The Moorstone Sickness

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘Well, I’d love to—if you’re sure I wouldn’t be in the way.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Rowan smiled and glanced briefly up at the sky. ‘I think it’s now or never,’ she said. ‘Are you game?’

  ‘I’m game.’

  Rowan raised her umbrella over them both. They turned to one another for a second, smiling like old friends, and then dashed out onto the pavement and hurried away, heels ringing on the wet slabs. Two minutes later they had reached the door to the café.

  As Rowan followed Alison inside she almost collided with a tall, dark man who was emerging onto the pavement. He apologized to her and went on his way, and for a moment she stood gazing after him. Then, turning again, she placed her umbrella in the stand near the door and looked around her. There was no sign yet of Mrs Prescot.

  Although the café was busy the two girls were lucky enough to find a window table that had just that second been vacated. They moved over to it, hung up their coats and sat down. Alison took out her cigarettes and offered them to Rowan. ‘No, thanks.’ Rowan shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  Alison took a cigarette for herself and lit it. Rowan said: ‘Did you notice that man I nearly bumped into as we came in?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alison was smiling at her. ‘And I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. You’re going to say that he looks like the actor David Lockyer . . .’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Alison nodded. ‘He was.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘It is David Lockyer, and I mean he was the actor. Not now, though. He’s given all that up. Now he concentrates on music. He’s a composer. Been here a couple of years now, so I’m told. He writes music for films and television—that sort of thing. And very successfully, too, by all accounts.’

  ‘But—but what about his acting career? Has he given all that up?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Rowan nodded slowly. ‘So that’s why he hasn’t done anything in that line for a while. But he was so popular, what with the television series and the various West End plays. I remember reading an interview with him when he talked of how he’d had to work to get where he was—and how satisfying the whole thing was.’ She shook her head in wonderment. ‘And now he’s just—given it all up.’

  ‘People are weird, aren’t they?’ Alison was looking around for the waitress. ‘Apparently he doesn’t even talk about it now—his past; he won’t. Just not interested in it anymore.’

  ‘He used to live in London, I remember reading. But now you say he lives here . . .’

  ‘Yes, he’s got a house in the High Street—just across the road from The Swan.’

  Rowan grinned. ‘You know a lot about what goes on in Moorstone.’

  Alison smiled back and shrugged. ‘Everybody knows what goes on in Moorstone. It’s hard to keep secrets here.’

  The waitress came over then and they ordered coffee. When she had gone Rowan asked: ‘Did you come to the village on your own?—You mentioned that you’re married . . .’

  ‘Yes, I did come here on my own. My husband, Geoff, is working abroad. Saudi Arabia. He’s helping build a palace or something for one of those rich Arab princes. He’s going to be away for a year.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s not too long.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Alison smiled. ‘It seems a hell of a long time to me.’

  ‘Where were you before you came here?’

  ‘Our home’s in Brighton. I was getting a bit restless there—on my own and between jobs. So—I decided to get away. And I did. I let the house to some eager visiting Americans and came here.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to go out there with him—your husband?’

  ‘Oh, I could have done but it seemed hardly worth it. As he’s not there for very long—and not living too comfortably at that—so he says. If he were staying longer—well . . .’ She smiled. ‘God, but I miss him. That’s one of the reasons I took this job—because I was missing him so much; I thought a change of scene would be a nice diversion.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘And you’ll be staying here till Geoff has finished his contract out there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve told Miss Carroll I shall.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose the time will pass—eventually.’

  After the waitress had brought their coffee Rowan sipped at it and looked around her at the café’s interior. It was filled with the sound of clinking china and animated voices. Everyone seemed to be using it as a refuge from the rain. She felt very content. It was good to sit there in the dry, drinking a decent cup of coffee and chatting with someone warm, friendly and interesting.

  The talk between them moved on to the subject of Hal and his writing. Rowan spoke of his new novel that was due for publication in the autumn, after which Alison said how impressed she had been with Spectre at the Feast. Rowan told her then, with pride, of the big movie deal that had transpired and of Hal’s contract for the screenplay, which he was soon due to start work on. ‘He’s just waiting for the producer to get over from Hollywood,’ she said, ‘—then they’ll discuss it all and he’ll have to get busy. In a way I think he’s a little afraid of it—not having tackled such a thing before. But he can do it, though—of course he can.’

  ‘Is he working on anything at the moment?’

  Rowan nodded. ‘A novel.’

  ‘And how’s it going?’

  ‘Oh—well—I’m afraid the move rather got in the way—of everything. He’s only just getting back to it now.’ She smiled. ‘He’ll be all right once he’s really got going again, though. And at least he’s got the perfect place to work in. All the peace and quiet anyone could need. I really don’t know how he managed before.’

  ‘Obviously you’re very happy here,’ Alison said, looking at her with a level gaze.

  ‘Oh, yes, I love it.’

  ‘You have a beautiful house—the old Crispin place. It has so much character.’

  ‘And space,’ Rowan added quickly, ‘which we’re not at all used to. Not to mention a whole acre of land.’ She grinned. ‘A whole acre. We even have a gardener, can you believe that?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Tom Freeman. He was recommended to us by Paul Cassen—the doctor.’

  ‘Oh, I know Paul Cassen.’

  ‘We hesitated about taking him on at first—the old man—Tom Freeman,’ Rowan said. ‘I mean, he is getting on a bit. But he’s a marvellous old chap, and he seems very fit and active for his age—apart from which he was so keen to have the job. And he does seem to know what he’s doing.’

  ‘It helps,’ Alison said. ‘And what about your housekeeper? Is she from the village?’

  ‘Oh, no, she came with us from London.’ She turned and peered from the window, looking for some sign of Mrs Prescot. ‘Oh, good,’ she said, ‘the rain has stopped . . .’

  Alison followed her glance onto the street, where the pedestrians were beginning to make their appearance again. ‘I think I’d better take the opportunity and go while I can,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, must you? Stay for another cup of coffee.’

  ‘No, I’d better not—just in case Miss Carroll’s waiting for her books.’ She opened her purse and began to sort through coins. ‘No,’ Rowan said, ‘I’ll take care of it.’ Alison smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you. Next time it’s on me.’ She was gathering up her lighter and cigarettes and putting them into her bag.

  ‘I hope there will be a next time,’ Rowan said.

  ‘Yes, I hope so too.’ Alison smiled at her warmly. ‘It was really nice to meet you, and talk to you. It would be nice if we could do it again—sometime when I don’t have to rush off.’

  ‘You must come to the house and meet Hal.’

  ‘I’d enjoy that, very much.’

  They exchanged telephone numbers then, after which Alison got up and put on her coat. With a final smiling farewell she went away. Fro
m the window Rowan watched as she hurried off along the street. Her feeling of contentment had grown. Added to the other joys of living in Moorstone she had now found a friend.

  ‘Good morning, Rowan . . .’

  She turned at the sound of the voice and saw Paul Cassen standing at the table smiling down at her. An elderly woman was at his side.

  ‘Oh, hello, Paul.’ Rowan returned his smile.

  ‘This is a bit of luck,’ he went on. ‘I came in here and saw Mrs Palfrey and then caught sight of you as well. So—I thought it was a good opportunity for the two of you to meet.’ His hand moved briefly between them: ‘Mrs Palfrey . . . Mrs Graham . . .’

  Smiling, but a little puzzled, Rowan got to her feet and shook hands with the woman. Mrs Palfrey appeared to be somewhere in her middle-to-late sixties. She wore a blue raincoat, and on her fine, frizzled grey hair a neat little hat was perched. Her face was thin, with small features. The smile she gave Rowan looked friendly but shy.

  ‘Mrs Palfrey is the lady I was telling Hal about,’ Cassen said. Then he must have seen the puzzlement in Rowan’s face for he added quickly, ‘—Hal told me that your housekeeper is leaving in a week or so and that you’d probably be needing someone else for a while.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Rowan nodded her understanding. ‘Oh, yes, he did mention that he’d spoken of it to you. But our plans have changed now. Mrs Prescot’s not going just yet after all.’

  ‘—Oh, I see . . .’

  ‘She’s agreed now to stay on till the end of May.’ She looked from Cassen to the woman. ‘And then, you see, I don’t think we’ll need anyone else. Certainly not full-time, anyway. It’s mainly for these first weeks while we’re still getting settled, you understand—when there’s still so much to do.’ She paused; shrugged. ‘We reckoned another month ought to do it—and Mrs Prescot kindly agreed.’

  Cassen nodded. ‘I see. I wasn’t aware that the situation had changed.’

  ‘It was only decided last night.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ He turned then to the elderly woman at his side. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Palfrey,’ he said with a sympathetic little smile, ‘it looks as if I’ve been a bit too quick off the mark.’

  She looked up at him and then at Rowan. ‘Oh, well, never mind.’ To Rowan she gave her shy little smile. ‘Anyway, I’m pleased for you that you’ve got it all—sorted out. And it’s been very nice to meet you.’

  Rowan smiled back. ‘And you . . .’

  There was a little awkward hesitation and then, nodding her farewells, Mrs Palfrey edged away and moved to her own table some little distance across the room. Rowan watched her as she sat down, and then resumed her own seat. Cassen sat on the edge of the chair facing her. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I hope I didn’t put you in an embarrassing spot.’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all. Please don’t apologize.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, if we do decide we still need some help after Mrs Prescot’s gone then we can always think about it again.’

  ‘That would be appreciated . . .’

  The waitress came to the table then and asked Cassen if he wanted to order. No, he told her, he was just leaving. When she had gone he got up from his chair, glanced briefly over at Mrs Palfrey and said: ‘Yes, do think about her, won’t you—when your housekeeper’s gone?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Rowan observed Mrs Palfrey for a moment, watching as she lifted her coffee cup to her mouth. The woman didn’t look particularly robust, she thought. And her hands—she hadn’t noticed them before, but she did now—and she saw that they were rather misshapen, the fingers somewhat twisted and the knuckles enlarged. ‘Does she suffer­ from arthritis?’ she quietly asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid she does. Not nearly as much as she used to, though. And anyway, it doesn’t hamper her in the slightest.’ He looked at Rowan for a moment then gave her a wide smile. ‘Well, I’d better get back to work.’ He lightly touched his hand to her shoulder, said goodbye and went away. Seconds later she saw him go by on the shining wet pavement. Almost at the same moment Mrs Prescot came into view and Rowan turned to the door and waved to her as she entered. Mrs Prescot gave a little wave of acknowledgement, deposited her umbrella in the stand and came over to join Rowan at the table. ‘Sorry I’ve been such a long time,’ she said. ‘What with the queues and the rain I thought I’d never get here.’

  Rowan ordered coffees and Danish pastries. Fifteen minutes later when they got up to go Mrs Prescot said: ‘When we get back I must give Kathleen a ring and tell her I’ll be staying on a while longer.’ Rowan nodded and glanced towards the table at which Mrs Palfrey had been sitting. She was no longer there.

  At the cash register Rowan paid the bill and took up her umbrella. As she hitched her bag more securely under her arm she turned and saw Mrs Prescot looking in dismay at the umbrella stand.

  ‘What’s up?’ Rowan asked.

  Mrs Prescot lifted out the two umbrellas that stood there, looked contemptuously at them for a moment and then put them back again.

  ‘Neither one is mine,’ she said. She shook her head in annoyance. ‘Would you believe it? Someone’s gone off with my umbrella by mistake!’

  6

  Kathleen Fields turned off the gas under the small saucepan and poured the hot chocolate into the mug. After switching off the kitchen light she carried the mug into the sitting room and sat down again in front of the television set. News at Ten was about to come on. When a lull occurred in the sound she heard, faintly from above, the murmur of Mr Simpkins’s television. Obviously he was watching a different channel. He was a pleasant man, she reflected—as was the other tenant, Mr Ferreira. They both paid their rent regularly and kept their rooms neat. And so what if Mr Simpkins did sometimes have a drop too much on the occasional Friday night?—he never got boisterous with it.

  She sipped from the steaming mug. Why was it, she idly wondered, that hot chocolate should have that touch of luxury about it? It always had done for her. And for Elsie too, for that matter. When Elsie was there the regular nightly cup of cocoa was a part of the ritual of their shared lives. They always enjoyed it so much. It tasted good now, too—but it wasn’t quite the same without Elsie there.

  Kathleen wore a floral print dressing gown. It was another part of her pursuit of comfort to relax like this for the last hour before going to bed. And it was particularly comforting if her day at the office had been more than usually tiring. Still, the possibility of such days occurring wouldn’t last much longer. Another six months and she’d be retiring—on a well-earned pension after her years of service in a minor department of a local government office.

  For the moment, though, she was looking forward to Elsie’s return. Unlike her sister, Kathleen had never married, and after her years of aloneness the closeness of her younger sister had grown increasingly important to her.

  Up until some ten years ago the two had led separate lives, Kathleen putting her energies into her job and the comfort of her paying guests, and Elsie totally involved with her family—a husband and son. And then that son, Norman, whilst still a student, had been killed in a motoring accident abroad. That, a most terrible time, had brought the two sisters closer. Then, when Elsie’s husband had died quietly in a hospital bed the closeness had grown stronger still. From then on the lives of the two women had been spent together.

  Until recently, that is, when Elsie had decided to go down to Devon to help her nice young couple, the Grahams, get settled in. She hadn’t been that keen to go, Kathleen knew, but the Grahams had been so good to her in the past, and what with losing their little boy like that and everything, well—Elsie just hadn’t been able to say no once the suggestion was made.

  And now she’d phoned to say that she’d decided to stay on for another month. Kathleen sighed her disappointment. Still, she told herself, a month wasn’t forever, and the time would soon pass. And anyway, it was a good experience for Elsie; she’d never lived in the country before.

  Idly, Kathleen wondered what they should do once she h
ad retired. Perhaps they should sell the house and move somewhere else. Find something smaller, with just enough room for the two of them. Perhaps some nice little semi in the suburbs where there’d be a bit of garden. That would be nice. . . .

  Before her the television news reader was quoting the Prime Minister’s latest comments on the state of the country’s economy. Kathleen shook her head, got up, switched off the set and sat back again on the sofa. Sipping at her chocolate she eagerly took up the threads of her earlier thoughts.

  The garden; a garden, yes . . .

  One thing she was determined on and that was that she’d keep active once she’d given up work at the office. Too many people, she often said, just seemed to give in once there were no longer demands made of them. Not she. She looked forward to having more free time—and looked forward to using it. After all, she was fit and healthy; she’d hardly ever had a day’s illness in her life. Retirement for her wouldn’t mean an end to anything; on the contrary, it could be—it would be—a beginning.

  The smile that came with the comforting thought stayed on her lips for a moment longer before it was wiped out by the ugly grimace that widened her eyes and stretched her mouth in a silent scream.

  As the stabbing pain screwed into her heart she gasped in agony, snatching at her breath, letting fall the mug so that the remains of the chocolate splattered her dressing gown and the cushions of the sofa. With her face distorted she half rose to her feet, standing with knees bent, left hand clutched to her chest and the other reaching out to the empty room for help.

  As her breath returned and the pain increased she cried out, ‘God—oh, God! Oh, God—help me—!’

  She was a tall woman and as she crashed sideways she caught the small table with her shoulder and sent that over too.

  As she lay there the only sounds to be heard were her harsh breathing and the faint, continuing murmur of Mr Simpkins’s television on the floor above.

  7

  As Hal entered the kitchen just on six-thirty he found Rowan preparing the dinner. No, she told him, she didn’t need any help. He had just poured a drink for each of them when the phone rang. Rowan answered it. It was Mrs Prescot. Minutes later he watched as Rowan hung up the receiver, sighed and sadly shook her head.