Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

  Reg and Iris returned to the kitchen. Iris picked up the tea towel—a nice view of Powys Castle—prised open a turquoise plastic peg and hung the towel up next to her rubber gloves.

  Her husband said, “What’s got into her tonight?”

  “Nerves, Reg. I blame these high-powered meetings. Remember how you used to come home?”

  Heather Gibbs gave Arcadia a good seeing-to every Friday. Two hours, twelve pounds. Generous in comparison with the usual but, as Heather’s mum pointed out, if you’re batty as an egg whisk you’re going to have to cough up just that little bit extra.

  Mrs. Molfrey sat in her faded petit-point wing chair, feet up on a beaded footstool, and watched Heather with deep satisfaction. When the girl had first turned up some months ago now, clomping into the sitting room on shoes like great blocks of wood and bawling her head off, Mrs. Molfrey had trembled on behalf of her delicate glasses and fragile ornaments. But Heather, though lumberingly uneconomical in her movements, handled every one of these treasured artefacts with the most gentle and precise movements.

  At the moment she was carefully going over an ornately carved, many-mirrored overmantel with a feather duster. Mrs. Molfrey’s satisfaction deepened when she glimpsed, through a gap in the sitting-room door, her gleaming kitchen. Aware from a certain amount of static from the shiny pink box on her concave chest and the liveliness of Heather’s lips that she was being spoken to, Mrs. Molfrey switched on her deaf aid. She waited till the girl was looking elsewhere for she felt it was rather rude to have switched it off in the first place.

  “So I said, what time do you call this and he only said ‘nookie time’ didn’t he? In front of me mam and the kids and everything.”

  “Who was this, Heather?”

  “Kevin’s dad. He’s never off the nest. Know what I mean?”

  “Which dad is that?” asked Mrs. Molfrey, for she had still not disentangled Heather’s assorted progeny let alone grasped the ramifications of an extended family that seemed to cover half Bucks county.

  “Barry. The one with the Harley Davidson.”

  “Ah. The musician.”

  Heather didn’t bother to put her right. It wasn’t worth it. She’d have forgotten by next time. And really Heather only chatted to be polite. Given a choice she’d as soon bring her Walkman and a tape of Barry Manilow. But the old lady must crave a bit of conversation what with only the old geezer in the caravan for company. He cooked for her every day too. Sweet really.

  Now, giving a final polish to an emerald glass lustre, Heather asked Mrs. Molfrey if she was ready for her cuppa. This was Heather’s last chore. She would leave the tea and a piece of cake on the little piecrust table by Mrs. Molfrey’s chair.

  Mrs. Molfrey always asked Heather if she would like to join her but Heather had only done this once. The tea was disgusting. A funny colour and a worse smell. And there wasn’t any other sort. Just looking at it, thought Heather, was enough to make you heave. Like dried up black worms all mixed up with yellow flowers.

  Now, as she put the kettle on in the kitchen, Heather heard the thocketer, thocketer of a 500cc engine and saw, through the kitchen window, a Honda scooter bouncing gently over the grassy approach to the back of the house.

  “It’s Becky,” she called through to the other room.

  “She’ll be bringing my hair,” called back Mrs. Molfrey. “Chuck another spoon in the pot. And dig out the cake tin. There’s a WI lemon drizzle.”

  Becky Latimer, a sweet-faced young woman with a lightly freckled skin, smooth and brown as a hen’s egg, lifted the latch and walked into the kitchen. She carried a wig block under one arm and a customised plastic carrier on which a crossed brush and comb surmounted the words “Becky’s Mobile Maison.”

  “All done for you, Mrs. Molfrey.” She smiled at the old lady. “How’s the world treating you today?”

  “You’ll stay for tea, Becky?” Mrs. Molfrey laid an arrangement of knobby bones covered loosely by gingery spotted skin urgently on the girl’s arm.

  “Course I will,” said Becky who was already running twenty minutes late. “Just a quick one.”

  As Heather brought out Mrs. Molfrey’s tray, Becky brought up Simone Hollingsworth’s name, asking Mrs. Molfrey if she had seen anything of the woman. “Only I was giving her a cut and blow dry yesterday half three and when I turned up she’d gone out. She didn’t cancel or ring or anything. It’s not like her at all.”

  “I heard she was looking after a sick relative,” said Mrs. Molfrey, “and had to dash off. No doubt it put the appointment right out of her mind.”

  “Yes, it would,” said Becky with some relief. She was trying to build up her business and had feared that Mrs. Hollingsworth had become dissatisfied with her work. Simone was a demanding client and her soft, white-gold hair was far from easy to handle. Unlike most of Becky’s customers she wanted something different every week, if only in some small detail. When Becky arrived there would often be a Vogue or Tatler lying open on the sitting-room table and her young heart would sink as she was shown some elaborately styled or brilliantly cut coiffure and asked to copy it. Still, so far, fingers crossed, she seemed to have done OK.

  While these thoughts had been passing through Becky’s mind, Heather had taken the cling film off the cake, cut it in slices and poured a second cup of tea. Now, having put her outdoor coat on, she stopped in the middle of saying goodbye and said instead, “Hey, Becks. You talking about Mrs. H from Nightingales?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She was on the market bus.”

  “On the bus?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Molfrey.”

  “But she never goes anywhere.”

  “Well, she went to Causton.”

  “Was that the two thirty?” asked Becky.

  “No, half twelve. Got off outside Gateways. And I’ll tell you another funny thing. She hadn’t got no case nor nothing. Just a handbag.”

  “You’d think,” said Becky, “if she was visiting this sick relative she’d have got off at the stop near the railway station.”

  “It’s a right mystery,” said Heather. She swung round and her full skirt floated about her, describing a wide circle.

  There really should be a shipping warning when people like Heather entered one’s natural orbit, thought Mrs. Molfrey. She closed her eyes and prayed.

  “Ah well,” said Heather, now safely on the threshold. “Ta-ra again.”

  “Could you knock on Cubby’s caravan as you go by, please?” asked Mrs. Molfrey. ‘Tell him the lemon drizzle’s up.”

  Becky sipped a little of the tea which she disliked quite as much as Heather.

  “Isn’t that extraordinary, Becky?” said Mrs. Molfrey, inhaling the jasmine fragrance with a sigh of pleasure. “Going off to care for someone who’s ill with no more than a handbag. You’d think at least they’d take a little Benger’s. Or some beef jelly.”

  “P’raps Mr. Hollingsworth’s going to drive over later.”

  “Perhaps. What I can’t understand,” continued Mrs. Molfrey, “is why she took the bus. It takes nearly an hour to cover the distance Charlie’s taxi does in fifteen minutes.”

  “Well, can’t be to save money, Mrs. Molfrey.” Becky glanced at her watch. “Sorry, I have to go now. I’m running a bit late.”

  “Dear child,” cried Mrs. Molfrey. “Why didn’t you say?”

  For the next couple of days Fawcett Green attempted to observe the owner of Nightingales in what it regarded as a discreet manner. This involved slowing up, often to a marked degree, when passing the house and looking in the windows. Listening keenly for the laser whir and soft metal clunk of the garage door being opened or closed. Or strolling down Mrs. Molfrey’s back garden and casually glancing over the fence. But in every instance Fawcett Green was unlucky. The object of their interest did not show himself.

  It was plain, however, that Simone had not returned, which left a male person living on his own. Naturally it was thought, for there is nothing
more conservative than an English village, that such a man must be in need of assistance. Immediately this need was diagnosed, a support group rallied to satisfy it.

  The group did its best. An apple pie, some fresh eggs and a jar of green tomato chutney were placed on the doorstep of Nightingales and stayed there until they were aggrievedly taken back. A message slipped through the letter box offering to collect and return any necessary washing was also ignored. As was a note asking if any shopping was required and an offer to cut the hedge. Umbrage was well and truly taken when it was discovered that a boxful of convenience foods had been ordered by telephone and delivered by Ostlers, the village store.

  After this the frustrated Samaritans, acknowledging that you just couldn’t help some people, gave up any direct approach. A sharp eye was still kept, though, and the village noted, not without some satisfaction, that only twenty-four hours after Mrs. Hollingsworth’s departure, things started to take a definite turn for the worse.

  On Friday the curtains remained closed till lunchtime. On Saturday and Sunday they were not opened all day. Determined to regard such moral laxity as a cry for help, the team renewed its efforts by tapping on the front door and, when this was ignored, repeating the procedure at the rear, in both cases with negative results.

  When the milkman called for payment, there were three full pints on the step. He rapped the knocker several times and shouted, “Milk-oh!” through the letter box. Eventually the door opened a fraction, a ten pound note was pressed into his hand and the words “Don’t leave any more” were breathed through the opening on whisky-soured breath.

  Naturally this was all round the place in no time. Later, further verification of Alan Hollingsworth’s debauched state was provided when a stream of bottles descended from his wheelie bin into the masticating maw of Causton Borough Council’s refuse lorry. Avis Jennings said it sounded as if someone was disposing of a greenhouse. The vicar, put in the picture by his spouse, thought of all that Jack Daniels consumed in lonely isolation and wondered if he should once more attempt to offer solace.

  In the Goat and Whistle the regulars discussed Simone’s absence among themselves. No one believed the “illness in the family” story. The landlord, no doubt chagrined that not a single swallow of Hollingsworth’s river of forgetfulness had been purchased at his establishment, was especially scathing.

  “A load of old cock,” he said, pulling a Beamish for a puce-complexioned man in a Tattershall check waistcoat. “She’s buggered off to get a bit of life for herself. And I for one don’t blame her.”

  There was a rumble of assent. Neglect a pretty wife, was the general theory, and you’re asking for trouble. Not everyone agreed. An advocaat and lemonade snowball thought that, far from being neglected, Mrs. H was kept on such a short leash that boredom and frustration had driven her to snap it. This was also not universally acceptable.

  “You work your fingers to the bone for ’em,” said the Beamish, “buy them everything they want and where does it get you? Bloody nowhere.”

  A female with arms like Popeye and a leering, pockmarked face threw darts with savage accuracy. She pointed out how totally pathetic it was that men let themselves go the minute they didn’t have some poor drudge of a woman running round after them.

  “I can think of one party who won’t be heartbroken,” said the snowball very quietly. She winked and tapped her nose which was tiny, soft and porous like a mildewed strawberry. “After what Hollingsworth done to him.”

  “Cruel, that was.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d run off with her hisself.”

  “Nah. He’s got other fish to fry.”

  Everyone turned and looked down the room to where a solitary drinker sat nursing a half of bitter. He didn’t look as if he was about to start dancing on the ceiling. More as if he was expecting it to fall on him any minute. He’d hardly spoken since he came into the bar and now, draining his glass, Gray Patterson got up and left without a word.

  It had actually been in the Goat and Whistle that Gray had met his “other fish.” At the time he had not appreciated just how unlikely such a contingency was. She had visited the pub no more than twice in the five years since she had moved to the village. On this, the second occasion, Sarah Lawson had dropped in for a box of matches, the village store having run out.

  He knew who she was of course—in such a small place everyone knew everyone else by sight—and a little about her. She taught parttime in adult education, had hardly any money, her house was falling down. She made models out of clay and also worked with stained glass. It was rare to walk past Bay Tree Cottage without hearing music, powerful operatic bawling that Fawcett Green accepted with a resigned shrug, for artists were known to need a creative ambience.

  Gray was intrigued by Sarah’s looks and the way she dressed. By her gravity and by the fact that she appeared genuinely not to give a damn as to what anyone thought either of her or her way of life. And so, following her out of the Goat and Whistle and catching up in St. Chad’s Lane, he introduced himself.

  “Oh, I know who you are,” responded Sarah. “From the front page of the Causton Echo.”

  “You make me sound notorious.”

  “Doesn’t take much in a place this size.”

  “You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “Sounds like a useful, if slightly patronising, tip.”

  “Sorry.”

  A bad start. They walked on in silence while Gray sought to repair the damage. He had more sense than to attempt a personal compliment which he felt would be judged both clumsy and impertinent. But he could, in all honesty, praise her garden.

  “Every time I come down this way I admire it.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” She had a calm, clear voice. “It’s an absolute shambles.”

  “The balance, I think. You seem to have something of everything but not too much of anything.”

  “Can’t take credit for that. My father created and cared for it. Almost to the last day of his life.”

  “Ah, yes.” He remembered hearing that the house had belonged to her parents. “Did they bequeath any advice on horticultural matters? I could do with a few tips.”

  “Start with clean healthy soil. Feed it properly. Plant only top quality stuff. And if ugly or poisonous things turn up, yank them out and burn them.”

  “Not a bad recipe for life when you come to think of it.”

  Sarah gave him a sharp, interested look. How bright her eyes were! Unflecked, shining, brilliant blue. Gray was still surreptitiously studying her severe, elegant profile when they arrived at Bay Tree Cottage.

  Sarah dragged the unhinged gate to one side.

  “Could I come in for a minute?”

  “What for?”

  “Oh.” Though he had spoken on impulse and half anticipated a refusal, Gray found himself already standing on the path. “Just a talk.”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to get to know you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” Gray felt rather at a loss. Most women would not ask that question. They would know why. And yet he could see she was being neither faux naif nor coy.

  “Don’t you ever fill conversations out, Sarah?” He stepped back on to the verge. Lifted the gate into its previous position. “Qualify, elaborate, make excuses, crack jokes? Hand out recipes?”

  “Not really. What’s the point?”

  “I hate unanswerable questions.”

  “And I feel they’re the only sort worth asking.” She smiled then but to herself, shutting him out. “So you see we shall never get on.”

  “I could change. I’m a flexible man.”

  “Goodbye, Gray.”

  He loved the way she spoke his name. A slight slurring of the R. Not an impediment, and certainly not a lisp; more a rough gliding over. It was irresistible.

  He called out, “Would you like me to mend this?”

  “Certainly not. Took years to get i
t to that state. Anyway,” she turned on the step and stared amusedly back at him, “if I want it mending I can mend it myself.”

  All that had taken place nearly three months ago. He had not given up. He had run into her “by accident on purpose” a few times and fallen into yet more amiable conversation. Once, out walking his dog, he had let the leash slip and had to rescue the animal from Sarah’s vegetable patch. Unfortunately he chose a Wednesday for this ingenuous ploy, which turned out to be her working day. He had appeared a couple of times with some flowers or fruit from his own garden. The offerings had been graciously accepted, with thanks, and the door shut firmly in his face.

  He asked one or two people discreet questions about her then, afraid she might get to hear about this, stopped. In any case he discovered very little. Her parents had only bought the house when they retired. It wasn’t as if she had grown up in the village. In fact, people seemed to know hardly any more about her than he did himself.

  If she had appeared actively to resent his attentions then naturally he would have ceased to make them. But in a dry, detached manner she seemed prepared to put up with it all. Gray’s guess was that she regarded him as some sort of mild divertissement.

  But then, six weeks ago, everything had changed. He had brought along a small tray of seedlings, hellebores which she appeared not to have. She took the tray, smiled and asked him in. He stayed about half an hour. Her manner, Gray had to admit, was rather perfunctory. Still, he was over the threshold. That was the main thing.

  On that occasion and on most of the ones that followed they spoke mainly of mundane matters. Gray, who had a mercurial temperament at the best of times, quickly became downcast. He told himself these were early days but couldn’t help feeling that he was merely marking time. He tried to get her to talk about herself or her work but without success. Once, greatly daring, he asked if she had been married. A flinty reticence descended. Eventually she admitted to having lived with someone once for a year or two but preferred being on her own.