He turned to the envelope at the front and counted the cash inside. Almost four hundred quid. Taking the phone and a copy of the yellow pages back to the sofa, he found the number for the bookie’s he’d become a regular in. “Hi, George, it’s Dan Norris here. Can I place a few phone bets?”
* * * *
The keys clicked in the front door after lunch and she walked into the front room, a rosy flush on her chubby cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
“Rotten,” he said, shifting on the sofa. “This headache seems to be getting worse.”
“Poor baby,” she said, shrugging off her coat and pressing her fingertips to his brow. “Perhaps I should take your temperature. You could be coming down with the flu. It’s that time of year.”
“You might be right. My joints are starting to ache, too.”
She brought the thermometer through from the kitchen, perched on the edge of the sofa, and popped it in his mouth. As they waited he was aware of her large buttocks pressing against his legs. After three minutes she took it out and tilted it towards the window. “It’s a bit up.”
“Maybe I just need some fresh air,” he said, wanting to get away from her cloying company. But when he tried to stand, the blood surged in his head and red clouds filled the room.
When he came to he was stretched back out on the sofa, the blanket now tucked up to his chin. She was sitting on the arm, looking down at him, her fat face filling his vision.
“You fainted, you poor dear. It’s lucky you hadn’t got to your feet.”
Feeling weak as a child, he shut his eyes again. “My head’s pounding. I need more aspirin.”
She instantly stood. “Of course. I think you’re dehydrated, I’ll get you a drink, too.”
When she returned a minute later he saw she was carrying a steaming mug and a small bottle. “I’ve made you some more Ovaltine. I’m afraid you’ve had all the aspirin. But I’ve got some Calpol.”
“Calpol? Isn’t that for kids?”
“Yes. It was for...” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “We’ll give you an extra big dose.”
Too exhausted to protest, he watched as she poured out a tablespoon of the red liquid. Once he’d swallowed it, she placed the mug of Ovaltine in his hands. “Now drink up. We can’t have you like this, can we?”
He spent the rest of the evening lying on the sofa, listlessly watching the telly as his pulse rose and fell again and again. At eleven o’clock she came over and stood in front of the sofa. “I think it’s beddy-bed time. Shall I help you up?”
Irritated by her patronising choice of words, he waved her away. “I’m fine here. I’ll head up later.”
“Head still bad?”
He nodded once. “If there’s no improvement by tomorrow I think we’d better call for a doctor.”
* * * *
She found him there the next morning. He was lying on his back, a shallow pant coming from his mouth.
“Oh dear, still feeling poorly?”
His eyelids fluttered open and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I’m more than poorly. I need a doctor,” he croaked, gesturing weakly to the phone which lay just out of his reach. “Can you pass it to me? I can hardly move. And bring me the copy of the yellow pages, too,” he added, thinking he needed to call Jan to cancel their dinner date.
“Let me get you a drink, your throat sounds awfully dry.”
“Okay. Yes, a drink would be good.”
She returned a minute later with a mug in her hands. Kneeling in front of the sofa, she reached an arm round his neck and lifted his head off the cushions.
“What’s this? More bloody Ovaltine? I just want water.”
“Now, now,” she clucked. “I’ve made it with milk, just how you like it. Take a sip, it’s not too hot.”
With a reluctant sigh, he did as he was told. Once it was finished she laid his head back down.
“Now can you please call me a doctor? I’m seriously ill here.”
She picked up the phone and placed it further out of his reach. “We don’t need a doctor. I’m here to take care of you.”
A surge of self-pitying anger made the dull thump in his head more pronounced. “Listen, I need more than cups of bloody Ovaltine. I need medical help. Now call me a bloody doctor.”
She held a finger up. “Any more language like that and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Now let’s get you upstairs, you need to be in bed.”
He tried to shrug off her arm as it slid back round his neck. “Give me the phone,” he gasped, thinking of Jan, the only person in the world he could turn to for help. Not caring if it meant revealing the truth about himself to her.
Ignoring his demand, she pulled him into a sitting position, then draped one of his arms round her shoulders.
“Get your hands off me,” he protested feebly.
“Okay,” she said brusquely. “One, two, three, up!” She hoisted him to his feet and his vision swirled and faded.
“What are you doing?” he mumbled helplessly, unsure if they were actually moving until he felt the edges of the stairs banging against his shins. “I need the toilet.”
“There, there. Everything will be okay,” she grunted, getting him onto the landing.
His vision cleared a little and he realised they’d stopped outside the door marked Nursery. She took a key from her pocket. His head lolled forward as she unlocked the door. The room had the letters of the alphabet running below the picture rail. The jungle-animal blind was drawn and a mobile of toy animals hung over an enormous cot in the corner.
“What ... what is this?” he said, trying to focus.
“Don’t you worry, I’m here to take care of you,” she replied, lowering the bars of the cot and laying him down.
“I need the toilet. I have to go to the toilet.” He started to cry.
“That’s fine,” she said, stripping off his pajamas and taking a pair of incontinence pants from a drawer.
He felt her slipping them on and he looked at the photos lined up on the shelf to his side. Framed photos of gaunt-faced men, all lying in the cot he now found himself in.
“Who are they?” he whispered.
“My babies, of course,” she answered brightly, picking up each picture in turn. “All dead now. All dead.” She looked down at him, a smile on her face. “All my babies die. It’s what God wants.”
He stared up at her, remembering the inscription in the cemetery about her babies being with angels, realising there were no actual names listed on the gravestone.
“Now, it’s time for your feed. Mummy will get it.” She raised the bars back up and he heard her go downstairs. While she was gone he tried desperately to summon the strength to move. Sobbing with exertion, he was only able to lift a hand just clear of the blanket.
She returned with a large baby bottle, dripping a bit from the teat onto her upturned wrist. “Just right.”
He tried to shy away from her as she bent over him. But she cupped his cheek and turned his face towards her.
“What’s in that? What is it?” he said through gritted teeth as the teat was forced between his lips.
“Mother’s milk, my sweet one. Mother’s milk.”
<
* * * *
THE SHAKESPEARE EXPRESS
Edward Marston
1938
Have you traveled on the Shakespeare Express before?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “This is our first visit to England. Mary Anne and I are still trying to find our feet.”
“It’s a wonderful train. In the old days, you could only get to Stratford by changing at Leamington Spa—a dreadful nuisance. Ten years ago, they introduced the Shakespeare Express so that we could go direct from Paddington to Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“That will suit us fine.”
Cyrus and Mary Anne Hillier had been standing on the railway platform that morning when they fell into conversation with the attractive young woman in a tailored suit that somehow managed t
o look both smart and casual. Dipping down towards one eye, her hat concealed much of her close-cropped fair hair. Since their arrival in the country, they had found English people rather reserved, but here was the exception to the general rule. Tall, shapely, and impeccably well bred, she described herself as an unrepentant worshiper at the altar of the Bard.
“Then you and Cyrus are two of a kind,” said Mary Anne, looking fondly at her husband. “He’s written books on Shakespeare.”
“Really?” said the other woman. “How marvellous!”
“Cyrus is a professor of Drama at Penn State University. In fact, he’s the chairman of the department.”
“That means nothing over here, honey,” he said modestly.
“Well, it should do.”
“I’m just an anonymous member of the audience today.”
“You’re an expert,” his wife insisted.
“I agree,” said the younger woman. “If you’ve written books on a subject, you must be an authority.” She offered her hand. “It’s an honour to meet you, Professor.” They shook hands. “My name is Rosalind Walker, by the way. I’m not an authority on anything.”
“Except the Shakespeare Express,” noted Cyrus.
They shared a laugh. The three of them were soon on first-name terms. Rosalind learned that they had saved up for years in order to make the pilgrimage to Stratford-upon-Avon. She warmed to them. They were a delightful middle-aged couple who seemed to complement each other perfectly. Cyrus was a short, stout man with a bushy black beard flecked with silver. He was shrewd, watchful, and bristling with quiet intelligence. Mary Anne, by contrast, a trim, angular woman, was spirited and voluble. It was left to her to boast about her husband’s academic career, to talk about their two children, and to recount the pleasures of their Atlantic crossing.
“How long are you staying in Stratford?” asked Rosalind.
“Three nights,” replied Mary Anne. “At the Shakespeare Hotel.”
“Very appropriate.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“Tony and I usually stay at the Billesley Manor.”
“Tony?”
“My brother. He’s as mad about Shakespeare as I am.” Rosalind glanced at her watch. “He should be here by now. Tony had better get a move on. The train leaves at nine twenty-five on the dot.”
“What time does it reach Stratford?” asked Cyrus.
“At eleven thirty-three precisely.”
“You certainly know your schedule.”
“On the Great Western Railway, punctuality is a watchword.”
“Do we stop on the way?”
“Yes—at High Wycombe, Leamington Spa, and Warwick. There’ll be something of an exodus at Leamington Spa.”
“Will there?” asked Mary Anne in surprise. “Why catch a through train to Stratford then get off before we reach it?”
“The passengers will reach it in time,” explained Rosalind. “Their trip includes a coach trip, you see. They visit Guy’s Cliffe and Kenilworth before having lunch at Warwick Castle. The coach then brings them on to Stratford so that they can see all the sights before catching the train back to London.”
“I bet you can tell us the exact time that it leaves,” said Cyrus.
“Five-thirty.”
He grinned. “Are you employed by the railway company?”
“No—I’m a regular passenger, that’s all.”
“So I gather.”
“Matinée performances start early so that people will have a chance to get back to the station in time to catch the train home. The Memorial Theatre prefers to give a full text.”
“I’m all in favor of that, Rosalind. I want my money’s worth.”
“It does mean that performances can be very long. The last Hamlet went on for well over four hours.”
“Cyrus could sit and watch all day,” said Mary Anne, beaming with approval. “He relishes every single word.”
“So do I, as a rule,” said Rosalind, “but I doubt if I’ll do that this afternoon. Troilus and Cressida is not my favorite play—too dark and brutal for my taste. But it’s so rarely performed that I felt I had to catch it.”
“I love the play,” admitted Cyrus. “I did a production of it with my students last year. In my view, Troilus and Cressida is a neglected masterpiece. And, as it happens,” he went on, “its themes have taken on an unfortunate topicality.”
“In what way?”
“Look at the newspapers, Rosalind. The situation is increasingly grim. War clouds seem to be gathering all over Europe.”
“Too true!” she sighed, pulling a face.
“The play is essentially about war and its implications. It’s a pity you can’t invite Adolf Hitler over to see it. He’d learn how futile war really is. One of the papers reckoned that if things go on as they are doing, Britain might be dragged into the conflict.”
“Oh, I hope not. Tony would rush to enlist.”
“A good patriot, obviously.”
“My brother just likes adventure, that’s all.”
As they were talking, the platform had been slowly filling up and the noise level had risen markedly. There was a tangible air of anticipation. When the train came into the station, everyone surged towards the cream-and-brown carriages. Rosalind stood on tiptoe to look around her.
“Where on earth can he be?” she said anxiously.
“You’ll have to go without him,” suggested Mary Anne.
“Impossible—Tony has our tickets!”
“Oh dear!”
“Ah, there he is,” declared Rosalind, looking back towards the barrier. “Do excuse me, I’ll have to go.” She moved away and tossed a farewell comment over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at the theatre.”
“What a charming young woman!” said Mary Anne.
“Yes,” agreed Cyrus, helping her into the carriage.
Lifting up his suitcase, he paused long enough to watch Rosalind Walker greet a tall young man near the rear of the train. After exchanging a few words, the two of them got into a carriage. Mary Anne put her head out of the open door.
“Come on, Cyrus,” she cajoled. “What are you waiting for?”
* * * *
The locomotive was an elegant green monster of gleaming metal. It left on time in an explosion of steam and sustained clamor. When it hit its cruising speed, the train took on a steady rhythmical beat. Mary Anne was soon asleep. Travel of any kind invariably made her eyelids droop and her husband was grateful. It meant that he was spared any conversation and could concentrate on going through the text of Troilus and Cressida once more, savoring its multiple pleasures without having to persuade his wife that they actually existed. Mary Anne had many virtues and he loved her for them. She was not, however, an academic. Plays only existed at a surface level for her. She missed their deeper subtleties.
After stopping at High Wycombe, the train steamed on through the Oxfordshire countryside, rattling amiably and leaving a thick, gray cloud of smoke in its wake. When it eventually slowed again, Cyrus looked up, expecting to see the name of Leamington Spa on the station. Instead, he discovered that they were making a brief stoppage at Banbury. Back in motion once more, the Shakespeare Express gathered speed, its insistent chuffing like an endless stream of iambic pentameters.
It was not until they reached their destination that Cyrus nudged his wife awake. Mary Anne blinked her eyes and sat up abruptly. She peered through the window.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“Already?”
“You’ve been asleep for two hours.”
“Never!”
“As long as you don’t do it during the matinée.”
“I won’t, Cyrus, I promise. I’d never let you down.”
“William Shakespeare is the person you’d be letting down.”
Mary Anne was alarmed. “I’d never dare to do that—it would be a form of sacrilege.”
Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology] Page 52