The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  A furry shadow appeared along the wall-Tobias! I put him on the clothes bin, then stood clinging to the shell-shaped pedestal basin until I was breathing almost normally again. My face, alas, didn’t recover that quickly. It was red-eyed and puffy. Even Tobias was mildly revolted. “I don’t want you to take this to heart”-I splashed on cold water and rubbed vigourously with a towel-“but I have quarrelled with the man of the house. Will you wipe that smile off your face? I didn’t say anything about divorce. I am physically and emotionally attached to the man, so the hardest part of all this is that I am going to have to forgive him, after he has eaten his words-the way you are eating the toothpaste.”

  I removed the tube of McLeans and Tobias’s face split into a yawn that went all the way down to his tail. I cradled him against me. “Remember, Tobe, you must not bear our mother-in-law a grudge because she suggested sending you to the big cat farm in the sky whenever-if ever-Ben and I have kittens of our own. Tell me, should I fight the urge to creep downstairs and telephone Poppa, begging him to come and remove her, or would you really hate to miss the chance to use her legs for scratching posts?”

  I stooped to put him down and noticed Mr. Digby’s suit lying beside the clothes bin where I had left it earlier, uncertain what to do with it. Now I wanted it out of sight. I would roll it up and toss it in the wall cabinet, way at the back. But first I probed through the jacket pockets, then the trouser ones. I wasn’t being nosy, merely responding automatically to putting anything away. And, of course, I was killing time. Ah! What was this? From the jacket breast pocket I removed a snapshot and a small coin. A very small coin.

  “Look here, Tobe. Bet you’ve never seen one of these. It’s a farthing. Once the smallest coin in the realm. Not so surprising that Mr. Digby didn’t want the suit back-if it’s that old.”

  I sat on the edge of the bath; Tobias nuzzled up onto my shoulder. Together we studied the photo. “Here’s the man of mystery, Mr. D. himself. And who else do we have in the shadow of yon tree? A woman in a skirt and cardigan. And a teenager-probably a girl. It’s hard to tell with that short hair and leather jacket.” I turned the snapshot over and perused the writing on the back. Tobias trod from my left shoulder to my right, meowing for me to continue.

  “All right! It says here, ‘Eddy, Wren, and Miss Peerless.’ And, upon close inspection, the woman in the skirt and cardigan does look like a younger Theodora Peerless.” My mind bubbled with possibilities. Reaching up, I patted at the furry face. “What do you make of that, chum?”

  Tobias was no help at all. And suddenly sounds of life from below stairs began drifting under the bathroom door. I tucked the photo back in the suit pocket and opened the wall cupboard. I’d have to think of the implications of all this later, when my own life didn’t intrude. That ping was the telephone receiver being lifted. As I settled a sleeping Tobias in the bathroom basin (one of his favourite nesting places), I strained to hear more. Was Magdalene contacting her spouse in an attempt at reconciliation? I felt a small glow. Perhaps my rift with Ben might not be on public display too much longer. With one last look at my puffy face, I headed downstairs. No one in the hall. Either the phone call had been short or no one had answered. What were the odds that Paris and Poppa were home but wearing their earphones?

  The glow flickered and died as I entered the kitchen. Was it blatantly obvious I had been crying? I could say my cold was back. Hand on the doorknob, I heard that sound which so often exasperated but was now Beethoven to my ears. Freddy’s voice.

  Magdalene murmured something indistinct and then Ben spoke. “Don’t get rattled, Mum. Death is not likely to occur before Dr. Melrose gets here.”

  “He’s not the one with a fancy for bumping off elderly women, is he, son? I overheard talk about him on the coach.”

  My hand fell off the knob. Ben’s finger must have taken a terrible turn for the worse while I was upstairs wallowing in self-pity. Would he ever forgive me? Did I deserve to be forgiven?

  Freddy was slung hammock-style between two chairs. He cocked an acknowledging eyebrow on seeing me and then closed his eyes. Magdalene was hovering over him, mopping at a reddish-brown spot on his shirt-he’d been learning to carve roast beef for almost a fortnight now. And Ben was pouring tea, which seemed all wrong in his disintegrating condition.

  “Hello, old sock.” Freddy sounded like he was suffering from a bad case of wrist fatigue.

  “Don’t get up for me, Freddy,” I said crisply. Magdalene’s intake of breath filled the room. Ben turned, and Freddy went right on smiling wanly up at me.

  “Come to bid me adieu, have you, Ellie?”

  “Better not to talk.” Magdalene stopped sponging at the stain. She was hoodwinked, all right. “You need to rest, Frederick.”

  “You mean…” I began.

  “I mean I am about to die,” replied Freddy serenely. His eyes closed, his hands dragged on the floor.

  From the Files of

  The Widows Club

  Monday, 27th April, 7:00 P.M.

  President:

  Good evening, Mrs. Hanover. Is this a bad line or are your customers having a bit of a singsong around the bar? That’s better. You say you had something of a turnup this evening at The Dark Horse? Freddy Flatts… Gracious me! That disreputable young man who caused such a stir at the Haskell nuptials. One worries about that poor young woman… Absolutely! One only has to look at her-so dreadfully changed in a few months… Oh, quite! Out of the frying pan into the fire when she married that handsome fortune hunter… Has his hair cut a lot, does he? Well, that shouldn’t surprise anyone… I do hope Mrs. Haskell wasn’t the one who attacked her cousin. One couldn’t wonder but… Well, that is good news! Now we mustn’t keep chatting; we’re both busy people. Just wanted to let you know you will be working with Mrs. Millicent Parsnip on the night of the 1st of May, at that Retirement Party we talked about… There won’t be too much for you to do, which is good-this being your first assignment… Yes, The Founder is taking a hand in this one. No, no, it isn’t the irrepressible Mr. Daffy, but don’t worry, he’s about to be finally put to rest. Be assured that the next reports of his demise will not be exaggerated! Now, are you ready for your instructions?

  Mrs. Hanover:

  A moment, if you please, to wipe one’s eyes. Words cannot express how moved and honoured one is to be part of so momentous an event.

  President:

  Very good. The Subject To Be Retired on Friday the 1st May is…

  17

  … “Shot or stabbed?” Hyacinth and Primrose spoke in one voice with intense professional interest.

  “Neither. Pinked by a dart thrown by Sid Fowler, who had been so shaken by the mishap that he’d fainted and been in no condition to leave The Dark Horse and bring Freddy home.”

  “Most unmanly!” Primrose sounded deeply shocked. “How did cousin Frederick reach Merlin’s Court?”

  “Astride his motorbike. I do not believe he seriously considered dying until he saw the effect his wound had upon Magdalene, whereupon his devious mind flew to the possibilities of the effect on Jill. Someone would break the news to her and she would come rushing to his side. Only, needless to say, she didn’t. And by the time her get-well card and recommendation of a honey poultice reached Freddy, he had relapsed into full health. Dr. Melrose’s main concern was that Freddy was up-to-date on his tetanus; after which he prescribed an antiseptic cream, then a stiff drink for all of us.”

  Primrose laid her hand on mine. “What did the doctor say about Ben’s finger?”

  “Nothing, because he didn’t know about it. I didn’t speak up because I told myself I wasn’t going to be labelled a meddlesome wife and Ben had a mouth of his own. If he was rendered speechless by fear of having the finger lanced and getting jabbed elsewhere with a needle, his mother could whisper in Dr. Melrose’s ear. Magdalene informed me later, at a moment already bleak, that she wouldn’t have dreamed of interfering. A husband and wife have their own lives to lead. Famous last words�
��”

  When I awoke the next morning, Tuesday, Ben had already left for Abigail’s. He had left something behind: a note cut lopsidedly in the shape of a heart. Fingers trembling, I opened it. Be mine tonight, it said. Tears washed down my face. I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve Ben! I had been such a shrew! How dare I deluge him with my relations, then turn snippy when his woebegone little mother requested the minimum in consideration-a roof over her head until… until… I swung my legs out of bed. Ah, Ellie, we are going to see some changes made in you! Ben’s mother shall reside here for as long as she chooses.

  Magdalene was mixing up a fruitcake as I entered the kitchen. The table was lined with pans, but it still reminded me of the headmistress’s desk as I presented myself in front of it.

  “I’m truly sorry, Magdalene, that I am so late down.” The hall clock struck eleven in slow, heavy emphasis. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. No special reason, you understand. First, I couldn’t nod off and then I kept nodding awake. I do feel dreadful, neglecting you like this.”

  Raisins showered into the mixing bowl, and Magdalene plunged a wooden spoon, which was too tall for her, round and round.

  “Don’t worry about me, Giselle, I am quite capable of taking care of myself and Ben. He went off to work with a proper breakfast inside him. Gammon and tomatoes, just the way he likes them. He told me you don’t cut the crusts off the fried bread, but we all have our different ways.” She was scraping batter into a tin.

  Would it make her like me better if I asked to lick the bowl? What were a few extra calories in so good a cause? Obviously she didn’t hear me or see my outstretched hands because the mixing bowl went bobbing in the sink.

  “If you like to have a lie-in every morning, Giselle, you won’t get a word of criticism out of me.” She pushed at the sleeves of her grey cardigan. “I’ve always had to get up early, so as to get to Mass before the shop opened.”

  This was getting worse. I needed a calculator to tabulate my sins. Why hadn’t I thought to ask Magdalene whether she wanted to go to daily Mass? A splotch of batter stared up at me from the table; I stretched out a finger, then snatched it back. “Would you like to come down to the village when your cake comes out of the oven? The Catholic church is just off Market Street; you could pick up a timetable and have a kneel there while I take care of some things at Abigail’s, then I could fetch you over to see Ben and-”

  “Have a kneel! I don’t think so, thank you, Giselle. In fact”-her lips quivered-“I can’t hope to get to church for awhile… We can miss without fear of mortal sin in… times of illness, flood, blizzard, and other… sincere reasons, such as…”

  I caught some words that sounded like “fear for life and limb.” I should have asked her what she meant. So many things might have been different if I had, but my mind was on my reconciliation with Ben.

  If ever a day was a good omen, this one was. The snow had vanished, leaving a vibrant greenness. I could smell the promise of blossom in the air. Deciding against taking the Heinz, I walked to the village. The breeze was nippish, but I didn’t mind. Everything was going to be all right. Ben and I would rediscover the bliss of our early married life, my in-laws would discover they couldn’t live without each other, and Abigail’s premiere would be a mad success.

  Mad was the word for the chaos which greeted me as I stepped into the foyer of the restaurant. A glance at the ceiling made me catch my breath. Straddling the second floor bannister railing and some other (invisible) prop was a plank. Tippy-tilting on this perch were a couple of painters, their brushes swooshing the ceiling in a Charlie Chaplin pantomime. A splatter of paint made me dodge sideways and collide with the plumber, who was staggering around in circles, a toilet clutched in his arms.

  “What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with this, lady? Your husband had it straight from the horse’s mouth that all sales is final!”

  “I’m sorry!” I had to shout over the radio music blasting from all sides. Over it, or under it, I could hear the voice of the world’s greatest upholsterer-Monsieur Rouche-Babou. I was about to charge into the Bluebell Room and pacify him when I saw Ben emerge from his second floor office and duck around the painters’ aerie. The man with the paintpot dangling on his arm seesawed upward. When I opened my eyes, Ben was coming down the stairs.

  “I got your note, darling,” I said, as he reached me. His lips smiled but his eyes weren’t quite focused.

  “Good.” He moved; my lips grazed his ear. Shuffling a half-dozen menus in his hands, he scowled at the plumber, who set the toilet down and sat on it, arms akimbo.

  “Ellie, we’ll have a romantic evening. Just the two of us… and Mum.” Ben’s fingers touched my arm as he strode forward, the menus slicing the air. “I want that toilet out of here, Johnson. I don’t care if you have to put it in your living room and plant daffs in it. How many stars do you think I will get docked if word ever leaks out that it had been misinstalled in my kitchen?”

  I regained his attention, meaning his gaze lit on me in its travels and turned blank. He was surprised I was still here; but pleased. He pointed the menus at the Bluebell Room, nearly taking off my ear in the process.

  “Talk to that twerp you hired to do the upholstery, Ellie. Spell it out for him that if he can’t get his fringes to lie flat by this evening, he’s out on his arse.”

  “Ben,” I said gently, “I can’t run roughshod over a man of Monsieur’s calibre. I’ll bring him a posy of flowers and ask him nicely.”

  “Whatever it takes.” Ben ran a finger across his brow. “Would you also go down on your knees to your wallpaperer. Take a look at that area by the front door!”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Come on, Ellie! It looks like a rhino’s back.”

  Maybe I needed glasses. Two inches from the offending section of wallpaper, I couldn’t see anything. Wait a minute! My fingers found a hairline crease. Annoying, but due to an imperfection in the plaster.

  “Darling,” I countered, slipping my arm through his, “let’s go into the kitchen. You’ve been holding out on me with the new menu, and I’m dying to see what you have settled on.”

  His smile missed me by a quarter-inch, but on entering the kitchen, he handed me a menu. A special one, in a leather, gold-tooled folder. “Tell me what you think.”

  “I will, I will. But do let my imagination savour this captivating cassoulet! I can almost smell the bouquet garni in which it is lovingly simmered for three hours…” My voice petered out. My eyes did a zigzag down the page and came to a shuddering stop. The words that zoomed out at me couldn’t… couldn’t be.

  “What’s up?” Ben was moving along the stainless steel counter, assessing how well he could see himself in its surface. “You are not upset that I added an extra veal entree, are you?”

  “Not a bit. I am somewhat surprised…” My eyes returned to the menu, then flinched away. “I am very surprised by item number four in the luncheon section-the ‘D’Ellie Delight.’ Not that I want to make a big deal about it…” My bright smile slipped and I had to clench my teeth to keep it in place.

  Ben was now leaning against the counter, feet crossed at the ankle, laughter dancing in his eyes. Usually I melt like snow on the stove when he strikes that pose.

  “Ever thought you would see the day, Ellie, when you would lend your name to such a classy restaurant?”

  “That has never been one of my prime-time fantasies, but had I experienced such hopes, I… might have pinned them on being featured in the dinner section.” The menu twitched in my hands. “And I would have aspired to something a little more glamourous than a corned beef sandwich.”

  Ben’s smile went out. “And I”-he swept a hand sideways, sending a glass shattering into the sink-“I thought I was paying you the highest possible compliment in giving your name to a dish which I consider uniquely mine.”

  “Really!” My laugh turned a nasty little somersault. “No one has ever slapped corned beef between two sli
ces of bread before?”

  Another glass almost went the way of the other, but he caught it. “The rye bread is high density, low cal-”

  “Terrific. I’m supposed to feel flattered when you proclaim to the world, in addition to your mother, that I have a weight problem?” A voice deep inside me whispered, stop this, you’re being petty and childish, but I was like a runaway sledge, out of control. It wasn’t just the D’Ellie Delight, it was his leaving that note, luring me down here to be ignored. It was my mildewed stockings. It was my mother being dead when his wasn’t. It was…

  “You’re being deliberately thin-skinned, Ellie. I take immense personal and professional pleasure in concocting healthful foods that you can push around on your plate or feed to your cat.”

  “How noble of you!” I leaned against the opposite counter, but got my crossed ankles out too far and almost overbalanced. I rallied. “What sort of pleasure did it give you to create the Baked Alaska Angelica? Whatever that may be-other than numero uno dessert in the dinner section!”

  His hiss was like a gas jet coming on. “A baked Alaska, decorated with angelica!” Somehow we were nose to nose; the sparks from his eyes could have burned me to a crisp. “If you ever read anything-other than romantic rubbish about soppy-eyed females and Greek gods with their brains in their pants-you would know that, Ellie.” He stepped back, rammed a hand through his hair and smiled compassionately. It was his fatal mistake.

  “How soon we do forget, Bentley.” My voice, too, could pulsate with pity. “A year ago you would have given your right… arm to have your name emblazoned on a rubbishy novel.”

  “Don’t talk bosh!” He snatched the menus from my clutch and held them against his chest. “I had dreams of writing something of redeeming social value. I had it in me to create the greatest blood-and-guts story ever written, but”-he bit his lip and swung around-“we all make compromises.”