6 - Superfluous Death
Page 2
by Hazel Holt
Chapter Two
Somehow I didn’t want them to know that I’d seen them—an atavistic feeling that secret knowledge is power over other people, or something like that—so I took out a copy of the Spectator that I’d just bought, opened it up and, peering over the top, continued my observation of this unlikely couple. Well, not totally unlikely, I suppose. Dr Cowley was Mrs Wheatley’s landlord, after all, and also her GP, and they could perfectly well have met by chance but, somehow, watching them, I was convinced this was no casual meeting. They seemed very absorbed in each other, he bending deferentially towards her to catch her remarks (she had a very soft, rather shy voice) and she with her head bowed apparently looking at some sort of document on the table before them. I strained forward to try to catch a glimpse of what it might be, but they were too far away for me to see. I toyed with the idea of getting up and walking past their table but reluctantly abandoned that since, if I got that close to them, they would be certain to recognize me.
My thoughts were interrupted by Michael’s voice saying, ‘What on earth are you doing, Ma, hiding behind that magazine like someone in an inferior thriller?’
I frowned at him and made flapping gestures to him to sit down and be quiet.
‘Keep your voice down!’ I whispered. ‘I want to see what’s going on over there. No! Don’t turn round.’
Michael shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said. ‘You’ve finally flipped!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said sternly. ‘It’s Dr Cowley and Mrs Wheatley, over there. It’s so very odd to see them together.’
‘This passion for gossip is most unbecoming, you know.’
‘It isn’t gossip,’ I said impatiently. ‘Well, yes, in a way it is, but I really don’t trust that man, and Mrs Wheatley does live in the flat above Miss Graham and there are all sorts of rumours about what he might be going to do with that property. And why are they meeting here in Taunton away from prying Taviscombe eyes?’
‘Illicit love?’ Michael suggested.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I replied. ‘Anyway, there waylats no reason for it to be illicit on either side, as far as I know.’
‘I thought Dr Cowley was married,’ Michael said.
‘No, he’s a widower. And she doesn’t appear to have any ties—well, not if you discount the rumours about her “protector”. I do wish I could see what they’re studying so earnestly. Tell you what, they don’t really know you by sight; so go and get yourself a drink and a sandwich and see if you can find out what they’re looking at.’
I waited impatiently for Michael to come back.
He carefully put down a half pint of bitter and a plate with two large rolls and two Danish pastries.
‘I didn’t get you another drink but I thought you might like a Danish pastry. Would you rather have the apple one or the one with squidged-up bits of almond paste?’
‘Whichever,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. Well? Did you see?’
Michael took a maddening pull at his beer before replying. ‘Vile stuff,’ he said. ‘Can’t think why I drink it.’
‘Michael!’ I glared at him.
‘Oh yes, your chums. They were looking at holiday brochures.’
‘What!’
‘Ssh! They’ll hear you if you go around bellowing like that. They were leaflets about cruises. Looks as if they’re planning an elopement or something.’
‘But they hardly know each other!’ I protested.
‘Doesn’t look like it from here,’ Michael replied.
‘Well no, I must say they do seem pretty chummy. I wonder what they were saying. Did you hear anything?’
‘He was just extolling the delights of Madeira.’
Michael tipped one of the pastries on to my empty plate and started on a ham roll.
I saw Dr Cowley take another sheet of paper from his briefcase and lay it on top of the brochures.
‘Michael,’ I said, ‘I need a fork for this pastry. Could you go and get me one, please. Oh, and on your way see if you can see what that new sheet of paper is, the one they’re looking at now.’
‘Oh, Ma, really!’
‘Go on, before he puts it away again.’
Michael got up reluctantly and made his way past their table once more. He came back with a fork and a paper napkin.
‘Here, for your sticky fingers.’ He took a large bite out of the remaining roll.
‘Well?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Looked like plans,’ Michael said briefly, his voice muffled by ham roll.
‘Plans?’
‘Building plans. And he was saying something about it being a splendid opportunity and one not to be missed.’
‘There!’ I exclaimed. ‘He is going ahead with that nursing home scheme! Poor little Miss Graham! And what is he up to with Mrs Wheatley? She always seemed a perfectly rational woman, how could she allow herself to be taken in by that awful man!’
‘Stop fulminating,’ Michael said, ‘and eat up your nice Danish pastry. I’ve
got to be getting back; I’m supposed to be completing another conveyancing this afternoon and the clients will be jumping up and down if I’m late.’
As we drove back I reminded Michael of his promise to look up Miss Graham’s lease.
‘If it’s a while ago then I expect Edward drew it up himself,’ he said, ‘so it should be pretty watertight. You know how thorough he is.’
‘I still can’t get over Dr Cowley and Mrs Wheatley,’ I said. ‘Even Mrs Dudley didn’t know about that!’
‘Why shouldn’t they get together?’ Michael asked. ‘Two old birds going off for a holiday; what’s wrong with that?’
‘I’m positive he’s trying to wheedle his way round her somehow,’ I said, steering cautiously past a heavily laden tractor. ‘Either to get her out of her flat or—yes, of course the plans and all that bit about it being an opportunity! He’s trying to get her to invest in>< to invn the thing!’
I tried this theory on Rosemary when she came round the next morning to collect some jumble for the Red Cross.
‘Fancy! Those two!’ Rosemary said. ‘Who’d have believed it!’
‘I expect he’s been worming his way into her confidence for ages,’ I said as I measured some coffee into the machine, my efforts impeded by Foss, my Siamese cat, who considers the kitchen worktop his domain and feels bound to investigate any activity that takes place there. Fortunately Rosemary is at least as silly about animals as I am, and doesn’t in the least mind having a black-masked Siamese face poked enquiringly into the coffee she is about to drink.
‘How far do you think it’s gone?’ Rosemary asked. ‘I mean, do you think he’s prepared to marry her to get at her money?’
‘Perhaps being married would cramp his style with the other middle-aged widows and elderly ladies,’ I suggested unkindly. ‘Biscuits with your coffee?’
‘No, I daren’t. I need to lose at least half a stone. I simply couldn’t get into that flowered dress I bought last summer. You know, the blue and white one that opens down the front. It gapes quite hideously at all the buttonholes if I try to do it up over the stomach! I think I’ll try that fibre diet. It sounds disgusting, but at least you get something filling to eat.’
Rosemary is a dedicated beginner of diets. I’ve more or less given up, except when I suddenly see the reflection of a large-hipped woman in a shop window and realize with horror that it’s me.
‘Of course,’ I said, reverting to the subject uppermost in my mind, ‘there was some sort of mystery about his marriage, wasn’t there? Something about his wife dying abroad?’
‘I think it was Portugal,’ Rosemary said, picking up Foss and cradling him in her arms. ‘Who’s a beautiful boy, then?’ she enquired lovingly. Foss gave a loud cry, presumably of agreement, and she went on: ‘Or was it Italy? Yes, that’s it, Rome. I remember thinking that she might be buried in the English cemetery there with Keats.’
‘What were they doing in Rome?’ I asked. ‘On holiday or what?’
‘No, I think he had some sort of job there for a while and he came back to Taviscombe when she died. I must ask Mother, she’ll know.’
‘Perhaps the wife isn’t dead at all,’ I speculated. ‘Perhaps she’s still there, living abroad somewhere. That would cramp his style with Mrs Wheatley!’
‘I shouldn’t think a little thing like bigamy would stop him,’ Rosemary said airily, ‘not if it stood in ustit stoothe way of his plans. I mean, nursing homes are absolute gold mines now, especially for the elderly, and especially here. I should think the average age of the population in Taviscombe nowadays is about seventy-five. Honestly, as I said to Jack the other day, it’s ridiculous at our age to find ourselves the youngest people at practically every social gathering! No, if you can offer residential and nursing care you can charge the earth; people are desperate!’
‘It is depressing,’ I said. ‘I always pray that I’ll go quickly and not hang on for ages being a burden to my nearest and dearest and gobbling up all their inheritance with nursing home fees!’
‘And him being a doctor, of course,’ Rosemary continued, ‘would be a terrific plus point with the relations. It would add plausibility!’ She finished her coffee and put Foss gently down on to the ground.
‘I must be going. I’ve got to change Mother’s library book and there’s never anything in that she wants to read. We’ve been through the biography section pretty comprehensively and she doesn’t like novels because of the language—not that I blame her there. Perhaps there’ll be a Dick Francis she hasn’t read.’ Mrs Dudley had this unexpected passion for racing, presumably because of the royal connection. ‘Oh well, whatever I get, it’ll be wrong ...’
We went out into the hall to pick up the jumble. Rosemary opened one of the bags.
‘What a splendid haul! You have been having a jolly good clear-out! Are you sure you want to get rid of that navy skirt? I always thought it really suited you.’
I groaned. ‘Too tight at the waist! I tried moving the button but it hung all peculiar. Yes, I know, I ought to lose a couple of inches, but life’s too short, especially when I have to cook all those hefty meals for Michael. I expect that’s why I’ve put on these extra pounds since he’s been back home. But if I do try to just toy with a lettuce leaf and a yoghurt he complains that it’s antisocial. And, anyway,’ I said defiantly, ‘I suppose I just like food! It’s awful, really, that one should have to feel so defensive about it these days.’
I opened the front door and we stood looking out at the grey, overcast day, not helped by the low cloud hanging over the hills.
‘Isn’t it miserable?’ Rosemary said. ‘I bet it rains for Wimbledon. I must say, on days like this I wouldn’t mind a glamorous foreign cruise.’
‘But not,’ I said, ‘with Dr Cowley!’
A few days later I was just rolling out the suet crust for a steak and kidney pudding (Michael’s alMichaelfavourite, even in the summer) when the phone rang. It really is amazing how often the phone rings at awkward times—hands covered with flour, hair dripping with shampoo, halfway through de-fleaing a recalcitrant dog—when there are vast tracts of time (long, grey winter afternoons, for example) when one longs for it to ring and it remains obstinately silent. Rather resentfully, then, I picked up the receiver. I must have sounded a bit abrupt because Miss Graham, at the other end of the line, immediately became very flustered.
‘Oh dear, have I rung at a difficult moment? I’m so sorry. I’ll ring some other time, but I was rather worried ...’
She trailed off into incoherence and I pulled myself together.
‘No! It’s absolutely fine,’ I said. ‘Please, do let me know what’s the matter.’
‘Well, dear, it’s this letter I’ve had. I would have rung Ronnie about it, but Carol always makes a bit of a fuss if I ask him to do anything for me—just between ourselves, she’s not really a very nice person—so I thought perhaps you would help me, you’ve always been so kind, just like poor Peter was and your dear mother. It came right out of the blue. I was so taken aback—the last thing I expected! It really is very disturbing and I simply don’t know what I should do for the best, so you do see I would appreciate your advice.’
‘Who is the letter from?’ I asked, when at last she paused for breath.
‘Oh dear, didn’t I say? You see what a state I’m in! It’s from Dr Cowley.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Look here, how would it be if I came round tomorrow—would about ten-thirty be all right?—and you can show me the letter and we’ll see what it’s all about.’
‘Oh, my dear, that would be kind! I’m sure you will be able to tell useble to me what to do.’
I hoped her confidence in me wouldn’t be misplaced and, after I’d put the steak and kidney pudding on to steam, I threw together a few fairy cakes to take with me, hoping they might exercise a calming influence.
Miss Graham was still pretty upset when I arrived at the flat the next morning.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Sheila. I har
dly slept a wink last night worrying about it all. Here.’ She thrust a letter into my hand and sat down in the chair opposite, fixing her eyes trustingly on me, rather as my little dog Tris does when his ball has rolled behind the sideboard and he wants me to get it out for him.
The letter from Dr Cowley was not unfriendly in tone, but the contents were quite enough to agitate an old lady. He set out his proposals for turning Kimberley Lodge and the neighbouring property into a nursing home and said that, although he realized that her lease had some years to run, he would be prepared to make a cash settlement and find her alternative accommodation if she would vacate her flat within six weeks. He was sure that she would see the advisability of agreeing to this proposition since he had long felt that the situation of Kimberley Lodge, on such a steep hill and a distance from the shops, made it unsuitable for her now that she was not as mobile as she had been. Altogether it was a thoroughly unpleasant letter, the ruthlessly self-interested motives imperfectly masked by a hypocritical concern for her welfare.
‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘What a repulsive man he is!’
‘He’s always been so charming,’ Miss Graham said sadly. ‘Such a gentlemanly man, I thought, but now this ...’
‘I’ve never liked him,’ I said, ‘and nor did Mother. We always felt that his manner was false, somehow. Well, he’s certainly shown himself in his true colours now! Obviously you don’t want to move, whatever alternative accommodation he offers you?’
Miss Graham’s air of bewilderment was replaced by one of grim determination. ‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go moving at my age. Besides, I’ve always wanted to live up here on West Hill, looking out over the sea, ever since I was a girl. It was a dream come true when Dr Cowley offered me this flat. And I have got a lease. Surely he can’t make me move?’
‘It is a nice flat,’ I said, turning as Miss Graham came back into the room with a tray. ‘You’re so lucky to have this lovely view.’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied, handing me a cup of rather too milky coffee. ‘I really was so fortunate getting it like that. Of course Dr Cowley has always been my doctor, so when this flat fell vacant he mentioned it to me at once, and of course I jumped at the chance! I always say I have the best of all possible worlds living here: that beautiful view of the sea and the hills, without any of the trouble those people who live on the quay so often get.’
‘Yes, I don’t think I’d want to live there,’ I agreed. ‘Visitors staring into your windows, and worse,’ she added darkly. ‘Young people can be so rowdy nowadays. peo> nowadDrinking and goodness knows what! Mrs Phillips—you know, she lives in that cottage right by the harbour—told me you wouldn’t believe how some of them go on!’
‘No,’ I said, ‘you’re much better off up here. What’s Dr Cowley like as a landlord?’
‘Oh, he’s such a charming man!’ Mrs Graham smiled. ‘So good about having things done, I only have to ask! And the gardens are very well kept. Fred Lipman, he’s one of Dr Cowley’s patients, comes once a week to keep them in order. Yes, I’m very lucky.’
I didn’t have the heart to enquire if she’d heard anything about Dr Cowley’s plans for a nursing home, but when Michael came home that evening I asked him about Miss Graham’s lease.
‘I mean,’ I said, ‘if Dr Cowley’s up to something I’d hate to think that poor Miss Graham didn’t have secure tenure, or whatever it’s called.’
‘I’ll look it up,’ he promised absently. ‘I say, Ma, can you possibly give me a lift to Taunton and back tomorrow? My car’s got to go in for its MOT and I’d forgotten I’ve simply got to go to the Land Registry. You could do some shopping while you waited for me,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘You could go by bus,’ I said, knowing perfectly well that I would provide the chauffeuring service I had been providing, on and off, for the last twenty-three years.
Michael grinned. ‘Bless you,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the washing up tonight in payment—oh, no, sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to nip out after supper and see Jonah. Tell you what, I’ll buy you a G and T at the County tomorrow instead.’
I was sitting in the Wyvern Bar of the County Hotel in Taunton, waiting for Michael. I’d bought myself an orange juice (since I was driving) and a ham roll, because shopping always makes me hungry. The roll was not so much a roll as a hunk of French bread, almost impossible to eat gracefully, and I was really quite glad that there was nobody I knew to see me manoeuvring it into my mouth. But, when I’d eaten most of it and brushed the flaky crumbs off the front of my blouse, I had time to look around me and I saw that there were indeed two people I knew in the bar, though they were too much occupied with each other to notice me. Seated at a small table in the corner were Dr Cowley and Mrs Wheatley.
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Chapter Two
Somehow I didn’t want them to know that I’d seen them—an atavistic feeling that secret knowledge is power over other people, or something like that—so I took out a copy of the Spectator that I’d just bought, opened it up and, peering over the top, continued my observation of this unlikely couple. Well, not totally unlikely, I suppose. Dr Cowley was Mrs Wheatley’s landlord, after all, and also her GP, and they could perfectly well have met by chance but, somehow, watching them, I was convinced this was no casual meeting. They seemed very absorbed in each other, he bending deferentially towards her to catch her remarks (she had a very soft, rather shy voice) and she with her head bowed apparently looking at some sort of document on the table before them. I strained forward to try to catch a glimpse of what it might be, but they were too far away for me to see. I toyed with the idea of getting up and walking past their table but reluctantly abandoned that since, if I got that close to them, they would be certain to recognize me.
My thoughts were interrupted by Michael’s voice saying, ‘What on earth are you doing, Ma, hiding behind that magazine like someone in an inferior thriller?’
I frowned at him and made flapping gestures to him to sit down and be quiet.
‘Keep your voice down!’ I whispered. ‘I want to see what’s going on over there. No! Don’t turn round.’
Michael shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said. ‘You’ve finally flipped!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said sternly. ‘It’s Dr Cowley and Mrs Wheatley, over there. It’s so very odd to see them together.’
‘This passion for gossip is most unbecoming, you know.’
‘It isn’t gossip,’ I said impatiently. ‘Well, yes, in a way it is, but I really don’t trust that man, and Mrs Wheatley does live in the flat above Miss Graham and there are all sorts of rumours about what he might be going to do with that property. And why are they meeting here in Taunton away from prying Taviscombe eyes?’
‘Illicit love?’ Michael suggested.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I replied. ‘Anyway, there waylats no reason for it to be illicit on either side, as far as I know.’
‘I thought Dr Cowley was married,’ Michael said.
‘No, he’s a widower. And she doesn’t appear to have any ties—well, not if you discount the rumours about her “protector”. I do wish I could see what they’re studying so earnestly. Tell you what, they don’t really know you by sight; so go and get yourself a drink and a sandwich and see if you can find out what they’re looking at.’
I waited impatiently for Michael to come back.
He carefully put down a half pint of bitter and a plate with two large rolls and two Danish pastries.
‘I didn’t get you another drink but I thought you might like a Danish pastry. Would you rather have the apple one or the one with squidged-up bits of almond paste?’
‘Whichever,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. Well? Did you see?’
Michael took a maddening pull at his beer before replying. ‘Vile stuff,’ he said. ‘Can’t think why I drink it.’
‘Michael!’ I glared at him.
‘Oh yes, your chums. They were looking at holiday brochures.’
‘What!’
‘Ssh! They’ll hear you if you go around bellowing like that. They were leaflets about cruises. Looks as if they’re planning an elopement or something.’
‘But they hardly know each other!’ I protested.
‘Doesn’t look like it from here,’ Michael replied.
‘Well no, I must say they do seem pretty chummy. I wonder what they were saying. Did you hear anything?’
‘He was just extolling the delights of Madeira.’
Michael tipped one of the pastries on to my empty plate and started on a ham roll.
I saw Dr Cowley take another sheet of paper from his briefcase and lay it on top of the brochures.
‘Michael,’ I said, ‘I need a fork for this pastry. Could you go and get me one, please. Oh, and on your way see if you can see what that new sheet of paper is, the one they’re looking at now.’
‘Oh, Ma, really!’
‘Go on, before he puts it away again.’
Michael got up reluctantly and made his way past their table once more. He came back with a fork and a paper napkin.
‘Here, for your sticky fingers.’ He took a large bite out of the remaining roll.
‘Well?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Looked like plans,’ Michael said briefly, his voice muffled by ham roll.
‘Plans?’
‘Building plans. And he was saying something about it being a splendid opportunity and one not to be missed.’
‘There!’ I exclaimed. ‘He is going ahead with that nursing home scheme! Poor little Miss Graham! And what is he up to with Mrs Wheatley? She always seemed a perfectly rational woman, how could she allow herself to be taken in by that awful man!’
‘Stop fulminating,’ Michael said, ‘and eat up your nice Danish pastry. I’ve
got to be getting back; I’m supposed to be completing another conveyancing this afternoon and the clients will be jumping up and down if I’m late.’
As we drove back I reminded Michael of his promise to look up Miss Graham’s lease.
‘If it’s a while ago then I expect Edward drew it up himself,’ he said, ‘so it should be pretty watertight. You know how thorough he is.’
‘I still can’t get over Dr Cowley and Mrs Wheatley,’ I said. ‘Even Mrs Dudley didn’t know about that!’
‘Why shouldn’t they get together?’ Michael asked. ‘Two old birds going off for a holiday; what’s wrong with that?’
‘I’m positive he’s trying to wheedle his way round her somehow,’ I said, steering cautiously past a heavily laden tractor. ‘Either to get her out of her flat or—yes, of course the plans and all that bit about it being an opportunity! He’s trying to get her to invest in>< to invn the thing!’
I tried this theory on Rosemary when she came round the next morning to collect some jumble for the Red Cross.
‘Fancy! Those two!’ Rosemary said. ‘Who’d have believed it!’
‘I expect he’s been worming his way into her confidence for ages,’ I said as I measured some coffee into the machine, my efforts impeded by Foss, my Siamese cat, who considers the kitchen worktop his domain and feels bound to investigate any activity that takes place there. Fortunately Rosemary is at least as silly about animals as I am, and doesn’t in the least mind having a black-masked Siamese face poked enquiringly into the coffee she is about to drink.
‘How far do you think it’s gone?’ Rosemary asked. ‘I mean, do you think he’s prepared to marry her to get at her money?’
‘Perhaps being married would cramp his style with the other middle-aged widows and elderly ladies,’ I suggested unkindly. ‘Biscuits with your coffee?’
‘No, I daren’t. I need to lose at least half a stone. I simply couldn’t get into that flowered dress I bought last summer. You know, the blue and white one that opens down the front. It gapes quite hideously at all the buttonholes if I try to do it up over the stomach! I think I’ll try that fibre diet. It sounds disgusting, but at least you get something filling to eat.’
Rosemary is a dedicated beginner of diets. I’ve more or less given up, except when I suddenly see the reflection of a large-hipped woman in a shop window and realize with horror that it’s me.
‘Of course,’ I said, reverting to the subject uppermost in my mind, ‘there was some sort of mystery about his marriage, wasn’t there? Something about his wife dying abroad?’
‘I think it was Portugal,’ Rosemary said, picking up Foss and cradling him in her arms. ‘Who’s a beautiful boy, then?’ she enquired lovingly. Foss gave a loud cry, presumably of agreement, and she went on: ‘Or was it Italy? Yes, that’s it, Rome. I remember thinking that she might be buried in the English cemetery there with Keats.’
‘What were they doing in Rome?’ I asked. ‘On holiday or what?’
‘No, I think he had some sort of job there for a while and he came back to Taviscombe when she died. I must ask Mother, she’ll know.’
‘Perhaps the wife isn’t dead at all,’ I speculated. ‘Perhaps she’s still there, living abroad somewhere. That would cramp his style with Mrs Wheatley!’
‘I shouldn’t think a little thing like bigamy would stop him,’ Rosemary said airily, ‘not if it stood in ustit stoothe way of his plans. I mean, nursing homes are absolute gold mines now, especially for the elderly, and especially here. I should think the average age of the population in Taviscombe nowadays is about seventy-five. Honestly, as I said to Jack the other day, it’s ridiculous at our age to find ourselves the youngest people at practically every social gathering! No, if you can offer residential and nursing care you can charge the earth; people are desperate!’
‘It is depressing,’ I said. ‘I always pray that I’ll go quickly and not hang on for ages being a burden to my nearest and dearest and gobbling up all their inheritance with nursing home fees!’
‘And him being a doctor, of course,’ Rosemary continued, ‘would be a terrific plus point with the relations. It would add plausibility!’ She finished her coffee and put Foss gently down on to the ground.
‘I must be going. I’ve got to change Mother’s library book and there’s never anything in that she wants to read. We’ve been through the biography section pretty comprehensively and she doesn’t like novels because of the language—not that I blame her there. Perhaps there’ll be a Dick Francis she hasn’t read.’ Mrs Dudley had this unexpected passion for racing, presumably because of the royal connection. ‘Oh well, whatever I get, it’ll be wrong ...’
We went out into the hall to pick up the jumble. Rosemary opened one of the bags.
‘What a splendid haul! You have been having a jolly good clear-out! Are you sure you want to get rid of that navy skirt? I always thought it really suited you.’
I groaned. ‘Too tight at the waist! I tried moving the button but it hung all peculiar. Yes, I know, I ought to lose a couple of inches, but life’s too short, especially when I have to cook all those hefty meals for Michael. I expect that’s why I’ve put on these extra pounds since he’s been back home. But if I do try to just toy with a lettuce leaf and a yoghurt he complains that it’s antisocial. And, anyway,’ I said defiantly, ‘I suppose I just like food! It’s awful, really, that one should have to feel so defensive about it these days.’
I opened the front door and we stood looking out at the grey, overcast day, not helped by the low cloud hanging over the hills.
‘Isn’t it miserable?’ Rosemary said. ‘I bet it rains for Wimbledon. I must say, on days like this I wouldn’t mind a glamorous foreign cruise.’
‘But not,’ I said, ‘with Dr Cowley!’
A few days later I was just rolling out the suet crust for a steak and kidney pudding (Michael’s alMichaelfavourite, even in the summer) when the phone rang. It really is amazing how often the phone rings at awkward times—hands covered with flour, hair dripping with shampoo, halfway through de-fleaing a recalcitrant dog—when there are vast tracts of time (long, grey winter afternoons, for example) when one longs for it to ring and it remains obstinately silent. Rather resentfully, then, I picked up the receiver. I must have sounded a bit abrupt because Miss Graham, at the other end of the line, immediately became very flustered.
‘Oh dear, have I rung at a difficult moment? I’m so sorry. I’ll ring some other time, but I was rather worried ...’
She trailed off into incoherence and I pulled myself together.
‘No! It’s absolutely fine,’ I said. ‘Please, do let me know what’s the matter.’
‘Well, dear, it’s this letter I’ve had. I would have rung Ronnie about it, but Carol always makes a bit of a fuss if I ask him to do anything for me—just between ourselves, she’s not really a very nice person—so I thought perhaps you would help me, you’ve always been so kind, just like poor Peter was and your dear mother. It came right out of the blue. I was so taken aback—the last thing I expected! It really is very disturbing and I simply don’t know what I should do for the best, so you do see I would appreciate your advice.’
‘Who is the letter from?’ I asked, when at last she paused for breath.
‘Oh dear, didn’t I say? You see what a state I’m in! It’s from Dr Cowley.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Look here, how would it be if I came round tomorrow—would about ten-thirty be all right?—and you can show me the letter and we’ll see what it’s all about.’
‘Oh, my dear, that would be kind! I’m sure you will be able to tell useble to me what to do.’
I hoped her confidence in me wouldn’t be misplaced and, after I’d put the steak and kidney pudding on to steam, I threw together a few fairy cakes to take with me, hoping they might exercise a calming influence.
Miss Graham was still pretty upset when I arrived at the flat the next morning.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Sheila. I har
dly slept a wink last night worrying about it all. Here.’ She thrust a letter into my hand and sat down in the chair opposite, fixing her eyes trustingly on me, rather as my little dog Tris does when his ball has rolled behind the sideboard and he wants me to get it out for him.
The letter from Dr Cowley was not unfriendly in tone, but the contents were quite enough to agitate an old lady. He set out his proposals for turning Kimberley Lodge and the neighbouring property into a nursing home and said that, although he realized that her lease had some years to run, he would be prepared to make a cash settlement and find her alternative accommodation if she would vacate her flat within six weeks. He was sure that she would see the advisability of agreeing to this proposition since he had long felt that the situation of Kimberley Lodge, on such a steep hill and a distance from the shops, made it unsuitable for her now that she was not as mobile as she had been. Altogether it was a thoroughly unpleasant letter, the ruthlessly self-interested motives imperfectly masked by a hypocritical concern for her welfare.
‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘What a repulsive man he is!’
‘He’s always been so charming,’ Miss Graham said sadly. ‘Such a gentlemanly man, I thought, but now this ...’
‘I’ve never liked him,’ I said, ‘and nor did Mother. We always felt that his manner was false, somehow. Well, he’s certainly shown himself in his true colours now! Obviously you don’t want to move, whatever alternative accommodation he offers you?’
Miss Graham’s air of bewilderment was replaced by one of grim determination. ‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go moving at my age. Besides, I’ve always wanted to live up here on West Hill, looking out over the sea, ever since I was a girl. It was a dream come true when Dr Cowley offered me this flat. And I have got a lease. Surely he can’t make me move?’