Chain Reaction

by Gillian White

  A tiny rehearsal of the plan yet to come.

  So, with enormous effort, she sets about gathering all her favourite personal belongings around her—the ornaments, the pictures, the photographs, the diaries, the books—everything which makes her separate from any other soul on this earth. She scuffles her way round like some small predatory animal, touching everything, endeavouring to choose. A vase with cats on which William gave her, her two special candle-holders, the embroidered pillow cases with their initials on, her favourite casserole dish, the gravy boat from the dinner service, the felt dressing gown with the hood, the wooden horse Frankie had when she was small, her Confirmation prayerbook, the bits of jewellery… what a mess she is making! What a terrible mess—like a jackdaw’s nest. She doesn’t take the pills they give her at Greylands. She pretends to, then pours them away when they’re not looking. If she took those she’d have no energy at all; certainly she could never do this. She gathers her favourite bits and pieces round her on the floor and sits within the ring of possessions as if they are talismen against the devils without. And then, hardly able to see without her glasses, she starts to compose her letter.

  Your Majesty, she starts in large, spidery writing covering half the first page on the pad. She must try to sound as pathetic as she can. She uses one of the set of pens Angus gave her last Christmas, all colours and thicknesses. She considers a red one most appropriate, red for royalty, red for emergency, red for instant attention.

  Perhaps she should put her best dress on.

  She has never tried writing to anyone famous before.

  Please help me, your humble subject, she writes with cramped fingers and shaking hands; it’s harder when you’re on the floor with nothing decent to press on. I am a woman of seventy-five, living alone since my husband died nearly three years ago. I tried very hard to pick up the pieces of my life after the tragedy of William’s death and I know that so many people of my age are suffering just like me. I am not alone. Nor am I very brave. But now I find that not only am I a widow, but homeless, too, as my little flat, my refuge, is being taken away from me to pay my fees in a residential home where they are trying to put me against my will. Please don’t think I am being mean and difficult, my husband fought in the war, but I realise that after a long and useful life I have now become a burden on my fellows. All I ask is that I be allowed to remain in my humble home for the few years I have left, with my things around me, comforting me. I can manage, I know I can.

  She has never written such a passionate letter. What is happening to me now is so very frightening. I am all alone in the world. I knew that I could appeal to you and that you would understand. Yours most respectfully, Irene Peacock. Mrs.

  ‘Come on in,’ she calls, when she hears Miss Benson’s expectant ring.

  Irene remains seated there on the floor, head bowed, circled by her possessions and the image is so bleakly despairing, so intensely painful that poor Miss Benson rushes over.

  ‘Oh, my dear Mrs Peacock! Oh, my dear. Have you fallen?’

  Irene clutches her little bits to her. ‘No, I’m just looking at everything, gathering my old friends around me one last time.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t—’

  ‘After this I will never see them again.’

  ‘Don’t say that…’

  ‘Why not? It’s true. I have to accept it.’

  ‘You’ve been writing…?’

  ‘To the Queen.’

  ‘To the Queen?’

  ‘I know that she will understand.’

  Miss Benson glances quickly down at the letter. ‘No one will understand this, Mrs Peacock. I’m afraid it is barely legible.’

  Irene’s voice is no more than a whisper. ‘I can only do my best.’

  ‘Here, let me help you…’

  ‘No, no, I don’t want you to involve yourself. I don’t want to impose on you, make things embarrassing for you…’

  ‘Mrs Peacock,’ and Miss Benson bends and attempts to help her up. ‘Do try and push up, let’s at least get you up on the sofa. And if I want to help you write your letters that is no concern of anyone else’s.’

  ‘Oh, would you help me? I feel so alone!’

  It could be her own mother speaking, God rest her soul. Miss Benson is touched in a very raw place. ‘Of course I will help you. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t,’ says Miss Benson, revealing that stubborn streak, her pity aroused to the full. ‘Not after seeing you so unhappy. But I have to say I don’t hold out much hope. The Queen will pass this on to the local MP to deal with. I doubt she ever becomes directly involved herself. If she did, she’d never have time to turn round.’

  Irene lifts a tired head and gives a courageous smile. This is all going just as she’d hoped. ‘But I’d feel at least I had tried.’

  T know, I know,’ says Miss Benson, laying a soothing hand on her arm and nodding her head in approval. ‘And I will do all I can to help you.’

  ‘Will you give me a copy for me to keep?’

  This is merely the start of Irene Peacock’s clawing for independence. It is much too early to reveal the whole plan. Poor Miss Benson has no idea of the lengths that will be required of her. But one thing will soon become manifest out of all this mess…

  Irene Peacock might well be dotty, but she’s not dead yet.

  SEVENTEEN

  Joyvern, 11, The Blagdons, Milton, Devon

  PICTURE IT. IMAGINE HOW you would feel if you worked here. This arcade, once so full of promise, opened with pomp and ceremony by the Lord Mayor himself, is empty but for a group of kids obviously truanting from school. They lurk with their cigarettes beside the coffee machine, scattering stubs on the floor with the streaked marble effect.

  Vernon keeps his shop door open, believing that by doing this, would-be customers are more likely to perceive it as consumer-friendly and enter. But who but the manically-depressed would be fool enough to cross this threshold? You can see by looking in the window that there’s nothing there you would want to buy. You can see it is mostly tat, and electronic tat at that—all plastics and blacks, novelty telephones and travel hairdryers, surely nothing less tempting. How lucky are those, thinks Vernon, whose leases have already run out and who have hurriedly packed up and gone leaving behind them cavernous retail spaces scattered with packaging and litter. If only he could do the same. But he’s worked it out, as long as the sale of the house goes through they can pay off what is left on the lease, cancel their debts and buy the flat at Albany Buildings.

  Just.

  It is as tight as that.

  And that’s what Vernon’s got to hang onto.

  His nearest neighbour, Mrs Toolie, who runs the gift shop four doors along, is readying herself to abandon ship next week. She has moved most of the junk she had left by going to car-boot sales, as she told him, ‘Better get a few pence than nothing at all.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Vernon agreed. But who’s going to rifle through light bulbs, leads, plugs, a few cheap Walkmans and Hoover parts in some muddy field in the rain?

  After she’s gone that will leave him and the wallpaper shop, the clairvoyant, Madam Dulcie, who is hardly ever here anyway, and the card shop whose wares have gone damp and floppy from being displayed for so long. Hardly the sort of attractive package to attract the punters his way. He does not envy those hopeful few who took on premises in the new arcade. He suspects it won’t be long before his own fate overtakes them. Some developer will build or convert somewhere new and better and more glittering, and so the vicious circle will continue.

  Most of the time Vernon spends sorting out his papers, already sorted a hundred times, composing letters to hold off the bailiffs, and cleaning and dusting his listless-looking stock. Any repair jobs that come his way he undertakes of an evening. He turns nothing down, but still these repair deals that he made when his hopes were high cost him more than he earns. He takes sandwiches to eat at lunchtime but dare not leave and close the shop even for a half-hour in case a customer should come i
n.

  So he is trapped; his failure has formed bars around him like the caged bird who failed to get away. His brain is working, always working, round and round the old questions: how much would they need to come out clear, how much would they make on the house, how much of the bits and pieces of stock will he be able to off-load at the end? He is making himself ill with worry, his doctor tells him that every time he goes for a prescription for more of his blood-pressure pills. And he must lose weight or he’ll die. Until the house sold this week, despair blocked his every route of escape but now there is hope at last. Is it possible that all might be well in only a matter of months? These dark times put behind him and even, one day, forgotten? Sometimes when he thinks about this his hands, normally so steady, actually begin to shake at the prospect of this tiny glow on the horizon. He tries to dismiss it from his mind, fearing that too much hope might put out the precarious flame.

  Joy confided in him last night but he was not in the mood to be big-hearted. ‘I know you’ll laugh and tell me I’m hopeless, but I have let it drop to that awful Adele Mason that we are merely renting the Swallowbridge flat while we do up that cottage we saw,’ she said, going on to explain with her usual maddening logic. Vernon sat down in his chair heavily and tried to hide behind the paper. ‘I did it for the children’s sake… no need to look at me like that! The idea just slipped out and by then it was too late to retreat.’

  Vernon sighed. Once he might have laughed and sympathised with his wife’s little idiosyncrasies, like always taking five years off her age. After all, they make her what she is. ‘I am not looking at you, Joy. I am trying to read the paper.’

  ‘She believed me, of course.’ She looked at him with exaggerated straightness so as to give some sincerity to her ludicrous words.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So I would be grateful if you could try to remember to keep to that little white lie whenever you happen to be out there putting the world to rights with Bob.’

  She must invent a drama. She must never allow another soul to see her as she really is; even old and well-worn clothes might give some sense of herself away. She cannot abide decay or disintegration. Everything has to be new, artificial and strained and quite without flaw. Better still if everything and everyone was kept under cellophane wrapping. Vernon seems to be seeing much further into his wife since their downfall, and into himself too, no longer contented with the superficial stuff that oils so many old relationships. He has never forced her into giving away what she couldn’t. But this time he was saddened by the glimpse of the real Joy, as disappointed, and probably as wistful as he. When she was young she had loved her mother, but as she grew up she had developed selfishness, and selfishness destroys the power to love. Oh, it’s his fault, Vernon knows that. No monster is created without somebody sustaining the embryo.

  It has always been so easy to give way to Joy, especially when your temperament is as easy-going as Vernon’s. Theatrical and manipulative, it has always seemed natural to try not to ‘burden her’ and he’d wanted her to feel cherished. But there are so many fraught and important issues firing his brain at the moment that it seemed quite bizarre to Vernon that his wife should still be worrying over such insignificant matters as image.

  ‘Will you do that for me, Vernon? Will you remember?’

  Vernon groaned; he rattled the paper. She has so much more pride than he. ‘if it’s important to you, Joy, I will certainly try.’ But her present suffering is pitiable. He can’t help but see it as an exasperating betrayal.

  Why is she so afraid of somebody finding out?

  ‘Because they’ll all enjoy seeing our downfall.’

  Bemused, Vernon argued, ‘Why would they? We wouldn’t enjoy seeing theirs!’ The moment he’d spoken he’d known he was wrong. She would enjoy it; she would derive some sense of achievement to see somebody else come to grief. Somehow she would feel that she had succeeded in keeping everything clean and sweet while they themselves had failed. That’s why she is always so interested in gossip, in rumour, in fanning the flames of scandal. In finding comfort from the disasters of others.

  ‘Well, I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s all so depressing. Vernon, we must keep them all from figuring it out. It’s no good, I can’t begin to be as brave as you.’

  Brave? Vernon’s not brave, just a sticker. But last night he couldn’t be bothered to argue with her. If she wanted him to support her lie then he would, he supposed—if he remembered. For the sake of peace and quiet if nothing else. But she’ll be hoist by her own petard in the end. The truth will come out and then she will look a greater fool than she’s ever looked before.

  It is after lunch when Norman Mycroft phones from the bank. Vernon has just finished his cheese and tomato sandwiches. Since the start of this financial nightmare he has never heard the phone ring without a shot of trepidation, ever prepared to deal with an angry voice, a supplier demanding payment. The awful thing is that Norman Mycroft’s voice is never angry, it is always menacingly balanced.

  ‘Mr Marsh?’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Mycroft. Good afternoon.’ But inside he winces. This phone call alone will take him over his extended overdraft limit.

  ‘I am slightly concerned about a number of withdrawals made on the Tuesday of this week, passed on to me by my colleague, Miss Grear, withdrawals pertaining to your credit card. As you no doubt remember, last time we met we agreed that those facilities were no longer available to you.’

  What’s this? He can hardly believe it. Vernon gives his immediate reaction. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ says Mr Mycroft, slyly affable as he prepares to unload his bombshell, ‘and so I made enquiries this end and double-checked, and I am afraid there is no mistake. Therefore I would be grateful, Mr Marsh, if you could make an appointment at my office as soon as possible, as this matter is now one of some urgency. Might I suggest tomorrow morning at ten?’

  Is there no pity, no imagination anywhere?

  Certainly not at the bank.

  A moment of still horror. It is true when they say your heart sinks, but it is not Vernon’s alone that now sinks into his bowels, but his throat, his lungs, his gizzard, the very hair on top of his head until he is nothing but a melted mass of glutinous terror standing there in his sad little shop.

  It takes all his courage to make the necessary enquiry. ‘Might I ask how much these recent withdrawals amount to?’

  There is a pause while Mr Mycroft pretends not to know, draws out the agony as he peruses his heartless computer screen and lies back in his swivel chair, no doubt rubbing his managerial hands. ‘The withdrawals to which I refer amount to one thousand six hundred and eighty-nine pounds.’

  Vernon’s face goes grey. ‘But that cannot be right.’

  The voice on the phone grates with a mild irritation. He has more to do in his busy day than waste time with wastrels and doubters. ‘I assure you it is, Mr Marsh. We have the counterfoils to prove it.’

  ‘To whom were these payments made?’

  ‘I can’t go into the details right now—I have a customer waiting, I’m afraid. But I thought I should let you know so that we can meet and discuss this soonest.’

  Vernon lets the last heavy breath hiss out of his body. There is nothing to add but, ‘Thank you, Mr Mycroft.’

  ‘Right, I will see you tomorrow. Good afternoon, Mr Marsh.’

  The phone goes down of its own accord, Vernon is too shocked to take any such positive action. If it’s not a mistake then it has to be Joy. Joy, who is as well aware of the circumstances as he, who is in this trouble up to her neck just as he is, who is even more concerned about a reasonable future than he is. But she wouldn’t! It is quite unimaginable that Joy, his wife of twenty-three years, would go out deliberately and spend money on God knows what when she knows full well what the consequences will be. God, he didn’t bother to tell her that their Access card could no longer be used. He didn’t wan
t to worry her further and he never dreamed she would go out and attempt to use it, not at this precarious stage.

  Vernon remembers… She was out on Tuesday when he got home. He had taken the opportunity to sort out some more bills, write a few more letters while she was absent because he knows how much the very sight of such awkward correspondence upsets her. She commented on it in so many words, when she got in, he remembers. She had said she was cheesed off with it all, and he had told her that he was, too.

  Had he asked her where she had been?

  No, he imagined she’d been over the road chewing the cud with Adele or that other so-called friend of hers, Bob’s wife Angela. Having a companionable sherry or two with the neighbours, the very people she’d come back and vilify for hours on end. If Vernon ever asked why she bothered with people she so disliked, people who were so obviously inferior, she would answer, ‘Who else is there around here to talk to? Since I gave up my job to work at home I am hardly the centre of a social whirl. I can’t afford to choose any more, Vernon. I have to take what’s on offer.’

  Vernon sits down, feeling sick. He is hardly thinking, mostly staring. His head shakes from side to side as he holds back the tears. His eyes are wide with despair. He is dumb, empty and exhausted, for the most wasting emotion of all is fear. Joy! But why? Perhaps he should have shown more enthusiasm when she took such an interest in Hacienda, that ruined cottage. Perhaps they should have talked about it more. Vernon should have taken the proper time to explain just how much money it would require to make the place habitable, let alone bring up to the sort of standard demanded by Joy… gingham curtains fluttering at the windows, patchwork quilts on the pine beds, polished wooden floors covered with tasteful rugs, laundry room, en-suite bathroom, blue jugs filled with flowers and cushions scattered on the window seats… Hopeless to try and explain to her that the people who dwelt in such rustic cottages never lived like that, that her concept was as much of a dream as the very idea that the Marshes might be able to afford Hacienda at all.