The Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  He said, ‘Don’t either of you try anything!’

  His father looked on the point of collapse and shook his head.

  ‘Nothing to say to me then, after all these years?’ Stanley thrust his face closer to his father. He looked around. ‘Where’s the new Mrs Pennington? I gather there is one.’

  Albert said, ‘She’s away, staying with friends. You have no quarrel with my wife.’

  ‘What’s the taxi for?’

  Daisy said, ‘It’s to take me back.’ She was thinking rapidly, now that the shock had faded. ‘I’ve brought a message from Mr Montague Pennington.’ It crossed her mind that all the time she was here she was a witness, and hopefully Stanley was unlikely to shoot his father. She was willing to remain . . . but for how long?

  Albert was trying to rally himself. He said,’ What are you doing here, Stanley?’

  ‘I live here, don’t I? I mean, this is my parents’ home. It was my home once – before I was banished to the other side of the world. I thought I might be welcome here. The simple truth is, I don’t feel very welcome.’

  Daisy said indignantly, ‘How can you think you would be welcome if you bring a gun with you?’

  He turned towards her. ‘Ah! But is it a real gun? Or is it a toy. Or a copy? Or a real gun that no longer works? Would I be stupid enough to arrive home flourishing a loaded gun that works? It’s probably illegal to carry a loaded pistol.’

  There was a short silence while both Daisy and Albert weighed up the possibilities.

  Daisy said, ‘Suppose we ask you to leave. Will you go?’ She was annoyed to notice a tell-tale tremor in her voice. ‘Your father has been unwell and you are upsetting him. He has . . . he has a weak heart. Do you mean to frighten him to death?’

  Albert said ‘He doesn’t frighten me!’ but he sounded very frightened indeed.

  They were interrupted by the front door bell which was followed by the clatter of the letter box.

  ‘Are you alright in there, Miss?’

  ‘It’s the taxi driver,’ said Daisy. She looked at Albert. ‘I could ask him to fetch the police.’

  Stanley pointed the pistol in the direction of the front door. ‘Be a shame to get the taxi driver shot,’ he remarked.

  Albert said, ‘You said it was not a real gun.’

  ‘Maybe I lied.’

  Before either of them could guess what he would do next, Stanley turned and backed away towards the back door. He opened it, fired a shot into the kitchen ceiling and stepped outside into the garden, pulling the door to behind him. They heard his heavy footsteps as he ran down the path towards the back fence.

  Albert cried, ‘Let him go, Daisy!’ and sat back exhausted by the ordeal.

  Daisy ran to the front door, opened it and told the taxi driver that an armed intruder had threatened them.

  Startled, he said, ‘You’d best call the police!’

  Daisy shook her head. ‘Sadly, he’s . . . he’s known to us. I don’t think he’ll come back today, if ever. But I’ll settle Mr Pennington and then you can take me home.’

  He frowned. ‘What, leave the old man on his own?’

  ‘He’s very stubborn. I’ll ask him to come back with me but I doubt if he will.’

  Ten minutes later Daisy climbed back into the taxi alone. In spite of his fright, Albert had insisted that he could not run away from the confrontation indefinitely and would stay at home and await events.

  ‘There has to be a reckoning,’ he told Daisy, his tone resigned. ‘I think I’ve known for many years that this might happen. It’s just a matter of time.’

  If his son intended to kill him there would be no escape.

  Just after eleven the following morning, Hettie hung up the telephone and marched back into the kitchen where Dilys waited to hear the results of the conversation which Hettie had been having with Montague. Unable to await the expected answer to her letter she had decided to telephone instead.

  Now Hettie’s face was bright with annoyance and her lips were pressed together – never a good sign. ‘Ungrateful wretch!’ she snapped. ‘I should have known better than to try and help him. That’s the thanks I get for my letter! A flat “no”! Not even a “thank you” for all the time and effort I’ve put in on his behalf!’ She stood gazing out across the back garden, her back stiff with indignation.

  Dilys hesitated. She was still suspicious of Hettie’s motives in the ‘power of attorney’ business but was determined not to say so or to hint at her suspicions. ‘Then maybe we can stop worrying about him,’ she suggested, her tone carefully neutral.

  Hettie swung round and glared at her. ‘Stop worrying about him? What, waste all my time? Is that the best you can say? Wait until he is so incompetent that the family affairs become unsustainable and we are all thrown into penury? Really, Dilys, I thought you had understood the significance of what I have been trying to achieve.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hettie. I didn’t realize you had spent so much time . . .’

  ‘But that’s just it. I have. It’s a complex matter! I spent at least an hour in the library last week, trying to unravel the different types of power of attorney and exactly what is entailed. It’s not an easy subject to master, believe me.’

  ‘I thought it was just a matter of—’

  ‘You never do think things through, Dilys. I’m afraid the law is not an exact science. For instance, there’s an ordinary power of attorney suitable for some situations or events and another – a something-or-other . . . Ah! yes, an enduring one – which lasts longer but—’

  ‘Enduring?’

  ‘Do let me finish what I’m saying!’ Hettie rolled her eyes. ‘One might cover a specific event such as the transfer of a property. Another might cover the durations of an illness and the aftermath. There are forms to be filled in and signed and no end of decisions to be made on behalf of the donor.’

  ‘Are you the donor? I mean, would you be the . . .?’

  Impatiently, Hettie held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask, dear! You wouldn’t understand. It has not been easy for me and I suspect my mind is a little sharper than yours. A form has to be filled out and signed – before a notary, no less.’

  ‘A notary?’ Dilys felt baffled. Was Hettie deliberately making it sound more difficult than it really was?

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’ Hettie gave a disparaging toss of her head. ‘You have no idea how much is involved. If I were to be granted Montague’s “power of attorney” I would have to—’

  ‘Surely Albert would be the best person to—’

  ‘Albert has enough to think about right now, Dilys! If we believe all we hear, his wretched son is threatening to kill him! Of course, he will do no such thing but Albert will hardly be in a fit state to worry about his older brother who is becoming senile and needing help.’ She drew in a long breath. ‘I’m prepared to take it on but I don’t pretend that it will be easy. Far from it. There are the tax details to consider, I shall be paying his bills, making decisions about this and that –’ she waved a vague hand – ‘even selling his property.’

  Dilys frowned. ‘But Montague doesn’t have any property – except his house. He’s not going to sell his own house, Hettie. Where would he live?’

  ‘I said if he were to sell it, ‘Hettie said hastily. ‘Who knows what might happen to him in the next few years?’ Hettie shrugged her shoulders. ‘He might have to move in with you if he could no longer manage alone.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘Why not? You have plenty of room and you’re his sister.’

  ‘But he has a housekeeper – or will have, when we find someone. Daisy cannot stay there forever – she really is not suitable for such a responsibility.’

  Seeing that this scenario had worried her sister-in-law, Hettie changed direction. ‘Montague might become seriously ill and I would have to make a decision about his medical care. I might have to engage a full-time nurse . . . Or he might end up in hospital and never come out again and I would have to oversee
the sale of his house. We might need the money to pay for the nurse.’

  For a long moment neither spoke.

  Dilys was struggling with Hettie’s gloomy view of her brother’s future prospects. She said slowly, ‘So you are suggesting that either you, or Albert, would be a sort of executor.’

  ‘No, Dilys.’ Hettie raised her eyebrows in mock despair. ‘An executor is the person named in a will. Your brother isn’t dead. We’re talking about someone being granted power of attorney.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever grasp this, Dilys.’

  Dilys sighed heavily. I don’t think I will, she agreed silently. And frankly, I don’t think I want to.

  On Friday Mr Desmond arrived back in the office looking very pale and drawn. He asked for a tray of tea and sent for Steven.

  ‘So how did you manage, Mr Anders?’ he asked. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No sir.’ Steven smiled with quiet satisfaction. ‘I dealt with a few minor things and wrote them up for you, and rescheduled your more serious appointments. How are you, Mr Desmond? You’ve had a rather nasty few weeks.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to agree with you. My wife didn’t want me to come back today but the status of the Pennington child’s adoption is coming to term shortly and I don’t want any problems. It has to be handled very delicately.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I would always prefer to see what is in the sealed envelope in advance so I can be prepared but, naturally, that is out of the question. The contents are always a surprise – anathema to a solicitor as you will no doubt discover to your cost at some time in the future!’ He gave a wry smile, sipped his tea and wished his headache would pass. His wife had been right, he reflected. He did not feel well enough to be back at work. ‘Remind me what, if anything, you know about the case, Mr Anders.’

  ‘Er . . .’ The young man ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. ‘I did take a look at it, Mr Desmond, because I thought you might not be back in the office and I—’

  ‘Good man! Get on with it.’

  ‘Well, I know that there was a child that Montague Pennington knew nothing about . . . and the father is not named on the birth certificate.’

  ‘Exactly. Not unusual but was considered so in this particular case. The Pennington’s were, or rather are, very well respected in Bath. The whole family goes back a long way and has always given generously to the town’s various charities.’

  ‘Then presumably they were wealthy men.’

  ‘Oh yes, very. Some of the wealth gained at the gaming tables much earlier on and later, if my memory serves me well, there was at some time a connection with the Bath stone quarries.’ He wished Anders would stop fidgeting with his tie. It looked unprofessional. He would have to mention it some time – but not today. He did not feel up to it.

  Steven asked, ‘So what exactly happened to the child? Do we know that?’

  ‘We do. She was adopted by a local couple who were provided with an annuity towards the girl’s keep. But they, the adoptive parents, had no knowledge of the child’s parentage although naturally the father’s name was known to the private adoption agency. The truth is to be revealed when the girl reaches eighteen – which will be shortly. I’m led to believe there is a letter to the daughter explaining the background – a letter from the mother, that is.’

  ‘Nothing from the father?’

  ‘Not that we know of. Fascinating, isn’t it?’ He put a hand to his head. ‘I’ll check through all the information we have and then Miss Field can arrange the appointment.’ His head thumped painfully and he closed his eyes.

  ‘Are you sure you are fit to be here, Mr Desmond? You look very pale.’

  With an effort he opened his eyes to find Anders staring at him with concern. ‘Actually I do feel a little unwell, Mr Anders,’ he confessed. ‘In fact I feel slightly dizzy.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, perhaps I should go home again and rest. Will you ask Miss Field to order a taxi.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Mr Desmond watched him go. A nice young man, he thought wistfully. He had always wanted a son but had been given two very nice daughters instead. Yes, a nice young man. Steven Anders would make a good solicitor.

  ELEVEN

  Sunday came and by eleven o’clock Martha was losing patience with her daughter.

  ‘Daisy! Stop daydreaming and set the cloth – not the checked one, the one your grandmother embroidered. It’s in the top drawer . . . and smooth it out a bit to get rid of the creases.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s up? Don’t you want him to come to dinner? You said he wanted to come. You said . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just nervous, that’s all.’

  ‘It’ll be quite all right, Daisy. There’s nothing to go wrong. There’s a—’

  ‘The tart’s burnt!’ Daisy pointed an accusing finger at the tart which was cooling on the window sill.

  ‘Burnt?’ Martha stared at it in surprise. ‘Only a bit, round the edges. That’ll scrape off. Don’t fuss so!’

  ‘I thought you were making blackberry and apple.’

  ‘There weren’t enough blackberries. You know how they go towards the end of the season. Mushy and a bit bitter – when the witches have got at them!’

  Daisy managed a laugh. ‘So they say!’

  ‘Anyway, apple and cinnamon’s just as nice.’

  Daisy’s heart was hammering with nervous tension as she set out the knives, forks and spoons, wishing all the while that they had a canteen of cutlery like Monty with silver cutlery set in velvet instead of theirs which had bone handles and lived in a deep drawer in the dresser, mixed up with teaspoons, skewers, a wooden spoon and a cracked pie funnel.

  She said, ‘Sometimes Dilys likes to have flowers on the table.’

  ‘There won’t be room on our table. Anyway, you’ve already put some marigolds on the dresser.’

  ‘Is the hen all right?’

  ‘It hasn’t escaped from the oven, if that’s what you—’

  ‘Ma! You know what I mean.’

  ‘Daisy!’ Her mother groaned aloud. ‘I have cooked a hen before! It’ll be all right. It will all be all right. This is just Steven Anders coming to share a meal with us. He’s not royalty or anything.’ Her voice softened. ‘This is just a friend of yours coming to meet us. He’ll get to know us and we’ll get to know him. I shall put extra butter in the carrots and add a pinch of nutmeg. I’ve covered the bird with bacon rashers and I’ve made some stuffing and I’ll do some nice thick gravy.’ She smiled. ‘It’s going to be fine . . . Let’s hope he has a hearty appetite.’

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Now what?’

  Daisy looked at her imploringly. ‘Suppose you don’t like him?’ The treacherous words burst from her.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘So that’s what this is all about!’ She drew her daughter close and kissed the top of her head. ‘If you like him, I’ll like him. If you love him then I will love him for your sake!’ Slightly embarrassed by this show of affection, she added, ‘How’s that?’

  Daisy clung to her, burying her face in her mother’s familiar apron but after a moment she emerged, smiling. ‘Thanks, Ma!’ she whispered. With an effort she returned to the job in hand and reached for the cruet which had been given to her parents as a wedding present and which stood in pride of place on the middle shelf of the dresser.

  When the table was set to her satisfaction her mother sent her upstairs to get ready. Once in her bedroom Daisy kissed the pink velvet mouse, attacked her ginger curls with a hair brush and coaxed them into some kind of order before tying her hair back with a green ribbon. On went her best skirt and her green sprigged blouse and lastly her best shoes which were light brown leather with a single buttoned strap.

  By the time the knocker sounded on the front door she had convinced herself that she looked reasonable and flew down the stairs to find her father opening the door to their visitor.

  Looking rather awkward in his Sunday clothes, Tom shook hands with Steven and
said, ‘The carrots are from the garden. I like to grow a few vegetables.’

  Steven said, ‘Carrots? Oh yes, of course.’

  ‘We’ve got decent soil here.’

  ‘Right.’

  Martha hurried from the kitchen looking a little flushed from the heat of the oven. ‘So you’re Steven. Come in, please, and make yourself at home. We don’t stand on ceremony.’

  Daisy, speechless with excitement now the moment had arrived, simply smiled and nodded.

  Steven said, ‘Hello, Daisy.’ To her father he said, ‘Where shall I leave my bicycle? Will it be safe out in the front?’

  ‘Best put it in the shed, lad,’ her father advised. ‘Come on. I’ll walk you round the side of the house with it and you can see the garden.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve just got to get something first.’ He went outside and Tom, Martha and Daisy waited.

  He reappeared a few moments later with a potted geranium for Daisy’s mother and a small bag of walnut fudge for Daisy.

  Moments later, watching from the landing window, Daisy saw her father and Steven chatting in the garden and let out a sigh of relief. Her ma was right, she thought gratefully. It was going to be fine.

  Albert opened his eyes next morning and blinked several times in an effort to clear his sight which was always worse first thing in the morning. He sat up and at once the familiar sense of dread filled him as thoughts of Stanley rushed into his mind. He glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to nine!

  ‘Better get up, old son!’ he told himself. Smiling wryly, he remembered the sound of his father’s voice when Albert was around nine years old and the greeting was always the same. ‘Better get up, old son!’

  Albert had had great respect for his father – a respect which he never lost. In those days it would have been seven o’clock on the dot and the maid would be hovering in the doorway with a jug of hot water, and his father would be pulling on his jacket, preparing to leave for his short walk to the office. Before he left the room he would ruffle Albert’s hair affectionately and say, ‘Be good for your mother.’ That was what Albert had expected when Monica produced their son – a respectful boy who would run down the hall to meet his father with a smile when he came home at the end of each day.