The Moorstone Sickness

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘I’ve just about finished here, Mrs Graham,’ she said. ‘I thought then that before getting the lunch I’d make a start upstairs if there’s time.’

  Rowan nodded. ‘Fine . . .’

  Rowan’s smile was very warm, very friendly. Mrs Palfrey studied her; a quick, brief assessment as she stood before her; not for the first time and not for the last. She looked admiringly at the slim figure, the thick, dark hair, the graceful oval of the face and the slender-fingered hands. She was beautiful.

  ‘I’m just about to make some coffee,’ Rowan said. ‘We always have some about this time. Would you like a cup?’

  Mrs Palfrey shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think so—not right now. But let me make it—’

  ‘No, I can do it.’

  ‘No, please, let me. It won’t take me a minute and you and Mr Graham have more important things to do.’

  ‘Oh, well . . . okay . . .’

  Alone in the kitchen a few moments later Mrs Palfrey put on the kettle and carefully measured the ground coffee into the filter. While the water was heating she set out trays on which she placed cups and saucers, and plates holding a few assorted biscuits. When the coffee was ready she took one tray into Rowan’s study and the other upstairs. There she knocked on Hal’s door and on hearing his answering call went in and found him sitting idly at his desk. His typewriter, she noticed, was covered; nothing much seemed to be happening—except that he was smoking too heavily; the ashtray was almost overflowing. Setting the tray down, she nodded a silent, smiling acknowledgement of his thanks and went back downstairs to the hall.

  When her work was finished there she picked up the vacuum cleaner and carried it up the stairs. It was heavy. Still, she consoled herself, it had to be done and soon she would have her reward. And anyway, the job wasn’t going to last forever.

  In the bathroom at the far end of the house she cleaned the bathtub and then started on the hand basin. In the middle of her work she stopped and looked down at her hands—misshapen, aging, mottled now with brown spots. Raising her head she gazed at her reflection in the glass, taking in the dull, frizzled hair, the snub nose and the wrinkles in the dry skin. It had never, even when young, been a pretty face. She sighed, and went back to polishing the taps.

  Finished at last she glanced down from the window and saw that Rowan had left her study and was now standing outside talking to Tom Freeman. He stood with one hand on his spade, his grey head nodding occasionally as he spoke and gestured. A slight breeze ruffled Rowan’s dark hair, blowing it across her cheek.

  Mrs Palfrey looked away and critically eyed the results of her efforts. The taps over the bathtub and the basin were gleaming. Surely that Mrs Prescot couldn’t have done any better—if she could have done as well.

  That was a funny business, she thought, that thing with the past housekeeper. Who’d have guessed that the umbrella would turn out to be her sister’s? Still, the outcome of it all had been the right one. Mrs Prescot had gone and now here was she, Mrs Palfrey, in her place. And that was all that mattered.

  A little later she put on her kitchen gloves and went out into the garden. She walked past the laburnum tree and on along the path to where Tom Freeman was tending the large vegetable patch. At her request he picked a lettuce and filled her basket with runner beans. She nodded approvingly. ‘And I’ll need some rosemary and mint—’ she said, ‘—and a few other things . . .’

  He looked at her for a moment and then gestured off. ‘Over there.’ He turned and led the way from the vegetable patch to a spot near the orchard where the wild flowers and shrubs grew unchecked. Here were rosemary, thyme, mint and all kinds of fragrant herbs. Here, too, among the brambles in the lower areas the deadly spurge laurel’s sweet-scented flowers grew as high as Mrs Palfrey’s waist while the bittersweet’s blossoms reached taller than her head.

  The old man stood watching as she moved about, bending low, stretching high, gathering what she needed. When she was done he led her to the rose garden where he cut a dozen of the finest blooms. ‘They’ll make a beautiful centrepiece,’ she said, bending her little snub nose to the scent. Straightening again, she said, ‘You know—I just realized—it’s May Day.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a time of beginning. . . .’ She stood there for a moment, then her smile faded and she gave a little sigh. ‘Ah, well,’ she said, ‘—I suppose I must go and start preparing lunch.’

  Tom Freeman walked with her along the path. When they reached the vegetable patch they stopped. She shifted the weight of the basket to her other hand and he eyed her keenly for a moment then said:

  ‘You think you’ll manage?’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ve got no choice.’ She paused. ‘And you?’ He was looking tired, she thought; a little grey-faced. And it was early days yet.

  With a grimace he stretched slightly, as if easing an ache in his back. ‘Like you,’ he said, ‘it’s a case of having to. Still—knowing it’s in sight makes it a lot easier.’

  Putting her free hand down into the basket she moved aside the roses. There next to the beans and the lettuce lay the bits of leaves and flowers she had gathered by the orchard. She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, we’ll manage all right.’ When she raised her head again and looked into the old man’s eyes her mouth was curved in the smallest of smiles. ‘And hopefully,’ she added, ‘it won’t have to be for very long.’

  ‘Are you going to start today?’ he asked. There was a trace of eagerness in his voice.

  ‘No, tomorrow. They’ve got a visitor this evening. Tomorrow will be soon enough.’

  ‘And it will be for both of them, won’t it?’

  She pretended to think about it for a moment, pursing her lips and frowning. She enjoyed the look of increasing anxiety on his face. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked relieved. After a second or two he said: ‘What do you think of them?’

  ‘Perfect. If appearances are anything to go by.’ She tapped the side of the basket. ‘Anyway, once I’ve had a chance to use this stuff we should know.’

  ‘You won’t overdo it, will you?’

  Briefly, in disdain, she lowered her eyelids. ‘Please—credit me with some intelligence. I have done it before.’ She’d never cared for him. ‘If you can think of a better way of getting them there—and getting what’s needed—then you’re welcome to try.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You do what you think is best.’ He looked sheepish. As if trying to regain firmer ground he asked, ‘Who’ve they got coming this evening, then?’

  ‘Edith Carroll’s girl—Alison Lucas. She’s coming to dinner.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the Lucas girl. How’s she getting on there?’

  ‘Fine, I believe.’

  ‘She’s taking her time, isn’t she—Edith Carroll?’

  ‘I suppose she is, rather. But she says she’s got work to finish.’

  ‘I don’t see that that makes any difference.’

  ‘Neither do I, but there’s no accounting for some people’s actions.’

  ‘Well, I don’t intend to wait,’ he said, ‘—any longer than I have to.’

  ‘Quite.’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘And the way I’m feeling it can’t come soon enough.’

  ‘It’s silly to wait,’ he said. ‘Things can go wrong. Anything could happen. You can end up with sweet bugger all.’

  ‘Just try to remember that you’re talking to a lady, will you?’ she said curtly. Then, pleased with his contrite expression she added:

  ‘But don’t worry. Nothing will go wrong.’

  9

  They had lingered through dinner and when at last it was over had moved into the sitting room where Hal served coffee. He was enjoying Alison’s company. She had a bright, warm personality and nice sense of humour. Furthermore she possessed a down-to-earth common sense that was both welcome and refreshing—qualities, he suddenly realized, that he had missed since coming to Moorstone. In addition, the fact that s
he herself was a relative newcomer to the village was also a mark in her favour. He was pleased, very pleased, that Rowan had found in her a friend. He looked over at Rowan as she sat stirring her coffee. She looked happy and relaxed.

  Now, to increase his pleasure in the evening, he discovered that Alison shared, to a degree, his own love of music of the forties. Having set down her own cup she was carefully browsing through his collection of old seventy-eights.

  ‘One of Hal’s passions,’ Rowan told her.

  Alison smiled. ‘I approve of such passions.’ Turning to Hal she asked: ‘Please—play me something, will you?’

  He was delighted to comply. Most of the records in his collection had been made before he was born—the rest before he had been aware of any musical sense. He had started gathering them by stumbling on a couple of rare items whilst still in his teens; and the bug had bitten. By this time, after many years, his collection had grown considerably; now it took up three four-foot-long shelves. All those heavy old singles, coming from a time when each one had been something of an event possessed—in their romance, their specialness—a charm for him that today’s records, turned out in their millions, could never have.

  I get along without you very well,

  Of course I do . . .

  While the plaintive voice of Billie Holiday filled the room he lit a cigarette and stood gazing out onto the darkened garden. When the record came to an end he took it off and, fingertips brushing the polished wood of the cabinet, said, ‘This is the perfect machine for these old records.’ To Alison he added: ‘We got it with the house. We were lucky there.’

  ‘We were lucky with everything,’ Rowan said. ‘This house and this village.’ Turning, smiling, toward Alison she asked, ‘Don’t you just love it here?’

  To Hal’s ears Alison’s answer of ‘Yes . . .’ didn’t sound too convincing. ‘You don’t seem that sure,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s all right, I suppose. But it’s—well, it’s not really my cup of tea.’

  Rowan looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you serious? What is it about it that you’re not keen on? I mean—it’s got everything that a small English village should have. This place is story-book stuff. Loads of charm, beautiful scenery, a sense of community—and the people couldn’t be nicer.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the people,’ Alison said. ‘Sometimes I think they’re a little too nice.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rowan. There was a touch of dismay in her expression. ‘The people here are pleasant—but surely it’s typical of the difference between people in the country and in the city.’ She gave a defiant little laugh. ‘Believe me, after London I find it a very refreshing change. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  Alison looked at her for a moment, nodded, then said: ‘Yes, maybe you’re right. After all, why shouldn’t people be nice to each other? Yes, I suppose that when you come to think about it it’s less an indictment of the people here in the village than of those outside it.’

  ‘What made you choose Moorstone in the first place?’ Hal asked. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘I answered an ad in The Times. After Geoff went off I got to feeling very much at a loose end; I was between jobs and I just—just wanted to get away somewhere. So, as I say, I answered the ad—Miss Carroll’s—came down to meet her—and got the job.’ She grinned. ‘Sometimes when I think of the competition there was for it I can’t understand why she came to choose me. I mean, let’s be honest—my typing’s okay, but it’s not about to win me any medals. And I didn’t get beyond lesson three in my shorthand course. Not like some of those other women who applied. I came across some of the letters from them—applying for the job. My God, some of them sounded absolutely brilliant. Still,’ she shrugged, ‘I’ve managed all right, and there haven’t been any complaints—so far.’

  Hal asked her then whether she found the work interesting. ‘Yes, I do,’ she answered, ‘but there—the business of creative writing has always fascinated me.’

  ‘Do you write, yourself?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve no talent whatsoever in that direction. It’s as much as I can manage to write a letter. No—I just have a great respect for those who can do it—and can do it well. But I know at the same time that I could never do it myself. And I don’t have the slightest desire to try, either.’ She smiled. ‘It’s funny; Miss Carroll’s often suggested to me that I try my hand at writing something. Maybe a short story—something like that. It’s no good, though. I just tell her politely that she’s wasting her breath.’

  While Rowan poured more coffee Hal offered Alison a cigarette. When it was alight she said, ‘That’s the only thing I have against Miss Carroll as my employer: she won’t let me smoke—except in my room. And I know she only tolerates that with the greatest difficulty. I suppose she puts up with it to keep me happy. She absolutely hates it. Still—’ she shrugged, ‘—I suppose we’re none of us perfect. But even Ralph Collins isn’t allowed to smoke in her presence. And she idolizes him—though God knows why.’

  Hal grinned. ‘Collins—from the library. He’s your admirer, isn’t he? Rowan was telling me something about it . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry I mentioned his name.’ Alison gave a mock shudder. ‘Please—let’s not spoil a lovely evening talking about that loathsome creature. Let’s talk about other things . . .’

  They did, and the talk went on until almost eleven-thirty, at which time Alison said she really would have to get going. As she got up Hal said he’d take her back in the car. No, she said, thanking him, it was kind of him but it was no distance. ‘. . . and besides,’ she added, ‘I’d quite like to walk.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk back with you,’ he said, to which Rowan added, ‘Take your bike—then you can ride it home. I’ll get cleared up while you’re gone.’

  When the two girls had fondly said their goodnights to one another Hal and Alison stepped out into the cool, moonlit night. Looking up, Hal saw that the sky was clear; all the stars were there. ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ he said. He took his bicycle from the garage and, pushing it beside him, walked with Alison onto the road. Their steps sounded sharp in the stillness. Alison said, ‘I had a really nice time, Hal. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Oh, it was our pleasure.’ He meant it.

  After a few moments had gone by he said: ‘What did you mean about the people here being too nice?’

  ‘Oh, that. Take no notice. That’s just my big mouth. I’m sorry I said it.’

  ‘Why be sorry?’

  ‘Well—I shall be leaving Moorstone eventually, whereas you’re staying. It just wasn’t—tactful of me to be—negative about it. Particularly when Rowan’s so obviously in love with the place.’

  ‘Oh, she’s sold on it, all right. Completely.’

  On either side of them the fields, trees and hedgerows were touched with silver. Up ahead only the occasional lighted windows showed in the clustered houses of the village. ‘Anyway, she’s right,’ Alison said. ‘It’s a very beautiful little place.’

  ‘It’s not everything, though, is it? Beauty . . .’ He was looking at her as he spoke and she turned briefly to glance at him. ‘A place has got to do more than look good,’ he added. She said nothing. After a moment he went on: ‘I’m interested; I’d really like to know: why isn’t this place your cup of tea—as you put it?’

  ‘Is it yours?’ she asked.

  Her question silenced him for a second, then he said: ‘Is it the people here? Rowan thinks they’re just about perfect.’

  ‘Oh, they’re perfect, all right,’ she said quickly. ‘They’re too damn perfect.’

  ‘Go on. . . .’

  She paused, then said thoughtfully: ‘Well, I think that’s it. That’s what’s wrong—for me, anyway—or one of the things. I find the villagers—to all outward appearances—to be just too nice. It reminds me a bit of those freaky Californian religions where everyone goes around being loving and understanding and non-aggressive—and man
age to give the impression that they’re boiling inside.’

  ‘And is that how you see the people here?’

  ‘Well, not quite like that, but—well, I just don’t think it’s natural to be that warm and friendly and welcoming. That’s the way it strikes me, anyway.’ She hesitated for a moment then went on: ‘Take last Saturday, for example. I went into the stationer’s to get a few things for Miss Carroll and there were two women already there, waiting to be served. And what happens but they stand aside and insist that I go first. I found it rather—embarrassing. Dammit, it’s not natural to be so bloody . . . sweet. And if one more person asks me whether I’m happy in Moorstone I swear I’ll hit him.’ She laughed. ‘It’s almost as if they’re afraid that I’m going to get up and leave.’

  Hal nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve found that with us, too. Folks being concerned as to whether we’re happy here and are settling in all right.’

  ‘And are you? Are you happy here? Are you settling in all right?’

  ‘Rowan is.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that. What about you?’

  ‘It’s all so new for me,’ he said non-committally. ‘I’m not used to living in the country. I suppose I’ll get used to it in time. Anyway, the important thing right now is that Ro’s happy. And she is happy here. It’s made such a difference to her—coming here, having this house . . .’

  ‘Oh, your house is gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes, we love it. And we certainly were lucky there—not only in finding it, but getting it at the price we did.’

  ‘You got a bargain, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we did. Mind you, perhaps that’s because there was no one else after it. Which, I must say, surprised us . . .’

  In the pale light he saw her frown.

  ‘When did you buy it?’ she asked.

  ‘Towards the end of February. Why . . . ?’

  ‘Well, it just seems . . . a little odd . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, soon after I got here—before you and Rowan arrived—I got to talking to an elderly couple in The Coffee Shop. They were wanting to move to Moorstone, they told me, and had come that day to look at a house that they’d seen empty. Not that they got it. Anyway, they told me that they’d been disappointed before. Over your house.’