Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Dad, can I ask you something?’

  Kenneth Dryden sighed. The chat show had been even more hellish than usual, the guest line-up near insupportable: a cocky young chef making some revolting dish that he was expected to sample with lip-smacking relish, an aged actor who was losing his marbles as fast as his hair, a long-forgotten comedian who was no longer remotely funny and a woman who solemnly swore she had been abducted by aliens who had landed in her back garden from outer space. All he wanted now was to be left in peace with his stiff drink.

  ‘What is it, Clarissa?’

  ‘Why can’t I have a flat, Dad? No one else I know still lives with their parents. It’s pathetic.’

  She was using the whining voice that he hated and looking her sulkiest. He wanted to smack her face. Perhaps he should have done so long ago? He’d made a rod for his own back by spoiling her rotten.

  ‘We’ve already discussed this and I’ve told you why. In the first place you’re too young, and in the second, I can’t afford it.’

  ‘You give Mum everything she wants.’

  ‘Your mother is entitled to every care and consideration. And I’m not sure that you are, Clarissa, seeing how badly you behave.’

  ‘I’ll just leave, then. Go away for ever. Mum’d be thrilled. She can’t wait to get rid of me.’

  He knew it was true. Joan had told him so many times.

  ‘And where exactly would you go?’

  ‘I’d find somewhere. Lots of my friends have flats. They have trusts and things.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you don’t. So, what exactly would you live on?’

  ‘I’d get a job.’

  ‘As what? You have no qualifications whatsoever. You’ve never done a day’s work in your life and, on present showing, I doubt you’re capable of such a thing.’

  ‘You could give me an allowance.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t, Clarissa. You have to learn to behave a great deal better: to show us some manners, some respect. Then perhaps your mother and I will see what we can do.’

  ‘Mum won’t do anything for me. She hates me. Don’t you realize that? And I loathe her. I wish she was dead!’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do. And if you make me go on living with her I’ll find a way to kill her. So you’d better do something about it.’

  The door slammed hard behind his daughter, leaving Kenneth Dryden alone but far from in peace.

  TEN

  Within a week, Steph called by Pond Cottage.

  ‘I found some wheels in a skip that might do the trick, Colonel. Look like they probably belonged to one of those old-fashioned kiddies’ pushchairs. Nice and solid. They’ll need new axles fitted so I’ve brought the pickup to take your sledge to the workshop and do the job there.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, Steph.’

  ‘Always glad to lend a hand. When people treat me right, I do the same.’

  The Colonel led the way to the shed. The pallet sledge was propped on its side against the workbench. Steph bent to take a closer, professional look. If he saw faults in its amateur construction, he was too polite to say so.

  ‘I reckon we can make something of her all right, Colonel. She’s good and strong, that’s for sure. All we’ve got to do is get her rolling.’

  In spite of its lumpish looks, the sledge was, apparently, feminine, like cars and ships.

  They carried her out to the pickup and loaded her into the back.

  The Colonel had no doubt that they were being watched by many pairs of curious eyes, including those of Miss Butler, which would be glued to her Zeiss binoculars at the front window of Lupin Cottage across the green.

  Freda Butler was quite unable to make out what exactly it was that the Colonel and Steve from the garage were heaving into the truck. She twiddled the knob on the binoculars in vain, for it didn’t make the mysterious object any more identifiable. Something wooden and heavy, and which, presumably, the Colonel had made in his shed, though she had always understood that he usually worked on much smaller things – model tanks and planes and so on. There was no reason why he should have told her anything about it, of course, but it was odd that she had not heard something through the village grapevine. And why was Steve involved? Having no car herself, relying instead on the somewhat unreliable local bus service, she rarely came across him and knew very little about him. Someone had said that he now called himself Steph, which was even stranger.

  She kept the binoculars trained on the pickup and its mysterious cargo as Steve, or Steph, drove off. The Colonel stood outside his cottage gate for a moment, watching it go, and then went back inside.

  It was tempting to invent some excuse to call on him but none came to her mind. Still, it should be a simple matter to find out what the thing was. Someone in the village was bound to know.

  Rehearsals of The Snow Queen proceeded under the draconian direction of Mrs Cuthbertson. The Colonel attended one of them, partly out of a misplaced sense of duty and partly out of curiosity.

  The play was slowly coming together. Lines had been learned, though Naomi, who was prompter again this year, still had plenty to do, since they were frequently forgotten again. And the director herself was hampered by having to stand in for Joan Dryden, who had only turned up for one Sunday rehearsal so far. The Colonel watched Mrs Cuthbertson striding around the village hall stage, script in hand, barking out the Snow Queen’s seductive lines.

  ‘Come with me, my child, and I will take you to my beautiful palace in the land of ice and snow.’

  The boy, Kai, to whom these words were addressed, unwisely sniggered.

  Thora Jay came to stand beside the Colonel. ‘Shouldn’t Mrs Dryden be here?’

  He said drily, ‘I don’t think it’s in her contract.’

  ‘I was hoping to get some ideas for her make-up.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Something icy. Very Snow Queen.’

  Theatrical make-up, he realized, must require special skills.

  If you were good at it, you could make people look completely unlike their normal selves. Change faces beyond recognition, alter features, put on false noses and chins and ears, beards and moustaches, fit wigs or turn people bald, add wrinkles and lines or smooth them away – whatever was required.

  ‘Did you work for the stage?’

  ‘Not always. I was freelance – stage, films, television – which made life interesting. Always new challenges.’

  He was curious. ‘How did you start?’

  ‘I joined a provincial repertory company, hoping to do some acting, but instead I found myself helping with the make-up. I enjoyed it, so I did a specialist course in London, learning all the tricks of the trade, and went on from there.’

  ‘Are there many tricks?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And it’s all changed since the old days of heavy greasepaint and pasted-on wigs. I’d have to learn a lot of new techniques. I spent some time with the Royal Shakespeare Company before I retired. Lighting is key now. Modern lighting can completely alter the look of an actor without the need for a lot of make-up. Side lighting can fill out a thin face and make it look younger, for instance; overhead lights can age people dramatically.’

  He thought of the village hall’s ancient and erratic spotlights, inclined to produce either a watery flicker or a blinding beam.

  ‘You must find our lighting a bit of a challenge.’

  ‘I’ve been having a word with Bob Fox, who’s in charge. I think we can work out something together.’

  There was more to Mrs Jay than met the eye, the Colonel decided. It would be interesting to see what she made of the Snow Queen.

  The Major heard the slam of the front door and the thud, thud, thud of his wife’s footsteps approaching the sitting room. His mother-in-law’s clock had chimed six more than half an hour ago, so there was no need for him to feel any guilt about the glass already in his hand. It was all above board. All tickety-boo. He could loo
k the old girl squarely in the face when she came in.

  ‘How did the rehearsal go, dear?’

  When she sat down on the sofa he saw the glint of battle in her eye that he had come to know so well over the years.

  ‘Mrs Dryden failed to turn up, yet again. So I went round to Hassels afterwards.’

  ‘Was she at home?’

  ‘She was indeed. There were people staying for the weekend but I didn’t let that stop me. I told her straight out that I had decided to get someone else for the part since it was quite impossible for me to continue standing-in for her and also direct the play to the required level of competence.’

  You had to admire Marjorie at times, he admitted to himself. Never afraid of speaking her mind and going for the jugular. Right up there with Boadicea.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said it was fine by her – that she’d never wanted to play the part in the first place. I was just going to walk out of the room but then the weekend people started telling her that she ought to do it and how wonderful she’d be. They all wanted to see her as the Snow Queen, including Mr Dryden. He kept trying to coax her into it, just like last time. I don’t know why he bothers. She’s not worth it.’

  ‘Well, what happened?’

  ‘She said she’d try to come to the next Sunday rehearsal, though she couldn’t promise it. And I told her that if she didn’t turn up I’d cast someone else.’

  Fighting talk, the Major thought. That’s the spirit!

  ‘But who would you get?’

  ‘Mrs Pudsey.’

  ‘Mrs Pudsey.’

  ‘Don’t stare at me like that, Roger. She’d have to do. There’s nobody else. And I dare say Mrs Jay could make her look better with a lot of make-up.’

  ‘She’d need a shovel.’

  ‘I expect you to be positive about this, Roger.’

  The Major drained his glass positively. ‘You look as though you could do with a sherry, dear. I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Just a small one, then.’

  He took his own glass over to the cabinet and ‘Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes’ started up as he opened the lid. With his back turned to the old girl, it was a simple manoeuvre to pour out the Bristol Cream and replenish his whisky as well – a lightning sleight of hand that he had practised a great many times. Sometimes he thought he would have made rather a good conjuror.

  ‘How’s the sledge coming along, Hugh?’

  ‘Progress is being made, Naomi.’

  ‘That’s good, because Marjorie wants it for a try-out at the next rehearsal on Sunday. Apparently our Snow Queen is deigning to put in an appearance. Marjorie’s going to ring you about it and she’ll want to know the state of play. You have been warned.’

  The interesting thing, the Colonel thought, is that the whole village seemed to be in the dark about the sledge. Steph must have kept it well out of sight and said nothing. He smiled to himself. Quite an achievement.

  ‘Have you painted it yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Time marches on.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that at my age. And Mrs Bentley has already pointed it out to me.’

  ‘She would.’

  ‘Yes, she would.’

  ‘When I was up in the attic the other day I came across something that might work rather well with the sledge – if it ever gets finished.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Guess.’

  There was no point in attempting such a thing. Naomi’s attic harboured all manner of bizarre relics from the past.

  ‘Perhaps you could bring whatever it is round next time?’

  ‘I might – if you show me the sledge.’

  ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Some adjustments are being made.’

  ‘You mean Steph’s doing the wheels? No need to be so secretive, Hugh. You’re like an old dog with a buried bone.’

  ‘I feel like it sometimes.’

  ‘We’re curious. Will it work or won’t it? It’s a focal point. The Snow Queen and Marjorie Cuthbertson will be expecting great things of you. So will we all.’

  ‘I’ll try not to disappoint you.’

  When Marjorie Cuthbertson rang later, she left him in no doubt of what she was expecting. ‘I trust the sledge will be ready for the rehearsal on Sunday, Colonel?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘We must have it. Mrs Dryden is attending, for once, and we have to take full advantage of the chance to practise with the sledge. It’s a very dramatic moment in the play when the Snow Queen lures the boy away to her ice palace. We need to iron out any possible problems.’

  He could think of a few. With wheels but without brakes, the sledge might be hard to steer or stop. It might crash into the scenery or even go clean over the edge of the stage into the audience below. Mrs Cuthbertson was perfectly right. Practising was more than a sound idea; it was essential.

  The next morning Steph arrived in the pick-up with the sledge fitted with its pushchair wheels. They tried it out on the terrace at the back of the cottage, pulling on the rope. It rolled smoothly across the flagstones, changing direction obediently.

  Steph was pleased. ‘She shouldn’t give any trouble, Colonel.’

  He was referring, of course, to the sledge rather than the Snow Queen. In the Colonel’s opinion, either or both could give plenty of trouble. Within the cramped confines of the village hall stage things might not go so well as out on the terrace.

  They carried the sledge into the shed, ready for the Colonel to paint. It took him three days – priming and undercoating with three top coats on all surfaces before he was satisfied. But no amount of glossy white paint could disguise the sledge’s humble pallet origins. Improvisation, as Naomi had said, was the name of the game with the Frog End Players when it came to scenery and props, but this was hardly a conveyance fit for a queen. Something more was needed.

  He had gone back into the cottage when there was a loud knock at the front door. Mrs Cuthbertson come to inspect the sledge? Heaven forbid! He opened it to a polar bear standing upright before him, six feet tall, fangs bared.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Naomi said from somewhere behind the bear’s head. She was holding the bear up by its huge front paws and waggled them at him, the fearsome claws rattling. ‘Can we come in?’

  In the sitting room she spread the bear out in front of the fireplace, arranging the glass-eyed head and the four legs in place. Thursday watched intently from the sofa.

  ‘What do you think, Hugh?’

  ‘Magnificent. But sad to see.’

  ‘I agree. A great uncle of mine shot it on a trip to the Arctic Circle. He was always shooting things. Lions, tigers, leopards, elephants … anything that moved. He had an umbrella stand made from an elephant’s foot but I wouldn’t have it in the house. I remembered this old chap when we were talking about your sledge the other day. He’s been up in the attic for years and gone a bit yellow but he still looks pretty good.’

  The polar bear easily surpassed any attic trophy previously brought to light by Naomi – the Cossack wolf hat paling into insignificance. Even so, he couldn’t quite fathom the bear’s role.

  ‘What exactly am I supposed to do with him?’

  ‘Put him on the sledge, of course. The Snow Queen can sit on him. After all, polar bears come from the North Pole and so does she. Marjorie couldn’t ask for anything more suitable.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So, now can I see the sledge?’

  ‘The paint’s not dry.’

  ‘I won’t touch it.’

  ‘It’s out in the shed.’

  ‘I’ll stay outside and look at it through the doorway.’

  He gave way in the end. It was only fair. He even allowed her inside the shed, turning on the lights and standing back to give her space to view. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it looks jolly good, Hugh. You’ve done an excellent jo
b. But my polar bear will provide the finishing touch. The coup de théâtre.’

  He had to agree. ‘We could try it out on Sunday, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Yes, let’s. I’ll help you.’ Naomi was looking round the shed. ‘I must say this is a jolly nice hideaway, now you’ve got electricity. No wonder you spend so much time in here.’

  ‘I don’t hide away, Naomi.’

  ‘Yes, you do. What are you going to work on next?’

  Fortunately, the heirloom rocking horse plans and parts had been stored out of sight. It would be fatal to give Naomi any hint of their existence. Now that she had put her foot not only in the door but through it, she would be counting on doing so again.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he said, taking her arm firmly. ‘Let’s go and have a drink.’

  ELEVEN

  The sledge made a grand entrance into the village hall where the Frog End Players had gathered for the Sunday rehearsal. Steph had driven it over in the pickup truck and he and the Colonel had wheeled it to the door where Naomi had arranged the skin artfully, head uplifted in a snarl at the front, four paws hanging over the sides, so that the bear appeared to be padding along. As they went in, heads turned and silence fell. Even Marjorie Cuthbertson lost her tongue – temporarily.

  ‘I must say, Colonel, that you’ve done an extraordinary job. I hadn’t expected anything quite so … dramatic! Wherever did you get that animal?’

  The Players crowded round, stroking the bear. The boy who played Kai climbed on board at once and Steph took him for a spin round the hall. He had completed a circuit when Joan Dryden made her usual late entrance, dressed, as before, by the wolves.

  It was quite a sight, the Colonel thought later as they practised up on the stage, with the Snow Queen reclining regally on the sledge, grey wolf upon white polar bear, and Kai crouched in front with his hand on the bear’s head. Thanks to Steph’s skilful handling of the wheels and ropes, the sledge performed without a hitch.