by Pam Weaver
Jim gave him a wounded look, and Eric immediately regretted what he’d said. He didn’t want to hurt Jim, but he couldn’t let this happen. ‘I’ve never been to . . .’ he picked up the paper to check the name of the place again, ‘West Moors in my life. Me and Lena are married, fair and square, and we never took no one.’
Jim lowered his eyes and fingered the pages. ‘Then you won’t mind if I go to the police?’ he began cautiously.
At this, Eric rose sharply to his feet. Knocking the table at the same time, his bottle of beer tumbled and rolled towards the floor. Jim looked up with a startled expression and pushed himself back, as it finally fell to the floor with an almighty smash.
Rex was late and Bea was beginning to feel embarrassed. She was anxious not to outstay her welcome, but surprisingly neither Mrs Hayward nor Ruby seemed unduly worried. After everyone else had gone, Bea suggested getting a taxi back to Worthing, but Mrs Hayward wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’ll go into the summerhouse,’ she said. ‘There’s a little wood-burner in there and we’ll have tea and crumpets until he comes.’
They were in the middle of making small talk when the maid came to say that Rex was on the telephone, wanting to speak with his wife. Bea followed her into the house.
‘You know, I can’t believe Mrs Quinn is your mother,’ cried Imogen. ‘I do so like her and she kept telling me about her lovely daughter. I never dreamed it was you!’
‘Oh, Miss,’ said Ruby. ‘I’m so glad everything worked out for you.’
‘My father gave me a wonderful summer that year,’ said Imogen. ‘Paris, Cannes, Venice, Rome . . . I wish you could have come.’
‘Me too,’ said Ruby, ‘but my father had just died.’
‘I was so sorry to hear that,’ said Imogen. ‘I wish I could have helped.’
‘You did,’ said Ruby, ‘and even if I never got to see all those lovely places in the flesh, all your postcards kept me going through the dark times.’
Imogen leaned over and squeezed Ruby’s hands.
‘I’m glad you had a good time, Miss.’
‘Best of all, that was the year I met Ambrose.’
‘Ambrose?’
‘My husband, Ambrose Lucian Hayward,’ said Imogen proudly. ‘He’s a solicitor. A wonderful man.’ She studied Ruby’s face. ‘So what have you been doing with your life,’ she continued, ‘apart from getting married and having a baby on the way?’
Ruby gave her a brief outline of her life since they’d last met, ending with Jim’s injury.
‘How awful,’ cried Imogen, ‘I had no idea.’
‘It’s not so bad now,’ said Ruby. ‘We are happy, in our separate ways. It hasn’t turned out the way we thought, but Jim is carving a name for himself and I enjoy running the guest house.’
Bea returned to the summerhouse. ‘He’s delayed,’ she said. ‘Some sort of emergency. We’ll get a taxi.’
‘Sit down and enjoy your tea first, Mrs Quinn,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ll run you both home in my car when we’re ready. Ruby has been telling me about the guest house.’
‘We don’t want to be any trouble,’ Bea protested.
‘It’s no trouble at all.’
Bea sat back down. ‘Has Ruby told you she’s been helping Jewish refugees?’
‘Mum!’ Ruby scolded.
‘No, she hasn’t.’ Imogen laughed. ‘Come on, Ruby, tell me.’
Ruby explained about the Deborah Committee work that she was involved with.
‘Tell her about your little book,’ Bea prompted.
Imogen was fascinated. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘that’s a book that might even be useful for us. Can I see a copy?’
‘Of course,’ said Ruby. ‘I’ll give you one when you drop us home.’
It was already getting dark by the time they arrived back at the guest house. None of them had intended for Bea and Ruby to stay so long, but they had enjoyed each other’s company.
‘Don’t forget to give me one of those books,’ said Imogen as she drew up outside Sea View.
Ruby stepped out of the car. ‘Shan’t be a minute, Mum.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Imogen. ‘It’ll save time.’
They waved to Eric, who had just turned into his gateway on his bike.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
Ruby smiled happily. ‘Fine, just fine.’
As she reached the front door she turned to Imogen. ‘What’s that awful smell?’ As she spoke, recognition dawned. ‘My God . . . gas!’
Ruby fumbled in her handbag for the keys. Oh, where were they? Her bag wasn’t that big, but there were times when things slipped down to the bottom and it became cavernous. Infuriatingly, this was one of those times.
Imogen watched her fumbling and waited anxiously. Neither of them noticed, but as Ruby had said ‘gas’, Eric had thrown his bike onto the path and vaulted the low wall between the two houses. Seeing him jump over, Bea had got out of the car.
At last Ruby found the key and, after another fumble, pushed it into the lock. A heavy, pungent and evil smell wafted out to greet them. The whole house was filled with gas. How long had the gas tap been on? And where was Jim? Automatically Ruby reached for the light switch. At the same time, she felt a sharp blow on her wrist and Eric’s voice right next to her ear said, ‘No!’
Ruby turned her head, startled.
‘One spark from that switch and we’ll all be blown to kingdom come,’ he said firmly.
She went to step inside, but once again Eric stopped her. Bea tugged at her daughter’s arm. ‘You’d better not go in there,’ she said, ‘not in your condition.’
Not in your condition . . . Ruby’s hand went to her belly. Eric had grabbed a couple of scarves from the hall stand and was wrapping them around his nose and mouth.
‘Back door,’ he said. ‘Do you have a key?’ Ruby stared at him with a blank expression. ‘A key, Ruby?’ His voice was urgent. ‘Is the key in your bag?’
Ruby shook her head. ‘It’s in the door.’
‘Go round the back and break the kitchen window,’ Eric told Bea and Imogen. ‘I’ll go in this way, but I’ll have to be quick. There’s so much gas, it’s a bit of a risk.’
As he headed down the hallway, Imogen, Bea and a couple of passers-by who had followed them up the path ran down the side of the house. There was a galvanized bucket by the back door. Ruby used it when she washed the kitchen floor and the back step. Bea picked up the scrubbing brush inside and banged the glass a couple of times. With the window still intact, Imogen grabbed the bucket and hurled it at the window. At the same time they heard the key in the back door turn, and a second later Eric crashed outside, coughing and retching. He only just had time to yank the scarves from his face before he was violently sick and then he collapsed, gasping for breath, on the ground.
Bea pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and ran it under the outside tap. She washed his face with it and they turned him on his side. He was deathly pale. ‘Get a St John ambulance, quick,’ Imogen barked at one of the strangers in the path.
Ruby was stunned. She watched helplessly. Her brain was refusing to function. With everyone’s attention on Eric, she looked in the back door. Biscuit lay on the mat, his tongue protruding between his lips. His eyes were open and sightless. She bent to touch him, but she didn’t go inside. The animal was stiff.
Eric sat up.
‘Where’s Jim?’ said Ruby. Nobody moved. It was obvious to everyone, except perhaps Ruby, that no one could possibly have survived in that toxic atmosphere. ‘Where’s my husband?’
Putting her handkerchief over her mouth, she stepped into the kitchen. Even with the taps off, the door open and the window smashed, the pungent smell of gas was still overwhelming. Ruby looked around the room. A man she’d never seen before came up behind her. ‘Out of the way, love. We’ll get him.’
He pushed her roughly to one side and three men, their feet crunching on broken glass on the floor, went into the kitchen. As they bent over the co
oker, she saw him. Jim was lying on his stomach, with his whole head and chest inside the oven. The dead monkey, loyal to the end, was lying on his back. One man threw it carelessly to one side and grabbed Jim’s feet. The three of them lifted him from the oven and took him outside and into the fresh air. They laid him on the path, face up. He was a terrible colour. Yellow pus framed his eyes and his mouth was filled with mucus.
Imogen and Bea began artificial respiration. Imogen knelt Jim with his head between her knees and began pulling his arms from his side above his head and back again, while Bea pushed his chest. Jim made no sound, but a trickle of yellow mucus came out of his mouth.
‘No wonder he can’t breathe,’ cried Ruby. ‘There’s something in his mouth!’ She pushed her finger between his lips and hooked out a wad of paper. A knot of mucus followed.
Ruby was staring at the paper. ‘Why’s he got newspaper in his mouth?’ she gasped.
No one had an answer. Imogen and Bea continued to work away.
Not long afterwards they heard the ambulance bell and then the sound of running feet. The women got up and moved away to make room, and Ruby watched the ambulance attendants trying to revive her husband. A second or two later she became aware that her mother was crying and put her arm around Bea’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be all right, Mum,’ said Ruby. ‘As soon as they get him to hospital, he’ll be fine.’
Bea, her handkerchief pressed over her mouth to contain her sobs, glanced up at her daughter in disbelief.
Ruby smiled encouragingly. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’
The ambulance man stood to his feet. ‘Can’t do anything for this one, Jack,’ he said to his colleague. ‘The poor blighter’s a goner.’
‘No!’ cried Ruby. Her eyes grew wide. She staggered towards Jim, but then her legs gave way and she fainted.
CHAPTER 25
Eric waited until Jean was in bed before he spoke to Lena. The events of the past couple of days had left them both deeply shocked. The ambulance not only took Jim’s body, but also took Eric to hospital. He was immediately put on oxygen and was ordered to have bed rest. He felt light-headed and slightly confused, but apart from a dull headache that lasted about twenty-four hours, he had recovered well. Dr Quinn looked in on him several times and, because of what he had done, Eric was given star treatment by the nurses. When Lena visited him in the afternoon, she told him that Ruby was with her mother and the guest house was shut for a couple of weeks.
Dr Quinn sent a taxi to bring Eric home and, when he arrived, Jean was overjoyed to see him again. He left Lena saying goodnight to their daughter, then braced himself for what would inevitably be a difficult time.
Eventually Lena came downstairs with some washing and put it in the laundry box. Sensing that he was staring at her, she spun round. ‘Is something the matter?’
He nodded. ‘I need you to sit down.’
Immediately her heartbeat quickened. ‘What – what is it?’ Without taking her eyes from his face, Lena lowered herself onto a kitchen chair. ‘You’re frightening me.’
‘Jim knew.’
‘What do you mean, “Jim knew”? Knew what?’ Eric waited for her to work it out for herself. Her face paled and she began to tremble. ‘How?’
‘He found a story in a magazine.’
‘What magazine?’
Eric pushed the copy of Tit-Bits in front of her. ‘It was wrapped around the ice cream we had at Jean’s party. You gave it to him for the monkey, remember?’
Lena started to cry. ‘No . . . no. It’s my fault, isn’t it? It’s all my fault.’
Eric leaned forward to grasp hold of her hands. ‘This isn’t about blame.’
She searched his face, her eyes spilling tears. ‘Do you think he told anyone?’
Eric shrugged.
‘What can we do?’ she cried. ‘If he told somebody, they’ll take her away.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Eric replied, his tone measured. He could see Lena was trying hard not to panic, but even he was struggling to remain calm.
‘I can’t give her up,’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘I won’t. I’d rather die than give her up.’
‘And I can’t go back to prison,’ he said.
She fingered the magazine again. ‘When did he give you this?’
‘I was in there that afternoon,’ said Eric.
Her eyes grew wide. ‘Oh, Eric, you didn’t . . .’
‘He was fine when I left,’ he said calmly. ‘We had a row, but that was all.’ He moved into a position to put his arms around her, but she batted him away.
‘We’ll have to leave,’ she said, standing up. ‘We’ll go tonight. I’ll go and pack.’
‘Lena, we can’t keep on running away,’ said Eric. ‘I think we should sit tight. It might not be anything to worry about and, besides, the man is dead. How’s it going to look if we leg it during the night?’
She stared at him, trying to make sense of it all.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said again. His words sounded a bit lame, but she nodded and sat back down. He shifted his feet, before beginning again. ‘The thing is,’ he went on uncertainly, ‘he had some papers.’
‘Papers? What papers?’
‘He’d got hold of other old newspapers. He had a lot of stuff about – you know – Christine.’
‘Don’t call her that!’
‘He’d got a box full of clippings and letters,’ Eric went on.
She gasped. The panicky feeling in her chest was making breathing difficult. She knew the box Eric meant. Jim kept it with him wherever he was working. It was an old storage box for gramophone records. ‘What was he going to do with them?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Eric. ‘He said he wanted to hear our side of the story first.’
‘And you told him?’
‘What else could I do, Lena? The chap had me over a barrel. The thing is, I don’t think he’d told Ruby anything, and I want you to get those papers back before she reads them.’
‘Me?’ She rose to her feet. ‘I can’t go rummaging through his stuff.’
‘Listen to me, Lena. You’ve got to. They’re bound to ask you to help out in the guest house over the next few weeks, especially with the baby so close. Just pretend to be tidying up his things and have a look at the same time.’
‘Oh, Eric, I can’t – I can’t.’
He grasped her forearms and looked straight into her eyes. ‘You have to, Lena,’ he said firmly. ‘For our Jean’s sake.’
For the next few days, when Ruby woke up in the morning, her first thought was one of confusion. Where was she? The powder-blue walls and flowered curtains were unfamiliar. The single bed with its pale-lemon blanket and striped counterpane didn’t feel like her own bed, and of course it wasn’t. She was at her mother’s house. On two of the days the sun streamed in through the window and she could hear birdsong. Another day, soft rain made running noises down the window glass; and the next day the light levels were much lower because the sky was grey and overcast. As soon as she opened her eyes, she had no feeling at all, but then the awful grief would rush in, sucking all the warmth from her body and leaving her with an unbearable crushing pain in her chest. Her mind was flooded with horrible images. They were vivid, but muddled: Jim’s bloated and blue face, with mucus coming from his eyes and nose; her mother and Imogen desperately trying to get him to breathe; opening the front door to that terrible pungent smell; Eric being sick on the path . . . The scenes played over and over in her mind, until her throat closed up and her tears fell unchecked.
He had been a good husband to her. If only things had been different. He’d had a hard time and she hadn’t helped matters. How she wished she had told Jim how much he’d meant to her. If only she’d been kinder to him. She was devastated to think that the last thing he would have remembered was that she’d been unfaithful.
When she was up, people came and went. They tried to persuade her to eat or drink, suggested going for a ‘nice walk’ or taking a nap on the
bed, and she did what was required of her, but she felt like an automaton. Jim was dead. They were saying that he killed himself. If he did, it was all her fault. He’d been amazing about the baby, but that must have been a front. What other reason did he have to kill himself? Perhaps the enormity of what she had done had finally hit home and he couldn’t live with it any more. If that was so, then she had killed him as surely as if she’d turned on the gas taps herself. Oh, Jim . . .
She went over every detail of the day, looking for some clue – some small detail of something he might have said that she’d missed – but there was nothing. On the other hand, hadn’t his parting words been full of concern for her well-being? Was that another way of saying goodbye? If killing himself wasn’t about the baby, what other reason could he have had to take his own life? He was doing well with his newspaper articles. Why kill yourself when everything was going so well? He was always saying that he had a job to keep up with the demand for his crosswords. Just last week he’d told her he’d got enough commissions to keep him going for another six months at least. True, he still couldn’t walk and sometimes he was in pain, but in every other aspect his life was on the up. No, there was no other reason except the baby why he should do away with himself. It had to be the baby. Among his very last words to her had been, ‘Don’t go tiring yourself.’ Was that his way of telling her what he planned to do? It seemed a bit obscure, but what else was she to think?
Someone on the telephone wanted to speak to Jim.
Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Who is calling?’
‘Grenville Anderson of the Surrey and Sussex Recorder.’
Rachel chewed her bottom lip. Probably an editor wanting more crossword puzzles. ‘May I ask what this is about?’
‘I would prefer to speak to Mr Searle in person,’ said Grenville. ‘This is his telephone number, isn’t it?’
‘Mr Anderson,’ Rachel began, ‘I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news. Mr Searle has passed away.’
There was a slight pause, then Grenville exclaimed, ‘What! How – when?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say anything more at the moment,’ said Rachel. ‘It has become a matter for the police.’