of carpet, and the portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury hanging from the picture rail.
“You’re lucky he showed; but he’ll soon be packing it in now it’s come on to rain. Anyone would think the man had a private income.” Mrs. Pickle shook her head in slow motion. “Then there’s the rest of us, that if we wants things to happen in this world have to go ahead and make them happen.”
“So true.”
She then set about closing the door in almost as much time as it would have taken the average person to vacuum three rooms and get going with the polishing. “How did you like the dandelion wine, Mrs. Haskell?” she asked.
“Delicious. We served it at our dinner party last night and even Mrs. Taffer, who doesn’t normally drink wine, had several glasses.” My praises brought a triumphant gleam to Mrs. Pickle’s eyes, but I didn’t get to ramble on.
“I thought I heard voices.” The sitting room door to our right opened and out came Eudora. She was smiling and I tried to do likewise. But, so great was my shock, all I could do was stare. It was several weeks since I had last seen my spiritual adviser and the change in her appearance was extraordinary. Her figure had gone from substantial to spare, her glasses were askew, and her hair had lost its structure. Once it had fitted her head like a felt hat. Now it drooped in dispirited waves about her haggard face.
“Ellie”—her voice was as faded as her cardigan—“did we have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll be here about the fête.” She rubbed her forehead as if trying to increase the bloodflow to her brain. “Lady Kitty Pomeroy phoned yesterday … or it may have been the day before … to talk about the stalls. And she said she would be getting in touch with you.”
“I. haven’t heard from her ladyship and it wasn’t strictly speaking about the fête that I came, although if you have any instructions for me, that’s fine.” I was getting flustered. “There’s a problem—a family matter I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Something wrong with Ben or the children?”
“Nothing like that. It’s my in-laws. They had a major bust-up at Merlin’s Court last night. And the upshot is my mother-in-law has moved in with us. But if this is a bad time for you, I could always come round tomorrow.”
“Nonsense. I’ve always time for a fellow suf—parishioner.”
“I’ll get myself down to the kitchen and make some coffee for you ladies.” Mrs. Pickle headed down the hall. I had no doubt the beans would be well and truly aged before she plugged in the percolator.
“You’ll have to work around Mr. Spike,” Eudora called after her. “He’s in the middle of making a sponge cake, so tread carefully.” She turned and smiled wanly at me. “Being married to Ben, Ellie, you know all too well how men are when they’re cooking. And things aren’t always easy for dear Gladstone. People tend to view him as my shadow and … well, never mind, come along and sit down.”
Ever since my first visit to the vicarage, I had loved that well-worn sitting room with its overstuffed easy chairs, in which you could plant yourself and take root. One set of windows gave a view of the churchyard with its weary regiment of tombstones, some standing heroically to attention, others staggering to maintain their balance in the face of eternal cannon fire. The back windows looked out on a raggle-taggle garden, where clumps of bushes and flowers grew wherever the mood took them. The room had a sense of peace that seemed to emanate even from the wallpaper, whose only remnant of pattern was the seams.
The two handsome pieces of furniture were the library table, which did duty as a workmanlike desk, and its companion leather chair. This chair had its back to us as we came in, but there was nothing to that. Who could blame it for preferring a view of the garden to the confessional?
While Eudora removed a pile of papers from the brown plush sofa, I noticed two things. The place smelled of cigarettes, and a tray with toast, butter, and marmalade sat on the coffee table.
“There now”—she straightened up—“why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s been happening?”
“Thank you.” At a loss where to begin, I absently reached for a piece of toast and spread it with butter and marmalade. Could the physical changes in Eudora be blamed on her having taken up smoking? “Delicious!” I mumbled.
“What?”
“This marmalade is the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“It is rather wonderful!” Eudora attempted a smile, then straightened her glasses in an attempt to focus on the purpose of my visit. “You were saying that a crisis has developed within your family.”
“And I’m to blame,” I said, resorting to another piece of toast and marmalade. “Against Ben’s advice, I invited his parents to celebrate their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary with us. Nothing overboard, you understand, just a dinner party. But I put my first foot wrong in asking a friend of Mum’s, Beatrix Taffer, whom she hadn’t seen in forty years, to join us. The evening was not a success from the word go. And it took a decided turn for the worse when it came out that Mum and Dad are not legally married.”
“We all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” This textbook answer was not typical of Eudora, but I plodded on with my tale of woe.
“Mum and Dad appeared on the verge of making an honest man and woman of each other, but then they got into a row over the original problem, of who should perform the ceremony. A rabbi or a priest? After a brief snarling match she ordered him out of our house. And that wasn’t the end of it. A couple of hours later a policeman knocked on the door with Dad and Mrs. Taffer in tow. He’d caught up with them after they’d gone swimming in the raw and—”
“You must count yourself blessed, Ellie.” Eudora was looking absently around the room as she spoke.
“What?”
“One is never completely naked with long hair. Men are not known for their modesty, but my heart goes out to that poor woman.”
“What about my mother-in-law?”
“Her also.” To my surprise, this was said without marked enthusiasm. “What I suggest, Ellie, is that Ben have a word with his father and you do the same with this Mrs. Taffer. Encourage them to apologize for behaving thoughtlessly. Being a Christian, your mother-in-law will have to forgive them.”
Was I imagining things, or did Eudora intend to make this sound like a punishment? Her expression was grim, but that may have been because the leather chair by the desk was swiveling around to face us, and a voice from deep within its confines now addressed us.
“A sad thing it is when we turn God into a bogeyman to scare children and little old ladies out of their wits.”
“Mother!” Eudora stood halfway up before sinking back down. “I smelled tobacco, but I thought you were out in the garden.”
“So I would have been, m’darlin’, taking me banishment like a trooper.” A half-smoked cigarette waved through the thickening cloud of smoke that veiled the speaker from our eyes. “But it started to rain, so here I am.”
“Listening in on a private
conversation.”
“It was wrong, sure enough, but as I always say”—a smoke ring puffed overhead—“sin is its own reward.”
“Ellie, I’m so sorry.” Eudora looked completely at a loss.
“Don’t upset yourself,” I managed to say.
“That’s right, Eudorie. This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad.” Having delivered this biblical thrust, the woman ground out the cigarette and stood up, the shadows dropping away from her like burial linen. She was in her mid-seventies, with a Roman nose even more ruddy than her cheeks and more black than grey in her hair. “I’m the mother-in-law,” she informed me. “Stepmother-in-law, to be precise; and that’s noways a job for the faint-hearted. The name’s Bridget Spike, m’darlin’, but all me friends call me Bridey.”
“Now remember,” I said, “Mrs. Malloy—my daily help—told me you were here on a visit.”
“Did she now? And did she tell you I make the best marmalade in the world?”
“No, but I believe you,” I said, looking down at the piece of toast in my hand.
“Ah, I thought me fame would be spreading.” Mrs. Spike reached for her pack of Rothmans. “Gossip’s a grand thing sure enough, and as certain as there’s shamrocks in Ireland, word will get out and about that I soak me false teeth in gin of a night and scared the bishop out of his shorts when I told him the joke about one of his own and the chorus girl.”
Unsure what to say, my eyes met Eudora’s. In them I beheld an expression better suited to an axe murderer than a clergywoman.
Were we in the midst of an epidemic? Did a woman risk having her mother-in-law move in permanently with her if she stood next to someone already afflicted at the bus stop? Seeing that I had no wish to complicate anyone else’s life, it was possibly just as well I was the only person to catch the Number 39 when it pulled up a few yards beyond the vicarage gate.
I had looked up the Taffers’ address in the phone book before leaving and I didn’t expect any problems in finding the house. When I got off in the village square, I was still puzzling over what I would say to Tricks, but I took it as a good omen that the clouds were lifting. The bus swept away in a sun-spattered drizzle, and I sidestepped a busker’s cap spilling over with change that glistened as if brushed with dew. Dropping in my mite, I tried not to feel resentment that this middle-aged urchin could sing like a yellow-cheeked willow warbler while poor Mr. Savage, who had the soul of a troubadour, couldn’t put two notes together and was living in a garret above my stables, a slave to his art. As I passed a greengrocer’s shop on Robert Road, I remembered that Dad had a fine voice. Immediately I began daydreaming about his returning in a fit of remorse to stand beneath Mum’s balcony and serenade her.
How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law Page 9