A Mind of her Own

by Rosie Harris

  ‘You don’t know if you want us to move in together or you don’t know which house it should be?’

  Again, Betty shook her head. ‘I need time to think,’ she prevaricated.

  ‘Take all the time you need,’ Peter told her. ‘I’ve waited long enough for you to decide what you want to do that another couple of weeks won’t make much difference.’

  ‘Couple of weeks!’ Betty drew in her breath sharply. She would rather it was another couple of years, but she decided she’d think carefully before committing herself.

  She was grateful to Peter for using the idea of them moving in together as a means of avoiding a heated argument with her family, but for them to do so would mean a completely different lifestyle for her which had always been her main reason for refusing to contemplate the idea seriously.

  To stop Brenda asking awkward questions she decided to start her spring cleaning early and to tell them she was clearing out things she no longer wanted so as to make room for Peter’s belongings.

  She started with the little walnut bureau that was in her bedroom. It was a lovely item of furniture with intricate carving and moulding, and dating back over a hundred years. It had been a twenty-first birthday present to her mother, and when she had reached twenty-one her mother had given it to her.

  She had always cherished it and kept only very special souvenirs in it. There was a lock of Tim’s hair, Mary’s first shoes, a necklace that had belonged to her mother and, in a slim leather wallet, the most precious items of all, love letters from Jeff when they had been courting.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and began reading through them, then carefully folding each one and stacking them in a pile at her side.

  They brought memories rushing back, and tears to her eyes. No one else had ever seen them and she didn’t want anyone else to read them, certainly not Brenda.

  As she finished reading the last one, she looked at the pile on the bed beside her and wondered whether to keep them or dispose of them. They were all so precious that she couldn’t put them in the paper box in case someone read them; she didn’t feel it was fitting to put them in the refuse bin, so what else could she do with them, she wondered.

  If I had an open fire I would burn them, she thought. Cremate them so that no one else could ever read them. She sat for a while pondering. She had matches so why not burn them. She went into the kitchen and placed them in a metal wastepaper bin and, although still unsure, struck a match.

  She held it between her finger and thumb, still dithering about whether to burn them or keep them, until the match almost burned out. She gave with a sharp intake of breath as it started to singe the skin on her thumb, and dropped the burning match into the bin.

  The letters were so old that the paper was bone dry and flared up in an instant like a giant torch. Betty stepped back as the hot flames rose, fanning her face and in doing so she knocked the bin over. She grabbed a tea cloth to try and beat the flames out, but they had spread rapidly. Suddenly they caught the edge of the tablecloth, spread across the floor and set light to a cushion – and then curtains in the living room.

  For a moment she was too numb with fright to do anything. Then she tried to quell the flames with a bowl of water. They hissed and sizzled angrily and it only seemed to increase their fierceness.

  Betty picked up the phone and dialled 999.

  ‘I’ve just set the house on fire,’ she told the operator, ‘can you send the fire brigade.’

  Before she could be transferred, she had dropped the phone and cowered back as fresh tongues of flame reached out towards her. Knowing she hadn’t given the operator her address she tried to run into the next room to the extension phone in there, but the flames reached the door ahead of her.

  The only other extension was in her bedroom.

  Stumbling up the stairs, her heart thudding wildly, she made it into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her in fear that the fire might follow her.

  Before she could pick up the phone to dial 999 Betty heard Peter calling her name.

  ‘Don’t come in, I’m in my bedroom and quite safe. I’ve rung for the fire brigade …’

  Even as she spoke she could hear the shriek of the siren as an engine approached at high speed. She felt dazed, how had they known where she lived. Could they have tracked it from her phone line, she wondered. They must have done, she thought with surprise.

  Greatly relieved, she went to open the bedroom door and go back downstairs. The moment she touched the handle she leapt back yelping in agony. The brass knob was red hot and had seared the skin on her palms and blisters were already appearing.

  Peter heard her cry and called out anxiously for her to stay where she was as the firemen were coming in.

  The pain in her hands was so intense that she had difficulty in staying conscious. The room was filling with acrid smoke. The clamour of the men as they trained their hose on the fire and put a ladder up to the bedroom window seemed unbearably loud.

  From somewhere far off she heard the reassuring voice of a man as he broke into the room through the window. Before she knew what was happening, he had a picked her up and passed her through the window opening to another man standing on a ladder outside.

  The fresh air stung her face and hands, but she tried not to cry out as she was carried down the ladder before being put on a waiting stretcher and then finally into the ambulance.

  Peter was at her side as it drove off in the direction of the hospital. A paramedic gently gave first aid to her hands and questioned her about how the fire had started.

  She couldn’t remember. All she wanted was a drink of water; a long cold drink to ease the dryness in her throat and help to clear her head.

  At the hospital they attended to her damaged hands and to the scorched skin on her face and neck. The area was so tender that they had to cut away the front of her dress so that they treat the blisters that had formed on her reddened skin.

  If was a painful procedure and afterwards she would have given anything to have been given a sedative and allowed to sleep, but there were no beds available. Instead, they told her that she could go home, as long as she had somewhere to stay and someone to look after her.

  ‘I will be looking after her,’ Peter told them.

  ‘Then we will explain how you should treat the wounds and how to apply fresh dressings,’ the nurse told him. ‘If you have any problems or any concerns as they heal then contact your local surgery for help.’

  By the time they were ready to leave for home, Betty’s hands were swathed in bandages over the special dressings, and the skin on her face was also covered by dressings and a bandage that ran under her chin and over the top of her head, hiding her singed hair.

  Her dress was fastened together with safety pins to save her modesty, but this only made her feel even more dishevelled and sorry for herself.

  They travelled home in a hospital car. When they rounded the bend and drove up to her front door, Betty knew she would never forget the heart-stopping moment when she saw her beloved cottage, blackened and gutted.

  She tried to reach out for Peter’s hand, but the bandages and the pain stopped her. She could only stare at him, her eyes filled with pain and tears.

  In an attempt to comfort her he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. He wanted to kiss her, but her face was so hidden under the bandages that it was impossible for him to do so.

  There was still a crowd outside Clover Crescent and the moment the car drew up cameras snapped as two reporters rushed towards them, each of the men trying to be the first one to get an exclusive interview.

  Betty refused to talk to either of them. Peter made excuses for her but that didn’t satisfy them.

  ‘Was it arson, Mrs Wilson, did someone else do this or did you do it yourself?’ one of them shouted.

  ‘Did you do it yourself for the insurance money?’ the other asked callously.

  Betty shook her head at both of them. She tried to speak, but the mo
ment she did so, the pain in her face was so intense that all she could do was stand there shaking her head, her eyes brimming with tears and turn helplessly towards Peter for protection.

  With an arm round her waist he guided her away from her own blackened cottage towards his.

  ‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t try to talk, let’s get you inside and away from those vultures. Time enough to answer questions when you are feeling stronger.’

  Shaking, partly with pain and partly from shock, Betty did as he told her. She even managed a deep breath that helped to steady her nerves.

  ‘A cup of tea and you’ll feel like a different person,’ he told her confidently.

  Betty smiled wanly. She already was a different person, she thought wryly. From this moment on everything in her was going to be different; there was no turning back, she no longer had a home of her own. The decision about moving in with Peter had been decided for her.

  Before they could enter Peter’s house a car screeched to a halt by the gate.

  ‘So there you both are. Heaven’s above! What has happened this time,’ came Tim’s accusing voice.

  ‘Let’s go inside and then we can tell you all about what’s happened over a cup of tea,’ Peter said quietly.

  Tim gave him a scornful glance. ‘I imagine there is plenty to tell,’ he observed angrily.

  He didn’t follow them in, instead he pushed Brenda towards Peter’s door. ‘You go on in, I’m going to inspect the ruins first,’ he said grimly.

  Fourteen

  Peter helped Betty indoors and made sure she was comfortable in one of his armchairs before he went to switch the kettle on.

  When he returned to his sitting room he saw that Brenda was staring at Betty with a look of disdain on her immaculately made-up face and for the first time he noticed how dishevelled and weary Betty looked.

  Without a word, he fetched a brush and comb so that she could at least tidy her hair.

  ‘Would you like to do Betty’s hair, Brenda?’ he asked, offering the tools to her.

  She shuddered and shook her head. Peter shrugged and went over to attend to Betty.

  Gently he brushed her grey hair and neatly combed it so that it framed her face.

  Neither of them spoke, but she gave him a grateful smile and he wished he could do more to improve her appearance and bring a little more colour to her pallid face. He let his fingers stroke her cheek before he hurried away to make a pot of tea.

  A tray with teapot, milk jug, mugs and a plate of assorted biscuits was on the table by the time Tim returned from looking over Betty’s home.

  ‘It’s an utter shambles,’ he declared lugubriously. ‘You certainly won’t be able to live there, Mother. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you.’ He glanced towards Brenda, but his wife shook her head emphatically to let him know that his mother certainly wouldn’t be welcome in their home.

  ‘I really think that the best solution is for your mother to go into a home, at least for a few weeks’ respite,’ Brenda said crisply. ‘She will get professional care and if she likes it there then possibly we can arrange for her to stay there permanently,’ she added hopefully.

  ‘She’s living here,’ Peter said quietly. ‘I’ve prepared the spare room in readiness. The only thing she won’t have will be her clothes, but I’m sure Brenda and Mary will soon put that right,’ he said looking pointedly at Brenda.

  ‘Count me out,’ Brenda said quickly. ‘That is a job for Mary.’

  Peter concentrated on pouring out the tea and handed it round.

  Frowning, Brenda hesitated when he offered her a mug of tea. ‘Peter, I really can’t drink from a mug, do you have a china cup and saucer?’

  Peter bit his lip but went over to the display cabinet and took down an exquisitely fragile cup and saucer and began to pour tea into it.

  ‘I like the milk in first,’ Brenda protested.

  Peter tipped out the tea he’d already poured and started again. Tim seemed oblivious to what was going on and Peter wondered if Brenda always caused a scene like this. Or perhaps none of their friends ever used mugs, he told himself, smiling inwardly.

  Neither Tim nor Brenda attempted to help Betty hold her cup and, after she had made one or two ineffectual attempts to pick it up between her heavily bandaged hands, Peter went over and lifted it up to her lips so that she could drink. Once again she smiled gratefully.

  As soon as he had finished his tea Tim stood up. ‘We must be going,’ he announced, looking at his watch. ‘I have clients due in twenty minutes.’

  He looked sternly at his mother. ‘Now remember, don’t attempt to go into your cottage as the structure is unsafe,’ he warned.

  Although Betty nodded to indicate she understood, Tim was not satisfied. He repeated the instruction to Peter.

  ‘I heard what you said to your mother,’ Peter told him. ‘You don’t honestly think your mother is in any fit state to go grubbing through the charred remains looking for bits and pieces, do you?’

  ‘No, but she might well ask you to do so,’ Tim said sharply. ‘The entire building is unsafe and will no doubt have to be razed to the ground. I am pleased to see that the police have cordoned it off.’

  Peter didn’t reply. He could see Tim’s words had upset Betty and he thought the sooner Tim and Brenda left the better it would be.

  Tim had not quite finished giving orders.

  ‘The same thing applies to the insurance and anything else to do with the property,’ he went on. ‘Leave everything to me. I will notify the insurance company and I will deal with them. If they come here or try to speak to you say nothing. Is that clear?’

  Peter nodded. He was relieved that Tim was going to deal with the insurance and everything else to do with the property. Tim had the staff and the expertise and it would save Betty a great deal of worry.

  Two days later, when Mary came to visit her mother she was far more cooperative about buying new clothes for Betty than Brenda had been. Mary listened carefully to what Betty said she needed and made a great effort to carry out her wishes to the letter.

  Betty was more than pleased with everything Mary bought for her. The new clothes acted like a tonic and helped to lift her spirits.

  Now all he had to do, Peter thought, was nurse her back to full health and hope that her hands and facial area healed without any complications.

  Next morning, refreshed by sleeping in a comfortable bed, she looked so much more like the Betty he had always known that Peter felt reassured enough to ask her if she would be all right if he left her on her own for an hour or so while he went shopping.

  ‘Of course I’ll be all right,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can be,’ he promised. ‘If it wasn’t that the larder is running short on basics I wouldn’t bother for a few days, not until you are feeling stronger and able to come with me.’

  ‘I’d far rather sit quietly on my own that push my way around a supermarket,’ she told him.

  It was about an hour later when Betty heard someone knocking at the door. Thinking that it must be Peter and that he had forgotten his keys, Betty made her way down the hallway to answer it.

  It wasn’t Peter but a man who looked to be in his early forties. He was wearing a short dark overcoat over a grey suit, and his thick dark hair was brushed back from his high forehead. He was clean-shaven and his blue eyes were clear and bright.

  ‘So sorry to trouble you, Mrs Wilson,’ he said as she opened the door, ‘but I hear you have recently had an accident.’

  He had a pleasant voice and an engaging smile and Betty wondered if she knew him. Before she could ask him, he went on, ‘I was so sorry to hear about your misfortune that I came straight away to see if I could be of help, if not now then sometime in the future. I thought you might like to consider a personal insurance policy.’

  Betty stared at him bemused. ‘You mean for the house,’ she said. ‘You mean you owe me some money.’

  ‘No, no.’
He shook his head. ‘This would be a policy on your life, nothing to do with what happened to your house.’

  He drew some papers from his briefcase. ‘May I come inside and read these through to you, it’s rather a cold day for you to be standing on the doorstep.’

  ‘Yes, it is and I’m not at all well,’ Betty agreed.

  ‘I can see that, Mrs Wilson,’ he said nodding at her bandaged hands.

  Inside the sitting room he sat down in Peter’s armchair and looked round the room as if assessing its value before once more waving the papers at her.

  ‘Shall I read the policy details out to you?’ he asked.

  ‘What policy details are you talking about?’ Betty asked.

  ‘The policy you have said you want to take out in case of any future accidents,’ he said blandly.

  ‘I haven’t agreed to take out any policy,’ Betty protested.

  Suddenly she felt threatened and wished she hadn’t agreed that he could come inside. The man ignored what she said and produced a gold-topped pen from an inside pocket and pointed to where he wanted her to sign.

  ‘I can’t do this without talking it over with my son,’ Betty protested.

  ‘Of course you can,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘It’s a personal policy, just to ensure that if you have an accident we will pay for your medical attention and provide you with a nice little income for as long as six months so that you can remain independent.’

  The word ‘independent’ registered with Betty and immediately she felt herself wavering.

  The man was quick to notice and immediately applied more pressure. ‘Think of the benefits,’ he said. ‘Money of your own to do what you like with. Spend time at your favourite resort for a few weeks, or a few months in Spain where it would be warm and relaxing. Or what about a cruise?’

  A cruise! Betty’s blue eyes grew dreamy. A cruise had been something she and Jeff had planned to take as soon as he retired, but it had never happened. Could she go on a cruise on her own? Or would Sally Bishop be interested in coming with her, she wondered.

  The sound of the man’s voice urging her to make a decision brought her out of her reverie.