“Yes . . . A local taxi-driver found him. I arrived about the same time as the ambulance.”
“If someone had found him earlier he might have been saved . . .”
“No,” he said softly. “He was quite beyond any help. He died outright. You can be sure of that.”
I sighed. “It all seems so—unfair. They were so happy together. And now you tell me they were even having a baby . . . Everything was going so well for them . . .”
He nodded. After a moment he looked at his watch. There were still so many questions I wanted to ask but I forestalled his forthcoming polite dismissal, thanked him for his time and got to my feet. As I followed him to the door I said, “I’m told that my sister-in-law . . . that she behaved rather—oddly before she died . . .”
He looked at me steadily. “Who told you that?”
“The woman who was looking after them. Jean Timpson.”
He gave a resigned nod. “Listen, if you stay here for any length of time you’re going to find that there’s—talk. In a place like this there always is. Rumours breed like bacteria. Sometimes they can even destroy . . .” As if slightly embarrassed, he added quickly: “I’m just trying to—prepare you . . .”
“To ignore any kind of talk, you mean.”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“What kind of talk?” I said. “What about?”
“Look,” he said, “your brother and his wife were a lovely young couple who died tragically. It’s terrible, but it’s true. And it’s over, the inquests are over, and it’s all over now. Finished.”
“. . . The inquests . . . I suppose the verdicts were ‘accident’—‘misadventure’—that kind of thing . . .”
“Yes.” The briefest pause. “Of course.”
As I stepped past him into the hall he said: “I suppose you’ll be going back to America soon.”
“Well, there’s nothing to keep me here. Except the house. But I didn’t come for that . . .” I felt his eyes on my feet as I moved to the door.
“What happened to your foot?” he asked. “Accident?”
“I was born like it.”
“Oh . . .” What else could he say. Then he smiled. “Is Jean Timpson looking after you, too?”
“Very much so.” I smiled back. “She’s capable. Very good at her job.”
“I’m sure she is.” He nodded, preparing the moment for parting. I thanked him again, we shook hands again and I stepped out onto the worn, hollowed step.
For some moments after the door had closed behind me I still stood there. I had hoped that my visit to the doctor would have settled some of the disorder in my mind. But it hadn’t. I’d had a few answers, but they’d only set more questions buzzing in my brain. I was more confused than ever.
7
The note which I found lying on the kitchen table, written in Jean Timpson’s round hand said: Gone to the shops to get a few things. Will be back soon to get your lunch.
I changed into a pair of shorts, took one of Colin’s books and went out onto the lawn. There I spread a rug on the warm grass and lay down, spreading myself out in the sun. I read for a while the story of Doctor Crippen and his pathetic, stage-struck, ill-fated wife, but the tale seemed somehow so unremarkable now. Overexposure would do it every time. There were no surprises left in the story; no mysteries there. In the end I closed the book, slipped it under the edge of the rug away from the sun’s glare, got up and wandered over the lawn and into the orchard.
Not covering that large an area, it was of an irregular shape, finishing in a tag-end that stuck out like the boot of Italy. Beyond it on the other side of the hedge that marked its boundary I could see more trees—not fruit-trees, though, but elms, birches, ashes. There was a sizeable gap in the hedge and, stepping through, I found myself in a small wood. In complete contrast to the garden, everything here was wild. The smells were different too. Such a mixture of scents. No scent of roses or poppies, but subtle, indistinct smells, shaded, moist. Was this where Colin and Mrs. Barton had been talking on the night Helen died . . . ?
I wandered where the trees were more widely spaced, my path a downhill one. Then, fifty or sixty yards further the ground dipped sharply, and at the foot of the steep slope I found myself on a flat grassy area facing a large pond. Beyond the screen of willows on the far bank the wheat-fields stretched out, rolling across the hills.
I followed the rim of the pond for a while in a wide half-circle, then turned to my left and moved away from it, back up the wooded slope—the trees grew thicker here—and onto the flat where it flanked the orchard on its southern side.
Then, all at once, coming out of the shadows, I came upon a clearing where the sun got through with ease and shone down on a large, freshly-dug-looking area next to a rectangle of broken paving stones on which stood a little stone bench. All around grew rhododendrons and spindly rambling roses, all looking forgotten amid the ferns and the encroaching wild shrubbery. Someone, some time in the past, had found a retreat here . . .
I crossed the clearing and stepped once more into the dappled shadows of the leaves. Over to my left now I could see that the orchard had become the garden. Then only a few yards further and my feet found a narrow path which led me through the thicket, and out, under a rose-covered arch, to the familiar territory of the lawn and the flower beds. I moved across the grass to pick up the rug, and as I did so Jean Timpson came around the side of the house pushing a pale-blue baby’s pram loaded with shopping.
“Hang on, I’ll help you,” I called out, and went towards her. I lifted one of the bags of groceries and nodded down at the pram. “Very practical.”
“Oh,” she said shrugging, “I’ve used it for years . . .” She paused. “It was new once . . .”
As we carried the provisions through into the kitchen I said, “You’ve got enough stuff here to last a month. I’ll only be here a couple of days.”
She looked slightly crestfallen for a moment, then, “Ah, well,” she said, “it won’t go to waste. Anyway, it’s better than not to have enough.”
I remembered I hadn’t cashed any traveller’s cheques when I’d gone to the bank. I’d have to go back after lunch. “I must settle up with you for everything,” I said. “And you must work out how much I owe you for all your work.”
“Oh, no . . . only for the things I’ve bought. I . . . I like to have something to do.”
“But not for nothing. Anyway, it isn’t right that you spend all your time round here looking after me. You must have plenty of other things to do.”
“. . . Don’t you want me here?”
“That’s not it at all,” I protested. “But—what about your father . . . ?”
“Oh, I looks after Dad, all right. I’m there when he needs me.”
“Fine . . .” It was all I could say. “Fine . . .” I hesitated a moment longer, then turned and went back out onto the lawn.
After lunch I went upstairs to get my traveller’s cheques. Sorting through my wallet I came across a snapshot of Colin. It showed him sitting at his desk. Although the picture was a little dark I could see clearly his happy expression as he sat there looking up from his papers and books. About to return the picture to my wallet, I suddenly stopped. I looked at it again, closer. Then I went back downstairs and into his study.
His desk was as I had seen it first—no disorder there as was shown in the snapshot; his pens and pencils lay neatly in their trays and the typewriter hidden beneath its cover. It wasn’t the neatness that disturbed me, though.
I opened the top drawer of the desk and looked quickly through its contents: more pencils, more draughtsman’s paraphernalia, files, notes on various projects. Nothing there that I was looking for.
The second drawer was locked, but a key that lay next to the telephone fitted the lock. Beneath a jumble of papers I found a bundle of letters tied together with string. Without undoing the knot I slipped one out, took it from its envelope and read: My sweet, darling Colin . . .
A love
letter from Helen. I felt my heart churn, thump, like someone discovered in a guilty act. I thrust the letter back into its envelope, put it together with the rest of them, put them all back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
Up in their bedroom again I looked at the same paintings, the same photographs. The drawers and cupboards I opened still didn’t show me what I was looking to find . . .
I stood very still in the middle of the room where they had slept, made love together. And I looked again at the photographs.
In the snaps Colin had sent me of the interior of the cottage there had been photographs of Helen all over the place. They had stood on his desk, hung on the walls, stood on the bureau here in this room.
Now there wasn’t one. I hadn’t seen a single one anywhere in the house.
Poor Colin . . . had the memory of her face caused him such anguish . . . ? I pictured him in my mind’s eye, saw him moving, stricken, through the rooms, taking down Helen’s photographs, hiding them away out of sight. I hadn’t realised just how much he had loved her.
After I’d cashed some traveller’s cheques I went into a phone box, dialled the operator and made a collect call to Shelagh. When she came on the line she didn’t bother with any greetings but just said at once, “David, what happened to you?! I thought you were going to call me as soon as you got there.” She didn’t sound as if she were in the next room, or even in the next town; she sounded fully three thousand miles away and as if her voice were only a foot above the Atlantic. I was sorry, I told her, but the phone in the house was still bust, and also I’d had a few things on my mind.
“That’s nice,” she said, “a few things on your mind. Wasn’t I one of them?”
“You sound like everybody’s idea of a Jewish mom.”
“Where are you calling from now?”
“A phone box in the village.”
“Well, anyway, I’m glad to hear you. At last. How are you? How was your great reunion with Colin?”
I tried to speak but no words came out. I heard myself gasp and felt the tears streaming down from my clenched eyelids. Far off I could hear her voice, warm, full of concern, calling my name. “David! David—oh, my darling, what’s wrong?” And I told her, and stood in the narrow confines of the phone box and wept.
Coherent again at last, I said: “I’m okay now . . .”
“David . . . ?”
“Yes . . . ?”
“Come on back. Come on home.”
“Yes.” I nodded, puppet-like. I felt drained. “Yes, yes . . .”
“There’s nothing to keep you there now, is there?”
“. . . Not now . . .”
“Then come on home.”
“Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll come home tomorrow.”
“And will you call me when you’ve got everything fixed?”
“Yes, I will.”
After I’d hung up I lit a cigarette and stood for a couple of minutes waiting for the time to pass. In the small discoloured mirror next to the dialling instructions I could see my eyes still red. I went out, flicked away my cigarette and crossed the square to the small travel agency I’d seen there. I booked a flight for the next day then returned to the phone box and called Shelagh to give her the details. My decision—a positive action—made me feel better, and her voice, and the happiness in it, made me feel better still.
I pictured her as I walked back across the square, remembering the way her hair went, her blue eyes looking up, smiling her own special smile of welcome. She was reality. Maybe not mine as completely as I wished but, nevertheless, reality. This, here, in contrast, was as substantial as smoke. What did I have to do here? Nothing. What did I have for company?—memories, the people of my imaginings.
And even when I did go tomorrow it wouldn’t necessarily mean goodbye to this place. Not forever. I’d be back one day, and then Shelagh would be with me. And together we would discover the cottage, the village, the countryside around. We’d do it together, the way it should be. And it would be ours, the cottage—as it had been Helen and Colin’s—not mine alone. And when that time came—maybe next summer—the memories that shuffled through the place would have had a chance to settle.
A dark blue Ford slowed up beside me as I walked. I saw that the driver was Reese, the doctor. He pulled to a halt, leaned across and wound down the window.
“You want a lift?” He was being, I thought, over-considerate—about my foot. But maybe not. Maybe I was just being over-sensitive. I thanked him, opened the door and got in beside him.
“I’m going back to New York tomorrow,” I said, watching as the trees and hedges rolled by.
“I’m sure that’s the best thing. Come back when you’re not so—affected by—everything. You can enjoy the place then.”
I nodded agreement. We sat in silence for a while and then we were drawing level with the cottage, slowing down in front of the flowered arch. He stopped the car, we shook hands and he wished me luck. I thanked him, said goodbye, then got out and watched as his car wound on up the hill and disappeared from view. I opened the gate and went round the side of the house. As I stood looking out over the lawn Jean Timpson appeared from the kitchen, carrying trash to dump in the bin.
I said to her: “You told me your father used to give my brother a hand on the garden . . .”
“Yes.”
“Do you suppose he could get up to see me some time this afternoon? Just for a few minutes.”
“I’m sure . . .”
“You see, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“. . . Going back to New York?”
“Yes.”
“Oh . . .” she said, then nodded, standing silent, her lips pressed together.
“I have to get back,” I said.
“I—I thought you’d be staying on a bit longer . . .” A pause. “What time are you leaving?”
“In the afternoon.” I added—a salve to her obvious disappointment, “I’d be glad of some lunch before I go.”
“Of course.” She began to turn away, stopped. “Oh, I forgot to mention—the phone’s working again now. They rang up and tested it while you were out.”
“Great,” I said, “now that I don’t need it.”
I remembered suddenly the money I owed her. I took out my wallet, counted out notes and pressed them into her hand. She accepted them reluctantly, put them into her pocket and picked up the trash-can. Her eyes looked past my shoulder.
“I’m sorry you’re going,” she said, “but anyway, thank you.”
“What for?”
She shrugged. “Well . . . for letting me come here.”
When she had gone back inside I followed the path that led to the side gate, opened it and stepped down the single step onto the long gravelled drive.
The garage, empty, stood behind me as I turned and looked out towards the road. This had been the route of Colin’s last journey. On the far side of the road stood the huge beech-tree that his car had hit. I walked down the drive, crossed the road and ran my hand over the scarred surface of the tree’s bark. It had withstood the impact so easily it seemed, escaping with little more than a scratch—while Colin’s life had been wiped out of existence. A freak accident, Reese had said. And it must have been that—a real freak accident. Every day people died on the roads and the motorways, their deaths making up the factors of our everyday lives—but Colin had died almost in his own driveway—just yards from his own front door.
I crossed back behind the house, went under the rose-covered arch at the side and wandered aimlessly to the clearing in the thicket. There I sat on the stone bench and lit a cigarette. My mind was full of questions. But I must have no more of them. What had happened was finished and done with. Over. For Colin and Helen it was over. For me it was over, too. Tomorrow I’d be back with Shelagh. Think about that.
A man’s voice was calling my name. Beneath my sandal I flattened the remains of my third cigarette and stood up. When I got back into the garden a small, wiry old man came towards
me with hand outstretched. He gave me a slow smile as he approached. He had thick white hair, cropped close, and against the deep tan of his skin his eyes were very bright and alert. He had to be Jean Timpson’s father. We greeted each other, shook hands. I said I was hoping that he and Jean could keep an eye on the place for me while I was gone. “I’d hate to return and find it all gone to ruin,” I said.
He nodded. “Don’t you worry about it. We’ll look after it.” He paused, then said, “Your brother and his wife . . . I really liked them. Sad business. Very sad.” He sighed, looked out over the garden. “Him and me were really getting to know each other. And he was really getting to know about all this . . .” He indicated the garden. “Mrs. Warwick hadn’t bothered with it—kind of let it all go—but your brother—well, he really took to it. It was nice—seeing somebody take to it like that. Finding out about things, making all kinds of discoveries about plants and stuff . . .” He pointed to an overgrown, neglected patch over to the left of the path. “When we started on it most of the garden looked like that. It takes time to get it all up together again once it’s been forgot for a time.”
“Yes, and I don’t want that to happen. It looks so beautiful now.”
He moved away from me and crossed the lawn to where some young rose-trees stood. I followed, watching as he looked down, nodding his approval.
“You wait,” he said, “give ’em another year and they’ll be a picture. Very acid, this soil. Good for roses.”
They were the white roses—the kind I’d found on my pillow. “They’re very pretty,” I said.
“Oh, ah . . . The ones out front are a bit past it now—a bit old, but these—well, you wait and see . . .” He took a leaf between his broad calloused thumb and forefinger. “Good, strong young trees.”
“You must be quite an expert.”
He smiled. “Well, you can’t live in the country all your life and not learn nothing.”
Side by side we made our way slowly into the orchard. He gestured up to where the fruit hung. “They need pruning bad. It had all been left too long. Old Miss Merridew really let it go towards the end, and then it was empty for a year or so afore your sister-in-law bought it. And as I said, she never done much with it.”
Sweetheart, Sweetheart Page 7