A Lovely Day to Die

by Celia Fremlin

  “Enough, Theresa! Really!” I repeated urgently. “We’ll be smashing the place up if we aren’t careful! And if you keep screaming like that, they really will think I’m raping you …”

  “Of course they will,”—Theresa was suddenly standing motionless, completely quiet and controlled—“That’s the whole idea. And unless you promise me, here and now, to give me two thousand pounds …”

  At first, naturally, I thought she was still fooling.

  “… And cheap at the price!” I cried gaily; and added, laughing: “What a shame that our own dear Miss Fry wasn’t at the window watching our little skirmish just now! She’d have had me in jail on a rape charge before I could have said ‘Extenuating Circumstances’!”

  “She was; and she will;” Theresa replied quietly. “I saw her face at the window just exactly when you started chasing me round the room with the knife … the timing was perfect. You see, I knew it would take her just about that long to get here on her bicycle after she heard my first scream. Sounds carry well in the country, you know, especially at night.

  “Besides, she’s been expecting it … ever since I told her about your weird rape fantasies … all that stuff about the fourteenth-century jurymen … in your own handwriting …

  “Yes, of course it was a rape fantasy … what do you think they’d have done to her, those twelve enraged mediæval peasants? They’d have raped her, naturally, before they murdered her, if only to make sure that she’d go to Hell. Anyone knows that much about the Middle Ages—certainly Miss Fry does, though I daresay she’s too much of a lady to put it into words … Oh, she understood all right … and she agreed with me that a young man with his mind stuffed full of such peculiar fantasies could easily become dangerous. If ever you threatened me, she said, or frightened me in any way, then I was to scream out, as loud as I could, and she’d be here on her bicycle within a couple of minutes … And she was, too, just nicely in time to see everything she needed to see, and to go for help. By now she’ll have roused half the village … and so you really will hear that tramp, tramp, tramp of avenging feet, won’t you? You thought it was all nonsense, didn’t you ..?

  “And so which is it to be, my dear? Six years for rape? Or two thousand pounds by tomorrow afternoon? And don’t tell me you haven’t got it! That bloody best-seller of yours …”

  Which was, of course, exactly where she’d miscalculated. No doubt the thing had worked well enough on the poor harmless old vicar, whose whole livelihood was put in jeopardy on that unlucky day when he’d innocently shown her those interesting old bones in the crypt. I recalled that stunned, unbelieving look in his eyes as he stumbled back from handing over the hush-money that Monday morning: he’d never believed before in the power of Evil, but he did now, all right.

  And so did I. In how many remote villages … on how many other gullible vicars, and besotted young men, had she played this same trick, complete with the non-existent “thesis”?—or maybe with some other ploy, according to the educational level of her victim?

  “Well, which is to be?” she demanded once more, her white naked body staight as a candle among the shadows. “I can tell them we were just fooling … or I can tell them—the other story! Choose quickly. They’ll be here in a minute … or less …” And indeed, I could already hear the crunch of tyres, the clamour of voices, at the end of the lane. Already, the first of the headlights were sweeping across the garden.

  “Quick! Make up your mind!” she hissed; but of course my mind was already made up.

  For the Reverend Pinkerton, surrender may have been inevitable; his whole career was at stake.

  But mine wasn’t. And that was just where Theresa had gone so very wrong in her calculations—and not merely through believing my cock-and-bull story about the best-seller, either. Naturally, I don’t want to serve a prison sentence on a false charge of rape, any more than I wanted to have my heart broken and my faith in human nature shattered for ever; but, by God, if that’s the way it goes, I really shall have a best-seller on my hands, right slap in the mainstream of Social Realism at its starkest.

  Or maybe, now I come to think of it, I might try my hand at an old-fashioned Gothick.

  Why ever not?

  THE HOLIDAY

  SHE WOULD NEVER have believed that widowhood would suit her so well. She would have said, if you’d asked her, that she was one of those unassuming, dependent little women who would be lost without a man to lean on.

  And now here she was not feeling lost at all, not the least bit. It was amazing—and, in a way, rather disturbing.

  Oh, she had mourned for Harold at the time, of course she had. She had cried bitterly at the funeral, and for quite a while afterwards, too, recalling, tearfully, all the nice things about him, like the square set of his shoulders and the way he would call out, “Emmy, I’m back!” as he came in at the front door. Silly, really, because how could he not be back if he was calling out?—But somehow cosy, all the same; and—yes—she’d missed it.

  What had been rather awful, though—and it still made her feel guilty whenever she thought about it—was the number of things she didn’t miss: the appalling number of small, everyday routines which were, quite simply, easier and pleasanter without him.

  Lunch, for instance. She could have it on a tray now, just a cheese sandwich with perhaps a tomato, eaten in the sunshine under one of the windows, or with her feet up on the sofa, listening to “Woman’s Hour”. Since his retirement, Harold had always expected a proper, sit-down lunch at the dining-room table, rounded off by a proper pudding. Emmy herself didn’t care for puddings, and though she’d never resented the extra trouble at the time, it really was a relief, now, to know that she would never have to think about stewed apple, or suet, or custard, or hot jam sauce, ever again.

  There were other unexpected little treats, too, incident on the solitary state. She hardly dared enumerate them, even in her own mind, so quickly had she found herself actually enjoying them, with Harold scarcely cold in his grave.

  Reading in bed. Having the radio on while she dressed. Buying sliced bread. Leaving the crockery upside-down on the draining-board all day, instead of drying it and putting it away after every meal. All these things had irritated Harold, and so of course she’d mostly refrained from doing them; but, my goodness, what a relief it was now to relax her guard and do exactly as she liked! No, “Emmy, dear, do you have to ..?” resounding in her ears, ever again.

  Ever again. Ever. Never. Words to wring the hearts of most widows, and bring tears to their eyes—it was awful how often, for Emmy, they brought instead a furtive little lift to her spirits, a tiny, guilt-ridden rejoicing at yet another small anxiety removed, another small burden laid to rest for ever under the green grass and the faithfully tended flowers on Harold’s grave.

  Of all the small burdens—and indeed “small” was entirely the wrong word, because for Emmy it wasn’t small at all—the burden of the Summer Holiday had been quite the most oppressive. The relief she’d felt—about two or three months after the funeral it must have been—when it had first dawned on her that there was now no reason at all why she should ever go on holiday again—ever!—was something she would remember—albeit guiltily—to the end of her days.

  April it had been—Harold had died in February—and Emmy, drawn by the first real sunshine of the year, had dragged one of the deck-chairs from its winter quarters and set it up on the lawn. And it was as she sat there, face upturned to the soft spring warmth, filled with a vague sense of newness, of dim, unexplored possibilities, that it occurred to her, quite suddenly and without warning, that this year she would be able to sit out on the lawn like this and enjoy the sunshine every day, all summer long! She didn’t have to go on holiday at all!

  The relief, the joy of it was breath-taking. Usually, by now—by mid-April—the shadow of the Holiday had already fallen. Already, Harold would be all of a fidget about visas, passports, hotel bookings, car-ferries, rolls of film, baggage regulations, Night Flig
hts, Regular Flights, Cheap Flights, Tourist Flights, Standby Flights, Charter Flights—the lot. And, naturally, as a good wife, it was her duty to fidget with him, not only about all these shared worries, but also about those other, personal worries that were hers alone.

  Her hair. To perm or not to perm, and if so, then how soon? A couple of months ahead, to give it time to settle, or try to fit it somehow into that final frantic week so that there should be no risk that it might grow out?

  And clothes. Holiday clothes were a nightmare all on their own at her age. Every year it was the same: every garment she possessed was either too dressy, too dowdy, or made her look like mutton-dressed-as-lamb. And so, year after year, with gritted teeth and sinking heart, off she would drag herself to the West End, in and out of the lordly great shops where, under the withering eye of some flawlessly enamelled assistant, everything she tried on was either too dressy, too dowdy, or made her look like mutton-dressed-as-lamb.

  And so it went on, one dreadful problem after another, all through May and June, the loveliest months of the year, spoiled and darkened by these mounting preparations, these ever-escalating anxieties from which there could be no escape, no reprieve; unstoppable save by one thing only—the arrival of the dreaded day.

  The terror lest the mini-cab they’d ordered wouldn’t turn up. Or that it would take them to the wrong terminal. Suppose their luggage didn’t get put on the plane. Suppose they arrived too late … that fear of arriving too late always haunted her dreams for days and weeks beforehand. Then there was the fear that the plane, once they were finally on it, would fail to take off … that there would be something wrong with it. Or that it would take off, and that there would be an air-crash—or sometimes, in her final desperation, that there wouldn’t …

  Had Harold himself really enjoyed it all? She’d never known, because she’d never asked him, any more than he’d ever asked her. A Summer Holiday was something you simply had every year, like Christmas or an attack of ’flu. You never thought of questioning it.

  On the other hand, though, maybe Harold had actually enjoyed it? Certainly he’d enjoyed showing his slides the following winter—but at the time? Mostly, he’d seemed bored; no doubt that was why he kept booking them on to those awful coach-trips to somewhere or other to look at something, and to have a cup of tea which you couldn’t enjoy for fear that there mightn’t be a Ladies on the way back.

  *

  But this summer—for the first time ever—it didn’t have to happen! She would be free! Free to sit in her beloved garden, among the birds, and the wallflowers and the roses, day after golden day, planning nothing, worrying about nothing, with no grim deadline looming, no fearsome departure date casting its black, lengthening shadow across the bright days. For the first time in all her adult life she could spend the whole long summer as she had always yearned to spend it, tending her flowers, watering them, and sharing with each one its moment of glory as the season waxed and waned. This year she would miss nothing, not the delphiniums, not the peonies, not the dahlias scarlet and mauve and gold. She would be here to pick the strawberries as they ripened, and the blackcurrants; she would be here to harvest the lavender, to gather for wine the great white elder flowers, big as dinner-plates, at the very peak of their perfection …

  *

  It was barely three weeks later when the blow fell.

  “You must have a holiday, Mother,” her daughter-in-law Vivien announced one Sunday lunch time. “Geoff and I have been talking about it, haven’t we Geoff, and we’ve decided that you must come with us this year. No, Mother, don’t argue, Geoff can afford it easily, he feels it’s the least he can do—after all, he is your only son. A holiday is just what you need after that dreadful winter you’ve had …”

  “But … but, Vivien dear, I don’t really ..!”

  “Mother! I said, don’t argue! We won’t take No for an answer, will we, Geoff? You must have a holiday. Harold would have wished it—you know he would!”

  Would he? Would he? And even if he would, did she have to go on doing things that Harold wished, now that he was dead and gone? She’d done the things he’d wished for the best part of thirty years—wasn’t that enough?

  Feebly, she tried to fight back.

  “It’s … it’s sweet of you, dears,” she said, putting her knife and fork carefully together, “I really am very grateful … such a kind thought … but, you see, the thing is …”

  Well, what was it? Rack her brain as she might, Emmy could think of absolutely nothing. Simply to say, “I hate holidays, I always have, and I’ve resolved never to go on another one as long as I live,” was, of course, out of the question. People don’t hate holidays. It’s just not done.

  “Mummy, why isn’t Grandma finishing her chicken?” interposed seven-year-old Angie, whose sharp, beady eyes had been noting every nuance of her grandmother’s discomfiture; “Grandma, why aren’t you finishing your chicken?”

  “Hush, dear,” remonstrated Vivien, but there was no real reproof behind it, you could tell. Vivien secretly relished, Emmy was sure, Angie’s talent for spotting small flaws and inadequacies in her grandmother’s ménage, and calling attention to them. It had become almost a family sport, at Emmy’s expense.

  “Why are Grandma’s forks all yellowy instead of bright?” she’d asked earlier in the meal; and before that, wandering into the room where the three grown-ups were drinking sherry:

  “What are all those dead flies for, Grandma, on the window ledge in the spare room?”

  It would be like that all through the holiday.

  “Mummy, why is Grandma going to the toilet again? She’s only just been …”

  Emmy forced herself to swallow another few mouthfuls of chicken; but the taste of defeat was everywhere. She was cornered, and she knew it. It was all arranged, you see, the hotel booking, the air ticket, everything … They’d meant it as a surprise, a lovely surprise …

  “Oh, please, Mother, stop being so difficult. What do you think people would say if we all went off on holiday without you at a time like this? Oh, Mother, don’t be so tiresome! Of course you need a holiday!” Of course … of course … of course …

  *

  By the end of the afternoon, everything was settled. At one point, looking out into her tranquil, sunlit garden, her joy in it already spoiled for weeks and months ahead, actual tears came into Emmy’s eyes, and she had to blink them away quickly before Angie could ask in her sharp, shrill little voice, “Mummy, why is Grandma crying?”

  Not that it would have mattered. They’d merely have thought that she was crying for Harold, as a proper widow should, and that’s what they’d have told Angie.

  “She’s crying for poor Grandpa,” they’d have said, in suitably hushed tones, and would then have changed the subject quickly before Angie could pipe: “Why is she?”

  *

  She didn’t cry for long. The idea came to her quite suddenly, only a few days after the visit; but of course to start with she had to keep it to herself, hugging the relief and the joy of it close to her breast, secretly, while answering appropriately, and with pretended enthusiasm, the kindly remarks of friends and neighbours:

  “Beginning to get excited about your holiday I’ll bet!” said one; and another, “It’ll do you a world of good, a real holiday is just what you need!”

  And Emmy smiled at them all, and nodded, and went on watering her young tomato plants, almost bursting with the secret joy of knowing that, after all, on July 11th she wouldn’t be leaving them, just when the first thrilling green fruits were beginning to swell in the sunshine.

  *

  It was on July 9th that the plan had to be put into action. Geoff had brought over her air-ticket several days earlier, all tucked neatly into a crisp blue folder, together with lots of Travellers’ Cheques and brochures and things, and she had put it all carefully away, with her passport, in the top left-hand drawer of the bureau.

  Now, as the afternoon of July 9th waned towards evening, s
he took the documents out, passport and all, wrapped them in a plastic bag, and took them into the kitchen, the door of which opened straight into the garden. Already, earlier in the day, she’d dug the hole, on the far side of the lavender-bush where it wouldn’t show; and presently, after sunset and before the moon rose, she slipped out into the sweet, scented garden, and popped the package into its little grave, stamping the earth well down above it.

  Then she returned to the kitchen, brushing loose soil from her hands, her heart thumping with such a mixture of excitement, trepidation and triumph as she had never known.

  *

  “But Mother, how can you have lost them?” shrieked Vivien down the phone. “I don’t understand … What did you take them to the Post Office for ..? Oh, God, I’d better ring them at once … let’s pray that someone responsible has found them and handed them in …”

  But the Post Office hadn’t got them, nor had the Bank, or the Supermarket, or the Cosy Coffee House, or any of the other places where it occurred to Vivien that her idiotic mother-in-law might have left them.

  “Whatever did you take them out for?” Vivien kept asking, distracted, in between these fruitless phone-calls; and she treated with the scorn it deserved her mother-in-law’s wavering account of having transferred them to her handbag “so as not to forget them in the last-minute rush.” How neurotic can you get?

  “I suppose, if they’re not found,” Emmy ventured at last, making every effort to keep the jubilation out of her voice, “if they’re not found, I won’t be able to go, will I? Not without my passport or anything ..?”

  “Oh, nonsense!” But Vivien was clearly rattled. She’d been round here all afternoon, with Angie at her heels, searching the house in every cranny, without, of course, any success. Naturally, it never occurred to her to look in the garden, and so Emmy wasn’t really worried.

  All the same, there was one bad moment.

  “Mummy, why hasn’t Grandma packed any of her summer dresses? Why has she only ..?”