Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose

by Peter Lovesey

  But when she turned the corner of King George Avenue she had a horrible shock. A police car was parked in the space where Mr Hibbert’s car had been. The police? Already? In two minds whether to run back and search the streets for Mick, she stopped at the corner and waited, going over in her mind what she could say if the police were with her mother now. She was in an appalling position. If she told the truth, she’d have to betray Mick.

  Then it occurred to her that the police might not yet have connected her with the theft of the car. It was possible that they were there for no other reason than to inform Mr Hibbert what had happened.

  She was going to have to find the courage to walk into the house and act as if she knew nothing at all. It was no use waiting for them to leave, because Mr Hibbert was sure to leave as well. The only chance she had of returning the keys to his overcoat pocket was now.

  With her heart pounding, she stepped up the street to the house. The light was on in the front room and she could hear the faint murmur of voices, but the curtains were too thick for her to see anything. Under the porch light she checked her clothes. Her shoes were muddy at the heels and her coat was dusty where she’d climbed over the church wall, so she did some rapid grooming with a paper tissue. She couldn’t do anything about her hair; she’d just have to say that one of the plaits had come undone and she’d unfastened the other one. She took a deep breath, slotted her own key into the front door and let herself in.

  The coat was still hanging on the hallstand, but there were others as well. And she didn’t have time to do anything about the car-keys because the door of the front room opened and Mr Hibbert came out, followed by a police sergeant in uniform.

  “You must be Gloria,” said Mr Hibbert. “I’ve seen you several times, but we’ve never spoken. Your hair’s different, isn’t it?”

  She murmured some bland response.

  “Mrs Palmer’s daughter,” Mr Hibbert explained to the police-man. “Just back from choir practice, I believe.” He sounded surprisingly chirpy for a man whose car had been stolen and wrecked.

  Other people were coming out of the front room. Two women from up the street and old Mr and Mrs Chalk, from next door. Even the obnoxious Mrs Mackenzie from the house opposite, a woman her mother detested. So many witnesses?

  And now her mother was there. “Gloria, help Mrs Mackenzie with her coat, there’s a dear.”

  Nobody seemed unduly alarmed.

  “I’ll be off, then,” announced the police sergeant, opening the front door. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Palmer.”

  Gloria reached for the fur coat that she recognized as Mrs Mackenzie’s, just as Mr Hibbert was lifting his overcoat off the hook.

  He was saying something to her mother about coming again. In a swift movement, using Mrs Mackenzie’s fur as a shield, Gloria succeeded in dropping the car keys into Mr Hibbert’s coat pocket. Only just in time.

  “Goodbye all.” He’d put on the coat and was gone. Some of the others were not so quick to leave. There was no sense of urgency. They were talking about what they would be doing for Christmas.

  When Mrs Palmer finally closed the door on the last of them, she breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Let’s have a fresh cup of tea, love. Have you had a nice evening? You’re back early, aren’t you? What have you done with your hair? I rather like it down. It suits you.”

  “Mum, whatever were all those people doing here—and the police?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? This is the third meeting we’ve had. We’re setting up a Neighbourhood Watch. You know—keeping an eye on each other’s property. It’s becoming essential with all the crime round here. Sergeant Middleton was telling us how dreadful it is. He’s the community liaison officer. It’s his job to advise people like ourselves how to get organised.”

  “That’s why they were here?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Mr Hibbert?”

  “He is a neighbour, dear, and quite well off, I believe. He’s got an interest in protecting his property. He’s one of the moving forces. He’s always the first to arrive.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” said Gloria, wishing the earth would swallow her up.

  The kettle had boiled. Mrs Palmer made the tea. “Of course, that Mrs Mackenzie from across the way came, and I’m convinced the only reason is that she wanted to see inside the house. She’s so nosy, that woman. Do you know, when I made the coffee she insisted on coming out here to help me, as she put it. Of course, all she wanted was to get a look at my kitchen. Oh, and Gloria, darling, I’m so grateful to you for putting my thermal undies out of sight. Imagine if that woman had clapped eyes on them. I’d have died, I really would. I suddenly thought of them when she was opening the biscuits. The relief when I looked at the towel rail and they weren’t there. I mean, they’re not the most flattering things to have on display—my enormous bloomers.”

  Gloria tried to give the smile that her mother obviously expected.

  Mrs Palmer added, “Tell me, where did you put them, dear?”

  The doorbell chimed.

  THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING

  Frank Morris strode into the kitchen and slammed a cold, white turkey on the kitchen table. “Seventeen pounds plucked. Satisfied?”

  His wife Wendy was at the sink, washing the last few breakfast bowls. Her shoulders had tensed. “What’s that, Frank?”

  “You’re not even bloody looking, woman.”

  She took that as a command and wheeled around, rubbing her wet hands on the apron. “A turkey! That’s a fine bird. It really is.”

  “Fine?” Frank erupted. “It’s nineteen forty-six, for Christ’s sake! It’s a bloody miracle. Most of them round here will be sitting down to joints of pork and mutton—if they’re lucky. I bring a bloody great turkey in on Christmas morning, and all you can say is ‘fine’?”

  “I just wasn’t prepared for it.”

  “You really get my goat, you do.”

  Wendy said tentatively, “Where did it come from, Frank?”

  Her huge husband stepped towards her and for a moment she thought he would strike her. He lowered his face until it was inches from hers. Not even nine in the morning and she could smell sweet whisky on his breath. “I won it, didn’t I?” he said, daring her to disbelieve. “A meat raffle in The Valiant Trooper last night.”

  Wendy nodded, pretending to be taken in. It didn’t do to challenge Frank’s statements. Black eyes and beatings had taught her well. She knew Frank’s rule of fist had probably won him the turkey, too. Frank didn’t lose at anything. If he could punch his way to another man’s prize, then he considered it fair game.

  “Just stuff the thing and stick it in the oven,” he ordered. “Where’s the boy?”

  “I think he’s upstairs,” Wendy replied warily. Norman had fled at the sound of Frank’s key in the front door.

  “Upstairs?” Frank ranted. “On bloody Christmas Day?”

  “I’ll call him.” Wendy was grateful for the excuse to move away from Frank to the darkened hallway. “Norman,” she gently called.

  “Your father’s home. Come and wish him a Happy Christmas.”

  A pale, solemn young boy came cautiously downstairs, pausing at the bottom to hug his mother. Unlike most children of his age—he was nine—Norman was sorry that the war had ended in 1945. He had pinned his faith in the enemy putting up a stiff fight and extending it indefinitely. He still remembered the VE Day street party, sitting at a long wooden bench surrounded by laughing neighbours. He and his mother had found little to celebrate in the news that “the boys will soon be home.”

  Wendy smoothed down his hair, whispered something and led him gently into the kitchen.

  “Happy Christmas, Dad,” he said, then added, unprompted, “Did you come home last night?”

  Wendy said quickly, “Never you mind about that, Norman.” She didn’t want her son provoking Frank on this of all days.

  Frank didn’t appear to have heard. He was reaching up to the top shelf of a cupboard, a
place where he usually kept his old army belt. Wendy pushed her arm protectively in front of the boy.

  But instead of the belt, Frank took down a brown paper parcel. “Here you are, son,” he said, beckoning to Norman. “You’ll be the envy of the street in this. I saved it for you, specially.”

  Norman stepped forward. He unwrapped his present, egged on by his grinning father. He now owned an old steel helmet. “Thanks, Dad,” he said politely, turning it in his hands.

  “I got it off a dead Jerry,” Frank said with gusto. “The bastard who shot your Uncle Ted. Sniper, he was. Holed up in a bombed-out building in Potsdam, outside Berlin. He got Ted with a freak shot. Twelve of us stormed the building and took him out.”

  “Outside?”

  “Topped him, Norman. See the hole round the back. That’s from a Lee Enfield .303. Mine.” Frank levelled an imaginary rifle to Wendy’s head and squeezed the trigger, miming both the recoil and report. “There wasn’t a lot left of Fritz after we’d finished. But I brought back the helmet for you, son. Wear it with pride. It’s what your Uncle Ted would have wanted.” He took the helmet and rammed it on the boy’s head.

  Norman grimaced. He felt he was about to be sick.

  “Frank dear, perhaps we should put it away until he’s a bit older,”

  Wendy tried her tact. “We wouldn’t want such a special thing to get damaged, would we? You know what young boys are like.”

  Frank was unimpressed. “What are you talking about—‘special thing’? It’s a bloody helmet, not a thirty-piece tea service. Look at the lad. He’s totally stunned. He loves it. Why don’t you get on and stuff that ruddy great turkey, like I told you?”

  “Yes, Frank.”

  Norman raised his hand, his small head an absurd sight in the large helmet. “May I go now?”

  Frank beamed. “Of course, son. Want to show it off to all your friends, do you?”

  Norman nodded, causing the helmet to slip over his eyes. He lifted it off his head. Smiling weakly at his father, he left the kitchen and dashed upstairs. The first thing he would do was wash his hair.

  Wendy began to wash and prepare the bird, listening to Frank. “I know just how the kid feels. I still remember my old Dad giving me a bayonet he brought back from Flanders. Said he ran six men through with it. I used to look for specks of blood, and he’d tell me how he stuck them like pigs. It was the best Christmas present I ever had.”

  “I’ve got you a little something for Christmas. It’s behind the clock,” said Wendy, indicating a small package wrapped in newspaper and string.

  “A present?” Frank snatched it up and tore the wrapping away.

  “Socks?” he said in disgust. “Is that it? Our first Christmas together in three bloody years, and all you can give your husband is a miserable pair of socks.”

  “I don’t have much money, Frank,” Wendy reminded him, and instantly wished she had not.

  Frank seized her by the shoulders, practically tipping the turkey off the kitchen table. “Are you saying that’s my fault?”

  “No, love.”

  “I’m not earning enough—is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Wendy tried to pacify him, at the same time bracing herself for the violent shaking that would surely follow. Frank tightened his grip, forced her away from the table and pushed her hard against the cupboard door, punctuating each word with a thump.

  “That helmet cost me nothing,” he ranted. “Don’t you understand, woman? It’s the thought that counts. You don’t need money to show affection. You just need some savvy, some intelligence. Bloody socks—an insult!”

  He shoved her savagely towards the table again. “Now get back to your work. This is Christmas Day. I’m a reasonable man. I’m prepared to overlook your stupidity. Stop snivelling, will you, and get that beautiful bird in the oven. Mum will be here at ten. I want the place smelling of turkey. I’m not having you ruining my Christmas.”

  He strode out, heavy boots clumping on the wooden floor of the hallway. “I’m going round Polly’s,” he shouted. “She knows how to treat a hero. Look at this dump. No decorations, no holly over the pictures. You haven’t even bought any beer, that I’ve seen. Sort something out before I get back.”

  Wendy was still reeling from the shaking, but she knew she must speak before he left. If she didn’t remind him now, there would be hell to pay later. “Polly said she would bring the Christmas pudding, Frank. Would you make sure she doesn’t forget? Please, Frank.”

  He stood grim-faced in the doorway, silhouetted against the drab terraced houses opposite. “Don’t tell me what to do, Wendy,” he said threateningly. “You’re the one due for a damned good reminding of what to do round here.”

  The door shook in its frame. Wendy stood at the foot of the stairs, her heart pounding. She knew what Frank meant by a damned good reminding. The belt wasn’t used only on the boy.

  “Is he gone, Mum?” Norman called from the top stair.

  Wendy nodded, readjusting the pins in her thin, blonde hair, and drying her eyes. “Yes, love, You can come downstairs now.”

  At the foot of the stairs, he told her, “I don’t want the helmet. It frightens me.”

  “I know, dear.”

  “I think there’s blood on it. I don’t want it. If it belonged to one of our soldiers, or one of the Yankees, I’d want it, but this is a dead man’s helmet.”

  Wendy hugged her son. The base of her spine throbbed. A sob was building at the back of her throat.

  “Where’s he gone?” Norman asked from the folds of her apron.

  “To collect your Aunt Polly. She’s bringing a Christmas pudding, you know. We’d better make custard. I’m going to need your help.”

  “Was he there last night?” Norman asked innocently. “With Aunt Polly? Is it because she doesn’t have Uncle Ted anymore?”

  “I don’t know, Norman.” In truth, she didn’t want to know. Her widowed sister-in-law was welcome to Frank. Polly didn’t know the relief Wendy felt to be rid of him sometimes. Any humiliation was quite secondary to the fact that Frank stopped out all night, bringing respite from the tension and the brutality. The local gossips had been quick to suspect the truth, but she could do nothing to stop them.

  Norman, sensing the direction her thoughts had taken, said, “Billy Slater says Dad and Aunt Polly are doing it.”

  “That’s enough, Norman.”

  “He says she’s got no elastic in her drawers. What does he mean, Mum?”

  “Billy Slater is a disgusting little boy. Now let’s hear no more of this. We’ll make the custard.”

  Norman spent the next hour helping his mother in the kitchen.

  The turkey barely fitted in the oven, and Norman became concerned that it wouldn’t be ready in time. Wendy knew better. There was ample time for the cooking. They couldn’t start until Frank and Polly rolled home from the Valiant Trooper. With last orders at a quarter to three, it gave the bird five hours to roast.

  A gentle knock at the front door sent Norman hurrying to open it.

  “Mum, it’s Grandma Morris!” he called out excitedly as he led the plump old woman into the kitchen. Maud Morris had been a marvellous support through the war years. She knew exactly when help was wanted.

  “I’ve brought you some veggies,” Maud said to Wendy, dumping a bag of muddy cabbage and carrots onto the table and removing her coat and hat. “Where’s that good-for-nothing son of mine? Need I ask?”

  “He went to fetch Polly,” Wendy calmly replied.

  “Did he, indeed?”

  Norman said, “About an hour ago. I expect they’ll go to the pub.”

  The old lady went into the hall to hang up her things. When she returned, she said to Wendy, “You know what people are saying, don’t you?”

  Wendy ignored the question. “He brought in a seventeen-pound turkey this morning.”

  “Have you got a knife?” her mother-in-law asked.

  “A knife?”

  “For the cabbage
.” Maud turned to look at her grandson. “Have you had some good presents?”

  Norman stared down at his shoe-laces.

  Wendy said, “Grandma asked you a question, dear.”

  “Did you get everything you asked for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you write to Saint Nick?” Maud asked with a sideward glance at Wendy.

  Norman rolled his eyes upwards. “I don’t believe in that stuff any more.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Dad gave me a dead German’s helmet. He says it belonged to the one who shot Uncle Ted. I hate it.”

  Wendy gathered the carrots from the table and put them in the sink. “I’m sure he was only doing what he thought was best, Norman.”

  “It’s got a bullet hole.”

  “Didn’t he give you anything else?” his grandmother asked.

  Norman shook his head. “Mum gave me some chocolate and the Dandy Annual.”

  “But your Dad didn’t give you a thing apart from the helmet?”

  Wendy said, “Please don’t say anything. You know what it’s like.”

  Maud Morris nodded. It was pointless to admonish her son. He’d only take it out on Wendy. She knew from personal experience the dilemma of the battered wife. To protest was to invite more violence.

  The knowledge that her second son had turned out such a bully shamed and angered her. Ted, her dear firstborn Ted, would never have harmed a woman. Yet Ted had been taken from her. She took an apron from the back of the door and started shredding the cabbage.

  Norman was sent to lay the table in the front room.