Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  I got up late—after lying in bed reading for an hour—and made my breakfast of toast and coffee. Jean Timpson had told me she couldn’t get in until late afternoon—and that was fine by me. I liked being there alone.

  Looking from the window I saw that the rain had begun to fall again, benevolently, gentle, roscid—and revelled in it. I knew that to have stayed in our New York apartment with the rain falling would have depressed me immeasurably. Here, though, it was different. And I held the difference to me, savoring it—the solitude, the peace that stretched before me; I hugged it to me like a wanted, but unexpected gift . . .

  When Jean Timpson arrived about five-thirty she found me stretched out with the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle spread on and about a large tray that lay on the carpet before me. My left arm ached slightly beneath the bandage and I concluded that, with my attempts to play the gardener, I had possibly overdone things.

  Earlier I had begun a letter to She­lagh—and then tore it up half finished, not really knowing what I wanted to say. Or maybe it was just that I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say. I had then taken a crack at another of the real-life criminal cases from Colin’s­ bookshelf: yet another theory, though well-argued, on the everlasting mystery of how Charles Bravo had met his gruesome end in Balham. But somehow it was all too much at a distance . . . It was after closing the book, replacing it with the others, that I had come across the jigsaw puzzle.

  I found it (bought for rainy evenings by the fireside, I supposed) in Colin and Helen’s room. Bringing it downstairs I opened the box and shook out the pieces. Ah, those memories of my childhood—those memories of my past jigsaw puzzle days,—those days when the other boys had been out hiking or climbing and I wouldn’t have been able to keep up . . . But I had no anger, no bitterness now. It was simply a fact of life—my life.

  The picture on the box-lid showed a reproduction of a painting by Fragonard, The Swing. A woman in a pink dress, her petticoats billowing, was being swung back and forth by a shadowy man in the background who seemed to be having a great time pulling on the swing with reins. In the foreground, lounging in the middle of a rose-bush, a fellow in a grey suit was getting his kicks by looking up the woman’s skirts. He was smiling. And she was smiling too, and she knew he was there. One of her legs looked quite malformed—she had an unbelievably long left thigh (How had Fragonard passed it?); her other leg was kicking off into the air the dinkiest pink slipper. It was all incredibly romantic, made for chocolate boxes, and quite ridiculous—but the colours were pretty, and the garden in which the frantically happy trio frolicked with their insane revelling grins gave me a feeling of added peace.

  Jean Timpson knocked at the living-room door and I looked up and smiled at her from my low vantage point. “I’m having a lazy day,” I said.

  She gave me her shy smile, the same one as always, eyes slipping away from my face. She looked at the puzzle.

  “Mrs. Warwick bought that. She thought she might do it while she was resting . . . I don’t think she ever got round to it, though . . .”

  The implication was saddening. So many plans made every day—for which there’d be no fulfillment. All those train-, boat-, theatre- and plane-tickets bought, the tennis courts reserved, the holidays planned—and nothing coming of any of it. Death had no consideration for arrangements.

  “I’ll do a bit of tidying up and then get your dinner.” She was giving me her smile again and retreating to the kitchen. I concentrated on finishing the Fragonard-woman’s malformed leg. We had something in common, she and I—though if she was aware of her deformity she certainly wasn’t put off by it—and neither was either of the two smiling men. As I worked I was vaguely aware of Jean Timpson moving back and forth carrying cleaning implements, putting fresh flowers in the vases by the windows. I didn’t pay much attention, though.

  I got up after a while and went upstairs for more cigarettes. I saw that Jean Timpson had been there and made my bed.

  I saw, too, another rose.

  It took me completely by surprise—because here it was, still daylight; outside the sun still shone on the raindrops that clung to the leaves.

  It was a perfect rose. Just opening, exquisitely formed, tiny jewelled beads of moisture lying on the soft petals.

  Going back downstairs I hovered in the kitchen doorway and lifted the rose to my nostrils. There was no chance that Jean Timpson, working over the stove, could miss seeing it . . .

  “The rain,” I said, “brings out the scent of the flowers . . .”

  She turned, her eyes lingering on the rose for a second, then looked away again. She began to gather dishes and cutlery together. “Roses were Gerrard’s speciality,” she said. “Bill Gerrard . . .” She gave a little sidelong glance at the flower—unreadable. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  In the living-room I put the rose into a vase along with the others. There were those of the same creamy white and some of a pale yellow, a larger strain. Then I turned my attention back to the flowers in the jigsaw. I wasn’t making much progress with it, but after a good gin-and-tonic I didn’t mind very much.

  When the phone rang just after midnight I’d had several more drinks, was feeling a bit the worse for wear and was on the point of going to bed.

  “David . . . ?”

  She­lagh. I answered her heartily casual, aware of how sickening my tone must sound. “Oh, hi! How’s it going?”

  “Fine, just fine.” Her words were measured. “And how’s it going with you?”

  “Fine. Did you have a good day?”

  “It’s a bit early to make an assessment.” Pause. “Have you had a good day?”

  “Oh, yeh. Okay, I guess.”

  Another pause, then she said, “I don’t believe this conversation.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. David, what are you doing? Do you know when you’re coming back?”

  I started to tell her that I didn’t, and hiccupped. I took a deep breath. “No . . . I don’t know when.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Oh, She­lagh, come on . . .”

  “I don’t know what the hell’s happening with you. Really, I’m starting to imagine all kinds of things.”

  I said abruptly. “Well, there’s something I’m not imagining . . .”

  “What? What’s that?”

  “. . . Skip it.”

  A little silence, then: “David, darling, this phone call is too costly to spend it playing games. What are you talking about?”

  “Colin . . . and Helen . . . There are people who—who believe that—that Helen’s death wasn’t an—accident. They believe that Colin—killed her.”

  “. . . What?”

  “It’s true. I’m not making it up . . .”

  “Oh, my darling . . .” Her voice was suddenly all warmth and compassion. “Come on home. You’ve been through enough. Come home. For my sake. I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you too. But I can’t. Not yet.”

  “What do you hope to achieve by staying there?”

  “Well . . . I can find out the truth. Show them.”

  “Aren’t you—taking this whole thing a bit too far? I mean—you’re under a strain . . .”

  “I probably am—but that has nothing to do with it.”

  “How can you be so sure? Why don’t you—well, have a talk to somebody. Somebody who’s—understanding . . .”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “No, I mean . . . a doctor, maybe . . .”

  “Oh, I get it. You mean a shrink. Keep up that kind of talk, it’ll get us a long way.”

  “I’m trying to help.” Was she near to tears?

  “She­lagh, listen,” I said gently. “I’ve got to do this. Please . . . bear with me . . .”

  “Okay, David.” She sounded weary of it all. “Whatever you say.”

  I had a hangover the next morning, waking late with a dry mouth, a monumental thirst and heavy head. Jean Timpson was already there when I got downsta
irs, ready for me with coffee and orange juice.

  Feeling slightly more human I went out into the sunshine where the smells of the garden rose to meet me. I wandered idly to the patch of earth I had cleared. And saw that the message was still there after all . . . the rain hadn’t washed it out.

  No, I was wrong. There was a message there. But it was a different message. Just one word.

  STAY

  I didn’t leave the writing there as I had before. No. I got the rake and scratched away at the letters, obliterating every mark. I wanted it over with, done, gone. The first time I had turned it into a joke, but now it had gone far beyond that. And I had enough to think about without dealing with the strange behaviour of some frustrated country woman.

  I had difficulty facing her as she served lunch. When it was over I went into the living-room and sat down before the jigsaw puzzle—only about an eighth finished—that still lay on the tray and surrounding carpet. I fiddled with odd bits, adding a touch of the sky, part of the woman’s skirts; but my mind wasn’t on it.

  As I sat there Jean Timpson came in and moved to the vase of flowers by the front window. I didn’t look up.

  “Shame . . .” I heard her murmur.

  I did look at her then. She was gazing at the flowers.

  “The roses,” she said, “they’re dying. They don’t last like the others.”

  “Yes . . . shame.” I returned to the puzzle, feeling her glance on the back of my head; she had to be conscious of the flatness of my tone. And then she was moving out of the room, the dead yellow roses in her hands.

  So little I did that day. I walked out into the countryside and back through the village. And I talked to no one. I realised that I was just letting the time slip by; in spite of my intentions I was doing nothing really constructive. I was staying on, I had told She­lagh, to prove Colin’s­ innocence and still the gossip—yet apart from that one attempt to see Elizabeth Barton my efforts amounted to very little. Her strange, unexpected reaction to my visit should, I was aware, make me more determined that ever—but there I had been for the past two days—just wandering about the house, about the garden. It was almost as if that, alone, were the purpose of my being there. Well, tomorrow I’d start, I told myself. Yes, tomorrow I’d really begin . . . But for now I was glad that the rest of the day was mine—to spend as I wished . . . I quickened my steps, heading back to my safe haven on Gerrard’s Hill.

  Jean Timpson had gone for the day when I got there. I fixed myself an early dinner and settled down for another evening alone. I loved this solitude. I felt utterly secure. When at last I turned off the lights ready to go to bed I moved up the stairs with my feet knowing, surely, every inch of the way. I had been there less than a week, yet I might have been there always.

  In my bedroom I switched on the soft light of the bedside lamp, took the rose from my pillow and got into bed. The clock said eleven-thirty. I saw my untouched sleeping-pills there; I wouldn’t be needing one tonight, either . . .

  I tried to read for a while, but my eyes refused to focus properly after a time so in the end I put the book down and flicked off the light.

  I remember nothing more until I was awakened by the ringing of the bell. I started to reach out to depress the button on the alarm clock and then realised that the ringing was coming from the front door. The time was just coming up to one o’clock. Who the hell could be calling at this time of night?

  The ringing grew more insistent. I climbed out of bed and got into my robe.

  The ringing persisted as I went downstairs. Like an alarm bell. But I didn’t take the warning . . .

  As I opened the front door the hall lamp rayed bright onto the figure standing on the step. I moved back in surprise.

  “Well,” She­lagh said, “aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  PART TWO

  The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

  Are of imagination all compact:

  One sees more devils than vast hell can hold.

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”

  —William Shakespeare

  12

  Across the kitchen table She­lagh smiled at me over the rim of her cup. I looked at her, so pretty and neat in her yellow blouse and slacks, and could hardly believe it was true—that she was really there.

  “I’m terrified of meeting your daily,” she said. “She’ll know we didn’t sleep in separate beds.”

  “So what? She’ll get used to the idea.”

  She nodded, and then said: “You wouldn’t believe the panic I was in. I thought you were really sick. I was so worried.”

  “So you pressed the panic-button and gave up summer school—for what—to come and save me?”

  “Something like that. I mean, you’ve had a couple of pretty hard knocks, and then after your phone call when you were so upset, and then all that stuff you were saying . . . Well, I didn’t know what I’d find when I got here. A basket case, maybe.”

  “And what do you think now?”

  She studied me for a moment. “You seem very—pulled-­together. I was sure you’d be a nervous wreck at the very least. And look at you—you have a tan that’s really fantastic and—well, you look better than you have for ages.”

  The sun was streaming in, touching her bare arm. I reached across, pressed her fingers. “You’re not going to rush away now that you know I’m okay, are you?”

  “. . . That means you really intend staying on here—still.”

  “Yes . . . I told you.”

  “Well,” she said after a moment, “having told Jefferies that I won’t be available I guess I’ve got nothing to hurry back to. And this is a lovely place . . .”

  I leaned back in my chair and stretched my arms. I felt the contentment in my fingertips. I felt suddenly, all at once, the first real touch of happiness since I had arrived back in England.

  The night before, after She­lagh’s arrival, we had sat for hours, talking, talking, till almost three; and we had grown closer again with every minute.

  Leaving out all mention of Jean Timpson’s odd behaviour, I told She­lagh what had happened since my arrival—of the discoveries, the shocks, one upon the other. And I had cried, and she had held me, arms around me, close. And the worst was over then. I had needed someone there—She­lagh, it had to be She­lagh; someone who cared, who would understand. And when my tears were dry I knew that everything would be all right.

  Now, sitting in the warmth of the morning sun, I was more certain than ever.

  We left our empty coffee-cups and I led her out into the garden. Holding her hand I proudly showed her over my newly-acquired property, taking her along the path by the lawn, skirting the flower beds, pointing out the flycatcher’s nest and—airing my growing knowledge of their names—the various flowers. From there we went into the orchard, ducking beneath the clustered apples (the size of cherries) where the birds sang, and then beyond it into the thicket and so down to the banks of the pond.

  And all the time I revelled in her joys of discovery; her ohs and ahs of delight made me see everything as if for the first time again. And the same inside the house as she moved wonderingly from room to room. I said nothing, prepared her for nothing, but just watched. In Colin and Helen’s room she looked at the paintings on the walls and nodded her appreciation. Gently she touched the intricate design of Helen’s patchwork quilt.

  “There was a lot of love in this house,” she said, and I grinned at her sentimentality. “I mean it,” she said. “I know I sound sickening, but it’s true. You get a feeling about the place. You can tell. It’s everywhere. The house is full of it.”

  That was She­lagh—right on the nose.

  “I don’t think she likes me,” she whispered.

  “Nonsense. Why wouldn’t she?”

  Jean Timpson had arrived at the cottage to get my lunch to be greeted with the sight of She­lagh changing the bandage on my arm. The look on the older woman’s face was a study. After I had made the introductions I added, so tha
t there could be no possible doubt: “She­lagh will be staying here with me. Probably until I—till we go back to the States.”

  Jean Timpson’s smile had remained a little wooden. From what?—embarrassment?—because She­lagh and I would be staying here together? Possibly. Or maybe it was just shyness at meeting a stranger—there was certainly some of that—evident in the way she twitched at her lilac hair-ribbon. But whatever it was, I wasn’t about to allow it to matter.

  “She’ll be all right,” I said now to She­lagh, standing behind her as she sat at the piano. “Just give her a chance.” Jean Timpson had just gone by with her cleaning things, muttering a soft, awkward “Excuse me . . .” as she sidled through.

  “I reckon she could be a little jealous,” She­lagh murmured. “She’s had you all to herself for days and all of a sudden there comes some pushy American female on the scene, making your breakfast and lighting your cigarettes. Etcetera.” She smiled with the last word and then, more seriously, added: “And when you think about it, maybe she feels she’s had you here much longer.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  She looked into my eyes. “You look exactly like Colin, so . . .”

  “. . . And for her, perhaps, it’s as if Colin has never left . . . ?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a thought.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Though I’m probably being too clever. But I think she could be a bit jealous. I don’t miss much—especially when I get the fish eye like I did this morning when she came in.”

  “You’re imagining it.”

  “Well, we’ll see.” She turned from me and bent her head over the stack of sheet-music on her knee, flipping through the romantic covers with their hearts and flowers and sunsets. “Anyway,” she added, “I’m not complaining. She’s certainly been looking after you.” She grinned. “And there was I rather looking forward to being your ministering angel. Some kind of cross between Florence Nightingale and Pollyanna. Now I’ll have to think of some other role.” I laughed, touched her hair. She lifted her face and I leaned down and kissed her a long kiss. She said softly, “I never thought I would miss you so much. But dammit, I did.” Her eyes were very steady on mine. “I didn’t realise,” she said, “just how much I love you.”