by Caron Allan
With Thomas, it’s a similar thing—now that his long-harboured guilty secret is out, now he’s told me what he did and I have forgiven him, he has nothing more to worry about. His conscience feels cleansed by the confession he made to me, he has nothing left to fear or feel anxiety about. But I feel more and more weighed down by the fear of what might happen next. I feel as though I’ve absorbed not only my own fears, but theirs as well, and I am bowing under the weight of it all.
Bizarrely he dismisses what I have revealed to him as unimportant, it doesn’t trouble him at all. I don’t understand that man sometimes. Why isn’t he upset that I murdered his friend and his friend’s mistress? He just shrugs his shoulders and says Huw was a worm, and Monica is better off without him. And besides, it was just a misunderstanding.
Huw’s funeral is tomorrow. The official decision remains unchanged: murder by Manddi Morgan who then took her own life in an act of remorse slash grief. The whole thing has been reported in the tabloids at length—I’ve read Sid H’s ‘newspapers’—and there has not been so much as a breath of suspicion attached to myself or to anyone else. And even all accounts of the bereaved widow’s feelings, all her recorded comments and so on have been in keeping with the official line of both police and coroner—even Monica has kept my secret.
And yet none of this comforts me. It only makes me even more certain that Monica is planning to exact some terrible revenge, and whenever I think of it, which is every minute of every hour of my every waking day and a considerable part of my dreaming too, I feel numb and unable to function.
She is planning something. I know she is. I feel her eyes on me. Even though I haven’t seen her or heard from her in all this time. I feel as though she is here, watching me, judging me and planning, planning, planning. It isn’t over.
We need to get away. It’s not long now until our trip to Scotland. But even that still seems too far off, like a life-raft on heavy seas. I suggested to Thomas that we should go a week earlier than planned, but he can’t get away from the office. He was keen for me to go on ahead without him, but I can’t bear to be apart from him. So I sit here at home, waiting, staring out at the garden. I’ve cancelled all my appointments, I’m afraid to go out. Even with both the Hopkins’s here most of the time, I feel so naked, so vulnerable.
And the funeral is tomorrow. Thomas suggested we ought to go, and I have to admit, I thought it was the stupidest suggestion I’d ever heard. Poor Thomas! But, all I could think was, how could we, of all people, go to this funeral? And how would Monica feel upon seeing us there. Nevertheless, Thomas is, unusually, quite stubborn about it. He says it’s up to me if I go or not, but he is going to go. No matter what has happened recently, Huw was once his friend. It’s his duty to attend, he says. So I suppose I will have to go too.
There is an upside, of course. I’ve got a simply gorgeous black frock and coat in my dressing room, and of course there’s a big black hat with the sweetest little veil, and my usual black high heels.
Wed 8 August—8.30pm
Well that was tedious! Funerals should always be miserable affairs, conducted if at all possible in persistent rain, or at the very least overcast conditions with occasional drizzle. But today at Huw’s funeral the weather was, contrary to convention, warm and sunny; it was practically rude with birdsong and flowers. We might just as well have been there for a picnic.
Monica looked stunning, of course, and although it was a little awkward to start with, to my surprise she actually came over to us, and kissed us both and thanked us for coming!
All understated stricken glamour, she apologised quietly and discreetly for her ‘foolishness’ of several days ago. Of course, she said, she knew now Huw’s death was the result of the terrible tragedy of his misguided infatuation with the Swansea Siren Manddi Morgan, and Monica said how much she regretted her outburst and hoped we could put it all behind us? We were still friends? Of course we were, I smiled, and kissed the air by her cheek again.
Then as she turned away to welcome some business acquaintance of Huw’s, Thomas and I were able to exchange a look of complete bewilderment. Surely she hadn’t forgotten that I had actually told her I had killed Huw and Manddi? How could she now say it was Manddi’s fault? How could she have forgotten everything she had screamed at me?
An air of unreality persisted all through the funeral and then the ‘do’ at Monica’s house whence we all gathered for refreshments. Monica hardly left my side, and so I was there to hear all the little things that the mourners said as they came and went and condoled with the widow. Occasionally Monica seemed almost overcome by grief, and she would cling to my arm, and accept a hankie or a tissue from me, and I found myself patting her arm and offering comfort in a way that a little part of me felt was a wee bit hypocritical. But what else could I do?
As the numbers began to dwindle, Monica invited us into Huw’s study, and asked Thomas to look at a few things on Huw’s computer.
‘I want to sell everything, make a fresh start, but some of the information on his computer may be confidential—could you take off anything that needs to be kept private? I might not understand what I’m looking at. But you know, one hears so much these days about identity theft. I just want to err on the side of caution.’
So Thomas spent almost an hour going through the computer files and deleting confidential items and generally wiping everything off the hard drive whilst I helped Monica to decide which of Huw’s office knick-knacks could be kept, and which given to charity ahead of the house sale.
When we had finished, she thanked us profusely and asked if we would come for dinner tomorrow evening. We carefully avoided catching each other’s eye, and smiled our false friendly smiles. It would have been too awkward to decline, so although I was sure we both hated the idea, we thanked her and said we’d be there at seven-thirty.
But in the car, on the way home, we debated the topic. And by the time we reached our front door, we were still none the wiser. What was she up to? Why did she want us to go to dinner? Surely, after everything, she didn’t really want to still be friends?
Thurs 9 August—6.20pm
A dull day. And all I’ve been able to think about is the approaching dinner party at Monica’s. If there are only going to be the three of us, I can’t see how it could be anything other than really uncomfortable. How could it be otherwise? Thomas says he’s planning to get roaring drunk, and I’ve told him that isn’t fair, because I want to do the same. It seemed like stalemate until Mrs H offered us Sid as a chauffeur.
‘‘E can wait in the car for you. Don’t worry about ‘ow long you’re out for, ‘e won’t mind, after all you’ve been very good to us. ‘E can take ‘is soodookoo book and ‘is iPod, ‘e’ll be ‘appy for hours.’
It was a tempting idea. We tentatively accepted, and she hurried back to the kitchen looking pleased.
Other good news today—we’ve finally had an offer on Clarice’s house, Highgates. At first the offer was a bit on the low side, but then the agent came back to us with a better one and we accepted. Hurrah! At last, that old albatross is off our necks! (So long as there are no hitches, of course, and let’s face it, there usually are with house sales) Do albatrosses hang round necks? Or is it backs? And albatrosses doesn’t sound right either, it sounds like one of those words that should end in an ‘i’. Albatrossi? Anyway, the old ruin is as good as gone.
Once we were ready to leave for Monica’s, Mrs H pottered into the hall where we were getting ready and said, ‘‘Opkins is bringing the car to the front door, Madam.’
I swear she’s got a new housekeeping outfit, a sort of smart navy skirt and white blouse with a little cardigan over the top, nothing as conspicuous as a jacket, but setting the whole ensemble off nicely. I’ve noticed she’s started wearing it in the afternoons, when the actual cleaning is out of the way, and when she has to go to answer the door etc. Next thing I know, I shall find we’ve got a parlour-maid.
I was a little thrown by her sudden for
mality but I thanked her. I’ve noticed she always seems to launch into what I call her Downton Abbey manner any time she is called upon to do anything in her ‘official’ capacity. As we were going out the door, Thomas whispered to me,
‘I think we’ve acquired a staff without realising it.’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I think it’s more that the staff have acquired us. I think we’re being transformed into gentry. Next thing we know, there’ll be hampers arriving from Fortnum and Mason’s.’
‘Opkins’ got out of the driver’s seat of the Audi and came to open the door for me. He looked truly magnificent in a chauffeur’s uniform and peaked cap, his chin neatly shaved for the first time in our short acquaintance. I thanked him as I got in. He gave me a shy half-smile.
‘You’re most welcome, Madam,’ he said.
I felt a thrill of elation. As the car pulled away I turned to Thomas and said,
‘You know, I feel suddenly so much more important!’
‘I know, it’s all very glamorous!’ He thought for a moment then said, ‘I suppose I shall have to pay him.’
‘Hmm. I suppose you shall.’
And I supposed we had already, without even knowing it, paid for that chauffeur’s uniform.
‘I think the cap is a bit much, though.’ I said to Thomas. He nodded.
‘Yes, I don’t think he needs the cap. The uniform is pretty cool though.’
And we had a quiet little debate about salaries and other such things. Before we knew it we were at Monica’s and I hadn’t even had time to worry about it.
Hopkins opened the car door for me, and I went up the steps to the door, feeling a little anxious, but Monica was all smiles and welcomes, hugging and air-kissing, and complimenting me on my dress.
We went in, and after a few cocktails to break the ice, settled down to dinner.
The whole evening was very pleasant—as if nothing had happened, as if I had never killed Monica’s husband just a matter of days ago, as if there had been no glitch in our friendship. It was the oddest evening. The only tricky moment was when Thomas accidentally alluded to Huw, and there was a slight pause in the conversation, but then Monica just smiled and said, yes, he was right, it was just like Huw to say that, and the moment was over.
When we were leaving I was pleased to see that the car was back, as I had noticed that Hopkins had gone off after we had gone into the house. I suppose in all fairness, we couldn’t expect the man to sit outside for four or five hours, even with his ‘soodookoo’. But it was a relief to see that he had remembered to come back for us. In fact he seemed quite good at the chauffeuring thing and I began to think that perhaps the sum Thomas had decided on was not so exorbitant after all.
On the way back from Monica’s, tipsy but not totally sozzled, we both remarked with some surprise that it had been a nice evening.
As he got ready for bed, Thomas said,
‘I think everything’s going to be okay. Maybe she’s forgiven you and realised it was all just a misunderstanding, and there’s no point in making a massive fuss. I mean,’ said my sensitive husband, ‘it’s not like hurting us would bring Huw back, and even though he was my friend, I’d have to say he was a bit of a bastard. I don’t think he’d have gone back to her. Or at least, not for long.’
‘Yes, Darling,’ I said, and put out the light. I could only hope he was right. But it seemed too good to be true. Somehow that didn’t seem to me to fit with Monica’s nature. Somehow, somehow I was sure something was brewing, because I knew that despite appearances, Monica was not the type to forgive a mistake of that magnitude.
Fri 10 August—11.50am
Tomorrow we’re going to Scotland! I’m so excited, not to mention relieved! It will be lovely to get away for a week or so. (And doubly nice now that we know we won’t have Clarice with us to spoil everything and make us all tense and crabby with each other.) And I think it will do us good to get away from all the recent events and give us a chance to relax and forget about horrid old reality for a while. And I can’t wait to see dear Jessica and Murdo.
So I’ve already done most of the packing, and Mrs H even asked if we wanted Mr H to drive us. Reluctantly I had to say no, though it would have been really quite wonderful to be chauffeur-driven all the way to Scotland! But no, I’ve decided to give them both the time off.
I went into the kitchen first thing, as per Thomas’s request last night, and sure enough, there was Sid sitting at the kitchen table in an old shirt and jog bottoms, looking every bit the out of work navvy or something, reading the paper over his elevenses. Tetley was asleep on the windowsill. Mrs H was doing something at the sink. They both looked up. And I cleared my throat, suddenly a bit nervous, I mean, one never knows quite how they will take things.
‘I hope you won’t mind me saying, Mr Hopkins, Mr Powell and myself were delighted with how well things worked out last night when you drove us to our dinner engagement.’
I had their full attention. Mrs H turned round and Mr H dropped his paper several inches. He nodded sagely, as if I had hit upon some hidden superpower he had been cunningly disguising.
‘I don’t know how the job-hunting is going on, or quite what branch you’re hoping to—er—branch into…’ I continued. ‘But, my husband and I…(oh dear, I thought, poor choice of words, a bit too much like the Queen or Maggie Thatcher or someone, a bit too power-mad slash uber-regal) We were wondering whether you—er—would consider taking up the position of chauffeur slash handyman with us on a formal, and indeed er, permanent basis. The position would attract the salary of—er,’ and I named the figure Thomas and I had agreed on the previous evening in the car, and then at the last minute added on another £2,000. What the hell.
Mr Hopkins’ eyebrows rose almost up to his slightly receding hairline, and he glanced across at his wife. Mrs H was staring at me, her mouth open, her eyes wide.
I wasn’t quite sure if I should say anything else. It was difficult to gauge how they felt about the offer. Was it too low? Were they offended? Was this the despised ‘charity’ of the loveable porter in The Railway Children?
No one said anything.
Feeling uncomfortable, I began to step back out of the kitchen.
‘Well, perhaps you’d just like to think about it…’ I said, and I was beginning to feel a little disappointed by their lack of response, when suddenly Mrs H launched herself at me and enveloped me in the tightest hug I’d ever received. Mr H got to his feet and with a surprisingly nimble tread, came over to me and was crushing my hand in a vice-like grip and telling me how pleased he was, and how we’d never regret it, and that it was bloody good of us. Mrs H released me and stepped back to grab a bit of kitchen paper-towel to wipe the tears away.
‘Well,’ I said, feeling even more awkward than before, ‘well, that’s nice. Very nice indeed. I must say. I’m glad you’re pleased. Er—and of course, we’re very pleased to have you—er—on board. As it were.’ I finished a bit lamely, not quite sure of the most appropriate thing to say and even more unsure of how best to extricate myself from the situation, I made a desperate dash for the door once again and heaved a sigh of relief on reaching the privacy of my bedroom, shutting the door a bit more firmly than I meant to and busying myself with refolding all the clothes I had packed.
I feel peculiarly drained.
It’s very odd, the way this world we live in works. Some people have more money than they know what to do with, and even people like Thomas and I look impoverished against them, and yet the world is full of them, people for whom our little fortune was barely more than pocket money, people who could buy a whole country and not noticeably miss the cash. And yet there are around the world millions upon millions upon millions of people with next to nothing, people who could be immeasurably helped by people like us giving them a hand when they most needed it. And, equally strangely, the ones with the least wealth always seem to have to work so much harder to earn their pittance than those who have so much money it can’t be counted by
mere human beings.
And although (obviously) when one thinks about this, one realises it’s completely wrong, obviously (obviously!) one doesn’t want things to change too much, because one doesn’t want to lose the masses one has and become one of those who has to work like a dog for next to nothing. One feels ashamed, yet afraid to change. I could never clean someone’s bath or cook their food or wash their underwear. I mean, how horrid! And yet apparently, that’s considered quite a good job. Strange!
Anyway, altogether too introspective!
So I refolded my designer sweaters and my silk and hand-made lace underwear, and felt glad we had been able to do our little bit towards making the world a better place, at least for Sid and—what is Mrs H’s first name? I believe I’ve never heard it. Don’t think it was even on her original application form. Hmm.
Sat 11 August—7.40pm
We sat in the cafeteria at the service station ignoring all the noisy hordes of football fans and the holidaymakers with excited children scampering about the tiled floor of the food court and, sitting in a dim corner, we gazed across our lukewarm cappuccini into each others’ eyes.
I don’t know what other people thought. I didn’t care then and I don’t care now. I never want to forget how I felt, how I think Thomas felt in those few moments. I was oblivious to everything and everyone around me. All my attention was riveted by what he had just said to me, out of the blue, stopping everything.
‘Let’s try again.’
We were well into our journey after an early start, and were probably almost halfway to Jessica’s by then, so we decided to risk a bit of lunch and a hottish drink at the motorway services. We found the only table not either occupied or covered in the debris of half a dozen earlier forgotten lunches and almost as soon as we sat down, I knew this was going to be one of those life-changing conversations one has on a few precious occasions throughout one’s life with the man one loves.