Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  But I couldn’t be wrong. How could I? The glass in the ice-cream, the razor-blades, the words scrawled in the earth . . . She trusts you, Timpson had said. She trusts you . . . I was so confused. Suddenly I didn’t feel sure of anything any more. And suppose I was wrong . . .

  I looked at the letter lying on the table. I took a step forward.

  “. . . My note . . .” I began. And he followed the direction of my eyes, then picked the letter up.

  “Don’t you fret yourself,” he said. “I’ll make sure she gets it.” He tucked it securely down in the pocket of his shirt. “As soon as she gets back.”

  It was out of my hands.

  18

  At the end of the lane I lit up my last cigarette (bought duty-free on the trip over) then walked down to the village where I bought another carton.

  Coming out of the tobacconist’s I saw Jean Timpson emerge from the supermarket carrying a small bag of groceries. I panicked; I knew I could never—considering the note I’d just left her—face any kind of conversation with her right then. And she was heading in my direction—though as yet she hadn’t seen me.

  Without hesitation, or giving more than a passing thought to my cowardice, I dodged around the pub on the corner into one of the streets behind the square. I stopped outside Pitkin’s shop and saw, reflected in his window, that Jean Timpson had turned the same corner. Whether or not she saw me this time I had no idea, though I couldn’t see how she could miss me. Still, even so, she didn’t know that I had seen her. And I kept it that way. The door to the shop was open and without looking back I went in.

  Pitkin had obviously seen me arrive outside and now he said good morning and asked me how I was. Fine, I told him, just fine. For long seconds I continued to stand there like a bump on a log and he nodded towards the street, saying, “Oh, there goes young Jean . . .” Anyone under fifty, I supposed, would be young to him . . . I didn’t turn but watched, in a mirror, her progress as she hovered at the window, looking in at me. I saw her go away . . .

  What—Pitkin asked me then, with an anticipatory smile—could he do for me . . . ? Seeing his smile I realised all at once what he took (hoped?) to be the reason for my visit. I decided I couldn’t disappoint him.

  “I just . . . just dropped in to say you can have the dresser,” I said, and as soon as I’d spoken I was glad I had. He was so pleased.

  Well, he said, after thanking me three or four times, we would have to work out a price, wouldn’t we? Oh, I’d leave that to him, I said; having no knowledge of such things I’d leave it to him to give me what he thought was right. I asked him when he wanted to collect it. It would, he said, have to be at the weekend; he’d try to arrange it, then phone and let me know.

  There was nothing really to say after that. But I didn’t want to go just yet; not while there was a chance I might run into Jean Timpson on my way back to the cottage. He saved me, the old man; asked me if I had time to have a drink with him at the corner pub. “Yes, I’d love to,” I said, meaning it, and he got his stick and followed me out into the street.

  After he’d locked the door after us we went into the corner pub where he ordered each of us a pint of bitter. We carried our drinks over to a table in the corner. He lit his pipe, I a cigarette. I relaxed in his company. He was a nice old man and I liked him very much. He was so easy to be with. I had still felt fairly tense after the business with the letter and my talk with Jean Timpson’s father, but now, sitting chatting to Pitkin, the tenseness was quickly going. When we’d finished our beers I bought scotches. I felt he was unwinding too. He became more talkative, more open. I reckoned he was probably rather lonely, and glad of the company I briefly offered. His wife, he told me, had died some nine years earlier. His only son had been killed in the war. I asked him how he’d gone from farming to antiques. He smiled. “I s’pose it does seem a bit of an odd step, doesn’t it? The shop was in my wife’s family. We just got too old to work the farm, so we sold it and opened up the shop again. I can’t say I regret it.”

  I got up and got two more drinks. When I put his down before him he protested for a moment, saying he wouldn’t be fit to work, but he was enjoying himself, I could see. As I sat down opposite him again he lifted his glass, smiled at me over the rim and said, “Your good health.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Do your parents live in England?” he asked me.

  “My mother’s dead. My father lives in London.”

  “He must have been glad to see you get back from America. Particularly at a time—well, like this.”

  “No . . .” It would have been much the easiest thing to have said yes. But I said no, and he looked at me in surprise.

  “We’ve never got on,” I said with a shrug.

  He gave a sympathetic nod. “Nor me, with my father.” He looked off into space. “A very strict man. Mind you, he was only typical of many fathers of that time, I suppose. Very Victorian. And he had a terrible temper to go with it.”

  He turned his eyes to me, as if deliberating whether or not to continue. Then he tapped his left leg. “That’s how I got like this. He did it.”

  “How . . . ? Why . . . ?”

  “Because of the Temples.” A simple statement. He added: “Mind you, I think I deserved it.”

  “. . . I don’t understand.”

  He gave a rueful little smile. “Hasn’t Fred Timpson told you the rest of the story yet?”

  “About Temple and his wife? He only told me what I told you—that if I wanted to know any more I should ask you about it.”

  He nodded. Then a little sadly, he said, “There are some things you don’t ever really get over . . . Regrets can be so . . . consuming.”

  “You mean your leg . . . ?”

  “Oh, no, that’s just—well, a reminder. A reminder that’s always with me.” He stared down into his glass, then looked up at me again, smiling. “One drink’s my limit, really, you know. Any more and I start to talk too much.”

  “Am I asking too many questions?”

  “No, no, you’re not. Anyway, it’s no secret. If it had stayed a secret I wouldn’t”—here he touched his leg again,—“have ended up with it like this.”

  I said nothing, just toyed with my glass. He wanted to talk, I could tell. After a while he added quietly:

  “You see, it was my fault. Bronwen . . . Her dying like that.”

  “But—but how could that be? It seems pretty well known how it happened. Isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, it is. I said to you before that nothing was ever proved, but—as you say—it’s well known what happened. And,” he nodded, “I was—partly responsible.”

  I waited. He went on:

  “I told you how I used to run errands for them, the Temples. That was fine with my mother and father. But what they didn’t know was that some of the messages I carried were between Handyman and Effie. She was our dairymaid.”

  “Yes, I remember your telling me.”

  “I’d reckon their—love affair—had been going on for about five or six months before they went off together. You did hear the odd whisper about them, but nobody knew for sure that there was anything going on. Except me. I knew, of course, because of all the notes and things. But I didn’t tell anybody.” He spread his hands in a brief gesture of helplessness. “Well, I couldn’t. Effie had been good to me. She’d helped me out when I’d been in a bit of trouble—just minor things—but she stopped my father finding out and—anyway, because of that—her helping me—I agreed to help her and Handyman with their messages to and from each other. And I was glad to do it. Because—as I say—I liked her . . .”

  “And you knew they were going away together.”

  “No, that was kept a secret right up till the last minute. She lived at our house, you see. She didn’t come from the village originally.” He paused and took a drink. “We’d had a very dry summer that year, and that was the time the weather decided to break. Thunder woke me up—and my dog barking downstairs. There was lightning t
oo, I remember. My dog was afraid, and I knew if I let him keep that racket up I’d have to answer for it later on. So, I went downstairs. And that’s when I saw Effie just sneaking out. I remember the way she put her finger to her lips, warning me not to make a noise. I asked her what she was doing, and that’s when she told me, that she was going away with Handyman—to America, she said. She seemed so excited, and so nervous at the same time. She asked me not to tell anybody—not for a few days, anyway—after that it didn’t matter, she said, ’cause they’d be safely away . . .” The smile that came through his memory was very gentle. “She put her arms around me there in the hall and asked me to wish her luck. And then she kissed me.” The smile stayed on his mouth. “I really liked Effie. I really did. I would have done anything for her. I don’t suppose she was what you’d call a pretty girl, but she was nice. Ah, she was so nice.” He was silent for a few moments as he thought back to the past; I was briefly aware of the chatter going on around us. Then he continued.

  “So . . . she went off, out into the rain. Carrying her tin box, and the sunshade my mother had given her at Christmas.” He gave a little laugh. “She had her sunshade up—trying to keep off the rain . . . Handyman would meet her with the horse and trap, she said, then they’d be off to Southampton . . .

  “She was missed later on, when my father and mother got up. They couldn’t imagine what had happened to her. Then when my mother found Effie’s things were gone as well they realised she’d left. My father asked, as a matter of course, whether I knew anything about it. I said no. But I was nervous, and he knew, and he was suspicious. He asked me again, but still I said no, I didn’t know anything about it. Afterwards I was glad I’d lied because later, when I went out with my father on the milk cart, I saw Effie still there, waiting at the side of the road, under a tree. Waiting for Handyman. She dodged back and hid when she saw us coming. My father didn’t see her. When we came back an hour or so later on she was gone; she’d met Handyman and they’d gone off . . . And that, I thought, was the end of it.”

  He took a drink from his glass, tapped the ash from his pipe, repacked it and lit it. “Oh, no,” he said, “that wasn’t the end, not by a long chalk. Three days later somebody, wondering why Handyman hadn’t turned up with a piece of work he’d promised, went round to see him. And of course, there was no Handyman there. Only Bronwen. And she was dead . . .” His voice grew quieter. “It was a terrible thing. Terrible. I felt so bad about it. But can you imagine how I felt when it came out that she’d actually died only a matter of hours before she was found? I knew, that if I’d told the truth when my father had asked me, that she could probably have been saved. If I’d told the truth somebody would have gone to see her and they would have found her. Maybe in time.”

  I looked at him, the old man who sat across from me, even now, after so many, many years still carrying around the weight of the guilt he had taken upon himself. “No,” I said. “No, it wasn’t your fault . . .”

  “Ah, well . . .” He sighed. “She might have been saved . . .”

  “Do you think Effie had anything to do with it—the killing of Mrs. Temple?”

  “No.”

  I was surprised by his positive tone.

  “Never,” he said. “She’d never have been a party to that. I’ll bet she didn’t know anything about it. No, that was purely Handyman’s business.” He lowered his eyes, gazing past me at nothing. “I couldn’t bear to think that she’d had anything to do with that part of it. Not Effie.” He paused, looked back to me. “You don’t think it’s likely, do you . . . ?”

  What did I know about it? “No,” I said. After a moment, watching as he puffed at his pipe, I asked, “Is there more?”

  “Not much . . . Not really. I didn’t keep my secret much longer. A woman in the village—the butcher’s wife—was asking me questions about Effie, and so stupid and unthinking I mentioned America. I can see her face now—that flash of—knowing; you know what I mean. And then she asked me what you asked me: How did I know where they’d gone?”

  “You didn’t tell her . . .”

  “Oh, no, of course not. I think I just—just stood there—saying nothing. I don’t remember what I said . . . But I didn’t tell her. I wouldn’t have dared—for being afraid of what might happen, I mean.” He shook his head, sighed. “I might as well have told her, though. She guessed something, and enough—and it got back to my parents that I knew more about it than I’d let on. I didn’t know they knew, though. Not until I went one day to take my father his dinner where he was working in the Big Field. Well, he’d obviously just heard about it. I’ll never forget that day. I was going along a footpath leading to a stile. As I got close to it he saw me and came across the field towards me. I was half-way over the stile when he got to me. I remember the—serious—look on his face, and I could tell at once that something was up. I smiled at him. I held out the basket with his dinner in it but he didn’t take it. Just looked at me. And then he said he wanted to know the truth. That was my turn to say nothing then. He asked me again. He knew, he said, that I’d lied to him, that I knew more than I’d told him. So”—he shrugged—“I told him. I had to. You couldn’t stand up to a man like him, and anyway, I was only about ten or so. I told him everything. About the messages I’d carried between Effie and Handyman, and about Effie leaving that morning of the storm. And he was so angry. When I’d finished I just—waited—not looking at him; I daren’t. I remember I was sitting astride the top bar of the stile. And then—he hit me.”

  He smiled at me. I won’t forget that smile.

  “Oh, Lord, yes,” he said, with a little shake of his head, “he hit me, all right. Twice. In the face. The first time really rocked me, but I dropped the basket and held on. Anyway, I had one leg behind the second rung so that helped me. I didn’t fall. I did the second time, though. He hit me again and I went over that time for sure. Oh, yes, I went. And so did my leg. In two places.”

  I sucked in my breath at the picture his narrative conjured up. He went on:

  “My memory after that is of coming to and finding myself in my father’s arms as he carried me home. And looking up into his face and seeing how he was.” He paused. “I’d never seen him cry before.”

  I was still thinking about Mr. Pitkin, his sad story and his guilt as I walked back to the cottage. I let myself in at the front gate and, as I turned, saw Jean Timpson come round the side of the house.

  We stopped, facing each other.

  She had been crying, I could see. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and even now I saw her chin quiver and her eyes fill with tears. I attempted a weak smile, but it didn’t come off; her face didn’t change. Voice soft, breaking, she said:

  “. . . Why . . . ?”

  I shrugged, at a loss. “I’m sorry, Jean, really I am. But I did explain in my letter . . .”

  “I don’t understand . . . It was all right before. Why not now?”

  “I told you.” I must be calm, businesslike, show her there was no need to take it personally, to get upset. “She­lagh’s here now, and we can manage on our own. It’s different now that she’s here. We just don’t need any help.”

  She looked at the ground, shuffled a pebble aside with her shoe. The tears spilled and ran down.

  “Mr. Warwick . . . I—I likes to come and help. I—enjoy it.” Her glance flicked up to my face, then across to my shoulder. “You don’t have to pay me if it’s the money that’s a problem. I just likes—coming here.”

  I felt desperate to get away, desperate for her to be gone so that I wouldn’t have to look at that misery in her face. I thought of the sob story her father had given, and felt pity rearing its head. But I couldn’t give in to it. I had to be realistic; I had to think of the razor blades, the glass. I wouldn’t allow myself to be moved by her sadness.

  And how, I asked myself, could she come around beseeching, begging like this, after what had happened? Or could it be that she really wasn’t aware of what she had done, or of the possible result
of her actions?

  “It’s not the money,” I said, shaking my head. “I explained—we just don’t need any help.”

  “You do,” she said. “You do.”

  And my embarrassment became tinged with impatience, irritation. “I’m sorry,” my voice sounded distinctly cooler, “but I’ve told you, and I think I’m best aware of what we need . . . And I really don’t see much point in going into all this.”

  Her crying burst out with renewed strength. She reached into her pocket and, drawing out the money I had left in the envelope, thrust the notes towards me.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “I can’t take it.”

  “Yes, you must.” And then: “Please . . .”

  “No. No. You weren’t satisfied with what I was doing so I don’t think you should pay me.”

  “I can’t possibly take it back.” I shook my head. “I can’t. And we were satisfied with what you did for us. The money is yours. You earned it. And anyway, part of it is only what you spent on us at the shops.”

  “Well . . . take some of it back.”

  “It’s yours. How can I?”

  She looked at me for a second longer, saw that I was determined, and then slowly stuffed the notes back into her pocket. I thought, hoped, that that would be the end of it, but no. She turned her head, looking dully off into the distance.

  “Is it quite certain?” she asked flatly.

  “. . . Certain?”

  “That you don’t want me round no more . . .”

  “Please—Jean—don’t make it more difficult. You mustn’t take all this personally. You’re building the whole thing into something out of all proportion. Now you go on back home. Who knows, when She­lagh and I return here to live we might decide at some time that we do need a little assistance. And if so we’ll be in touch.” Afraid of going too far, of handing out false hopes, I added, “We might . . .”

  “That means you won’t.”