Dead In The Morning

by Margaret Yorke

  Patrick came back and sat down, and Jane poured out the tea.

  “Hang on to Andrew while I do this, Cathy,” she said. “Then I’ll give him his orange juice. I was just asking Cathy where young Tim is,” she added to her brother. “She doesn’t seem to know.”

  “My uncle and aunt, Tim’s parents, came to Pantons last night,” Cathy said. “They don’t know where he is at present, but he’ll turn up.”

  “Of course he will,” Patrick agreed. When his funds run out, he thought. “He’s been away for most of the vacation, has he?”

  “Oh yes,” said Cathy. “I thought he had a lot of work to do, but he must have forgotten about that. I don’t think he’s written home very much. It’s bad of him, because Aunt Betty anguishes about him and he ought to humour her.”

  “Young men are sometimes thoughtless,” Patrick said.

  Jane took her son from Cathy.

  “Help yourselves, you two,” she said, and began to spoon orange juice into the baby’s mouth.

  “Cathy, tell us about your stepmother. How did you get on last night? Do you like her?”

  “Jane, really! Now who’s exhibiting vulgar curiosity?” expostulated Patrick. “Don’t answer her, Cathy.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” said Cathy. “It’s nice of you to wonder. She’s rather nice. A bit shy, I think. She didn’t talk very much, but it must have been pretty awe-inspiring for her, meeting everyone like that, and Gran too.”

  She turned to Patrick. “My grandmother has arthritis and has to be in a wheelchair, and she’s rather a formidable person, a bit like the old lady in the Whiteoaks books, if you know who I mean. Alarming, even when you’re used to her.”

  “Well, I’m glad you took to your stepmother,” said Jane. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you to tea with us today, as she’s only just arrived. You might have preferred to stay at home and get acquainted.”

  “Oh no,” Cathy said. “I couldn’t, anyway. Helen and Father have gone to London for the day.”

  “Oh?” Patrick’s tone was interrogative, and Jane frowned at him.

  “I was a bit disappointed when I heard about it,” Cathy admitted. “But it seems Helen hasn’t been to England before and she couldn’t wait to see Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. They’re coming back tonight and Aunt Phyllis and I are going to have drinks with them after dinner.”

  “Well, that will be pleasant,” said Jane.

  “Yes, it will,” said Cathy. She had vigorously suppressed the hurt she felt because Father and Helen had not included her in their trip; she must get used to this exclusion, and not mind it.

  “It will do Gran good to have a quiet evening,” she added. “She got a bit worked up last night and couldn’t sleep. Aunt Phyl had to read to her for hours.”

  “She doesn’t have a nurse?” asked Patrick.

  “No, she isn’t ill. Just immobilised. She has pills and things to calm her down or to keep her going. It must be pretty awful for her, if you think about it,” Cathy said. “Mrs Mackenzie - that’s the housekeeper - is very good with her. She helps Aunt Phyllis get her dressed, and bath her, and so on. One of them’s always at home.”

  “I met Mrs Mackenzie in the Post Office this morning,” said Jane. “I was mailing a letter to Michael by the first post, and she was sending a letter somewhere abroad too.”

  “I expect it was to her daughter in Canada,” said Cathy. “She writes twice a week, as regular as clockwork, on Wednesdays and Sundays. But it’s Saturday today, this must have been an extra one.”

  “Perhaps her daughter has a birthday coming up,” Patrick said. “Is she Mrs Mackenzie’s only family? I wonder she doesn’t join her.”

  “She’s got a son, too. He lives in London. He’s got a tobacconist’s shop,” said Cathy. “Mrs Mack goes to see him every Thursday.”

  “A creature of routine, clearly,” Patrick said.

  “Yes,” Cathy agreed. “She used to live in Canada; she often talks about the frozen Red River. It flows into the Arctic, so when it thaws it can’t escape because the sea’s still ice. They have bitter winters out in Winnipeg, she says.”

  “Lucky for you she prefers the English climate, then,” said Jane.

  “It is. I don’t know what we’d do without her,” Cathy said. “She’s a super cook, and not many people would put up with Gran’s ways. Not that she’s really such a trial,” she added hastily. “She’s only old.”

  “Any independent person forced to rely on others can be forgiven for getting a little tetchy,” Patrick said; rather pompously, his sister thought.

  Later, when Cathy had gone, he asked Jane if she had taken her collecting box up to Pantons.

  “Not yet. I’m a bit scared of the old lady, as a matter of fact,” admitted Jane. “I thought I’d go up after supper, when she might have gone to bed. The paragon Mrs Mackenzie could no doubt cart my tin up to her bedside.”

  “I might do it for you, if you ask me nicely,” Patrick said.

  II

  “I haven’t finished yet,” said Mrs Ludlow crossly when Phyllis came into her room soon after eight o’clock that evening. The old lady was propped up in bed against a special upholstered back rest; she was dressed in a fleecy white bed jacket, and her short white hair looked like lamb’s wool. Across her knees rested a tray-table and she was shovelling chicken fricassee greedily into her mouth.

  “You know I hate my meals being disturbed,” she added. “I’m sorry, Mother. I just popped in to make sure you’ve got everything. Cathy and I are off now. You remember that we’re going down to Gerald’s, don’t you?”

  “Of course I remember. I’m not senile yet,” snapped her mother. “Get along with you, then. And be pleasant to that young woman. She seems very timid.”

  “Helen? Yes, I’ll do my best to be friendly,” said Phyllis stiffly. Mrs Ludlow was scarcely an appropriate advocate for amiability.

  “She’ll do Gerald a lot of good,” the old lady added, with her mouth full. A grain of rice escaped and dropped on to the ridge of her bony chin. Phyllis felt a pang, watching her; poor old thing, she might be selfish and unkind, but she was so dependent and she was often in a lot of pain. Mrs Mackenzie would clean her up, when she came to take her tray, if she had not adequately wiped her face by then.

  “Is there anything you want, Mother?” Phyllis asked. “I put a pill out for you, in case you want to take one later.”

  “I know, I know. It’s still there,” said Mrs Ludlow impatiently. “Did you think it had blown away?” One of her sleeping tablets, a bright blue capsule, lay on a saucer on the bedside table beside her, with a carafe of water and a glass. “Go along, Phyllis. Stop fidgeting.”

  Phyllis went, without another word.

  “Silly girl,” muttered her mother when the door had closed behind her. “No wonder that fool she married couldn’t stand her.”

  Mumbling to herself, she went on eating. She finished all her chicken, scraping the fork round her plate till nothing remained. Then she lay back for a while, panting slightly. She still felt a little overexcited, it was true; she might take that pill. On the other hand, if she were wakeful, Phyllis could come and read to her from the life of Gladstone that had just arrived from Harrods library. Now there was a proper man, if you like, even though the old Queen hadn’t cared for him; different from some of the creatures calling themselves men today, her own son Derek for a start. Waffling and pompous, he was, and ineffectual. No wonder his boys had turned out badly. Martin looked almost girlish, with his fair hair and thin features; probably he had rushed into marriage with that ridiculous girl in an effort to prove himself, somehow. She tried to remember where they had met: ah yes, it was on a ski-ing holiday in Austria; foreign travel had much to answer for. A girl like that needed a strong tough man to tame her. And as for Tim, he was worse than his brother; he even had long hair. His parents seldom seemed to have knowledge of his whereabouts or doings; a fine state of affairs.

  She thought about he
r husband. He had been dead for over fifty years; their sons and daughter were middle- aged. What would he think of them, if he could see them now? He would be disappointed in the elder pair for sure: an unsuccessful stockbroker, and a frustrated, childless woman.

  “I tried, Gerry, I tried,” Mrs Ludlow said aloud. She often talked to herself when she was alone. “I did my best with them,” she mumbled and her voice quavered.

  But Gerald was different. He had spirit. He had prospered in his career, beginning in a lowly post in the firm where he was now a director; and his first marriage had been successful, too. It was ironic that death had ended it, and unfortunate that Cathy had been the only child. But now Gerald had found another wife. When Helen had called him Gerry in her hearing, the stony area that was Mrs Ludlow’s heart had been touched, for that was her name for his father. The girl loved him, and he loved her too; it showed in both their faces. So Mrs Ludlow wished them well; Gerald could have more children, it was not too late; spunky ones with guts, like himself and Cathy, who was a girl to be proud of though it would never do to let her be aware of her grandmother’s approval. The stock that bore the Ludlow name might yet improve.

  Mrs Ludlow looked at the tray on her knees. Lemon meringue pie, and a jug of thick cream: one of her favourite puddings.

  III

  The sitting-room in the Stable House was comfortably furnished with deep armchairs and a sofa covered in faded rose-coloured linen. There were a few good pieces of furniture: a walnut tallboy and a graceful regency table on which was arranged a great vase of Michaelmas daisies and yellow roses.

  “This is how I’d always expected England to be,” Helen said, gazing round the room. “I didn’t really take it in properly last night. But now I’ve seen the sunlight on the old red bricks, and all the flowers growing in the garden, and that man Bludgen, bent double weeding, well, I guess I’ve arrived all right You must have fixed those flowers, Phyllis; they’re lovely. Thank you.”

  Phyllis said: “What do you think of London?”

  “It’s beautiful. All those ancient buildings! And the river! And the stores, too. Of course, we didn’t have time to go in any place, we just drove around for a while, and we had lunch at the Savoy Hotel. That was quite something.”

  “I’ll bet it was,” said Cathy. She felt drawn to stare at Helen, but tried to hide her intense curiosity. Her stepmother wore a simple coffee-coloured dress; her hair was smoothly brushed into a long bob, and she looked superlatively elegant.

  “Have you had dinner?” Phyllis asked. “Though after lunch at the Savoy, you can’t have been very hungry.”

  “We fixed some steaks out of the ice-box,” said Helen. “It’s the first time I’ve cooked anything for Gerry, Phyllis. I expect we have you to thank for getting in the groceries.”

  “Cathy and I did it together,” Phyllis said. “We didn’t want you to have to bother about shopping until you’d had a chance to settle down and find your way about. You’ll be coming up to the house for lunch tomorrow. We have a custom that all the family gathers together for Sunday lunch. Mother expects it”

  “Yes, Gerry told me,” Helen said.

  To Cathy it seemed strange to hear her father called by this diminutive of his name. It was endearing. Although Helen seemed so self-contained, she must be very fond of him. It all took a little getting used to.

  A door led from the sitting-room directly into the kitchen, and at this moment it opened and Gerald came in, carrying a bowl of ice.

  “Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he said.

  “We thought you’d gone to the well, Daddy,” said Cathy. “You were ages.”

  “We’re all panting for that drink, Gerry,” Helen said, with the slow, sweet smile that transformed her face.

  “It’s coming up right away,” said Gerald. “What’ll it be for you, Phyl? Whisky?”

  “Please.”

  Gerald set about preparing the drinks, and he had just handed Cathy her Dubonnet when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll go,” said the girl, springing up. She went out into the hall, and returned almost at once, beaming widely, and followed by a tall, well-built man with thick, straight dark hair and a pair of very keen hazel eyes behind heavy-rimmed spectacles. He carried a collecting box and a tray of flags.

  “It’s Dr Grant,” said Cathy. “I had tea at his sister’s house today, I told you. He’s doing some of her flag-day collecting.”

  “Why, come in Dr Grant,” said Gerald warmly. “I’m delighted to meet you. You know my nephew, I believe.”

  “I do,” said Patrick, and added, “I apologise for intruding on this family occasion, but my excuse is that I want to help my sister, who has already spent hours tramping round the village for the good cause. I hope I can persuade you all to add a contribution?”

  “Certainly,” said Gerald. He took out his wallet and extracted a pound, which he rolled up and poked into Patrick’s tin.

  Patrick gazed expectantly round, and Gerald introduced him to Helen and Phyllis.

  “I’ll just get my purse,” Helen said, and left the room. Phyllis rummaged in her bag and found a florin.

  “I put mine in this afternoon,” said Cathy sunnily. “I bet Jane’s collected more than they got last year. People would cough up better for her than for boot-faced old Mrs Hunt who always used to do it.”

  Patrick shook the tin.

  “It feels quite heavy,” he said. “It can’t be too bad, unless it’s mostly pennies.”

  “You’ll have a drink, won’t you, Dr Grant, now that you’re here?” said Gerald.

  Patrick accepted readily. He sat down beside Phyllis and spoke to her.

  “I’ve seen you before, Mrs Medhurst,” he told her. “In Fennersham yesterday. I was shopping for my sister. You were in the chemist’s.”

  Phyllis’s face turned an ugly dull red.

  “I didn’t notice you,” she said.

  “Why should you? I heard the name Ludlow, and remembered the young man we have at Mark’s,” said Patrick.

  “Tim. He arrived home unexpectedly this evening,” Phyllis said.

  “You’ll meet him at lunch tomorrow, Helen,” Cathy said. “A treat in store. Modern youth.”

  She turned to Patrick. “All the family has lunch at Pantons on Sundays, Dr Grant,” she added. “Except Tim’s brother, Martin, who’s broken with tradition because his wife doesn’t believe in such Victorian conduct.”

  “Really, Cathy,” remonstrated Phyllis. “I’m sure Dr Grant isn’t the least bit interested in our family customs.”

  “But I am. I find these habits that survive through the generations very fascinating,” said Patrick. He stood up as Helen came back into the room.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so long. I’m not used to your English money yet,” she said. She was rather flushed. “I have some lire, and a few dollar bills, but not many English notes. Will this be all right?” She produced a ten-shilling note and gave it to Patrick, who put it in his tin.

  “Splendid. Thank you,” he said.

  “Darling, you didn’t have to go hunting about upstairs for that,” Gerald said. “You’ve got me around now to see to such things.”

  “I’d have thought your pound was plenty for the whole family, Daddy,” Cathy said.

  Helen laughed. She looked rather embarrassed.

  “I guess you’re right, Cathy,” she said. “Still, it’s for a deserving charity, isn’t it?”

  “Cathy, since Dr Grant is here, why don’t we pick his brains about getting you into the university?” said Gerald.

  “Oh Daddy! I didn’t think we’d get round to talking about it for weeks,” said Cathy. Her eyes shone and she looked expectantly from her father to Patrick.

  “Well, you’ve really your aunt to thank,” said Gerald. “She wasted no time reminding me about your excellent exam results. What should we do, Dr Grant?”

  Patrick told him, at some length, and added an invitation to any Ludlows who cared to accept for luncheon in
his rooms next term. Helen was delighted by this; she said that she had longed for years to visit Oxford.

  “Helen’s a most gratifying Anglophile; aren’t you darling?” said Gerald. “I think she only agreed to marry me because it was a quick way to get to England.”

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful that you should feel like that, Helen,” said Phyllis firmly. “Nowadays, when so many people are saying that Britain is finished, it’s very heartening to find foreigners, if you’ll forgive me for calling you one, Helen, eager to settle here.” She spoke with some passion, her colour high.

  “Well done, Mrs Medhurst,” exclaimed Patrick admiringly.

  “Well, it’s what I feel,” said Phyllis. “When you think of what happened during the war, it sickens me to think of how much national pride we’ve lost. It’s like saying that all young people are decadent. They’re not.”

  “Phyl, have another drink,” said Gerald, holding his hand out for her glass. He grinned at her. “I’d forgotten what a girl you are for causes.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with most of us today,” Phyllis said. “We haven’t got a goal.” Her voice was still vibrant, but she made an effort to steady it.

  “You’re right, of course, Mrs Medhurst,” Patrick said. “And there are plenty of industrious, well-conducted youngsters about who get pretty fed-up with their ill-disciplined contemporaries. Unfortunately the acts of the virtuous don’t make news, and we’re conditioned today to seek sensation. Every non-event is reported as a crisis.”

  They discussed this theme at some length, and then Patrick rose to go, saying that he hoped they would all come down to Reynard’s one evening before he returned to Oxford.

  He had walked up to Pantons. It was not very far, and after a day spent idly in the garden he thought the exercise would do him good. As he walked back down the drive he heard a car’s engine start up, close at hand. He stepped off the gravel into the shelter of some shrubs, and was passed by a small, dark saloon, a Vauxhall Viva, which turned into the road at the lodge gates and with a sudden roar accelerated rapidly away.