Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  She turned from me again then, smiling, pulling her blouse closer at the neck—“It’s chilly in this room”—and began to play Cole Porter’s Night and Day.

  She didn’t see my smile—which I couldn’t stop, but her efforts at a piano had always amused me. Probably because she would insist on playing whilst knowing all the time how mediocre was her ability. Listening to her as she crucified Cole Porter’s evergreen, I reflected that the word mediocre was possibly too generous a description. Her style, if it could be called that, was erratic to say the least as she rippled through the easy parts and slowed up for the more difficult ones. I sharply drew in my breath when she solidly hit a wrong note and she looked at me with a fierce expression, daring me to complain. “Don’t start,” she warned.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Just as well.” She turned back, eyes torn between the printed page and her fingers on the keys. “You can’t play at all. I can play a little.”

  “You’re right, Miss Eyre,” I said in my best Orson Welles voice, “you do play a little.”

  Undeterred she played on, more flamboyantly. “Oh, Mr. Rochester, you smooth, sweet-talking bastard, you.” I grinned. She added: “You know, your Miss Jean Timpson makes me think of a rather rustic Mrs. Danvers.”

  “Wrong book,” I said. “Mrs. Danvers is the creepy housekeeper in Rebecca. You mean Mrs. Fairfax—or was it Grace Poole?”

  “That’s the one.” She stifled a laugh. “Grace Poole. That’s who she reminds me of. There’s something a little—strange about her. Well . . . maybe not strange exactly . . . Different.”

  Before dinner I sat out on the lawn while She­lagh, in the cottage, fixed cocktails for us. When she appeared she handed me a vodka martini then watched while I sipped it and nodded my appreciation. She said, “I’ve been having a little chat with Jean.”

  “Oh?”

  She sat beside me on the seat. “Just—an effort to be friendly. I mean, I’d like us to be friends.” She sighed. “She doesn’t make it that easy.”

  “I thought you were getting on okay.”

  “Oh . . . I’m not so sure.” She took a sip from her glass. “And you know something?—I was right.”

  “What about?”

  “She said having you here made it almost seem as if your brother had never—gone . . .” She watched my face, looking for a reaction.

  “What else did she say?”

  “Nothing much. Maybe I was trying too hard but—I can’t seem to reach her. She’s so shy . . .”

  “Give it time,” I said.

  We sipped our martinis while the birds sang and the shadows lengthened across the grass.

  “This place is heaven,” She­lagh said. “It’s easy to see why Colin loved it so.”

  Her words ruffled the calm I was feeling and I thrust them away, concentrating on the warmth, the gentleness and the peace around us. And then She­lagh was giving a small cry of pleasure and leaning down to the little cat that had appeared, as if from nowhere, to rub its nose against her ankle, tail waving high.

  “Now where did you come from?” She­lagh cooed, and took the cat onto her lap, her fingers stroking the soft fur. Purring, it nestled against her hand.

  “Her name’s Girlie,” I said. “She comes with the cottage.”

  At that moment the kitchen door opened and Jean Timpson came towards us across the lawn with the information that dinner was ready. I picked up our glasses while She­lagh continued fondling the cat. She held the animal closer, her cheek against the softness.

  “She was Mrs. Warwick’s,” Jean Timpson told her. “After they were—gone she wandered off. I thought she’d gone for good.” She smiled, watching the movements of She­lagh’s smoothing hands. “She likes company.”

  “I hope she stays now,” She­lagh said, and I thought of the kitten up there on the steep roof, clinging on, afraid to get down, and then Helen fetching the ladder, climbing up . . .

  “I roasted some lamb,” Jean Timpson was saying to She­lagh. Although she was avoiding eye contact (when did she not?) I thought I saw an attempt at friendliness—and I was glad of it. There was, she then told us, fruit pie and cream to follow, “. . . if,” she added, “that’s all right . . .”

  “Sounds great,” She­lagh said, accepting the gesture. “David will tell you, I have a very sweet tooth.”

  “And how,” I said. “Ice-cream, chocolate—you name it . . .” I laughed, but I was still seeing Helen up there by the chimney, losing her hold—slipping, falling . . .

  “Come on, dreamer . . .” She­lagh touched my shoulder. She had put the cat down and now it ran off across the grass. “Let’s go eat.”

  After dinner we wandered down to the village and called at a pleasant pub overlooking the river. We bought pints of beer and took them out to the small back garden where we sat at old rough-wood tables. A slight breeze came off the water; not scented by exhaust fumes or garbage, but the smells of the country­side.

  She­lagh, reaching in her bag for cigarettes, brought out three envelopes and handed them to me. “I keep forgetting, these arrived for you after you left. There were other things, recognisable as bills and such. I reckoned you could live without those.”

  “You reckoned right.”

  One of the letters was from an old friend, the second from the landlord of our apartment. Both were unimportant. The third, air mail with an English postmark, was from the bank in the village, signed by the manager, Mr. Jennersen. He was offering condolences and advising me of the contents of Colin’s­ will. No longer news.

  She­lagh was studying my face. I put the letter in my pocket. “It’s from the local bank,” I told her, “about Colin.” I smiled at her serious expression. “It’s all right, it can’t shock me now.”

  “No?”

  “No, not now. Except . . .” I came to a halt.

  “Except what . . . ?”

  “That—that phone call I told you about. I can’t forget it.”

  “Dave . . .” She touched my sleeve. “Helen’s death was an accident. What does it matter what a few ill-informed, malicious individuals think?”

  “It matters.”

  “It should only be important what you think. What you know.”

  I nodded. She went on after a moment:

  “And you know they were happy together . . . don’t you?”

  “Do I?”

  “Well, all his letters. He sounded so content . . .”

  “You’re forgetting, I heard hardly at all during the last half of their year together, and nothing at all towards the end.”

  “So you think they weren’t so happy, maybe. That perhaps Helen was so unhappy that she—that she killed herself . . . ?”

  I didn’t answer, just studied my beer.

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she said.

  “. . . Leave it, She­lagh.”

  “You’re the one who should leave it.” Her eyes were very steady on mine. “You are afraid. God knows what’s going on in your head; what your wild imagination’s putting you through.”

  “You’re forgetting that phone call,” I said. “He’s sure—that Colin—killed her . . .”

  “And you’re beginning to think he could be right. Right?”

  13

  “Don’t even suggest it,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Why not?” she said calmly. “It’s what’s in your mind.” Her fingers pressed on mine. “And you must know how ridiculous it is.” She paused. “It is, isn’t it?”

  I must hold on to the cool sound of her reason. It was what I needed.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Dave, it is. It is ridiculous. You’ll go on searching, tormenting yourself, looking for answers. And when you find them—if you find them; you might not—you’ll see that you’ve been eating your heart out for nothing at all. There’ll be a reasonable explanation—and it won’t involve coming face to face with some—some awful truth about . . . Colin.”

  “You re
ally believe that?” I wanted to believe it, so much.

  “I do. Honestly I do.”

  “But that phone call . . .”

  “Somebody getting his kicks. Somebody who didn’t like your brother, that much is obvious. And you should take notice of somebody like that?”

  I nodded. She was right. She went on:

  “And don’t forget there was an inquest. And there they were presented with all the facts. That’s what inquests are for.”

  “Yes.”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  And it did. It did make sense. I smiled at her. “I needed somebody to talk to.” I said. “Or rather, somebody to talk to me. I know I haven’t been able to see straight.”

  “I’m not surprised, under the circumstances. I’d have been climbing the walls.” A little silence went by, and then, “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “About Colin. Helen. All your questions, your worries.”

  I held her fingers tighter. Held tighter to the persuasive sound of her common-sense words.

  “I shall forget it,” I said.

  “Good.” Her smile was so warm.

  I tipped my glass, finished my beer.

  “You want another?” she asked.

  “No. Let’s go home.”

  We took cups of coffee out into the garden—all moonlit, soft, warm air, sweet-scented. Ducking under the arch at the side we wandered through the shadows of the thicket, following the narrow path to the clearing where Bill Gerrard had built a summer-­house for his beloved daughter and where, years later, sad Margaret Lane had burned to death inside it.

  I felt no lingering melancholy there now. Why should I? I didn’t know its secret . . . then . . .

  No, I felt, then, only an increasing happiness. A relaxing that grew and grew.

  “You’d like to come back here, wouldn’t you?” She­lagh said. “To stay?”

  “If you were with me.”

  In the dim light I could see her eyes on mine. Her hand on the bench moved and rested on my hand. I thought again of my declared reasons for staying on in Hillingham. And they no longer seemed important any more. It was just She­lagh.

  And she had been right in all that she had said. All those worries about Colin, and Helen—they were ridiculous.

  Putting my arm about her shoulders I drew her closer to me. She rested her head on my shoulder. I took a last drag on my cigarette and dropped the glowing end onto the stone at my feet. I watched the red spark become smaller and smaller till it was quite gone. And with it I would let go all those wonderings, those doubts about my brother and his wife. Reese, too, had been right. He had said it was all over. And it was over. I couldn’t help Colin or Helen with my emotional probings. Colin and Helen were far beyond anything I could do for either of them. I thought about De Freyne and Elizabeth Barton . . . I wouldn’t bother them . . . now . . . Wherever De Freyne was I wouldn’t try to find him. What was the point? And Elizabeth Barton, who had appeared so afraid at my sudden appearance on her doorstep . . . Whatever were those reasons for your fear, I silently said, you can keep them to yourself. I won’t probe any more . . .

  “I am going to leave it,” I said, “about Colin. What I told you about—about finding out the truth. I know the truth. Let people say what they like. I’m going to try to forget it. I shall.” I smiled, demonstrating my newfound sense of freedom. “I just want to enjoy being here with you. Let’s live for the living. Colin is—dead.”

  I felt a great, overwhelming sense of relief, as if at last I was released from some age-old tie; as if the knots were loosening, falling away, the blood surging freely once more through long-­restricted veins. I was finally acknowledging that Colin, my brother, was gone, really gone, would never reach me again. Perhaps I had lived far too long in his towering, distant shadow. Now, finally, it had faded. I would make my own way.

  I became aware of the beauty of the night. Up above us the Milky Way was brilliant in the clear sky, while all around us the leaves were rustled by the breeze and the movements of night creatures.

  “It’s a lovely secluded little spot, this,” She­lagh murmured. “I’d like a summer-house here myself someday.”

  “That means you want to come back.”

  “How could I not?”

  I kissed her. “Then you shall have your summer-house.”

  Before She­lagh got ready to go upstairs I went ahead and looked in the bedroom. The scent of flowers drifted in through the open window, but there was no rose on the pillow. Somehow I had known there wouldn’t be. Jean Timpson had evidently got the message. Not before time.

  When I got downstairs I found She­lagh sitting on the carpet leaning over the jigsaw puzzle.

  “You haven’t got very far,” she observed. I agreed with her, then she said, looking at the picture on the box-lid: “The filthy beast—he’s looking right up her pants.”

  “Some people are like that.”

  “Maybe she’s not even wearing pants. That could account for his smile.”

  “Disgusting people.” I reached out, lifted her up. She came close against me, arms moving around my neck. “Let’s go to bed,” I said.

  I carried a lighted kitchen candle into the bedroom and turned off the bedside lamp. “Just this and the moonlight,” I said. “That’s enough.”

  As I lay down beside her she pressed herself to me. Our arms wrapped each other, holding closer, closer still, so that we were flesh against flesh the length of our bodies. I kissed her, touching, caressing, and she moaned softly against me, little animal sounds, pulling me nearer.

  “I love you,” she breathed against my cheek. “I love you. Oh, my dear, dear Dave . . .”

  A gust of air, brief, sudden, flicked across my shoulders, hit the candle flame and snuffed it out. I paused for a moment, an orchestra conductor momentarily losing his place, my rhythm faltering. She­lagh was a pale shadow now, lit only by the moon.

  “Don’t stop,” she said. “Oh, don’t stop . . .”

  14

  On our way back from the cemetery we stopped at a shop that sold antiques, the goods on sale ranging from rubbish to some really beautiful pieces. There was a lovely Victorian shaving-mug patterned in blue and green that I coveted; also a porcelain statuette—a rather erotic study of Leda in an embrace with her swan.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said to She­lagh.

  “It’s rude.”

  “I don’t care. I love it.”

  “Then buy it.”

  I examined the price label on the base. “I’ll think about it.” Always the cautious one.

  “We’d only have to hide it,” She­lagh said, “every time some maiden aunt called around.”

  “We don’t have any maiden aunts.”

  “Just as well.”

  She went back to picking around amongst the bits and pieces—like a hen scratching for corn. “You’ve got so much stuff here,” she said to the old man who sat behind a big old desk, and he looked up, moving his eyes from their focus on my leg. I saw him nod his grey head and smile, his cheeks crinkling. He looked sharp. He wore a brown suit of old-fashioned cut, a brilliant white collar, and a precisely knotted tie with green stripes. In his gentle, lined face his eyes were alert and, as they turned back to me, soft with kindness. His old voice, when he spoke, was strong with the sound of the West Country. “I knew who you were,” he told me, “the minute you walked in.”

  I smiled back at him. “I know about you, too. A little. You’re Mr.—Pitkin?” He nodded, pleased. I added: “Our neighbour, Mr. Timpson, has spoken of you.”

  “Oh, ah, I should reckon they all know me,” he said. “I’ve been here longer than most. . . .” He paused. “I met your brother a few times. Got to know him pretty well.”

  She­lagh came over carrying a little china cream pitcher with daisies on it. “How much is this, please?”

  He looked at it for a moment, told her a price an
d she converted it into dollars and cents and said. “I’ll take it.” He began to search around for a piece of wrapping-paper, and it was as he got up that I noticed that he limped slightly on his left leg. Not quite as pronounced a limp as mine, but still, a limp. That, I realised, probably accounted for his interest in my own uneven gait.

  “That looks like one of Sad Margaret’s, doesn’t it?” She­lagh took my thoughts away, pointing to a framed sampler on the wall.

  “How can you tell? I should think one looks pretty much like another.”

  The old man turned to us at this. “No, she’s right.” He smiled at She­lagh. “If you mean Margaret Lane, you’re right. It is one of hers.” She­lagh looked at me with a superior I-told-you-so lift of an eyebrow. He went on: “Miss Merridew sold it to me. It’s been here for ages. I bought another one from your sister-in-law—that was before she was married. Sold that one, though. She sorted out quite a few bits and pieces she didn’t want. Things that had been kept at the cottage—hoarded over the years—from the previous owners. I didn’t take that much—just a few odd things.”

  “Did you know her very well?” I asked, and sensed She­lagh shooting a glance at me; I knew what she was thinking: that I was harping on Helen’s death again—and after my professed intentions.

  “I’ve known everyone who’s lived at that cottage—since I was born,” he said, “nearly eighty-six years ago. I doubt there’s much that’s happened here in the village that I don’t know about. I’ve seen it all here.” He sighed. “Oh, yes, a lot of changes—and not all for the better. But I suppose it’s what they call progress. Nowadays people come and go, and you don’t know who they are or where they’re from. From different places; different countries, like as not. When I was a lad you took it for granted that everybody knew everybody else. Different now. Harder to keep track. One time, it seemed, half the people in the village were related to each other. Nobody went further than the next town—hardly ever. Well, you couldn’t, could you?” I began to shake my head in agreement, no, but he answered his own question. “Course you couldn’t. Not when the only means of getting anywhere was by foot—unless you were lucky enough to have a horse. But people today, they fly off here, there and everywhere and think nothing of it . . .” He seemed to have forgotten She­lagh’s purchase. The cream pitcher lay before him, unwrapped on its sheet of wrapping-paper. I stole a glance at her. Her expression was all the encouragement he needed to go on. He smiled at her, said she was from America, wasn’t she?—he could tell by her accent. “Course, we’re used to foreigners coming here now. In fact they’re buying up half the village, sometimes it seems.” He added quickly, shaking his head, “Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I am not including you.” I said I realised that. He went on: