Dead In The Morning

by Margaret Yorke

  IV

  Phyllis and Cathy stayed at the Stable House for another hour after Patrick left. Cathy wanted to see Helen’s photographs of Venice, and to hear again the romantic story of the meeting in the jeweller’s shop; she was wearing her bracelet.

  “I should love to go to Venice,” said Phyllis.

  “Have you never been to Italy, Phyllis?” Helen asked.

  “No. I’ve never been over the Channel,” Phyllis said. “I went to Africa during the war, to Alexandria and Cairo. I haven’t been abroad since then.”

  “And you’re so close!” Helen marvelled. “We have such distances to cover in the States, we just expect you Britishers to be always popping over to France.”

  “Phyl’s been very tied here, with Mother,” Gerald said.

  “Of course. I didn’t realise,” said Helen. “Well, you must take a trip next year, Phyllis. I’ll be able to help out with your mother, if she’ll let me.”

  “We’ll see,” said Phyllis. She never planned further than a week ahead. Helen would discover that Mrs Ludlow was a considerable force to be reckoned with, capable of upsetting the most careful plans for a whim. Luckily, however, she seemed to have taken a fancy to the newcomer, and if this lasted, things might improve all round.

  “Where did you live, in America?” Cathy wanted to know.

  “Oh, all over,” Helen said. “I was born in Maryland. Then my parents moved to Seattle. I worked in New York for quite a while.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was at the U.N.,” Helen said. “I was a stenographer.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Two years. Then I got married and went to Washington.”

  “That’s a beautiful city,” Gerald said.

  “Oh, you went there, didn’t you, Daddy? When you were in America three years ago. Where were you then, Helen?”

  “I wasn’t in the States then,” Helen said. “But I’ve lived in Wyoming, and in San Francisco,” she added.

  “Not Hollywood?”

  Helen laughed.

  “No, not Hollywood,” she said. “And you’ve always lived here, haven’t you, Gerry? Apart from the war, I mean, and your schooldays?”

  “And the flat in town,” said Gerald.

  “It must give you a safe kind of feeling,” Helen said. “Here are your roots and here you belong.” She looked a little wistful. It occurred to Cathy that these two must still have much to learn about each other. Her father looked different in some subtle way; younger, and vulnerable: the word came into her mind spontaneously and surprised her. She was oddly touched, and she felt benevolent towards them both.

  “We must go, Cathy,” said Phyllis. “It’s getting late. We’ll see you two for lunch tomorrow. You’ll soon get used to our Sunday lunches, Helen. It’s like a flash-back to Edwardian days.”

  “The food’s super,” Cathy said. “Melting beef, and fresh vegetables from the garden. Gran will only buy what can’t be grown in England, like oranges and things.”

  “Mother is a very knowledgeable wheelchair gardener,” said Gerald. “She’ll take you on a tour tomorrow, Helen.”

  “Well, I don’t know much about flowers,” said Helen. “But I do know quite a lot about vegetables.”

  “That’s unusual,” said Phyllis. “Most women know about flowers, if they’re gardeners, and not about vegetables.”

  “I once lived in a place where we farmed vegetables,” said Helen. She got up as she said this and went over to the bowl of mixed flowers that were on the window sill. “What are these called, Phyllis?” she asked, touching a bronze helenium. Phyllis told her. Altogether she had arranged three vases in the room, which contained a fair representation of late summer blooms.

  “There’s always plenty to pick in the garden,” Phyllis said. “And Bludgen brings on chrysanthemums and so on under glass. We have our own cyclamen and azaleas.”

  “I can see I have a lot to learn,” said Helen.

  “Mother’ll soon teach you,” Gerald said.

  “Come on, Cathy, we must go,” Phyllis said again. “Thanks for the drinks, Gerald. Goodnight, both of you.”

  “Goodnight, old girl,” said Gerald. He gave his sister a brisk kiss on the cheek, at which she looked surprised, but pleased.

  “Goodnight, Daddy,” Cathy said. “It’s nice to have you back.” She kissed him, hesitated, and then kissed Helen too, shyly, but with warmth. “He’s not a bad old Dad,” she said gruffly. “You’re quite lucky, really.”

  “I think I’m very lucky, Cathy dear,” said Helen. She slid her arm through Gerald’s as they stood in the lighted doorway of the Stable House to watch Phyllis and Cathy departing up the drive.

  “What a nice daughter you have, Gerry,” she said softly, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

  “I knew you’d like each other. What did I tell you?” Gerald said, closing the door upon the vanishing figures. “All those panic stations we had before you’d marry me! You’ll do her so much good, sweetheart. She needs someone like you around. And so do I.” He proceeded to demonstrate to her the truth of this remark.

  Much later, as the moonlight slanted in through their open bedroom window, Helen stretched out a bare arm and gently sought Gerald’s face. She touched his cheek softly, caressing it, and he caught her hand and kissed it, opening her palm and pouring little kisses into it, then closing her fingers tight around them.

  “I’m frightened, Gerry,” Helen said.

  “You needn’t be,” said Gerald. “You’re safe now.”

  SUNDAY

  I

  Cathy came up from the mists of sleep wondering what sound had wakened her. It went on and on, sharp and persistent. Then she realised that it was her grandmother’s bell echoing through the house. Why did no one answer? She got out of bed and ran along the passage in her nightdress. The sound of the bell still pealed as Cathy knocked on Mrs Ludlow’s door and opened it.

  “Where is everybody? Can no one find time to attend to a poor old lady?” demanded her grandmother in an angry voice, to the accompaniment of a thumping sound.

  Cathy went in. The old lady was sitting up in bed wearing a chiffon nightcap over her short white hair, furiously working the bell-push with one hand and banging on the floor with her silver-headed stick in the other.

  “What’s the matter, Gran?” asked Cathy.

  “Where’s my breakfast? That’s what I want to know,” cried Mrs Ludlow. “Look at the time, it’s almost nine. I’m hungry.”

  At eight o’clock on weekdays and at half-past eight on Sundays, Mrs Ludlow’s tray of tea, toast and a soft-boiled egg punctually appeared in her room.

  “Oh heavens!” exclaimed Cathy. What could have happened? Mrs Mackenzie must have overslept, though she never remembered such a thing happening before. “I’ll go down and see if it’s ready,” she said.

  “You can’t walk about the house like that, child. Put your dressing-gown on,” ordered Mrs Ludlow.

  “All right, Gran. I won’t be long,” said Cathy. She hurried back to her room, put on her old blue woollen dressing-gown, then went back along the landing to the top of the stairs. Aunt Phyllis’s door was closed, but she had gone to church; she often went early on Sundays unless Grandmother had decided to make one of her increasingly rare appearances at matins. In any case, she should be back soon.

  Cathy pattered lightly down the stairs in her bare feet, crossed the hall and went into the kitchen. It was empty.

  “What a joke! Fancy Mrs Mack oversleeping!” she marvelled. Well, she had better set to and make her grandmother’s breakfast; there would be still more of a delay if she woke Mrs Mack first. All the household knew well enough what Mrs Ludlow ate. Cathy put the kettle on, and a pan for the egg. The tray was already laid with the special Crown Derby china always used for Mrs Ludlow, and covered with a spotless cloth. While she waited for the water to boil, Cathy went into the garden and plucked a rose to put on the tray, an action she had read about in one of t
he novels Aunt Phyllis so much enjoyed. Under the soles of her bare feet the paved slabs of the garden path were already warm in the sun.

  The kettle had begun to sing when she went back into the house. She watched the toast and timed the egg carefully; Gran would soon make a fuss if the crusts were not neatly cut, or the bread were too pale or too dark, or if her egg had been boiled too long. Soon it was all ready, and she went up with the tray, travelling in the lift this time in case she spilled the tea.

  “This should be all right, Gran,” she said optimistically, after she had got out the bed-table and set it across Mrs Ludlow’s knees. It was quite a business, settling her with her back-rest in position. Cathy felt sure that her aunt or Mrs Mackenzie usually got her grandmother washed and tidied before breakfast, but this was a daunting task that she was reluctant to undertake.

  “Hm, hm, let me see. What have you forgotten? Toast, egg, butter, tea. Yes, child. How long did you cook the egg?”

  “Three minutes, Gran.” Everyone knew that this was the time allowed.

  “Very well, very well.”

  “Shall I take the top off for you?” Cathy offered.

  “Certainly not. I’m not quite helpless yet,” said Mrs Ludlow tartly. She took up the teaspoon and cracked the egg, then peeled the pieces of shell away, exposing the quivering white.

  “I always decapitate mine with a knife,” Cathy volunteered, watching her grandmother’s gnarled hands at work. They were quite steady, and considering how swollen and lumpy they were, remarkably deft.

  “How vulgar,” said Mrs Ludlow. “Well, why was I forgotten?”

  “You weren’t, Gran. But Aunt Phyl must have gone to church, and I suppose Mrs Mackenzie’s overslept. I’d better wake her up.”

  “Phyllis should be back by now. Let her go,” said Mrs Ludlow.

  “She isn’t back. I don’t expect she’ll be long,” Cathy said.

  “Well, you go and get dressed. Then come back and see if I’ve finished. I don’t like being left with my tray.”

  “All right, Gran,” said Cathy.

  “You may pour out my tea before you go,” said Mrs Ludlow. She picked up the rose that Cathy had put on her tray and sniffed it; slowly her features bent into what was, for her, a smile, but she made no comment. Cathy poured out her tea, and as she left the room she heard her grandmother start to mutter away under her breath.

  Phyllis did not get back from church until nearly half-past nine, much later than her usual time. She hurried into the house and went upstairs to take off her hat. She could hear the sound of voices from her mother’s room, and hurried along the landing. Inside, she found Cathy standing by the window while Mrs Ludlow finished her second cup of tea.

  “You’re late, Phyllis,” said the old lady, without preamble.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. The vicar delayed me. He asked me to thank you for your note, Mother, and said he’d come and see you tomorrow. He seemed overwhelmed. What did you write to him about?”

  “That’s my affair,” said Mrs Ludlow. “And I don’t want to see him. Ring him up and tell him so. I’ll send for him when I want him.”

  “Very well, Mother,” said Phyllis. “You’re a long time finishing your breakfast this morning. Was Mrs Mackenzie late?”

  “She’s overslept,” said Cathy, giggling. “Isn’t it a hoot? I got Gran’s breakfast.”

  “Overslept? Good heavens, she’ll never have lunch ready,” said Phyllis. “Go and wake her at once, Cathy.”

  “Don’t send the child. You go, Phyllis,” said Mrs Ludlow, but Cathy had already left the room. Phyllis moved her mother’s tray and folded up the table; then she began her preparations for the old lady’s morning toilet.

  Suddenly Cathy was back. Her face was green. Phyllis, at the dressing-table collecting brush and hand-mirror, saw her reflection in the looking-glass and turned sharply.

  “Aunt Phyl, can you come?” said Cathy. “Come quickly.” She said no more but hurried out of the room. Phyllis put down the brush and followed at once.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” she said.

  Cathy made signs indicating that her grandmother should not overhear. With her hand to her mouth she led her aunt along the passage and stopped outside Mrs Mackenzie’s bedroom door.

  “Mrs Mack’s ill,” she said, and gulped. “I think she’s dead.”

  II

  Dr Wilkins was luckily at home, out in the garden early, practising putting on the lawn and hoping not to be summoned away from his Sunday recreation by any emergency. He reached Pantons within fifteen minutes of Phyllis’s telephone call.

  She took him up to Mrs Mackenzie’s bedroom, explaining what had happened as they went, though he already knew most of it from what she had said on the telephone.

  Shafts of sunlight streamed in through the window and slanted across the bed where the still figure lay as though sleeping. The bedclothes were drawn up round her shoulders and she was curled up in a defenceless position, like a child.

  “It was obviously too late to do anything for her,” Phyllis said. “She’s been dead for several hours, hasn’t she?”

  The doctor bent over the body, turning it gently over on to its back. It had begun to stiffen.

  “Yes,” he said. He lifted an eyelid and gazed intently at the eye.

  “What could it have been? A stroke?” Phyllis spoke in a hushed voice. She felt extremely shocked, and had a strange, prim thought that she should have drawn the bedroom curtains so that a muted light prevailed instead of this bright, all-revealing sunshine “Perhaps. It’s impossible to say,” said the doctor. “It could have been heart. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem to be sure.”

  “Oh dear! Must that happen? Can’t you really tell?”

  “I’m afraid not. And I haven’t seen her professionally for a very long time,” said the doctor. He drew the sheet up over the dead woman’s face. “Mrs Mackenzie always seemed to be in excellent health whenever I came to see your mother.”

  “She did. I don’t even remember her having a cold,” said Phyllis.

  “She was rather overweight. Otherwise I should have said she was very fit,” said the doctor. “I shall have to notify the coroner.”

  He picked up a glass that stood on a table beside the bed and sniffed it. Then he held it to the light.

  “Whisky,” he said. “Did she drink much?”

  “She liked a nightcap,” Phyllis said. “She kept a bottle up here. Why not? It’s her own room, after all.”

  “Why not, indeed?” agreed the doctor. He crossed to the dressing-table, where a number of bottles and jars were tidily arranged, and inspected them. They all appeared to be of a cosmetic nature. In one corner of the room was a wash-basin, and above it a small mirror-fronted cabinet. Dr Wilkins opened this and looked inside. It contained aspirins, Enos, a bottle of Milton, and one or two other simple medicaments. On a shelf below it, Mrs Mackenzie’s dentures rested in a tumbler of water.

  “She didn’t take sleeping-pills?” asked the doctor.

  “Not as far as I know,” said Phyllis. “She slept very well, as a matter of fact. We’d discussed it, because as you know I often have to get up to Mother and I don’t find it easy to go off again.” That was when she did most of her reading, escaping into the company of swashbuckling Regency bucks if she could not relax.

  “I’ve certainly never prescribed any for her,” the doctor said. “But she could have got hold of some.”

  Phyllis looked down at the unmoving mound in the bed.

  “You don’t think—?” She broke off, staring at the doctor with a startled expression.

  “I don’t know,” said the doctor. “It’s a possibility. We shall have to wait for the answer. I’ll telephone now and make the arrangements. Then I’d better see your mother. This will have shaken her. Have you told her?”

  “Yes. She realised that something had happened, so I thought it the best thing to do. My brother’s with her now. She’s taken it very calmly. Cathy’s much
more upset; she found Mrs Mackenzie.”

  “How very unfortunate,” said Dr Wilkins. “What a shock for her.”

  “It’s a shock for us all,” said Phyllis. “We were fond of her.” And how would they manage without her, she began to wonder, her practical sense returning after its initial numbing.

  She took the doctor downstairs to the hall to telephone, and then went into her mother’s room. Gerald was sitting beside the old lady’s bed.

  “Well?” he asked, getting up as Phyllis came in.

  Phyllis shook her head at him.

  “Mother, Dr Wilkins will be in to see you in a minute,” she said. “He’s just making a phone call first.” She glanced round the room, and added, “Where’s Cathy?”

  “Helen came up. They’re making some coffee,” said Gerald.

  “I don’t need the doctor to see me,” said Mrs Ludlow crossly, cutting across his words. “I just want a little of somebody’s time and attention to get me dressed.”

  “Yes, Mother. I’ll see to you as soon as the doctor’s gone,” said Phyllis in soothing tones.

  “What did he say? It was her heart, wasn’t it?” Mrs Ludlow demanded. “She looked as if she had a bad heart. She was too fat and too red in the face.”

  “The doctor isn’t quite sure what happened, mother,” Phyllis said. “But he thinks it probably was a heart attack.” It was no good letting her mother know how vague in fact the doctor had been.

  “I thought she always seemed very healthy,” said Gerald. “And fresh-complexioned, not apoplectic.”

  Phyllis frowned at him. What use to anyone was an argument? Mrs Mackenzie was dead; that was a fact, and it was quite enough to be going on with.

  “We’ll have to tell her family,” she said, in a worried voice. “That son in Clapham. I don’t know his address.”

  “It’s bound to be somewhere in her room,” said Gerald. “I’ll go and have a hunt for it while you clear up in here.”