The Twisted Way

by Jean Hill

  A wig, she thought, I’ll get Joyce to buy me one in Everton; no that would be stupid but the idea did please her. She laughed out loud. A lovely thick wig, it could be grey of course ... or silver.

  Her once full mouth had made her face interesting but now stretched into a thin unpleasant line when she attempted to smile.

  There were some good memories left in the house. The most important, of course, were of her second husband, a gentle, kind man so very different from her first husband James, but, however hard she tried to hang on to those memories, they would disappear as though anxious to float away like the fragile blue bubbles she had once blown from a white clay pipe when she was a small child. They would dance upwards towards the sky to burst and be gone.

  I’m a foolish old woman to feel so sorry for myself, she chided herself. I must make the best of the last few months, or perhaps even a year, that I have left. She realised with mounting fear and inner panic, that threatened all too often now to spiral out of control, that her frail eighty-six year old crumbling body would soon let her down. Her feet ached, the soles hot and pulsing, and she could not bear the thought of the effort she must make in order to reach the bathroom to relieve herself. She sometimes waited until her housekeeper came to assist her, though she could manage with the help of her sturdy rubber-ended walking sticks, her props she called them, to shuffle painfully towards the bathroom. At least she could still remember where it was. To get there was a triumph.

  Visions of old ladies in nursing homes sitting like zombies in circles, smelling of urine which their leaky aching bladders allowed to trickle into padded pants or down their legs, too often invaded her mind with surprising clarity, further disturbing her peace of mind.

  ‘Oh God,’ she sighed and shuddered. Was that going to be her fate?

  The heavy dark oak chest of drawers with its beautiful shiny antique handles looked more or less the same as it had sixty years ago. It stood where it had for so long next to the door that opened into the hallway and its surface gleamed in the shaft of sunlight that crept through the partly drawn curtains. The mollycoddled thing had been indulged by numerous willing hands, including hers and her housekeepers’, over many years. The smell of the latest layer of oversweet beeswax polish invaded her nostrils but sparked no joy, indeed the damn smell gave her the jitters and made her feel sick. She tried not to heave. So many masking smells had invaded her house puffing and blowing from the plastic packets her housekeeper favoured, so that good old-fashioned smells like lavender had been lost, polluted and distorted, swallowed by a maze of synthetic whiffs.

  She listened, as well as she could, to the clatter of cups in the kitchen. Joyce was busy preparing tea and the supper she would leave for Janet to enjoy later. Janet’s mouth felt dry and she longed for a cup of her precious Earl Grey tea laced with a slice of bitter lemon. For a few strange moments she found herself counting sheep and wondering why. What was the point? She could not remember. Time slipped by and turned into an eternity as she waited. She shivered, twitching and uncomfortable, as she pulled her expensive soft pale green cashmere cardigan closer to her neck. The smooth material soothed her and she felt less irritable.

  Janet’s attention turned with renewed interest to the furniture she had chosen as a young bride and which she had had reupholstered many times in the modern materials that she had read about in house and home style magazines. Their solid, elaborately carved mahogany frames had stood the test of time in spite of the numerous clumsy tacks left by various upholsterers. Where would the wretched things end up? Some house clearance shop more likely than not, to be pounced on and pawed by some ignorant ingrate who would use them for firewood. She visualised their thick curly carved legs lifting heavenwards, licked fiercely by vivid red flames and issuing grey smoke. She uttered a loud and satisfied chuckle. Good riddance.

  She leaned forward to obtain a better view of the Afghan rugs. Their backgrounds of pale brick-red and brown were littered with strange fawn characters she could not understand. The rugs were placed strategically on the uneven old oak parquet floor. She pushed her walking stick forward to trace some of the patterns and pictured young dark-skinned boys, their glossy heads bent low, weaving the intricate patterns in thick wool. Well, at least they may have enjoyed weaving them, she thought, in spite of the hard work.

  ‘What on earth do you want those for?’ she recalled John saying.

  Janet had purchased them defiantly using her own wages. Why on earth did John have to be such a skinflint when it came to things she liked and he didn’t?

  Expensive foibles they may have been but they had worn well, though one of the fringes stuck up stiff, awkward and bristly, evoking memories of her old ginger tom cat, long dead, who had sometimes amused himself by biting it when he was bored. His long ginger coat had been splattered with bright brown zigzags that resembled flashes of lightning and moved as he chewed. A sad smile flickered briefly over her strained old face as her limited attention span once again caused her thoughts to change direction.

  Many of her friends had died, or no longer called because good conversation with the old woman had become too trying for most of them. Joyce Skillet said, ‘They are fly by nights and good riddance to them if they can’t stick by an old friend who is having a few blips with her memory. They’re not worth knowing.’ Now her main companion was her faithful Jack Russell, often sitting next to her in companionable silence. Jack’s rough and ragged white coat, which was never very clean, enveloped him like an old moth-eaten rug; his legs, long and delicate for his breed, still carried him with speed to his bowl in the kitchen when he anticipated that food would be forthcoming. His muzzle, soft and light brown in his youth in contrast to the black patch over one ear, had become, like an old man’s drooping moustache, grizzled and grey. Janet still loved to feel his soft nose pressed against her legs. He, like his mistress, felt his age and as the days passed they bonded even closer.

  ‘Well, Jack,’ she would repeat, ‘it is only the two of us now.’ He would lie on his back, completely shameless, showing his genitals, with legs stretched out as if to say, ‘Rub my chest,’ and he was usually rewarded by receiving the attention he craved.

  The dog’s aged eyes had cataracts causing him to bump into unexpected obstacles. He no longer needed long walks but would limp along for a short distance by the river bank with Janet’s gardener or housekeeper when they could spare the time, although the garden was large enough for him to amble round. He displayed a good mouthful of sharp yellowing teeth when he felt it necessary to warn off strangers who might threaten his beloved mistress. In contrast to Janet’s, his mind remained active and his hearing acute. Despite his ancient appearance, he surprised a few unwanted guests with a deep warning growl causing the more timid who valued the shape of their ankles to move with nimble steps out of his way.

  A clatter of cups from the kitchen and the tapping of Joyce’s heels on the hard floor broke into her thoughts. Her mouth watered and she looked forward to her food hoping that tea would soon be ready. ‘Come on Joyce, hurry up,’ she grumbled. She often felt irritable these days, which threatened to destroy her normally pleasant and even temperament. Her nostrils twitched in anticipation. She could smell egg sandwiches which were her favourites; tomato and cucumber too with a good splash of mayonnaise no doubt.

  The only children who had jumped on the springs of that clumsy furniture had been her niece and nephew, Felicity and Ronald, the unfortunate legacies from her first marriage, and for a short while her mother’s young evacuee Tom, though he was such a quiet child he did little more than sit like a meek little mouse. Felicity, thank goodness, had emigrated to Canada when she was twenty years old and her younger brother to Australia, after he qualified as a dentist. Janet had a vague idea that their mother Anne had died when only thirty. Was it a car crash? Yes, that was it. She remembered now. Anne was, as usual, drunk at the wheel. Her useless husband Richard obtained a job in the Middle East almost immediately after the ac
cident, skipping neatly out of his responsibilities, and sent the children to Northumberland to live with his elderly aunt and uncle. That was something she did remember.

  ‘Bloody kids, fretting and fussing, they will forget their troubles there,’ Richard had said. ‘Good countryside and my old aunt running after them, what more could they want?’

  ‘Out of sight and out of mind’ Janet had commented with a bitter edge to her voice. ‘What a feckless man! All talk and no trousers. Somebody will pay for that neglect.’ She feared that it might one day be her but hoped not. Her first husband James, Anne’s brother, had shown no interest in the children.

  The odd tatty cheap Christmas card or birthday card fluttered down on to Janet’s doormat when Felicity and Ronald managed to remember that she was still alive but those were easy to deal with, being put straight into her waste bin.

  She was in some inexplicable and illogical way sorry for them. ‘Let us hope,’ she recalled saying to her second husband John, ‘that they will be happy in their new countries,’ but refrained from saying, ‘and stay there!’

  Felicity had been selfish and spiteful, particularly to her younger brother Ronald. Janet recalled, as if it was yesterday, Felicity enjoying herself running her bicycle wheel over his hand when they were playing in the garden. She had been overjoyed to hurt him, the black, blue and red marks left on the back of his hand were a testament to her prowess and the lack of remorse was quite chilling.

  ‘Silly stupid boy,’ she had shrieked at Janet, ‘always getting in my way, he deserved that!’

  Ronald, mute and distraught, held out his small wounded hands.

  ‘Poor child, poor child ...’ ‘Aunt Janet, hold me.’ Then silence. No sobbing. Janet felt angry, helpless and unsure of how to deal with the dreadful girl.

  She had a fleeting memory of a painfully thin and unhappy Felicity aged about twenty. She came to stay in Primrose House for a few days before departing for Canada where she had been offered an office job by a friend of her father’s who ran a lumber business. Was she anorexic? Whatever she was Janet was very glad to see the back of her.

  ‘It will be a new start, Aunt Janet,’ she had announced with a boastful arrogance. ‘I will do well there you know.’ Janet did not think she would do well anywhere but thought better of commenting on the proposed arrangements. She just heaved a sigh of relief.

  She must be about sixty-four now, Janet mused with vague interest stirring in her chest. She had no idea how life had treated Felicity and did not really care. She hoped that she would not see her again.

  ‘Cup of tea ma’am!’ Joyce Skillet’s voice, sharp and local, rang out like a tinkling bell, disturbing her reverie.

  ‘Thank you dear,’ Janet murmured as she brushed a lock of grey hair out of her eyes. Her housekeeper carefully placed the tray in front of her on a small antique oak table. She had set the tray in the way Janet liked. It was covered with a small blue and white embroidered cloth and two delicious home-made scones thickly buttered were placed side by side on a fine bone china plate. Joyce really is a treasure, Janet thought and uttered an appreciative sigh. The linen cloth Janet had embroidered many years ago had stood the test of time well. She ran her crooked fingers over the edge of it, feeling soft pure silk blue stitches. It was a little worn but still attractive.

  ‘I don’t know what I would do without you Joyce,’ Janet murmured.

  ‘I’ll be here as long as you need me,’ Joyce replied with affection and touched the old woman’s arm gently in an effort to reassure her. ‘It seems cold in here, I’ll light the gas fire. You don’t want to catch a chill.’

  ‘Is there any post today, Joyce?’ Janet asked without much enthusiasm in her quiet, clear and modulated voice, a voice of authority that remained with her after many years of teaching.

  ‘Oh, a letter from Canada and the usual junk mail. Those stupid advertisements really do waste a lot of paper! Green planet ... huh!’

  There was one person Janet wished she could hear from but knew she never would, a girl she remembered still despite her memory lapses, someone she had known when she was young and whose sweet face she had thought of so many times over the years. She had not received any news about her for some time but prayed that she was well and happy. There was little else she could do. Her hands were tied.

  Joyce passed the letters to Janet. Janet looked at them with a sigh and opened the one from Canada with her silver tea knife. A single sheet of cream paper emerged from the envelope. She glanced at the signature and saw the words ’I have booked a flight ... I am so looking forward to seeing you once again. Your loving niece Felicity.’ She groaned.

  Joyce looked at Janet’s face but did not comment. She hoped the letter did not contain bad news but feared it did. She did not wait to find out but scurried back to her chores in the large old-fashioned kitchen at the back of the house. Some of the worn pine units had been modernized but the ancient tiles that were on the floor when Janet came to the house as a young bride were still in place, patched and repaired but twinkling and glistening following numerous coats of polish. Joyce was quite proud of her efforts. The old Aga too still chugged along emitting steady and comforting warmth.

  Joyce was anxious to finish her work because she was looking forward to enjoying a meal in the Green Man that evening where she would be celebrating her husband’s birthday with him and a few of their close friends. She didn’t want to be late getting home and was looking forward to wearing the purple dress and imitation pearl necklace she had purchased for the occasion. Fred would be surprised and she knew that he would be wondering first and foremost how much the dress had cost. ‘Meanie!’ she thought uncharitably and chuckled. That was something he was not going to find out. But she knew that he would be pleased that she had made an effort on his behalf and would soon forgive her extravagance. She glanced at her newly tinted hair in the old cracked pine-edged kitchen mirror and beamed with satisfaction. A few dark roots still showed and irritated her but the carefully applied blonde highlights were quite becoming, after all she was only fifty and deserved to pamper herself sometimes. What was it called? Retail therapy, yes that was what it was. Jolly good it was too. It always worked for her.

  Young Lily Jones, gormless and spotty faced, who hailed from the Vicarage, had offered, or rather been coerced by her father, to keep Janet company during the evening, assisting her to undress, though Janet preferred to do that herself, and helping her get into the bed that was made up by Joyce with the crisp fresh lavender-scented sheets that she enjoyed. Spotty-faced girls of Lily’s ilk Janet did not want or like but Joyce had persuaded her that she would be good company though she had stressed that she did not need her.

  ‘You must learn to help the less fortunate,’ Lily’s father lectured her earlier that day, stretching to his full height and fingering his stiff white dog collar. ‘Gadding about with those layabout friends is not good for the soul!’ He cleared his throat and waited for her response, which was not forthcoming.

  ‘Silly old man!’ Lily scoffed behind his back as soon as she got out of his hearing range but knew that, for the time being at least, she had must make an effort to keep on the right side of her pompous and pious father. One day she would be free of his ridiculous religious ranting and that day could not come fast enough for her. No one believes that rubbish these days, she’d told herself when quite a small girl and she had not wavered from that opinion for one moment since that time. She was far too intelligent to be deceived by that all that stuff. She chuckled to herself when she thought how, together with several of her friends, she had refused to sing a hymn in assembly the week before. The headmaster’s face had turned beetroot red with frustration and Lily had giggled with delight. The detention she had received was a mild punishment and in no way dented her joy.

  Nevertheless she turned up at Primrose House promptly at five o’clock as arranged, neat and meek, a stance in which she revelled. She wore a plain cheap cotton skirt and simple
homemade blouse, which were both sober and innocuous. She didn’t have anything very pretty; most of her clothes were purchased in the local charity shop by her mother to ensure her humility. There was little chance of looking like the Jezebel-type girls in the village that she admired but she played the part of the innocent little vicar’s daughter well; something that had stood her in good stead on many occasions, which was some kind of compensation. Her long dull blonde hair which fell down her back reached almost to her waist and was cut into a wispy ragged fringe above her forehead. One day she would dye it orange or deep red and buy clothes that would enhance her figure, which she considered was quite good.

  A substantial supper of salad, cold chicken, fresh fruit and cold white Chardonnay had been left in the fridge for Janet and Lily had been instructed to serve that up on a tray, using one of the best fine wine glasses, the ones etched with a grape-like pattern which were Mrs Lacey’s favourites, at about seven in the evening.

  ‘I’ll pop back at about half past ten to see all is well, it’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from my cottage,’ Joyce said to the reluctant and subdued Lily. ‘What a kind girl you are to offer to sit with Mrs Lacey, she doesn’t have much company in the evenings. You could go home once she is tucked up in bed. She usually goes to bed at about nine. She’ll be all right, no need to worry about her, she has a cord round her neck with an emergency button she can press if she needs help when she’s on her own. There’s plenty of milk for you to drink, or fruit juice, if you want it, dear,’ Joyce continued. ‘Help yourself to biscuits or cake. Don’t worry about Mrs Lacey. Her memory is getting worse, she has started to suffer from Alzheimer’s disease you know, it’s not too bad yet but she keeps talking in her sleep about her schooldays and someone called James. At least she still has her dreams. Just humour her, Lily. She’s quite harmless. The dreams are probably not doing her much good but that can’t be helped. I’m afraid even those will disappear soon, poor soul.’