Criss Cross

by Caron Allan

  My own toothbrush, sitting all alone in the little Wedgwood jug, looks a bit pathetic.

  I feel terrible throwing away all his bathroom things—so guilty, so wasteful. And it’s just so final. The bathroom is bare.

  Thurs 27 Sep—3.15pm

  I don’t think we need have worried, the police have now been back a couple of times with more information. They are now satisfied that Cess and Parker’s deaths were due to the excessive levels of alcohol in Parker’s blood—who knew he was a drunk-driver? So they are not looking for any further cause of the accident. Shocking! I mean, it’s truly disgraceful, really, when one thinks of the innocent lives he could have wiped out by his blatant irresponsibility. Thank God he is dead, I say, and her of course. Never liked either of them, as I may have mentioned once or twice. The nice policeman commiserated with me over the tragedy, coming so closely on the heels of the loss of my husband only 6 weeks ago. I didn’t say anything about the terrible losses of Huw or Manddi or Clarice only a few weeks before that. Didn’t want to point him towards a pattern.

  I told them all about Cess and Parker being on the point of moving in with me, to help me recover from the loss of Thomas, and that he and Cess had been close, and that she and her husband had come up to stay when Clarice died, and how they had only popped home for a few clothes and to make a few essential domestic arrangements, and now they were gone forever, snuffed out due to a moment’s human weakness. It was all very affecting, and the poor policeman was so upset, I began to think he was never going to leave. I hope I haven’t made him think he’s on the wrong career path! He may very well require some counselling.

  I went out of my way to assure him I had the Hopkins’s to take very good care of me, and he finally left. So, another episode closes satisfactorily!

  Tues 9 October—2.40pm

  And now I’ve got their house and savings too, as they had left everything they had to Thomas, and so obviously that all passes to me under his will. Croesus had nothing on what my bank balance will be in a few months’ time!

  But I’m glad they didn’t leave any children—it would have been awful to orphan some poor little children. And I probably would have felt responsible for their future care and upbringing, so really it was a good thing all round that they hadn’t any children. Especially if he was a drunk.

  I’ve got a cold. Don’t know from whom; some selfish bastard—probably Cess or Parker—gave me their germs. Am wrapped up in Thomas’s old gardening jumper. It was a baby-blue golf jumper in a former life but has a snag on the hem from him leaning over a gorse bush to ‘play it where it lay’. It still smells of Davidoff. Wish my nose was as stuffy as my head slash throat, as the scent of it has made me weepy and ridiculous. But don’t want to take it off as it is cosy and reassuring. Who knew even old clothes have ghosts?

  Mon 31 Dec—11.50pm

  I’m so thankful this awful year is almost over. I’ve made my New Year Resolution. Only one. It’s not really going to come as much of a surprise.

  I’m going to kill Monica.

  That’s all I care about, all that means anything to me. She must pay for what she did to Thomas. And this coming year, I’m going to see to it that she does.

  Christmas was dire. All I did was sit in front of the television in the small drawing room, with Mrs H and Sid. My skin is disgustingly spotty and patchy from eating too much, and I’ve been drinking too much and trying not to feel sorry for myself, and trying not to think too much about Thomas and how happy we were this time last year and all the places we went and all the things we did and waking up lying next to him and realising with a rush of joy it was Christmas morning.

  Tonight I’m going to sit up with a large glass of champagne and a big bowl of fresh strawberries and cherries. I’m going to welcome in the New Year with my vow, my oath to fulfil my promise to myself, or God, or Thomas or the Universe, or who or whatever the hell we pray to these days—probably the TV—the little God-in-the-corner—and I am going to exact my revenge. And the fruit is to perk up my skin a bit, as I’m looking so scraggy at the moment.

  Slowly and deliberately I will kill Monica, and as I do so, she will know what is happening to her and she will know why, and when she begs for mercy, or pleads with me, I shall just remember back to that morning the day before he died when we sat in the motorway services and decided to try again for a baby—that is what she has robbed me of, that is what she took from me—the future Thomas and I planned together.

  And the New Year is a real psychological hurdle for me. It really feels as if, once I get past tonight and into the start of the year, things will get better, get easier. I feel such a sense of relief that it’s almost January.

  And I do want the pain to lessen but at the same time I feel guilty letting go of it so quickly. I know I owe it to him and the memory of our love to keep my grief alive and to keep on missing him, but the thing is, it’s not easy, and I am so tired of misery.

  Every now and then, something happens, something small and insignificant, and I find myself smiling, or I look out at the garden and I find myself planning a new border, or I start thinking about decorating and I realise all of a sudden that I am beginning to pick up the threads of my life again in some small way, and although I know Thomas wouldn’t want it any other way, wouldn’t want me to mourn him for an extended period, any more than I would want him to mourn for me if the situation were reversed, nevertheless I feel so wicked. I mean, he is dead and nothing can bring him back, but I don’t seem to be able to hold on to my sense of loss as I did in those first few weeks. I feel I’m denying the truth and depth of our love by moving on, by coming to life again. I know that’s ridiculous, and as I say, I know he wouldn’t want me to give up on life and freeze inside but I just feel so awful for being alive.

  I’ve made a decision. I’m going to sell this house. And with the money from that, and from the sale of Highgates, and the money from Cess and her waster of a husband, well, I can pretty much afford to go anywhere and do whatever I want to do.

  Which obviously brings me back to Monica. My last act of love for my husband will be to kill the one who killed him.

  Ooh, it’s midnight! Thank God for that. What a relief 2012 is over. Must have a quick swig then run and say Happy New Year to the Hopkins’s.

  Thurs 3 January—6.15pm

  Okay, well, January. At last. I feel such a sense of relief, a sense of casting off the old burdens.

  The Hopkins’s have been amazing. They have been there for me—and still are—whenever I need someone to talk to, but they never presume. They have become my family. When I move, I shall make sure it’s to somewhere they like, that’s now as important to me as my own happiness, as I want them to come with me. I’ll ask them tomorrow where they think they would like to live. And I’m going to send them on a nice cruise or something as a big thank you for all their care and support over the last few months, I just wouldn’t have survived without them, my friends.

  Fri 4 January—11.00am

  Did I mention that I had to employ a firm to clear out Cess and Parker’s house in Weybridge? Well, I got the bill today—almost £5000! Bloody cheek! Still it’s only money, I suppose, and I didn’t want to have to go down there myself, although Mr and Mrs H did offer to help out if I changed my mind.

  Am thinking of having a few days away—probably at Chapley’s again, I could do with the pampering and I know the place. I mean, there are a few unpleasant associations, seeing that last time I stayed there, Monica gate-crashed my private little party. But I don’t see why I should let her spoil things for me, and it’s not all bad memories, after all Clarice was killed last time I was there, so that cheered things up a bit.

  Mind you, that was when I thought Monica had done it, but now of course, I know it was Thomas and I still find that a bit too weird to take in. But obviously Monica encouraged me to think it was her because of that stupid ‘criss cross’ idea and the film and everything. I can’t bear to watch Hitchcock films anymore. T
he Birds was on the other evening, but I only watched a little bit and had to put it off.

  And that reminds me of the texts Monica sent me with just those two words, ‘criss cross’, and it was those two words that made me realise what had happened. I haven’t heard from her in a couple of months, and obviously I‘m happy about that, as I hate the very sight of her, but I must say this silence makes me wonder what she’s doing with herself these days. It makes me think about what might be the best way to kill her, as it won’t be so easy if I never see her.

  I don’t know if it’s just winter blues, or what, but I just can’t seem to get down to doing any serious planning, I just haven’t got any interest in doing anything except sitting around in front of the television or pottering around the house or garden. So a few days away for some R and R should be just what I need to pick myself up and then when I come back I can really take myself in hand and crack on with this new project. After all, I can’t just drift through life, I must achieve something. God knows what, or why, but I just feel I must.

  Have sent for some house details. I must say, it’s awfully difficult to find a really nice home in the Cotswolds (Mr and Mrs H’s favoured spot, he has family in that neck of the woods apparently) for a max of £4,000,000. (But don’t want to spend my entire wodge of cash!)

  Oh and wonderful news! Jess and Murdo are coming down for a few days next week. I think they really just wanted to check up on me, make sure I’m eating and coping okay. It will be lovely to see them—a bit emotional too, I imagine, but that’s only natural and I’m not too worried about that, really I’m just looking forward to it.

  Sat 12 January—10.30am

  The house is so quiet again, now Jess and Murdo have gone back to Scotland—they tried to make me go back with them, I think it was something along the lines of getting back on the horse etc they’re afraid I won’t ever go back there as it’s where Thomas died, but any way, I told them I was planning a trip to Chapleys again next week, and didn’t want to cancel it as it’s so hard to get a booking, they’re almost always full.

  We had a lovely few days, didn’t do much, just pottered about and ate and drank and went out in the car to look at the local scenery.

  One of the things Jess commented on, apart from the fact that I looked shockingly in need of my upcoming visit to Chapleys (bless her!), (and I know she didn’t mean it in a horrible way), she said she’d noticed how familiar, even intimate, I had become with the Hopkins’.

  I told her they weren’t just my employees any longer, but that I really cared for them, almost as if they were my own family, like surrogate parents or something—and that they had been wonderful to me after Thomas died. I told her all the little and even quite big things they’d done, how they’d looked after me and hugged me and held me and listened to me in those early days when it was all so fresh and unbearable. I told Jess that if it hadn’t been for them I wouldn’t have got through it.

  But wonderful though she is, I could tell she just didn’t quite ‘get it’, and why should she? Her family is still intact and even if she lost Murdo, God forbid that should happen, she would still have her four sons, her mother and her younger brother and his family in Toronto. She wouldn’t be as alone as I am.

  Not that she was telling me to distance myself from them or anything of that sort, no. But she did laugh and say something about how Bayliss, her butler, would never permit such familiarity. But then she’s got a different set-up to me. They are in a huge, feudal manor arrangement, literally the Lairds of the area, whereas we’re just well-to-do and with a small staff. I mean I—not we—I am just well-to-do etc. It’s just not the same kind of set-up at all.

  Mind you, I’ve met Bayliss and he’s a miserable old git. He is the epitome of the Golden Age type of butler, one instinctively knows he refers to Jess and her family as ‘My Family’, and no doubt he serves them dinner in ‘our dining room’, and he is utterly rigid and formal. And he’s in command of at least a dozen troops, and with us it’s just Mr and Mrs Hopkins—and in my house, there isn’t that formal ‘upstairs’ and ‘below stairs’ distinction—anyway, they live in the attic, so technically, they’re even ‘upper’ than I am!

  So it was lovely to see them, but after a few days, I wanted them to go—I just found it so hard having other people in the house, and besides Murdo was bored with no men to speak to (he would rather have died than chat with Sid H!) and Jess was missing her home and everything. Now, although the house is very quiet, it’s all back to normal, which I find a huge relief.

  But much as I love normal, I’m really looking forward to my trip to Chapley’s the day after tomorrow—three days of mindless relaxation and beauty treatments, and then next weekend, Mr and Mrs H and I are off to the Cotswolds to look at a few houses that could be half-decent, just four from the dozens of properties the details of which various agents have sent us. There’s one in particular near Stow-in-the-Wold that looks as though it has distinct possibilities but I’m not going to get my hopes up too soon, just in case! But fingers crossed, it could be just what we need!

  Mon 14 January—5pm

  Feel a bit deflated. I suppose I should have realised it wouldn’t be the same, coming here on my own. And in January! I mean, last time I came to Chapley’s, I had Monica with me (okay so that was a bit unexpected, I admit, and it took me a couple of hours to get used to the idea, but after that it was great) and it was all so exciting, I was full of plans about Clarice and of course once I reached the end of my stay here, I had my darling Thomas to go home to.

  As it is, however primped and pampered I’ve been today, and shall be again tomorrow, all I’m doing is going home to my housekeeper and my chauffeur—however much I’ve come to love them—and a second-hand tabby cat with breath that smells of sardines.

  And it’s not as much fun doing all the treatments on your own. No matter pleasant and friendly the staff are, however kind they are when they come back to sort you out after your seaweed wrap, and find you’ve suddenly started crying because you’re thinking about your dead husband, it’s just not the same as having an actual friend to spend time with.

  Dare I say it, it’s even been a bit dull. And pointless. I’ve not enjoyed all the fuss and the treatments this time. I’m just lying there all the time with no one to talk to and no one to, you know, share the experience with.

  If only I hadn’t killed my best friend’s husband. It would have been lovely to have Monica here with me—and I’m sure she and I would have had as much fun as we did the first time we came together. After what she went through with Huw last summer, she could probably have done with getting away from it all for a day or two.

  Anyway. So I’m glad I’m going home the day after tomorrow. I’m driving myself—one of the few occasions these days when I get to drive my own car. And it’s quite nice just to sit there in my own car with the music I like on the radio, and not have to keep answering queries about my comfort and my preferred route etc.

  By the way, I should probably do something a bit more definite about selling Thomas’s BMW—it’s too big for me. I like my little 2-seater Mercedes. And obviously when Sid drives me anywhere, we go in the Audi so it seems a bit silly to keep hold of Thomas’s car as well. Sid might know the best way to sell it. I’ll ask him about it next time I see him.

  Same day: 10.15pm

  There’s something particularly pathetic about eating a sumptuous four-course dinner in a restaurant at a place like this, and eating it all alone, in one’s nicest dress and most expensive perfume.

  On the first night, they asked if I’d like to be seated with another woman who was here on her own, and I wasn’t completely against the idea to begin with. Then I took a look at her shoes and declined apologetically. The waitress seemed a bit surprised, I think, but there’s no point in being nice just for the sake of it. We wouldn’t have had anything in common and the last thing I wanted was to have to sit and look at photos of someone else’s grandchildren or dog.

 
But all the same, I did feel a bit ridiculous sat at the huge table, elaborately dressed, all on my own. Felt a bit like Miss Haversham when all the guests had gone off and left her to it in her wedding dress. (Before the fire, obviously).

  Wed 16 January—9.30pm

  It’s so nice to be home. I’ve already had Mrs H’s tea and cake shoved into me and heard about a dozen different anecdotes that could be filed under the heading ‘Tetley’s Tales’. Honestly, she’s completely besotted with that cat. I’m sure she loves it like a child.

  One new thing. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing or not. Probably not. Oh dear, I’m having second thoughts, but I’ve already said yes…

  Mr and Mrs H told me something about their son. Didn’t even know they had any offspring apart from the daughter in Milton Keynes, but apparently she’s merely one of a batch of three. Matthew, one of their sons, is just about to come out of prison—yes, prison!—and he will need somewhere “decent” to stay ‘just until he gets on his feet a bit’.

  I must have gaped at them like some kind of lunatic because they hastened to assure me that 1) he wasn’t dangerous which means he probably is—I mean, regardless of the original reason for his incarceration, who knows what nasty tips he’s picked up in prison? His own parents would be bound to say he wasn’t dangerous, wouldn’t they? Then 2) he’ll keep out of my way—now he’s starting to sound like a stray puppy, ‘he won’t eat much and we’ll feed him out of our pocket money’ kind of thing, and that, 3) I’d not even know he was there. Surely that’s not a good thing with Criminals? I would have said it’s much better to know exactly where they are at any given time, and then 4) it’s only for a few weeks until, yes, you’ve guessed it, he gets back on his feet a bit. They must think I came down with the last shower. How do I let myself get talked into these things? It’s that cat all over again.