Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Hugh. The bloody pantomime meeting dragged on forever, all arguing about what it should be this year. In the end they had to agree on something – we’re two weeks late starting rehearsals as it is. Then I had to feed the dogs when I got home. I’d just finished doing that when the phone went. Some woman I knew a hundred years ago, phoning for a chat. Couldn’t get rid of her.’

  He hung the Outback coat on the hall stand. ‘The usual?’

  She rubbed her hands together. ‘Rather!’

  He led her into the sitting room, which, naturally, she could have found blindfolded. She scooped up Thursday and deposited him at the other end of the sofa, taking his place close to the log fire. It was a scene that the Colonel had witnessed many times before. In order to save face, the old cat feigned sleep, legs dangling, but the slits of his eyes glinted and gleamed among the black and tan fur. Naomi was not a cat person, as Thursday was well aware. She had two Jack Russell terriers to prove it – not that they had ever been unwise enough to test the sharpness of his claws.

  The Colonel poured three fingers of whisky into Naomi’s glass and added a splash of water. No ice, which she considered a waste of space. His own measure was the same but without the water. He sat down in his chair and raised his glass to her.

  ‘Good health, Naomi.’

  She lifted hers, gripped firmly in her large, square hand. ‘Same to you, Hugh.’

  ‘So, what’s this year’s pantomime to be?’

  ‘It’s not a proper panto at all. They’ve decided to adapt The Snow Queen. The Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.’

  ‘I can’t say that I know it.’

  ‘It’s about a wicked Snow Queen with a heart of ice. Some evil sorcerer has created a magic mirror that reflects everything as ugly and mean. The mirror breaks into trillions of splinters which fly around the world and one of them gets into a little boy’s eye and another into his heart so that he sees things as they are in the mirror. When the Snow Queen happens to come by on her sleigh, the boy falls under her spell and she takes him off to her ice palace in the frozen north. In the end, he gets rescued against all the odds by his brave and faithful girlfriend who’s helped by a raven, a reindeer and two weird old women. I’ve left quite a bit out but I think that’s the general idea.’

  ‘Not very merry for Christmas.’

  ‘The idea is that they’ll simplify it for the younger kids. Lionel Peters is writing a script.’

  ‘Lionel Peters?’

  ‘You know. Our tame Local Author. He does articles for the village mag and he once had a book published. I’ve no idea what it was about. Marjorie Cuthbertson’s going to direct now Patrick’s gone off to London. I warn you, she’ll be on the warpath for people to muck in – extras, scene shifters, working the spotlights … all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Mrs Bentley has already tried, and failed, to persuade me to join the Players.’

  ‘Yes, so you told me. But as I told you, Hugh, Flora Bentley and Marjorie Cuthbertson are two very different people. Besides, you don’t have to join officially. You’d just be lending a helping hand. Doing your bit.’

  ‘Will you have a part?’

  ‘Lord, no. I’m hopeless at acting. I just make myself generally useful. Last year I was prompter. Jolly hard work. Everyone always forgets their lines. But it’s all rather good fun. Community spirit and all that. We’re lucky the village hall has a proper stage and curtains and that room off the back for a dressing room.’

  He was familiar with the cramped stage and the jerky progress to and fro of the faded red velvet curtains, not to mention the dangerously rickety steps leading up from the hall.

  ‘What about costumes?’

  ‘We hire them from a company for the principals. Otherwise, people make their own or scavenge around. The Snow Queen will need something extra special, I suppose – lots of silver and glitter. Thora Jay’s going to do the principals’ make-up again, so we don’t need to worry about that.’

  The name was unfamiliar to him. ‘Have I met her?’

  ‘If you have, you’ve probably forgotten. She used to work as a professional make-up artist and now she’s an OAP in Frog End, like us. Widowed, too. She can make almost anyone look good. The odd thing is she never wears any make-up herself. Fades into the background. You really wouldn’t notice her.’

  Nobody could not notice Naomi, the Colonel thought, smiling to himself. Eccentric clothes, baying laugh, larger than life. You could neither miss her, nor forget her.

  ‘How do you manage the scenery?’

  ‘It’s all made and painted in the village. It’s surprising how talented some people are. You didn’t see Puss in Boots last year, did you?’

  ‘My daughter, Alison, was staying.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. You’ll have to come this year.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Hugh. You’ll try to get out of it again, but if Marjorie Cuthbertson has anything to do with it you’ll find yourself roped in somehow.’

  ‘Couldn’t I just be in the audience?’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. I’d go for scene-shifting if I were you, unless you want to find yourself playing a dastardly robber.’

  ‘I’ll remember that advice.’ He went to put another log on the fire. ‘I take it your son and his family won’t be over from Australia this Christmas?’

  ‘No, thank God! It was a nightmare last year. The cottage is too small and the kids are too noisy. And my daughter-in-law never stops complaining about our weather. They’re going to come next summer and go off and look at castles and all the old things we’ve got that the Aussies haven’t. That’ll keep ’em busy.’

  ‘Let me know if I can help. Maybe I could organize a trip to Bovington Tank Museum?’

  ‘Good idea. You took your grandson there, didn’t you?’

  The trip to the museum with Eric had been a big success.

  His five-year-old grandson had come to stay at Pond Cottage when his daughter-in-law, Susan, had gone into hospital with a threatened miscarriage. The Colonel had found the boy very spoiled and difficult to warm to, until they had gone together to see the tanks. They had toured the Challengers and the Shermans, the Matildas and the Panzers and the Crusaders, and the Colonel had given a full account of each: number of crew, armaments, capacity and all the interesting – and sometimes gory – details. They had sat in a replica World War One trench and a World War Two shelter, had both had a go at the rifle range and blown away German tanks with the PIAT gun. The visit had ended with lunch at the museum restaurant where Eric had eaten fish and chips with big dollops of tomato ketchup, drunk two sugary Fantas and finished with a double chocolate ice cream – all things strictly forbidden by Susan. A male bond of shared secrecy had been forged between them.

  He said, ‘My daughter-in-law wants me to spend Christmas with them in Norfolk.’

  ‘Oh dear! Are you going?’

  ‘I ought to. I’ve only visited once since they moved there.’

  He had prevaricated inexcusably when Susan had phoned to issue the Christmas invitation but memories of his previous visit were still strong. The bleakly lit house, the depressing furnishings, the relentlessly nutritious diet, the lack of whisky, or even wine, the absence of a real log fire … and at Christmas.

  ‘Eric and Edith will be ever so upset if you don’t come, Father,’ Susan had said.

  It was always Father, never Hugh as he would have much preferred to be called. Eric might be a bit disappointed by his absence, perhaps, but he doubted that his six-month-old granddaughter would mind at all.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Susan, I was wondering if you might be able to come here?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we could do that, Father. I’d have to bring the turkey and all the trimmings in the car with us.’ She’d sounded shocked at the idea.

  ‘No need for that. I can cook quite reasonably now. I could do everything here.’

  ‘Eric can’t eat lots
of things – he’s quite allergic, you know, and we have to be very careful. He had to go to be tested at the hospital after he got a bad reaction to nuts. His throat swelled up and he couldn’t breathe properly. It was awful. We can’t ever have shop Christmas pudding or mince pies. They might both have nuts in.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. We’ll have something else, then. Whatever is safe.’

  ‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t do at all, Father. Eric’s used to our Christmases. I always do everything just as he likes. It’s very important with children, you know.’

  He did know, having been one himself, long go, and had two of his own. It was true that family customs and traditions meant a lot.

  ‘I could take him to the Tank Museum again. He liked that.’

  ‘Christmas is supposed to be about Peace on Earth, not War and Weapons.’

  She had wound up the unsatisfactory conversation by telling him about yet another desirable bungalow that had come up for sale nearby.

  ‘It’s a very good price, Father. Quite a bargain and it would suit you perfectly. Easy to look after and just a very small garden that would be no trouble. You could view it when you come for Christmas.’

  Her determination to have him living down the road so that he could be kept under even closer surveillance than with the Frog End KGB was undiminished. He had once spoken frankly on the subject, risking offence, but all to no avail.

  He said to Naomi now, ‘I asked them to come here instead, but I don’t think that’s going to work.’

  ‘Tricky things, families. Especially at Christmas.’

  He had no need, at least, to worry about Alison. She had been invited to go skiing in Zermatt with friends. Much as he would have enjoyed her company at the cottage, it would be a great deal more fun for her in Switzerland.

  ‘What will you do, Naomi?’

  ‘The same as I usually do. Spend it on my own with the dogs. It doesn’t worry me. It’s just another day.’

  That was where Naomi had the advantage of him, he thought. Christmases past and present or those still to come meant nothing particular to her, whereas he had found them unbearably sad since Laura’s death twelve years ago. The carols, the cards and the tree all conspired against him. There was no escape from bittersweet memories. Or from the loneliness.

  ‘I think I’ll have to go quietly.’

  ‘Well, you’ll still be here for The Snow Queen. They’re doing three performances during the week before Christmas.’

  There would be no getting out of it, he realized. He changed the subject adroitly on to one close to Naomi’s heart.

  ‘Those hellebores Ruth gave me last year are starting to flower already. I noticed them this morning.’

  The daughter of Lady Swynford of Frog End Manor who had been murdered at the summer fête last year, Ruth had inherited the big house on her mother’s death and, rather than selling it to developers, she had started a business growing plants for sale at the Manor. Naomi had already given two gardening talks there which had been a great success and other speakers were being roped in as well. When Ruth had finally had the sense to marry the local GP, Tom Harvey – a thoroughly good man if ever there was one – the Colonel had been extremely touched to have been asked to give Ruth away at the wedding, standing in for her late father.

  He had planted the hellebores outside the kitchen where he could observe them from the window. The white buds he had just spotted would unfurl themselves slowly and bashfully and he would have to lift their heads in order to admire the delicate purple colour and greenish-yellow centre inside.

  Naomi said, ‘Cut off any old leaves in the spring, now they’re established. It shows off the flowers better and it will help ward off any leaf spot. And give them a top dressing of general fertilizer. I’d plant some more if I were you, Hugh. Hellebores are excellent creatures and very easy. They tend to prefer semi-shade and damp soil and some shelter from cold winds; other than that they’re not fussy. I’ve got some December Dawn I can let you have in the early spring. It’s rather a nice soft pink.’

  Not only had she been generous with her time and advice on transforming his jungle but also in donating all kinds of seeds and cuttings and clumps from her own enviably beautiful garden.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Naomi.’

  ‘Not really. I could use the space. Those Three Ships I gave you will be flowering before Christmas with any luck.’

  She had given him an expertly divided clump of snowdrops – ‘in the green’ as she’d told him, using gardeners’ speak. ‘Much better than those dry, dusty old bulbs people buy.’ He had been guilty of doing exactly that from a catalogue the previous year, choosing snowdrops with nice names and nice looks in the pictures: Merlin, Wendy’s Gold, Magnet, Ophelia and Augustus, as well as the common wild kind. He had planted Naomi’s Three Ships in a place of honour round the lilac tree. She hadn’t laboured the point, but he had discovered later that it was a rather rare creature and of particular beauty. Whatever their names or pedigree, snowdrops were something to look forward to – the earliest and bravest of the brave spring bulbs, defying the winter gloom. The aconites would be waiting in the wings, together with the crocuses – soon to be followed by the daffodils that he had planted randomly in the long grass at the far end of the garden, attempting to ape Naomi’s casual style.

  ‘I’ll take a look tomorrow and see if there’s any sign of them yet.’

  ‘I’ll be able to let you have some of my winter irises, if you like, after they’ve finished.’

  He had secretly coveted the small, lilac-coloured flowers growing serenely along Naomi’s garden wall. ‘Won’t they mind?’

  ‘Not if I just put a spade through one end. No need to disturb the rest. If I fill in the hole, they won’t even notice. Find it a nice, sheltered spot, chuck ’em a bit of water and a feed and then nothing. They’ll thrive on neglect and go on flowering for years. Did you decide what to do about the delphiniums?’

  ‘Give them a chance, like you said.’

  ‘Good thinking. They might surprise you. Did I tell you that Ruth has asked me to give another talk at the Manor in February?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ He’d missed her last one because she had forgotten to mention it. ‘I’d like to come. What’s the subject?’

  ‘A Practical Introduction to Seed-Sowing. It lasts for two hours and I’m supposed to give a demo of how to sow, prick out seedlings and pot on young plants. Four pounds a ticket. Not sure people will want to pay that much.’

  ‘I’m very sure that they will.’ Naomi’s previous two talks had been sell-outs, not surprisingly. She knew what she was saying and she said it well. Everyone could hear every word.

  ‘Hope you’re right.’ She took a swig from her glass. ‘Of course, you could start some seeds off in that shed of yours as soon as the weather warms up, Hugh. If you took down the sacking over the windows they’d get enough light.’

  He had no intention of doing any such thing. The sacking was there precisely so that Naomi couldn’t peer in, or anyone else for that matter. The shed was his private retreat. A bolthole from the world. A sacred sanctuary. A refuge from the likes of Mrs Bentley, doyenne of the summer fête cake stall, who had called at Pond Cottage with the express, though failed, purpose of recruiting him to the Frog End Players. It also provided a place where the lawn mower, garden equipment and a variety of other useful tools and implements could be kept in tidy order, as well as a large quantity of nails, screws, nuts and bolts which he had sorted into glass jars, ranged satisfyingly along a shelf. And he had bought himself a proper workbench with a useful compartment and a vice at one end. It was not, and never would be, a greenhouse.

  He said firmly, ‘There wouldn’t be room.’

  ‘Are you still doing those models, then?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  He had made several of them from shop-bought kits, beginning with a World War Two Matilda tank which Naomi had managed to glimpse through the window in
progress on his workbench. He had since moved on to a Type V11 German U-Boat, a Royal Navy battleship, a Lancaster bomber and a Hurricane fighter. The Lancaster and the Hurricane were suspended on a fishing line from the shed roof – the bomber climbing, the fighter diving.

  After the tank incident, he had successfully prevented Naomi from seeing inside the shed at all by means of the sacking curtains and by locking the door. Lately, though, he had spent very little time in there himself. The days were too cold and too dark. He had plans to run an electricity cable out for lighting and to buy some form of heater – plans that would be kept to himself, like the plans he had to try his hand at some proper woodworking. Naomi, he well knew, did not understand his shed any more than she had understood the shed belonging to her ex and late husband, Cedric, and where he had, apparently, spent a considerable amount of time. Naomi maintained that he had spent it doing nothing but, in the Colonel’s view, a man was entitled to do nothing or something in his own shed, just as he pleased. That was the whole point of it.

  She said, ‘Then you’ll have plenty of room to spare for something useful.’

  Naomi’s dilapidated lean-to greenhouse was always full of useful things and her cottage windowsills were invariably crowded with an assortment of disposable containers and old yoghurt pots where she sowed seeds with her very green fingers.

  ‘My shed is not up for discussion, Naomi.’

  She shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I’ll never understand you men and your sheds.’

  He said, as he had said to her before, ‘You don’t need to. The other half?’

  She drained her glass. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’