by K. J. Frost
“I should be, yes.” I realise, all of a sudden that I shouldn’t be making plans on my wife’s behalf, without asking her opinion. “Just hang on a minute, Mother,” I say into the receiver. “I’ll check that Amelie doesn’t have anything else in mind for today.”
“Okay, dear.”
I place my hand over the mouthpiece and call to Amelie, who appears within moments. “Is something wrong?” she asks, looking concerned.
“No.” I hold out my hand to her, and she comes over, but doesn’t take it. Instead, she nestles into me and I put my arm around her, explaining Mother’s idea. “How does that sound?” I ask, looking down at her.
“It sounds marvellous,” Amelie replies, “especially as I’ve just realised that I didn’t remember to buy anything for us to eat today.” She looks up at me guiltily, biting her lip.
“In which case you’d definitely better come here,” my mother says, chuckling in my other ear.
“And do you promise not to lead my wife astray?” I ask, knowing my mother’s and my aunts’ capacity for mischief.
“We’ll have a lovely day together,” Mother replies evasively, and I shake my head. “Now, put Amelie on the phone so we can make the arrangements.”
I do as I’m told, returning to the dining room to pour the tea.
“Well, that’s all settled,” Amelie announces, coming back in a few minutes later, and sitting down beside me, instead of opposite me, although she doesn’t look as pleased as I’d expected her to. In fact, she looks positively miserable.
“Is something wrong?” I ask. “You are happy with the plans, aren’t you?”
“Yes. It’ll be lovely to see your mother and your aunts.” She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes and I know something is wrong.
“And you’ll be all right walking down there?” I wonder if that might be the problem, although I can’t really see why it would be. It’s not that far, and she called on Mary yesterday, who’s just opposite, at her guardian’s house.
“Yes, of course. We’ve arranged that I’ll go at around eleven.”
“So, why the sad face?” I turn in my chair, facing her, then take hold of her legs, just above the knee, and twist her around in hers, looking into her eyes.
“It’s nothing.” She sighs. “I—It’s just that I feel so stupid. I can’t believe I forgot to buy us any meat at the butchers… I was so intent on getting the sausages and making the toad in the hole, I didn’t think about anything else. It didn’t even dawn on me that it was the weekend…”
“It doesn’t matter, darling.”
“Well, it doesn’t I suppose. But that’s thanks to your mother inviting us for dinner, not to me being an efficient housewife,” she replies.
“We’d have worked something out.”
“We might still have to,” she mutters. “Your mother’s just told me that the butcher’s don’t open on Mondays either.”
“No, they don’t.”
She stares at me. “You were aware of this?”
“Yes.” I nod my head, buttering a slice of toast very thinly, before offering it to Amelie, aware of the rationing that’s just come in. It didn’t affect us at the inn while we were on our honeymoon, but now we’re back, we’ll have to be much more restrained.
“Why wasn’t I?” She shakes her head, staring at the plate before her, but not eating anything.
“Because you’ve never needed to be. It’s my fault. I should have told you.”
She looks at me for a moment, then tips her head to one side. “Why did you marry me?” she asks.
I put down my knife and shift closer to her, perching on the edge of my seat, so our legs are touching. “After everything we did and said this morning, you really need me to answer that?”
“No, probably not,” she mumbles and I reach out, cupping her face with both of my hands now.
“Oh, I think perhaps you do,” I reply and she looks up at me. “I married you because I love you. And I love you because you’re beautiful, inside and out. You’re loving and giving; you’re kind and caring, and generous, and you restore my faith in humanity, every single time I look at you.”
“Even if I’m absolutely useless at just about everything,” she murmurs.
“You’re not,” I reply, pulling her a little closer still. “I don’t care about any of that anyway.”
“You will when we’ve got nothing to eat tomorrow night.”
“It won’t come to that.” I stand, pulling her up with me, and into my arms, because I need to hold her, not just sit and look at her. “You’re still tired, that’s all.”
She rests against me and nods her head. “I am,” she whispers. “I don’t know why. I slept quite well. But I still feel absolutely drained.”
“Then let my mother and my aunts run around after you this afternoon. They’ll enjoy. it. And I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“Promise?” she asks, looking up at me.
“I promise.”
We kiss briefly and then I sit, lowering Amelie down onto my lap this time, and reaching over to pull the plate of buttered toast back in front of her, before preparing a second slice for myself, while keeping half an eye on the clock.
“Can we eat breakfast like this every day?” she asks, chewing on her toast and leaning back into me, crumbs dropping onto her blouse.
“If you want to.”
“You don’t think it’s a little impractical?”
“Not in the slightest, darling. Not in the slightest.”
She drops the toast onto the plate, then twists on my lap and throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me. “In that case, I want to,” she whispers as I snake my arms around her.
“I wish I didn’t have to work today,” I murmur.
“So do I.”
“And I wish I could take you back to bed and spend the whole day there, pretending the rest of the world doesn’t even exist. Because it doesn’t, not when I’m with you.”
She sighs deeply, as though imagining that perfection. “It doesn’t, does it?” she says, her voice a mere whisper, and I lean back, pulling away and looking into her eyes.
“I promise, things will get better,” I say firmly.
“I know.”
She rests her forehead against mine and we sit for a moment, until the clock ticks around to ten to nine, and I realise I need to eat something, because I doubt I’ll get another chance today.
A slice and a half of toast later, I hear the sound of a horn being tooted outside.
“That’ll be Harry,” I remark and Amelie immediately shoots to her feet, as though struck by lightning.
“Hey… you didn’t have to stand up so quickly.”
“But he’s waiting for you.”
“And? He’s good at waiting. It’s one of his better qualities.” A smile touches her lips and I stand myself, pushing my chair under the table. “Will you be all right?” I ask, holding her in my arms again.
“I’ll be fine.” She sounds stronger now, more resolute, and she rests her hands on my chest as she’s speaking. “Now, go and be a policeman. Catch whoever killed that poor girl, Inspector.”
“Yes, Mrs Stone.”
She smiles properly now. “I like it when you call me that.”
“So do I.”
I take her hand in mine, reluctant to let go of her, and even more reluctant to leave her, because this tiredness of hers has me worried. She’s almost listless with it, and that’s not like Amelie… not at all. I lead her into the living room, where I put on my jacket, standing still while Amelie picks a strand of cotton from my lapel. Then I shrug on my coat, holding my hat in my hand, as she opens the door.
“I’ll see you later,” she says, stepping to one side.
I look down at her and, impulsively, put my arm around her waist, my hat hanging loose behind her, pulling her close to me and kissing her very thoroughly, my free hand clasping her head, holding her, as I swallow down her gentle sighs.
“See yo
u later,” I whisper, finally releasing her, noticing her slightly swollen lips, and the sparkle in her eyes, before I step outside.
“Take care,” she calls and I turn, blowing her a kiss.
“You too, darling.”
Thompson has parked immediately behind my car, which means he’ll have seen everything that’s just gone on. But I don’t care. In fact, I don’t take my eyes from Amelie’s as I walk around the car and open the door, settling into the seat.
“You’re clearly still on your honeymoon,” Thompson quips.
I reply without looking at him, without glancing away from Amelie, who is still standing on the doorstep. “Just drive, will you?”
“Certainly,” he says, sounding confused. “To Sam Higgs’ house, I take it?”
“No… to my mother’s.”
Chapter Five
I’ve attended church every Sunday since I was a child. It was what my parents did. And probably their parents before them. My mother always went to both services; the early one, and Matins, to which my father and I accompanied her. And for a while, after my marriage, I followed in her footsteps, enjoying the solitude of those early morning observances of tradition, the community of spirit and the sense of belonging. In recent months though, while I’ve continued to attend Matins regularly, I’ve given up with the eight o’clock service. I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it’s just that the thought of getting up so early on a Sunday, especially in winter, has started to wear a little thin. However, it seems important today to make the effort, so I get up in plenty of time, making sure I’m bathed and dressed before seven.
“You’re up early.” His voice makes me jump when he comes downstairs at just after twenty past, but then I am rather preoccupied, staring out of the kitchen window and wondering whether I’m doing the right thing, or whether I’d be better off staying away from the church altogether. Except I can’t help wondering whether my absence would attract even more attention, in the circumstances…
“I thought I’d put in an appearance at Holy Communion,” I reply, gathering myself together and putting the hot toast on the breakfast table, as he sits down.
“Really?” He looks up at me, putting the milk into his cup, before pouring a cup of tea.
It always annoys me that he puts the milk in first, but then he doesn’t pour me any, so at least it’s only his own tea that he’s spoiling, and I glance over at him as he takes a sip.
“Well, it seemed appropriate, given what happened to Mildred…”
He puts down his cup again. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, I suppose so…”
He butters his toast. “Don’t use too much,” I point out. “It’s rationed now, remember?”
He glances at me, but continues with his spreading, regardless, muttering about it, “Only being a bit of butter.”
I manage to avoid telling him that the ‘bit of butter’ currently on the kitchen table is meant to last us the week, but only because I don’t need to have an argument with him. I swear he has no comprehension about food, or housekeeping, and as for rationing, he seems to think it applies to everyone except him.
“Does that mean you’ll skip the later service?” he asks, taking a bite out of his toast.
“No. I’ll go to that as well.” I don’t bother with butter on my slice of toast, and just have a little marmalade instead. “I think people will expect it after what’s happened, and more people go to Matins.”
“And it matters what people think, does it?”
I stare at him. “Yes, I think it does, don’t you?”
He doesn’t reply, but gets up from the table, his chair scraping on the quarry tiled floor, leaving his half eaten toast on the plate, and taking his tea with him.
I decide to ignore his abrupt departure, although the wasted butter does annoy me. But what’s the point in saying anything? He won’t listen anyway, so instead I swallow down my own breakfast, quickly wash up, leaving the crockery to dry on the draining board, and then get ready for the short walk to church, putting on my new hat and coat, my leather gloves and my black patent shoes, before going out of the front door and down the path.
I don’t pass many people on the way, but then checking my watch, I see that I’m running a little late and I pick up my pace, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself by arriving after the service has started.
Upon my arrival, I note that there are no more people in the congregation than usual; their numbers amounting to less than fifteen, and I notice Mrs Higgs sitting on the far side of the church. She hasn’t spotted me and I’m relieved. The last thing I need is to get into a discussion with her about Mildred. As I walk forward on tiptoes, always aware of my heels echoing throughout the ancient building, I nod my head to Mrs Shepherd, whose husband owns the pharmacy, and Miss Robson from the greengrocer’s, going down the central aisle, before settling into my usual seat in the third row back on the left hand side, kneeling and bowing my head in silent prayer. After what I’ve done, I’m not sure God will be listening to me anymore, but then I reason that I need His forgiveness more than most, and screw my eyes closed, clasping my hands together so tightly, they hurt.
After the service, most people leave quickly, presumably keen to return home to perhaps a late breakfast, or to begin their Sunday chores, maybe doing some work in the garden, or starting to get the lunch ready. However, at the door, Mrs Shepherd is waiting, talking to Miss Robson and Mr Osborne, an elderly gentleman, who’s lived in the village for longer than anyone can remember.
“We heard about Mildred Ryder,” Mrs Shepherd says, stepping closer as I exit the church, and regretfully drawing me into their small group, just as I’d hoped to escape.
“Really? I didn’t think it was public knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t think it is,” she replies, “but young Joe came into the chemists last night to get some aspirin for his mother, and he told me about it. Fair cut up, he was.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” Mr Osborne retorts, a little angrily. I want to point out that, if he’s as averse to gossip as his attitude implies, then he doesn’t have to stand around participating, but I hold my tongue.
“Indeed,” Miss Robson adds, “that family don’t have much luck, do they? First there was Bill having that heart attack… what was it? Two years ago?”
“Yes, it was,” Mrs Shepherd confirms. “It was just after Christmas, if you remember. Terrible for Edna, of course, what with the two younger ones still to think about.”
“She’ll be grateful to have them now,” Miss Robson says, as though Mrs Ryder might not have appreciated her children before, which I’m sure isn’t the case at all.
“She’ll miss Mildred though,” Mrs Shepherd chimes in.
“I think we all will, won’t we? In our own way, I mean,” Mr Osborne remarks and we turn in his direction. “She was such a lovely girl,” he adds and the other two women nod their heads, smiling.
I join in with their collective consensus, and then say, “I really must be going. I can’t stand around gossiping all day.”
“No,” Mrs Shepherd replies. “Neither can I. If I don’t get back and get the joint in the oven, it’ll never be ready by the time George gets back from the allotments.”
We all bid each other farewell and I make my way down the path, fortunately in the opposite direction to the three of them, pondering over our conversation, and especially over Mr Osborne’s last comment. Obviously, most of the village thought of Mildred as a ‘lovely girl’, and I suppose on the outside, she may well have been. But she was also scheming and conniving, and if I hadn’t acted when I did, she’d have ruined everything I’ve spent the last eight years working for.
And, as much as I know it’s my husband’s fault, I was damned if I was going to let her do that.
***
Thompson obviously understood, without me having to say so, that when I asked him to take me to my mother’s, what I actually meant was that I needed to go to Aunt Dotty’s house, and that’s whe
re he parks the car, just a few minutes later. And while I know my aunts are both likely to be at home, Dotty probably painting, and Issa almost certainly working on the plot of her latest novel, I hope I’ll be able to catch my mother alone. I don’t have time for histrionics. Not today.
“Wait here, will you?” I say to Thompson as I get out of the car.
He doesn’t reply, but switches off the engine and leans back in the seat, while I close the door behind me and open the gate, knocking on the front door and taking a half step back, looking down the road rather vacantly.
I hope I’m doing the right thing here, and that I won’t regret enlisting my mother’s help. Or, more importantly perhaps, that Amelie doesn’t find out I’ve done this, and take offence, assuming as I think she might, that I’m interfering. I’m not. I just care about her. Deeply.
“Hello, dear.” My mother’s voice breaks into my thoughts and I turn to face her.
“Hello.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning and stepping back from the door to let me inside.
“I can’t stop,” I reply to the unspoken invitation. “I’ve got to go and interview someone.”
“I see… then why are you here?” She moves closer again, lowering her voice, as though she knows I have something to tell her. But then, my mother always has had a sixth sense when it comes to me.
“It’s Amelie.”
“She’s not ill, is she?” Mother asks, sounding concerned. “You’re not here to tell us she can’t come round today? We’ve been looking forward to seeing her so much.” She stops talking, and blushes just slightly, reaching out and putting her hand on my arm. “And you as well, of course.”
I smile, or I do my best to. “No, it’s nothing like that. She’s looking forward to seeing you all as well.” I know that’s true, just from her reaction when I told her of mother’s invitation.
“Then what is it? Spit it out, Rufus, for heaven’s sake.”
“I want your help.”
“You do?” She’s surprised now, rather than concerned. “What with?”