Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  The Major was in his usual place at the bar, holding forth to anyone who would listen about the state of the country which was, as usual, going to the dogs.

  ‘They let all these damned foreigners in. Can’t speak a word of English, breed like rabbits, given free housing, handouts and all the rest of it and never a word of thanks. They ought to send them back where they came from.’

  They slid past unnoticed.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you, Dad,’ Alison said when they were settled at a table. ‘I’ve met someone.’

  ‘Oh? That sounds very interesting.’

  ‘He’s rather special, actually. Twelve years older than me. Something pretty successful in the City. The only snag is that he’s married.’

  ‘That is quite a snag.’

  ‘He and his wife have been growing apart for years – each doing their own thing, if you follow me.’

  ‘I think I do. Are there any children?’

  ‘One daughter. She’s twenty-two. Flown the nest into her own flat, complete with partner.’

  That unsatisfactory word again.

  He said, ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. I like him a lot. We speak the same language. Enjoy the same sort of things. Get on well together. It might work. We’ll see. I haven’t known him that long.’

  ‘Does he still live with his wife?’

  ‘No, he’s moved out into a rather nice penthouse right on the river. The north side. Lady Bracknell would approve no end. He wants me to move in there too.’

  ‘How about the shirts that you’ve always sworn you’ll never iron?’

  ‘He gets them done by a laundry.’

  ‘Will you move in?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. It would be quite a step. I’m rather used to being on my own.’

  She had the advantage of him, he realized. It was something he had yet to grow used to.

  ‘Well, keep me posted, won’t you?’

  ‘I promise.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I can see you don’t approve, Dad. It’s written all over your face.’

  It wasn’t what he and Laura had always hoped for her. Of course it wasn’t. Laura, he knew, had had high hopes of a white wedding, a handsome young bridegroom, of them living happily ever after together as husband and wife in the very old-fashioned way. No baggage or complications or partners. Alison hadn’t mentioned marriage and he doubted if that was in her mind, or that of the man in question. But at least she had found someone she liked a lot, who spoke the same language and enjoyed the same sort of things. It could be a lot better than nobody at all.

  ‘I don’t disapprove,’ he said. ‘I just don’t want you to be hurt or made unhappy.’

  ‘I won’t be. If things don’t work out I’ll just walk away.’

  But he knew it wouldn’t be that simple. It rarely was.

  They went to church on Sunday morning, as he usually did out of sheer habit. The new young vicar had recruited him some time ago as a sidesman. It involved simple jobs like putting out the candlesticks, giving out hymn books and so on. His turn came on the second Sunday of every other month, which was hardly arduous and difficult to refuse. Unfortunately, the vicar also thought that he had a good speaking voice – the sort, he’d said, that people would find easy to listen to – and he had also asked if he would read the lesson occasionally. This was rather a different matter since it meant him standing up and reading words aloud that he didn’t believe in. He had reasoned, though, that it was probably no more dishonest than singing hymns with words that he didn’t believe in either, automatically reciting prayers known by heart since childhood or responding, where required, with dutiful amens.

  He had read the instructions given in the Book of Common Prayer about lesson reading and they were clear and uncompromising. It must be read distinctly with an audible voice … he that readeth so standing and turning himself, as he may best be heard of all such as are present. This Sunday happened to be Advent Sunday, and it was his turn to read the second lesson, taken from the New Testament.

  They sat halfway down the nave at the end of one of the old pews that the same well-meaning vicar had planned to do away with to provide an open space for village activities. The public meeting held to discuss his controversial proposal had resulted in the total rejection of any such thing. Similarly, the idea of using a new, modern form of service and the congregation making kindly signs of peace to each other had been strangled at birth. The Colonel had not expressed any opinion. He himself had been a non-believer since his wife’s suffering and death but he could understand that the old rituals and words were a comfort to many people and why they fought to keep them.

  At the very last moment before the service began the Drydens arrived, rather as the late Lady Swynford of the Manor used to do. Joan Dryden was wearing her wolf coat and with a hat to match. Another wolf sacrificed, or at least, part of one. Heads swivelled as she made straight for the front pew, followed by her husband and another couple who must be the weekend guests she had mentioned, dressed in faultless country tweeds. The Colonel wondered if they ever went to church in London or whether it was all part of the Marie Antoinette game. It was no surprise that the teenage daughter was absent.

  They responded obediently to all the prayers, confessed their sins humbly on their knees, recited the Lord’s Prayer loudly – being the one that everyone knew, mumbled their way through Psalm 95, and sang the Advent hymn ‘Lo! He Comes With Clouds Descending’. The first lesson, taken from Isaiah, was read by a village worthy and soon it was the Colonel’s turn to read from Luke l, verses 5–20. He followed the prayer book instructions to the letter.

  ‘“There was in the days of Herod, the king of Judea, a certain priest name Zacharias …”’

  By verse eleven, he could tell that he’d got them hooked. They were all listening.

  ‘“And there appeared unto him an angel of the Lord standing on the right side of the altar of incense …”’

  Even the Major was paying attention.

  ‘“Fear not, Zacharias: for thy prayer is heard; and thy wife Elisabeth shall bear thee a son, and thou shalt call his name John … I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God; and am sent to speak unto thee these glad tidings.”’

  As he passed the front pew, returning to his seat, Joan Dryden mimed applause.

  Another hymn: ‘Thy kingdom come! On bended knee the passing ages pray.’ There was no need to look down at his hymn book – the Colonel knew all the words.

  He listened to the earnest young vicar delivering a long sermon on repentance and the forgiveness of sins that had the Major pulling out his pocket watch, shaking it and holding it to his ear.

  At the end of the service, Joan and her wolves barred their way out of the church door. He introduced Alison.

  ‘I insist that you join us at Hassels for a pre-lunch drink, Hugh. And I won’t take no for an answer.’

  He would have declined, whether she would take it or not, but he could tell that Alison was intrigued.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Joan.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘It isn’t kindness, Hugh. You’ll be doing me a favour. I’d forgotten how boring the Bournes can be. Don’t let me down, for heaven’s sake.’

  He watched her rejoin the boring friends.

  Alison said, ‘Who on earth was that, Dad?’

  ‘A resident celebrity. She’s married to Kenneth Dryden who’s something on TV and they’ve just bought a house here. She used to be Joan Lowe.’

  ‘I’ve heard of her, and him. He did rather good travel documentaries, didn’t he? And she was a supermodel, years ago. She still looks pretty good.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘I seem to remember they were both married to someone else and there was a huge scandal when they went off together. Of course, it was different in the old days.’

  It might be taken more lightly today, he thought, but the collateral damage was probably much the same.

  At Has
sels, the hall had been cleared of packing cases and the drawing room was transformed. He wondered how it had been achieved.

  Joan Dryden said, ‘I’ve found a marvellous woman in the village to help with things. An absolute treasure.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Do you like the wall colour?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I chose Ashes in the end. My tame painter rushed down from London especially to do it, bless him. What do you think of the curtains?’

  ‘Very beautiful.’

  ‘I bought them from an old friend of mine who deals in antique ones. Hideously expensive, of course, but they make most new curtains look cheap and nasty. I thought they rather suited the house.’

  ‘They do indeed.’

  ‘Kenny, tell Clarissa to come down and be sociable for once.’

  The daughter appeared, scowling. Far better to have left her upstairs, the Colonel thought. He remembered Joan’s remark: ‘Clarissa hates me and I can’t stand her either.’ A wretched situation, if it was really true.

  Kenneth Dryden said to him, aside, ‘Clarissa would be much happier in London but Joan and I are afraid of what she’d get up to there without us.’

  The Colonel went over to the girl to attempt a conversation but she answered him in sullen monosyllables. She was nice looking beneath the tangle of hair, though not in the same league as her mother. Perhaps that was the problem? Jealousy? Rivalry? On both sides? Were difficult children made or were they born like that? he wondered. There was no easy answer. After a moment, she muttered some excuse and left the room.

  Her father said to him, ‘I’m afraid she’s somewhat lacking in social graces.’

  Her mother intervened. ‘Somewhat, Kenny? Totally, you mean. Make her come back and apologise.’

  ‘There’s no point in that, Joan.’

  ‘So she gets away with it every time. Well, I apologise for her, Hugh. Clarissa is an embarrassing disgrace. You’re very lucky to have such a charming daughter of your own.’

  He knew that he was. Neither Alison nor Marcus had ever been any trouble or in any way difficult. His only worry, always shared by Laura, was for their children’s personal happiness. His son’s marriage had gone through a distinctly rocky patch when he’d lost his job, and the married man could mean heartbreak for Alison.

  He changed the subject. ‘Your sledge is coming along, Joan. Some way to go, but I hope you’ll be pleased with it when it’s finished.’

  ‘I’d like to see what I’m letting myself in for.’

  ‘Not just yet.’

  He had separated out the three leftover planks and sawn across their ends at an angle. Then he had nailed them to the underneath of the platform, one at each side and one in the middle, the angled ends protruding at the front to form runners. It was rudimentary, to say the least, and certainly not ready for the Snow Queen’s critical inspection.

  ‘How did you know I was still going to play the part, anyway, Hugh?’

  ‘News travels fast in Frog End.’

  ‘That old battleaxe came to see me about the rehearsals, you know. I told her that I can’t do Tuesdays because we’ll be in London and I couldn’t possibly do every Sunday. It’s out of the question. She climbed down after that. They seem rather keen to have me.’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’

  Later, on their way back to Pond Cottage, Alison said, ‘What was all that about a sledge, Dad?’

  ‘I’m making her one.’

  ‘What on earth for? I can’t see her going tobogganing.’

  ‘She’s playing the Snow Queen in the Frog End Players’ Christmas entertainment. The sledge is meant to be a magical sleigh, though it falls rather short. They usually do a pantomime but this year it’s the Hans Christian Andersen story.’

  ‘I remember reading it years ago. The Snow Queen is extremely beautiful but has a heart of ice, hasn’t she?’ Alison laughed. ‘She’ll be perfect.’

  NINE

  The Major had finished reading his Sunday paper and fallen into a comfortable doze by the time his wife returned from the Frog End Players’ rehearsal. He was awoken by the crash of the front door closing and footsteps thudding down the hall, and when she flung open the sitting-room door he could tell by her face that things had not gone at all well.

  Apart from the Gerda character, apparently, nobody knew their lines. The boy, Kai, had read most of his and not very well either. The kindly old grandmother had been inaudible, the dastardly robbers out of control and the dancing snowflakes more like elephants. As for the raven, who was meant to be an important character in the story, hopping about boldly, he’d acted more like a pathetic sparrow. If the cast didn’t pull their socks up the play would turn out to be a disaster.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ the Major said. ‘You know, old Toby might be just the job for the raven. He was rather cut up to be left out of things this year.’

  ‘Mr Jugge is not taking part in this entertainment, Roger. I thought I’d made that very clear.’

  ‘Just a suggestion, dear. Just a suggestion.’

  ‘And a very poor one. Of course, it didn’t help that Mrs Dryden wasn’t present. I had to stand in for her, as well as direct. I agreed to her missing the next two Sunday rehearsals but after that she really must be there. Before we know where we are Christmas will be upon us.’

  It was not a prospect that cheered the Major. When they’d been posted abroad, Christmases had always been jolly good fun. Army chaps knew how to enjoy themselves. Full of joie de vivre and all that. But Christmases hadn’t been quite the same since he and Marjorie had come back home and retired to Frog End. And this Snow Queen thing wasn’t going to help, by the sound of it. Not much joie there.

  At first, he’d rather fancied his chances with Joan Dryden, but whenever their paths had crossed she’d ignored him completely. Cut him dead, in fact. Well, he could take a hint. She was a pretty cold fish, anyway. There were plenty of warmer ones in the sea. Maybe not in Frog End, but around and about. Never say die. That was his motto. Nil desperandum. Though lately, he’d begun to despair a bit, to wonder if life had passed him by. He wasn’t getting any younger, that was for sure. Tempus fugit, and all that. A depressing thought, if ever there was one.

  He glanced hopefully at his late mother-in-law’s clock on the mantelpiece. Slow again! Inspiration struck.

  ‘You could do with a pick-me-up, old girl.’ So could he, come to that. ‘I’ll get you one.’

  He stood up smartly.

  ‘Sit down, Roger. It’s only twenty past five.’

  ‘That damned clock’s always slow.’

  ‘Mother’s clock keeps perfect time. It’s you that doesn’t.’

  He sat down again and retired behind his newspaper, looking hurt and disinclined to sympathise any more. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. I dare say it will all be all right on the night.’

  The Colonel was fairly satisfied with progress on the sledge.

  He had bought some more wood and constructed arms at each side of the pallet platform for the Snow Queen. It would be unthinkable for her to fall off mid-stage. That done, he spent a long time sanding all the wood to a smooth finish. Equally unthinkable for her to get splinters anywhere.

  The next problem was the wheels. He took Naomi’s advice and called on Steph, formerly Steve, at the local garage.

  He found him under a car bonnet and put the problem to him.

  ‘I’ll think of something, Colonel. Leave it to me.’

  An arrow-pierced heart with the letters S and N had been added to the multiple tattoos on Steph’s right arm, he noticed. Space had somehow been found for it among the writhing serpents.

  ‘That’s very good of you, Steph.’

  ‘No problem. I like a challenge.’

  He drove on into Dorchester to do some shopping in the supermarket where several shelves were devoted to cat food varied enough to appeal to the most picky consumer – even Thursday. He was trying to decide between Nine Lives Beef in
Tomato Sauce and Munchies Grilled Fish Medley when another customer kindly offered advice.

  ‘I’d go for the Munchies if I were you, Colonel. It’s a very good brand.’

  He smiled and thanked the woman, whoever she was. She evidently knew him, and her face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember where they had met. Recognizing people out of context and in different clothing was sometimes difficult. He had once puzzled for days over the strange young man who had hailed him cheerily in a town street before he had realized that it was the Frog End postman who came daily to his cottage door.

  The woman said, ‘Cats can be very choosy eaters, can’t they?’

  ‘They can, indeed.’

  ‘And you can’t make them do things they don’t want to do.’

  ‘That’s also very true.’

  ‘The trouble is people tend to see their cats as being like a less demanding dog but, of course, they’re quite different. A cat is halfway between domestic and wild and they have their own particular way of doing things. Owners expect to receive the same amount of devotion shown by dogs, but cats have other things on their minds.’

  Thursday would have been entirely on her side.

  ‘You just have the one?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s another mistake people often make. They imagine that cats need the company of other cats, so they get another one, or even more, thinking it’s a nice idea. But cats aren’t necessarily very good with other cats. They need their own space and it’s usually very well-defined.’

  He smiled, thinking of the fire end of the sofa. ‘I’ve noticed that.’

  They exchanged cat talk pleasantly for a moment before moving on. He was halfway home before he remembered who she was. Naomi had introduced her at The Snow Queen read-through in the village hall. She was the one who did the make-up for the Frog End Players, who could make anyone look good. Ironically, she was also the one who never wore any make-up herself and who Naomi had rather accurately described as fading into the background. Her name was Thora Jay, if he remembered correctly.