The Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  Hettie said, ‘I wonder how much of Cressida’s money has gone.’

  ‘Presumably she left it all to Montague. She had no one else to leave it to.’

  ‘But why should he need it?’ Hettie demanded. ‘Montague’s comfortably well off and he rarely seems to spend any of it so he’ll hardly be using Cressida’s money. I wish he would spend some on the house. It’s beginning to look dilapidated, don’t you think?’

  Dilys sighed. ‘A little shabby, perhaps. I’ll find another possible housekeeper and we’ll both go over there and see what can be done to improve matters. I don’t like that girl being alone with him. If he were to take a tumble . . . or have a fit of some kind, she’d probably panic.’

  And on this gloomy note they once more agreed and then went their separate ways.

  Two days later, which was Wednesday, Hettie sat in the doctor’s waiting room as arranged, waiting for the afternoon surgery to begin, and trying to avoid the other patients who were sharing the large space with her. It was an airy, high-ceilinged room with chairs against three walls and a table in the centre on which piles of magazines had been arranged. Hettie was pretending to read ‘Country Homes’, having already flipped through ‘The Literary Scene’ without finding anything to interest her. She wondered how many copies of these magazines were sold each month and how many were actually read while they languished on private coffee tables, or in doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms.

  Suddenly she became aware that the receptionist was trying to catch her attention. Abandoning her magazine she hurried to the desk.

  ‘Mrs Pennington, we don’t seem to have any notes for you. I’m a little confused.’

  ‘I thought I had explained,’ Hettie told her irritably, aware that the other patients were listening to the exchange. ‘I’m here on behalf of my brother-in-law Montague, who is unable to attend. He is elderly and rather frail and I want to speak to his doctor on his behalf.’ She hoped it sounded reasonable.

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Pennington. Then I shall send in his notes. The doctor will need them.’

  After another five-minute wait Hettie was called in to the doctor’s consulting room and found herself shaking hands with an elderly man whom she took to be in his mid-sixties. He had greying hair and a tired smile. In fact there was a general weariness about him which Hettie hoped might prove to her advantage. A younger, more alert doctor might see through her little plan.

  He was reading a thin file which she presumed had been provided by the receptionist.

  ‘And what exactly is the matter with your brother-in-law?’ he asked after a very brief final glance at the notes. ‘He has no history of serious illness.’

  ‘No, that’s right,’ she agreed. ‘We are, on the whole, a very healthy family but I fear that the last time we visited him – that is my sister-in-law and I – we found him rather vague and forgetful . . . that is, compared with the last visit which was about two months ago.’

  ‘You are saying that this deterioration has not been gradual but rather sudden?’

  ‘That’s it exactly, doctor. We don’t visit very often – he values his privacy, you see, and this noticeable vagueness took us by surprise.’

  ‘Does he live alone?’

  ‘No. He did have a devoted housekeeper but she has left very abruptly and we are trying to replace her. In the meantime there is a young housemaid caring for him as well as she can.’

  ‘Are you connected to your brother-in-law by telephone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hettie was become uneasy. This conversation was not going quite the way she had intended. The doctor was showing little concern for his patient.

  After a moment’s thought he said, ‘I suspect you are worrying unnecessarily, Mrs Pennington. With no previous history of anything serious, I do not see his present condition as particularly worrying. We all become a little confused if we live long enough but it is not a sign of disease. Simply a result of growing old. Is your brother unhappy in any way?’

  Hettie tried to think of some way he might be, but failed. ‘I think not, doctor, but . . .’

  ‘Then I can put your mind at ease, Mrs Pennington. I would suggest that your brother is in no danger. The maid can reach you if anything worrying happens.’ He adjusted his spectacles and smiled. ‘The telephone is a wonderful thing, is it not?’

  ‘But suppose he has a fall?’

  ‘Suppose I have a fall. Suppose you do. It can be dealt with. When the new housekeeper takes up her position she will no doubt report to you if there is a problem.’

  ‘Ye–es. Naturally the telephone makes things easier but . . .’ Hettie knew that she had insisted on dealing with this discussion herself and felt that there was no way she could return to Dilys without a satisfactory outcome. She decided on the truth and leaned forward confidingly. ‘The truth is, doctor, that my brother is a wealthy man but has no idea of how to cope with it . . . in the future, that is. My sister and I are fearful that he is already becoming a little senile and may be being exploited by his staff.’ Did that sound reasonable? She hoped so.

  ‘Ah! Now we have it.’ He smiled in what Hettie considered a somewhat patronizing manner. ‘The family money. Yes. It can be a problem. What you want to know from me is whether or not your vague, forgetful brother might be persuaded by unscrupulous people, to spend his money unwisely. I cannot answer that except by saying that I would have to visit him and make an assessment on his mental state and, if necessary, call for a second opinion from a psychiatrist qualified to determine the extent of your brother’s deterioration.’

  ‘So this is not a simple matter, doctor.’

  ‘Oh no! It occurs quite frequently but –’ he held up his hand, smiling – ‘I’m happy to say that in most cases the deterioration is not sufficient to warrant such interference. Sometimes –’ he leaned forward and lowered his voice – ‘sometimes we realize that it is simply a ploy by the relatives.’ He rubbed a finger and thumb together. ‘Money! They are hoping to gain control!’ He sat back, his expression enigmatic.

  ‘Good gracious!’ she said weakly.

  ‘In an extreme case we would then recommend a power of attorney which means that someone else would be appointed to look after his interests and deal with any problems, financial or otherwise.’

  At last! Hettie tried to hide her relief. ‘Let us hope this is never necessary,’ she said quickly, ‘but at least I now understand the way the process works.’

  He nodded. ‘So, Mrs Pennington, are you asking me now to visit your brother?’

  ‘Oh no! Not yet, thank goodness! And it may never be necessary.’

  ‘Let us hope not.’ He stood as a sign that the interview was at an end and Hettie withdrew. She walked out of the surgery with a spring in her step. It had been a rather uncomfortable interview but despite a few awkward moments, she thought she had dealt with it reasonably well and they were that much nearer to achieving her plan – the plan she would share with Dilys when the time was right.

  While Hettie was with the doctor, Daisy was sitting in the kitchen with Monty. Each of them held a mug of hot milk which was intended to be relaxing.

  Daisy said, ‘So, according to Hettie, this other woman is coming at twelve o’clock? What’s her name?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’ He frowned, then said, ‘Is it Bilson?’

  ‘It’s no good asking me, sir. It was you who answered the telephone. You spoke to your sister-in-law, not me.’

  ‘Well, you were nowhere to be found! Just disappeared!’

  ‘I was hanging up the clothes!’ Daisy protested. ‘I did a bit of washing – just essential smalls. How was I to know the telephone would ring?’

  ‘How was I to know that you were outside?’ he retaliated crossly.

  ‘Well, you think it’s a Miss Bilson and she’s coming today at twelve.’ She looked round the kitchen and tutted. ‘I’ll never get tidied in time but they’ll be sure to go round the whole house. What else did she tell you – about this woman?’
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  He screwed up his face in concentration. ‘Something about her age . . . fifty-five, I think. Yes, fifty-five. And she’s never married. Yes, that was it. Never married because her fiancé was killed in the war with the Boers. He was a soldier.’

  ‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he!’ She grinned. ‘Let’s hope she’s a nice person and you think you will get along with her.’

  ‘But if I don’t like her – what then? My sister-in-law can be very forceful. I sometimes feel sorry for poor old Albert.’

  And suppose I don’t like her, Daisy wondered. I shall have to work with her . . . unless I give in my notice or get sacked. She said, ‘If you don’t like her give me a wink when they’re not looking and I’ll try and think of something to put her off. Miss Bilson, I mean, not Hettie.’

  He looked dubious. ‘What could you do?’

  ‘We–ell . . . I could be rude to her and then when Hettie tries to sack me for impertinence you could say that you’re my employer and you want to keep me!’

  They thought about it for a moment or two but then the telephone rang and Daisy trotted off to answer it.

  ‘Daisy, this is Hettie Pennington. Did my brother-in-law pass on the message about the woman who is applying for the . . .’

  ‘Miss Bilson? Yes, he did.’

  ‘Bilson? No, no. It’s a Miss Willis. He must have misheard. We’re coming over tomorrow afternoon . . .’

  ‘Tomorrow? We thought it was today at . . .’

  ‘No, Daisy. Do please pay attention. I shall meet Miss Willis there at three thirty but I shall come early to inspect the house and I hope to find it in better shape than last time. Dust under the beds, dead flowers on the landing window sill . . . You must make a real effort, Daisy.’

  Daisy said nothing. She was wondering how Monty had managed to forget so many details. She said cautiously, ‘So her fiancé was killed in the war. How terribly sad.’

  There was a silence. Then Hettie said, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Miss Willis’s fiancé.’

  ‘Her fiancé died a year after the war – of meningitis. Did Montague tell you all this nonsense? Tut. He really is becoming very forgetful, poor man – or else he has a lurid imagination.’

  Daisy struggled to make sense of what was being said. ‘He doesn’t usually make things up,’ she stammered. ‘That is, I’ve never noticed that he is getting muddled. Mind you, my grandmother had a terrible memory all her life – even when she was younger. So Ma said. She reckoned she’d forget her own name one day.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your grandmother, Daisy. Just put Montague right about the visit . . .’

  ‘So it’s definitely not today?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve just told you – it’s tomorrow. Probably Dilys will come too. I shall ring her now that I’ve spoken to you.’

  The call ended abruptly and now it was Daisy who felt confused. Slowly and thoughtfully she returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s tomorrow,’ she said. ‘That gives me more time to tidy the house. I’ll beat the carpets outside while it’s dry and—’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s Willis, not Bilson. So I must get started.’ She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Why don’t you ask Len to cut a few flowers – I’m sure he can find some late roses – and then settle yourself in the summer house and think about what you want to wear tomorrow.’ Making such decisions for himself, she had decided, would help him to feel less dependent.

  ‘What about the waistcoat with the brass buttons?’

  ‘That’s nice. Whatever you’ll feel comfortable in.’

  He nodded. ‘What’s for tea?’

  ‘Egg and cress sandwiches and some of Ma’s rock cakes.’

  His face brightened. ‘I’ll go and find Len.’

  Daisy watched him go with a feeling of unease. Then, with an effort, she pushed the worrying thoughts from her mind, and hurried inside to find the carpet beater.

  The man watched them from behind the shrubs. He was bent over to reduce his height and aid his concealment. He saw the old man talking with the gardener as the two men wandered through the small but neat area behind the house – a small terrace, a strip of lawn, a flower bed with roses and a few shrubs. The old man was very unsteady on his feet and once or twice he clutched his companion’s arm to steady himself. Occasionally they stopped to cut flowers although it was October and most of them were finished and would offer no decent blooms until the following summer.

  The watching man muttered under his breath about the gardener’s laziness – taking his time and thus wasting his employer’s money. ‘You wouldn’t get away with it if I was your master!’ Mind you, some people had no idea what real work was like, he argued silently. If the gardener had been through what he had experienced, he’d understand the meaning of hard labour.

  Growing stiff from his bent position, the man shuffled sideways to hide himself behind the trunk of a large chestnut tree and the gardener caught the sound and turned towards him.

  Damn! He ducked down, holding his breath. If they spotted him, he’d run.

  ‘Thought I ’eard something,’ the gardener told his companion and took a few steps forward, peering into the foliage half-heartedly.

  The old man said, ‘You can’t be too careful these days, Len. My brother was startled by an intruder a few days ago. Not in the house, but trespassing in the garden, bold as brass.’ He tapped his head. ‘Bit strange, apparently.’

  ‘Soldier back from the wars, maybe,’ said the gardener, abandoning his suspicion. ‘Some of the poor blighters come ’ome with their wits ’alf gone. No good to anyone. My aunt’s stepson was like that. Drowned ’isself in the end. Best thing he could ’ave done, she said. Wore ’er down with ’is antics.’

  The watching man studied the house, nodding as vague memories surfaced. One window was the bathroom . . . the rest bedrooms. It all seemed a long time ago – which it was. There was a pretty little maid then. He must have been about sixteen and he had designs on her. Ivy. That was her name. He grinned at the memories. She was willing, too, until he went too far and then the stupid little thing betrayed him. Ran screaming to his uncle who told Father who tried to give him a bit of a thrashing . . . His mouth tightened. ‘Big mistake!’ he muttered. Father got more than he bargained for including a black eye. After that, there was a family decision and the son was packed off abroad as violent and unmanageable.

  ‘Bastards!’ he whispered.

  The two men were now making their way back to the house. Time to go, he told himself – but he’d be back.

  FIVE

  At half past ten the next morning Mrs Gray arrived. Daisy looked at her with astonishment. The woman reminded her of a wrestler – a wrestler wearing an apron over a coarse dress. She had huge muscular arms, a large body and fat face, scrawny hair straggling loose over her shoulders – and a pair of men’s boots which peeped from beneath her skirt!

  ‘Mrs Gray. Heavy work!’ she announced without preamble. ‘Mrs Maynard sent me. I’m to help you get ready for someone’s visit – a new housekeeper, I believe – and then you might give me a job for a few hours each week. Please yourself.’

  She swept past Daisy and said, ‘Where’s the kitchen?’ but set off unerringly towards it without waiting for directions. ‘Best start with the kitchen floor.’ She stood, arms akimbo, looking at the tiled floor with disapproval. ‘Any laundry to do? I’m told you’re all at sixes and sevens here!’

  Daisy stammered, ‘There are a few pillow cases and some towels and maybe—’

  ‘Get the fire going under the copper.’ She looked round the kitchen. ‘Where is it? In the outhouse?’

  Daisy nodded.

  ‘Right then, put the laundry in to soak. I’ll deal with it later. Mangle outside, is it?’

  ‘In the yard.’ Wrong-footed, Daisy trailed behind her. She said ‘Er . . . I think . . .’ and then ran out of words.

  Already the woman was rummaging under the sink where she immediatel
y found a bucket and scrubbing brush.

  ‘Er . . . just sheets and towels, Mrs er. . . . I did some hand-washing . . .’

  The woman nodded.

  Daisy stammered, ‘I’ve forgotten your name. I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Gray but call me anything you like. Now who’s this cluttering up the kitchen?’ She glanced up at Monty and began to fill the bucket with hot water from the kettle.

  Monty hesitated in the doorway, his waistcoat held up for inspection. ‘There’s a loose button,’ he told Daisy, eyeing Mrs Gray nervously.

  Before Daisy could reply the new arrival said, ‘I bet you could sew it on better than any woman.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘My old man was a dab hand with a needle and cotton. Learned it in the army.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Monty glanced at Daisy for help. ‘The fact is . . .’

  In the silence that followed, Mrs Gray began to grate hard soap into the water in the bucket then rolled up her sleeves. ‘Out!’ she ordered, addressing them both. ‘Come back in fifteen minutes and it’ll be dry enough to walk on. First thing a housekeeper will look at is the kitchen floor. Second thing is a line full of fresh washing – even if it is Thursday.’

  She was already down on her knees, making a start on the neglected tiles of the floor. Daisy led the retreat, taking Monty with her.

  ‘Your sister Dilys sent her,’ she explained. ‘Might as well humour her. She’s also going to do some washing for us.’

  ‘Bit of a bruiser, isn’t she?’

  Daisy grinned. ‘I wouldn’t like to meet her in a dark alley, would you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll find you the sewing box, sir,’ said Daisy, hiding a grin. ‘And you can make a stab at that button while I tidy your bedroom and stow a few odds and ends in the spare room cupboard.’

  The house became a hive of activity as Mrs Gray organized the mini spring clean. Daisy gave in gracefully and allowed her to take over. Two and a half hours later a pleasant smell of soap and polish permeated the house, the kitchen floor almost sparkled and the washing fluttered on the line, blown by the wind which had recently replaced the rain.