by Pam Weaver
‘Good Lord!’
‘May I ask you what this call is about?’
‘Are you his wife?’
‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m his sister-in-law. Mr Searle’s passing was only a week ago and, right now, Mrs Searle is indisposed.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Grenville flustered. ‘Please forgive me. I had no idea. Please give Mrs Searle my sincere condolences.’
‘I will,’ said Rachel, still waiting.
‘I was ringing to talk to Mr Searle about the prize he has won.’
‘Prize?’ said Rachel faintly.
‘First prize, in fact,’ Grenville went on. ‘We have been running it for years. It’s hugely popular, and Mr Searle has won the sum of twenty-five pounds. We shall of course send it to his widow, but I need to warn you that, when the paper comes out, there will be a picture of Mr Searle on the front page. I telephoned him about the issue a few days ago. He knew about the prize, but wanted to keep it a secret and surprise his wife.’
Rachel was having problems trying not to break down.
‘I think, under the circumstances,’ Grenville went on, ‘you should break the news to Mrs Searle yourself.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Rachel huskily.
‘Please accept my sincere condolences,’ Grenville repeated.
‘What was the prize for?’
‘An article,’ said Grenville. ‘On making the most of life.’
Rachel hung up. Poor Jim . . . poor Ruby.
The inquest into Jim’s death was a lot more open-and-shut than either Nelson’s or Linton Carver’s had been. Rex told the court that Jim was thrilled to become a father, but – faced with his medical record, which showed the hopelessness of his mobility, and the fact that when he lost his photographic business he had lost everything – it seemed inevitable that there could be only one conclusion.
‘You say he had problems with his mobility?’ the coroner asked Rex.
‘He found it hard to walk, and his balance was very wobbly.’
‘Did he have falls?’
‘He hadn’t had one for a while, but I think that was because he would lean over the back of his wheelchair when he wanted to walk. It gave him stability and support.’
‘So the bruise on his forehead could have been accidental?’
Ruby looked up. She didn’t know Jim had had a bruise. She tried to remember it, but couldn’t.
‘Could the injury have been accidental?’ the coroner repeated.
‘Possibly.’
‘Possibly or probably?’
‘Probably.’
‘Why didn’t he simply stay in the wheelchair?’
‘Jim was a determined man,’ said Rex. ‘He didn’t give up easily.’
‘But he did get depressed?’
Rex looked uncomfortable.
‘Dr Quinn?’
‘Yes,’ Rex said reluctantly, ‘he did sometimes feel let down by life.’
Ruby tried to redress the balance, by giving evidence that Jim was doing well with his new interest, but when the editor of the Gazette read out some of the readers’ responses, the vitriolic nature of their opinions only added to the coroner’s convictions. The coroner returned a verdict of suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed, and released the body for burial. Thus it was that, five days later, Jim was interred in the cemetery at Offington Corner.
At his wake, Imogen invited Ruby to come away with her for a few days.
‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘I have the baby to consider. I have to get back to the guest house.’
‘Is she asleep?’ asked Bea.
‘I think so.’
Ruby heard her sister-in-law’s quiet reply, but didn’t open her eyes. She was lying on the couch in the summer-house in her mother’s garden. The weather was warm but hazy – the perfect day for relaxing. It was a month or so since the funeral and everyone was still struggling to come to terms with what Jim had done. After she had fainted, when Jim was declared dead, Bea had insisted that her daughter stay at home with her and Rex. Ruby was slowly emerging from the terrible fog of grief that had left her unable to think clearly, but there were times when she didn’t want to talk, and this was one of them.
Rachel had filled a zinc bath with warm water. Seventeen-month-old Alma was sitting in it playing with some eggcups, a colander and some spoons, while the rest of the family sat around a small table on the lawn. Rex leaned back in the deckchair with the newspaper over his head. A little way away, Percy was playing croquet with May.
‘Poor girl,’ said Bea sympathetically. ‘How could he do that to her, at a time like this? There was absolutely no reason for him to take his own life.’
‘That’s what I can’t understand,’ said Rachel. ‘He was about to become a father, his crosswords were selling well and, only the week before, Ruby was telling me he’d been given his own column in another newspaper. It just doesn’t make sense.’
Although she didn’t join in the conversation, Ruby felt exactly the same.
‘He had some odd opinions,’ said Percy.
‘I’m not sure he believed everything he wrote,’ said Rex, his voice muffled by the paper. ‘He was a good journalist, that’s all. He had a sound understanding of action and reaction, and what he wrote sold newspapers.’
Ruby had heard enough. She stirred herself and immediately everyone was concerned about her.
‘Don’t fuss,’ she scolded as she sat up.
‘We’re all bound to be worried about you,’ said her mother.
‘There’s no need,’ said Ruby. ‘And I need to get back to the guest house. I can’t afford to lose any more customers.’
The family all looked from one to the other and Ruby guessed something was afoot. ‘What is it?’
‘Ruby, we all want to help you,’ said Rachel. ‘In your condition, you clearly can’t run the place single-handed, so your mother and I have worked out a rota.’
Ruby blinked in surprise.
‘It includes your mother and me,’ Rachel went on, ‘but it also includes several of your friends who are desperate to be of service.’ She handed Ruby a list of names. ‘Each person has pledged either a whole day or one morning or an afternoon a week. You don’t have to pay anyone. They are simply glad to help.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Ruby whispered.
‘Why not?’ said Bea. ‘They are all people who have a reason to be grateful for your help at one time or another and, I must say, they were practically falling over each other to be included.’
There was a lump in her throat as Ruby went over the names. Her mother, bless her, Imogen and Lena. She’d half-expected that; but the people listed underneath were a revelation to her: Susan Marley, who had spent a couple of Christmases with Ruby before she remarried; Edith Gressenhall, who was now happily married and renting Bea’s old house in Newlands Road; Rivka, who was giving up her one day off a week to help out; and Rachel herself, who had added in brackets next to her name: ‘(I have a nanny for Alma)’. Then there was Florrie Dart, Olive James, Betty Dawkins and Eileen Hall – all old neighbours from Newlands Road – and finally Cousin Lily and Aunt Vinny. With the volunteers doing either a whole day or doubling up with someone else to do a morning or an afternoon, it seemed that the guest house was completely covered for a fortnight at a time.
‘There’ll be no need for you to worry about anything until after you’ve had your baby,’ said Rachel.
Ruby’s eyes were smarting. Such kindness, such consideration. She almost had to pinch herself to believe what they were doing.
‘So you see, my dear,’ said Rex, ‘you have no reason to run the guest house for a while. Imogen has invited you to go and stay in her home, to have a proper break, and I have to say I think it a splendid idea.’
Ruby had to admit she was tempted. ‘There’s only a couple of months before the baby is born,’ she said, rubbing her hand over her bump.
‘Imogen has promised to get you back in good time for that,’ said Bea.
Ruby knew she was exhausted, and that made the offer too good to refuse. She couldn’t say the words, but she nodded her head gratefully.
‘Shall I help you to go back home and pack a suitcase?’ asked Bea.
They all left Bea’s house at around six. Rachel and Percy were anxious to get Alma back home and in bed. Ruby hadn’t been back to her own home since that awful day. It seemed strange walking up the path, and she felt her heart lurch a little as they opened the front door. She hadn’t given much thought as to what she wanted to take, except for one thing. With her case packed, she went into the kitchen, where her mother was wrapping something up to put in the bin.
‘There were loads of flies hanging around the meat safe,’ she said. ‘I had no idea there was a shepherd’s pie in there.’
‘I made that for Jim’s tea,’ said Ruby dully.
‘Well, it’s as high as a kite now, of course,’ said Bea. ‘I should have checked.’
Ruby picked up the electric iron from the seat of Jim’s wheelchair and, winding the flex around it, put it away in the cupboard. She took one last look around the kitchen. It was neat and tidy, but everywhere was dusty and she spotted the odd sliver of broken glass. The floor needed sweeping. Still, she needn’t worry about that. The first member of the team, Lena, would be on the doorstep first thing in the morning and, as soon as she was ready to turn the sign back to Vacancies, Sea View would be open for business.
CHAPTER 26
A couple of days later, Imogen took Ruby on an excursion. It wasn’t far, but it was further than Ruby had ever been before. They went to Bosham, a picturesque village two miles from Chichester.
‘In the eleventh century this was the place where King Canute commanded the waves to “go back”,’ said Imogen.
‘Why?’
Imogen shrugged, ‘To demonstrate his kingly powers, I suppose.’
‘I hope he did it when the tide was on the turn,’ Ruby quipped and they both laughed.
‘Have you heard of King Harold?’ Imogen asked as they pulled up. She was wearing a delightful yellow floral dress in handkerchief linen with a bias flared skirt, short sleeves and an empire-line bust. Ruby felt huge in a wraparound dress in blue, with a matching striped jacket long enough to cover her pregnancy. She nodded. At school she had learned all about King Harold and the battle of 1066.
‘Apparently he sailed from Bosham,’ said Imogen. ‘It’s even mentioned in the Bayeux Tapestry.’
Ruby had to admit she was slightly surprised. The place was very small and almost insignificant, even if it was beautiful. They found an area of grass called Quay Meadow where they put down their picnic things. With the church in the background, it was a delightful spot. Imogen put up a folding chair for Ruby to sit on. It wasn’t terribly comfortable, but it served its purpose. For the first time since Jim died, Ruby had regained her appetite. They ate boiled eggs, pork pie, cheese and bread, with fresh greenhouse tomatoes.
As yet, Ruby hadn’t met Imogen’s husband. At the moment he was forced to spend a lot of time in London working on an important case, so he was living with his parents in Highgate. He telephoned regularly, and it was obvious that Imogen adored him.
‘When we first married,’ she told Ruby, as she lay back on the picnic rug, ‘we talked about moving to London, but the air in Sussex is so much nicer.’
‘You must miss him,’ said Ruby.
‘I don’t think I could live without him,’ said Imogen. She laughed and almost immediately was seized with embarrassment. ‘Oh, Ruby, I’m sorry.’
‘You really mustn’t worry,’ replied Ruby. ‘I hate it when people feel they’re treading on eggshells when I’m around. I’ve got to get used to it, haven’t I?’
‘But it must be awful for you.’
Ruby looked away. ‘It is,’ she said, ‘especially when I know it was my fault.’
‘You mustn’t say that,’ cried Imogen, leaning up on her elbow. ‘Of course it wasn’t your fault. Why on earth would you think that?’
Ruby hesitated. If she said the words, the terrible secret would no longer belong just to her. In the days since Jim had been gone, it had eaten away at her, tormenting her and making her hate the baby inside her. She had felt frustrated and miserable. Jim had obviously had a change of heart, and it must have been to do with her infidelity. Nobody knew except them, but perhaps he had decided he couldn’t deal with it after all.
Their life together had been wonderful when they’d first wed. The sex was . . . well, she didn’t want to remember that. Being denied something so exquisitely beautiful was torture. Perhaps if her body had never been awakened, it might not have mattered so much, but it had and it did. With Jim she had discovered love, passion and that wonderful feeling when he’d encouraged her to a climax; and, once sampled, she’d found she couldn’t do without it. Of course, being with Bob had been exciting, but nothing like the times she remembered with Jim.
Ruby glanced at Imogen, who was still awaiting her answer. Should she tell her? Should she keep silent? She desperately needed to share it with someone, but who? She had decided against talking to her mother. It was too intimate, too embarrassing. Rachel? She’d be shocked and possibly angry too, especially when she’d gone to such great lengths to help save their marriage. So why not Imogen? She knew Imogen’s secret and had never breathed a word to a living soul. Imogen knew she could trust Ruby, but could Ruby trust Imogen?
‘Ruby?’ said Imogen, sitting up. ‘Are you all right? You’ve suddenly gone very pale.’
The tears came unbidden. Ruby stared at her friend and gulped. ‘It was my fault.’
‘Oh, Ruby,’ said Imogen, getting to her feet.
‘The baby isn’t his.’
There – she’d said it. Her words hung in the air like shards of glass. Ruby hardly dared draw breath as she searched Imogen’s face for her reaction.
‘Did Jim know?’ she asked.
Ruby nodded.
‘When did you tell him?’
‘Last November,’ said Ruby. ‘He guessed when I was being sick in the morning.’
Imogen put her arms around Ruby’s shoulders. It was almost too much to bear. Ruby burst into tears again. ‘But if he knew all that time ago,’ said Imogen gently, ‘I can’t see why he would do away with himself now.’
Ruby blew her nose on her handkerchief and stared at her own hands in her lap. What Imogen said made sense. If Jim was that upset about it, surely he would have committed suicide way back then. That thought made her remember something he’d said at the time. ‘We’ll tell everyone it’s mine, then we’ll say no more about it.’ Why would he say that, if he didn’t mean it?
‘Your mother and Rachel told me Jim was thrilled about the baby,’ Imogen went on. ‘No, there has to be another reason why he did that. What you’re saying doesn’t add up.’
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ said Ruby anxiously.
‘Of course not!’ cried Imogen. ‘After what you did for me, I always wanted you for my friend. Now we have even more in common than before.’
Ruby’s heart leapt. My friend – she had always felt there was something special about Imogen, and now she could class her as her friend.
Effie Rhodes’s face flushed with pleasure. She read and reread the letter over and over again. Imagine him writing to her in person – and a handwritten letter too. ‘My dear Effie,’ he’d begun. She ran her finger over the ink. She was in the hallway. Normally she left the post for the maid to bring in, but she’d been on her way downstairs as the letters dropped onto the mat. As soon as she saw the envelope with the BUF flash in the corner, she knew she couldn’t wait.
Years ago Effie had invited a woman who studied handwriting to one of her dinners. After the meal, they’d played a game. The woman – Effie struggled to remember her name – had asked each person to write a sentence, and then she’d told them something about their personality just by studying their writing. Effie couldn’t remember everything she’d been told, bu
t didn’t angular letters (the way she wrote herself) depict a person who liked quick results? And a sixty-degree slant, didn’t that mean an intense nature? Even the pressure of the pen on the paper said something about the writer. A heavy hand, like this one, meant that the writer was the sort of person who would act first and ask questions later:
My dear Effie,
Diana and I would be delighted to attend your soirée on Thursday week. We plan to combine it with a visit to Littlehampton in the afternoon, where I have a business meeting with the faithful, and others.
I commend you and Gus for all your hard work and devotion to the Colonial Office. I trust you will both enjoy your well-earned retirement.
O. Mosley
‘Retirement’ – she hated that word. It made her feel so . . . old. She took a deep breath. The Leader was coming here: to her home. She had less than a week and a half to prepare but, by God, she would give them an evening to remember. Already her mind was whirling. She knew she was brilliant at organizing, but with this, nothing must go wrong. She would enlist Freda Fosdyke’s help. She had experience of getting lazy staff to work harder. She could do all the stuff at grass-roots level – cleaning the house, getting the silver polished, washing the plates, and so on – leaving Effie to do the really important things.
Mosley was a man who liked the finer things of life. She would seek out a quartet or, better still, a quintet of quality. How would she find out what sort of music he liked? And flowers – she would call the florist immediately after she had breakfasted. She stood for a minute, clutching his letter to her chest and dreaming of how good it would be, when she spotted the gardener dead-heading the roses. Opening the door, Effie called out, ‘Watson, we must have plenty of colour in the garden.’ And she told the startled man, ‘Lots of pot plants. Hydrangeas by the front door, and geraniums by the summerhouse.’
Watson blinked and touched his forelock.
Gus was reading his morning paper as she walked into the dining room. ‘Hello, old thing. Sleep well?’