Raymond smiled. It was a lonely place to finish up, he reflected. No warmth here, none of the comforts of a quaint village graveyard. No relatives walking over you on some significant date to leave a bunch of flowers, or tidy up from time to time around an elaborate headstone. This was the outer reaches – Farsville, baby.
‘OK, let’s get the mud back in,’ he said to Myra, glancing at his watch again, ‘we’d better hurry, now.’
The panting and wheezing quickened. Steam came off their thick winter jackets and floated its way across, caught in the slanted car lights. The first rim of daylight was appearing. Raymond looked up worried; he wiped his sweating forehead leaving a muddy scuff.
Myra’s mouth was dry; it tasted of copper. She wished she’d brought more water. The smell of the muddy field had become nauseating. It was filling up her brain.
Eventually Raymond waved for her to stop. The remaining earth that didn’t fit was thrown around, as if it never had belonged. Myra busied herself giving the last final pats. Fussing here and there, flattening down mounds, making sure it all blended with the rest of the ground while the early morning drone of distant traffic was becoming noticeable.
The boot lid slammed and Raymond was back behind the wheel. He switched the ignition on. Rurr-rurr - rurr - rurrr rurr. It wasn’t going to fire. He tried again, Rurr-rurr - rurr - rurrr - rurrr.
‘Fuck,’ came the whisper, ‘come on, you mother.’ The damp? The drizzle? The headlights on all this time? Thoughts swam through his mind. He looked at Myra.
Raymond waited. Myra by his side closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, both hands. He tried again. The engine turned over a couple of times and then fired up.
‘Thank God,’ she said and collapsed in a sigh.
‘I always had faith in Fords,’ Raymond said with a grin. His foot padded the accelerator then brought it down to an idle.
With the windscreen wipers on slow, they reversed along the small track and then out into the country lane. Still with a smile, Raymond’s hands gripped the wheel so hard that the whites of his knuckles showed. Now he was on a high, his head was spinning. Raymond was enjoying himself. What with prison, he hadn’t had a good time in ages. At least, not since his punch and slap care home days. He turned the music up louder.
‘Calm down - calm down,’ she muttered. Then she looked at him with a smile. Myra started laughing. They both started laughing, finishing with a high five.
For the first time that night, they began to feel hungry.
‘Let’s find ourselves a breakfast? I could eat a horse.’ Raymond looked at her for acknowledgement.
She nodded,
‘A good breakfast and a nice hot bath’ll do me.’
*
The middle-aged Nigerian day shift carer came into Gladys’s room. The door was always left open so they could keep an eye on her, to listen out if she called or wanted help.
‘Didn’t see you at lunch, Gladys. So, I’ve brought you a sandwich and some soup. How are you feeling, my love?’
‘Soup…soup…’ Gladys uttered looking vacant.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’ve got you some soup. I’ll put your bib on. Don’t want you staining your nice cardie, do we?’
‘Soup…soup…’
‘Yes, it’s tomato. You like tomato? Yummy-yum.’
The care lady sat with Gladys and patiently spoon-fed her. She broke up her sandwiches and dipped them in the soup. Gladys wasn’t wearing her dentures. She never did. They didn’t fit any more and were too painful. When they finished, she dabbed Gladys’s mouth with a tissue and cleaned some small stains off her sleeve.
‘Would you like some squash, my love?’
‘Squash…squash…’ Gladys always repeated things she liked.
‘I’ll top you up.’ The carer smiled. ‘There you are.’ She put the half full plastic beaker on the side by her wheelchair.
‘I’ll be in later with your medication, my love. I’ll see you then.’ The care lady gave her a wave and a smile but there was no response. Then she disappeared out of the door.
Little old Gladys Wesley, at seventy-six, was one of the old-timers at the Stayton Farm Sanatorium. Her daughter Jennifer had looked after her until the symptoms of her senile dementia had started taking hold. Gladys’s husband, Reginald, had run off with another woman to Aberdeen many years ago when Jennifer had been a small child. He’d never been heard of since.
The only consolation for Gladys had been her husband’s brother who, when he was alive at the time, had sat on the board of trustees for the Stayton Farm Sanatorium. He had managed to get Gladys a place in the home.
Now, with thin, white hair and bandaged legs, she was forever locked in a world of her own. However, the staff liked her; she was one of their favourites - easy to handle at washing, feeding and toilet times.
The Stayton Farm Sanatorium sat a mile back from the A120 just outside Braintree in Essex. First used for tuberculosis patients, it had now become over the years a full-time care facility for the elderly with dementia.
The building was circular, designed for those who were able to walk. In theory should never get lost. Although logically, if you walk far enough you must always come back to the same place, the staff had learnt over the years from their search party sallies never to trust that line of reasoning.
Gladys had her spacious room with large picture windows and a door that led out onto a large, circular, inner garden. In the spring and summer, weather permitting they’d wheel her outside so she could see the blue tits clamour around the bird box.
To some degree, Gladys was fortunate. Although the sanatorium was private, it was part subsidised by the council so they were able to use her pension and disability allowance for her upkeep. She had no other income apart from the share certificates. Her daughter Jennifer had kept quiet about these, in case the home wanted them to support her mother. Even the dividend cheques that for years had come through her letterbox, she’d put them into her mother’s old bank account. This was the account she should have declared to help with the sanatorium costs. Jennifer hadn’t planned to see her inheritance taken away by the authorities.
Gladys’s share certificates along with the other residents’ valuables were locked away in the office safe. Apart from Jennifer, no one knew or could be bothered to find out how much they were really worth. That was apart from the time back in the Nescotte days, when her daughter had mentioned it to Glenda, while Myra had listened behind a half-closed door.
Unlike Gladys, some of the other patients had no visitors; but the staff did put on socials, and there was always a Sunday service in the dining room with hymns taken by the local Reverend. In addition, a visiting choir came twice a month, and a lady played the piano every Saturday afternoon during tea. Also, they had a special treat every Christmas. At the last New Year’s Eve get-together, they had had an Engelbert Humperdinck look-a-like sing all his big hits.
On this late Tuesday afternoon, Gladys had been wheeled back from the TV lounge and was dozing by the window. The medication previously administered to her was now taking effect.
The contract cleaner paused in the corridor. He knocked twice on the quarter-open door. There was no answer. The cleaner looked sideways, left and right, before walking quietly into Gladys’s room and closing the door In apprehension for a moment, the hand still gripped the handle. He waited for a stir, a movement, a sound, but everything was silent apart from a slight snore from Gladys.
It was the cleaner’s first day at the sanatorium. Wearing the auburn-coloured wig for nearly three hours had made the head itch. In fact, by now, the hands were absolutely dying to give it a good scratch. The panty hose also felt so uncomfortable. It was the first time Raymond had ever worn them.
Never having had a feminine pair of looking legs at the best of times, and shaving them first thing before coming to work had made him grateful that the blue housecoat he received in the morning, along with the bucket and mop, w
as long enough to cover everything up.
By 5:15 p.m., the light outside had become a dull grey on this late June, miserable evening. There was a fine drizzle and the rain sheeted against the windows in blustery gusts.
Raymond paused and listened, then moved over to the bed and picked up the large green pillow, still looking in the direction of the door. Then, walking slowly and soundlessly towards Gladys, he approached her from the rear while his big hands moved into position. The right one came over Gladys’s head gripping the pillow; the left one moved in to support the back of her neck.
Suddenly someone tried the doorknob and then, voices. Some dialogue exchange. The sounds trailed off. Raymond held his breath, while his hands trembled slightly from the surprise. He strained to listen, but only the slight snore of Gladys filled the room.
His feet positioned themselves to get a firm balance. He looked at his watch, waiting for the minute hand to come round, as if counting away the few remaining seconds of life.
Then the pillow slammed into Gladys’s face.
It didn’t take long, about three minutes in all. Raymond’s neck muscles bulged while both hands, pushing and supporting, shook with the pressure. Suddenly they stopped. The grip relaxed. His heart was pounding, breathing in sharp snatches of air, trying not to be heard. Gladys’s head fell forward to one side. Raymond repositioned it as if she was sleeping then closed the staring eyes.
Out from the plastic bucket, came the new green pillowcase. A quick exchange took place. Raymond finally patted and fluffed it into shape on the bed. He moved to the door, quietly opening, peeking out, looking right and left. When all was clear, he left it partially open as before and walked off down the corridor to finish some remaining chores.
Halfway home a car stopped at a roadside skip. It was dark; there was nobody around. The window hummed down. A hand came out holding a carrier bag full of women’s clothes. The arm swung out and the bundle landed amongst a mattress and some old carpets. The window hummed up. There was a pause. The window came down again and pair of women’s shoes was ejected with some force and mumbled cursing. They hit the top of the skip and stayed there.
Behind the wheel, Raymond lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, savouring the first chance to relax that day. Then the car nonchalantly pulled away, windscreen wipers on slow, its taillights gradually disappearing into the late evening drizzle.
*
‘Err…hum…shall we start?’ Mr Julian Farquharson looked at his the silver chain fob of his watch and at Myra with a senior partner smile of the correct dim wattage gauged for such an occasion.
As he sat in a high-backed leather chair, he drew authority from his dark blue suit with matching waistcoat. The sophisticated brass and green-shaded desk lamp illuminated the dark walled panelling of the solicitor’s office, including the last will and testament of Gladys Violet Wesley.
Gladys’s death certificate had recorded a stroke. Not a hint of foul play had been discovered. Raymond had been very relieved when nothing had been reported in the newspapers. Myra in her new disguise had been summoned by the sanatorium to identify Gladys’s body. So, suffering from a bad head cold, an excuse for a nasal voice, and with a scarf wrapped tightly around her face, including a large bobble hat well pulled down, she had signed for most of Gladys’s possessions.
Now at this moment, sitting across the desk from Mr Julian Farquharson in the offices of solicitors, Farquhar son, Farquhar son
And Turnbull was former matron, Myra Cargill, doing a very good job of impersonating Jennifer Wesley. She’d made herself up copying from Jennifer’s old passport photo, the document incidentally she had to provide as proof of beneficiary. The signature when called for was exact. Sharing a prison cell with a forger had had its uses.
‘I would like to bring the reading to order, on this the 17th day of July, in the year two thousand and nine, for the last will and testament of Gladys Violet Wesley, in accordance with her wishes.’
Myra sat listening to Mr Julian Farquharson with all his countless without prejudices, perpetuity periods, power of trustees, power of attorneys - peppered with testimonials and attestations, and of course, not forgetting the many herewiths and aforesaids until finally, he eventually came to the nitty-gritty part.
‘And the full sum of the estate now worth,’ the solicitor looked up, ‘two hundred and seventy-seven thousand, six hundred pounds, with our costs deducted, shall be left to my daughter Jennifer Dawn Wesley.’ Mr Farquharson fiddled with his glasses then continued, ‘If the named beneficiary in clause seven above, shall die before my death, then all monies and estates shall be, after my death, be left to the Stayton Farm Sanatorium.’
Myra Scargill sat there, not moving. She couldn’t believe her ears. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Farquharson, how much did you say?’
He looked down again at the brokerage sheets, ‘
Two hundred and seventy-seven thousand, six hundred pounds.’ Then he pushed the paper across the desk to her with his finger pointing to the amount of £277, 600.
Myra was in a daze. She shook her head slowly. Her mouth opened and closed, then opened and closed again, like a fish in an aquarium tank. She started to say,
‘I can’t believe…’
Myra had reckoned on something like £90,000, certainly not three times that amount.
Mr Farquharson sat back and pinched the sides of his nose where there were a couple of angry red patches from his glasses. He explained to Myra,
‘Your mother came into shares for an Australian gold mine many years ago. I believe your father purchased these for her as a birthday present. From the information I’ve been given, they were never worth much - that is until around twelve years ago when their stock value began to shoot up substantially.’
Mr Farquharson paused and casually sifted through some documents on his desk. He glanced at his watch, looked a little startled then continued quickly with a sense of urgency.
‘The share certificates, amounting to three thousand, had been in your mother’s possession for many years, although, due to her infirmity, it was unlikely she was aware of their real value, or even their existence. After your mother’s death, as her executors, we sold the shares in accordance with her wishes to form part of her estate.’
Myra’s head was spinning. She was rich beyond her wildest dreams.
As if on cue, Mr Julian Farquharson pressed the intercom on his desk.
‘Can you please tell Mr Johnson, I’m sorry for the delay. I’ll be with him as soon as possible.’ He then rose and extended his hand to Myra. ‘I’m grateful for your time under these difficult circumstances.’
Myra was thinking, you can’t be as grateful as I am, mate…
After a formal handshake, he opened the door for her.
‘My secretary will see you out. She has prepared a statement of our costs including funeral expenses. As I said before, the fees have already been deducted. If you have any more questions or queries, please feel free to contact us. Many thanks, Miss Wesley.’
Farther along the corridor in another office, Myra met a smiling secretary. After the exchange of signatures and receipts, the smoked glass front door of the solicitors practice closed behind her.
*
Myra and Raymond knew they had a bit of luck riding on their newfound situation. Jennifer Wesley had few friends as well as being unemployed. So, not in touch with work colleagues at her untimely end had helped to minimise contact with people. In addition, none of her phone messages had been returned and so the few friends she had, including Glenda from the home, had eventually stopped calling.
Keeping a low profile and using Jennifer Wesley’s savings book and credit cards, the pin numbers having been discovered in a trinket box, they temporarily ensconced themselves in her flat.
They knew it was risky to continue living where they were. Nevertheless, with the aid of a wig and Jennifer Wesley’s clothes, Myra still managed to falsify her benefit and collect the jobs
eeker allowance, keeping up appearances to avoid suspicion.
On one occasion though, an elderly neighbour did approach. Myra’s handkerchief immediately covered her face, stifling a cold. After a brief muffled exchange, she quickly excused herself.
Soon after their little scare, they sold the flat in early August. The light evenings drew many buyers, but they still had to drop ten thousand pounds to get a quick sale. Unfortunately, Jennifer Wesley had had a one hundred per cent interest only mortgage. This meant, that after all the fees and the early surrender value of the insurance policy, they made just over £4,000 profit.
‘Still, better than a kick in the face,’ Myra had said, ‘while we’re waiting for the old girl’s money.’
Within a short time, they were renting a chic double-bed flat in a little mews off Earls Court, not far from the tube station; well away from Braintree and Basildon and the rest of their Essex haunts.
It had taken six weeks for the cheque of £277,600 from Gladys’s estate to wing its way through their letterbox. Raymond had immediately wanted his fifty-per cent share. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Myra. He was just being careful. All that money can change you. The temptation can make you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. He wanted his own separate building society account. Myra of course, agreed, and told Raymond to open one up and she would do him a bank wire transfer for his share, once her account had been credited with the cheque.
It had worked out to £139, 420 each, after going halves with the sale of the flat money, and having to pay the first three-months rent with service charges up-front for where they were living now.
‘Not bad for a couple of days work,’ Myra said to Raymond as she let him hold the cheque. He looked at it. Raymond had never held a cheque for £277,600. He rubbed it across his nose, as if smelling it; all that money on a single piece of paper.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 19