“That leaves me with four days. It’s not too bad because I go fairly close to mother’s house most days either to shop or to do my meals-on-wheels stint.”
“Fine. Now for the mechanics of the business. I shall give you the prescriptions and you will keep the tablets, Margarethe. The others—Marian and my nurse—will have to come to you before every visit they make.”
“So that the dose isn’t duplicated by mistake?” asked Rainford.
“That is most important. A misunderstanding could arise. I’d like Margarethe to keep a little list, day by day, just for safety’s sake. The big thing is to see that Elke puts the tablet into her mouth and then actually swallows it.”
“She’s capable of deception,” agreed Rainford. “She’d palm the bloody tablet as lief as look at you.”
“We must try to avoid that at all costs.”
“Avoid what, David?” Robert Bennett, having slept in a neighbouring armchair, was now awake and stretching.
“Nothing to bother you with, Bob.”
“Try me.”
“Margarethe’s mother hasn’t been complying with the dosage instructions on her medicine, so we’re just discussing ways and means of making sure she toes the line.”
“I see.” Bennett opened his mouth and shut it again with a grimace of disgust. “You know that cigar I had after lunch has left a really nasty aftertaste.”
“You can’t complain,” said Rainford. “You supplied them.”
“That’s the only reason why I can complain.”
Margarethe got to her feet. “Adam and Marian have gone for a walk with Tony and Gwen. But I’m sure Marian wouldn’t mind if I were to make you a cup of tea, just to de-fur that tongue.”
“Just the ticket,” said Bennett.
“Good idea, love,” said her husband. “Strong and dark and lots of it.”
“If you want some, come and help get it.”
“I can’t. You know I’m afraid of that bottle-gas stove.”
“Liar,” said his wife. “You know the ordinary gas stove was put in last week when the Gas Board brought the town supply in. You even promised to take a few days’ leave to help Adam put the central heating in next month.”
“Central heating soon, eh?” asked Bennett.
“As if you didn’t know, Bob,” said Rainford, getting to his feet. “Marian told me you’d given them a cheque for a hundred and fifty quid as a Christmas present specifically to help pay for the radiators and piping lying in the lean-to.”
“Shut your trap, copper, and get the tea. What Flora and I gave them doesn’t amount to a Chief Super giving up several days of his holiday to act as handyman.”
“They’re my kids,” said Rainford simply.
*
Dr Whincap’s scheme worked admirably for about six weeks—until a day in early February when Marian, taking her turn, called on her grandmother to administer the daily pill.
Up till then, Elke Carlow had apparently enjoyed the arrangement by which one or other of the three women visited her each day. It had seemed to cause her, if not pleasure, at least some sort of satisfaction to see a face other than her sister’s each day. Privately, Marian thought it amused the old lady to have so many others dancing to her tune. And so it came as something of a shock when the granddaughter realized that by now the newness had worn off and, as her father had foreseen, the elderly patient had started to presume. It became apparent to Marian that Elke, having won the battle for attention so far, now proposed a spoiling action. She fired the opening shots at three o’clock that day, which was the time the young wife could best get away after having given her husband lunch.
“I shall come, liebling, to live among you.”
Not grasping the burden of this statement, Marian replied: “But you do live among us, gran. Everybody is round about you, here in the village or in the town. That’s only a few miles away, and . . .”
“With you, liebling.”
“I don’t understand, gran.”
“With you and your man. Your Adam. In your barn house.”
“Oh, you want to come and see us and the house. But of course. I shall get Adam to fetch you and Great Aunt Mimi one Sunday as soon as the weather gets a little warmer.”
“He shall fetch me tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, gran. You know Adam has to work all day.”
“Then you shall come, to fetch me, liebling.”
“What for, gran?”
“To live in your house. I shall pack my belongings tonight. Mimi will send on what I do not take.”
Marian stared at her grandmother. In her middle seventies, Elke Carlow was still a tall, imperious woman. There was nothing frail about her. The skin of the arrogant face was uniformly wrinkled and no longer held any colour other than that of old ivory. With no trace of make-up, it seemed more powerful than would have been the case had it been reduced to a doll’s likeness by tomatoes of rouge on the cheeks and ill-applied mascara round the eyes. The hair was grey, but still thick and long and plaited into the bun she had worn since a girl. She wore skirts and striped shirt-blouses with leg-of-mutton sleeves and little turn-down collars up to the neck, where she always wore a cameo brooch.
“To live in our house? With Adam and me? You mean you would like to stay for a few days?”
“I mean to live with you. You have a fine, big house. The doctor has told me so. Your mother and your father, the policeman, they tell me you have big rooms and lots of them.”
“That’s true I suppose, but . . .”
“And you have no children.”
“Not yet, gran, no.”
“Why then, you have the space for your grandmother. It is right that the old should be so respected. In Germany, we honoured our elders. Do you not honour me, my liebling?”
“Of course I honour you, gran, but . . .”
“Then there is no more to be said about it. The matter is settled. I shall come and sit in front of your great stove which the doctor tells me is like those we used to have in Prussia, which were fed with timber from the forests, and which . . .”
“There won’t be any fire to sit against, gran. At least not often,” protested Marian wildly. “Adam has put in central heating so that I won’t have to light fires and clean grates. Besides, our stove burns coal, and coal is very expensive.”
“Your man does his work in wood, does he not?”
“You know perfectly well he does, gran.”
“Then we shall not need coal. We shall have wooden fires, like in Germany.”
“Wood fires, gran,” said Marian distractedly. “Not wooden ones.”
“You English! You do not know your own language. Do you say woollen mills or wool mills?”
“Woollen mills.”
“Then we will have wooden fires, not wood ones.”
“Gran, you can’t . . . I mean I must talk to Adam about this. And what will Aunt Mimi do? You can’t leave her here on her own.”
“She will not be on her own. She will later come to live with you in your barn house, also, to look after me.”
Marian’s heart sank. She could foresee nothing but trouble looming ahead. She knew that she, herself, would never countenance her grandmother living in Helewou. She was not just sure, but certain beyond measure, that Adam would veto the idea without a second thought. He wouldn’t even bother to embellish his refusal with a second word. It would be so emphatic as to merit the monosyllable alone—no. But she also knew her German grandmother to be as pig-headed and stubborn as only a Prussian can be. Once she had set her mind on something she wanted, Father Peter himself would be hard pushed to head her off. She would brush aside, as of no account, any refusal of Adam’s. And that would lead to bad feeling all round. Elke Carlow believed that the young were put on earth to serve the old, and now she herself was elderly she was determined to get her fair share of attention from those who were, in her book, in duty bound to supply it.
Mimi was not present to hear the conversation. She
had gone shopping. There was no one Marian could appeal to for help in driving sense into her grandmother’s head. Angry and frustrated, she left the house and drove over to see her mother.
Margarethe showed little surprise on hearing her daughter’s story. In fact it was Marian who was surprised when her mother’s only reaction seemed to be to ask the question: “She’s still on about that, is she?”
“You mean gran has already mentioned her plan to you?”
“She has. Twice.” Margarethe was making a cup of tea, and plopped a second scoop of leaves into the pot as if to emphasize the number of occasions on which her mother had mentioned the plan. “I thought I’d scotched it the second time, but apparently I didn’t. But I really did stress that she couldn’t wish herself upon you and Adam.” Margarethe poured water from the boiling kettle into the pot. “Apart from the fact that you and Adam are too busy to have her, it’s just not on for new young marrieds to have old people sharing the love nest.”
“Especially old grumpies like gran.”
Margarethe stood with both hands round the bowl of the pot as if to warm them. “You know, darling, she tried the same thing on with me a few years ago. But your father soon put a stop to it.”
“How?” Marian poured milk into the two cups.
“He told her,” said Margarethe, giving the pot a little jiggle to get the tea swirling around inside preparatory to pouring. “He told her that our house was a police house—which it wasn’t, of course—and that the police authorities would not allow us to take permanent lodgers of any sort, whether they were family or not. It was before we moved here, but I think she still believes we live in police property and, being what she is, she has a great respect for authority—the police in particular—and has never tried it on with us again.” Margarethe poured a cup of tea for her daughter and smiled. “You know, dear, I think she only agreed to my marrying a lowly policeman in the first place because of her inborn regard for state institutions.”
“What am I going to do about it, mum?”
“Sit yourself down on that stool and drink this.” Mrs Rainford handed her daughter the cup of tea and drew up one of the breakfast bar stools for herself.
“First, you must take a firm stand. On no account must you agree to your grandmother coming to stay in your house for even one night because once she was in she would stay. No matter what hard-luck story she tells you or however much wheedling she does, refuse, refuse, refuse. It is most important that you yourself should adopt this attitude so that you are never in the slightest danger of being misunderstood or of bringing pressure to bear on Adam to take her.”
“He knows her. He wouldn’t take her.”
“Not even if his nice new wife coaxed him? Darling, men find it difficult to refuse such things to the women they love. You must never be guilty of using his affection for you for this purpose, because I assure you that if ever gran came to live in your house, it would be the end of your happy marriage. I would go so far as to say you would lose Adam. She would drive him out.”
“So you think I’d better not tell him?”
“You must tell him. You will need his strength and support. Tell him what she has proposed and leave him in no doubt that no matter what happens you expect him to remain firm and to refuse to have her over the threshold for anything more than a cup of tea. Then you’ll find everything will turn out all right. And perhaps your grandmother will forget this obsession, though I doubt it.”
“I hope she does.”
“Another cup? The pot will stand it.”
“Yes, please. I’m in need of a stimulant or sustenance or something after all this.”
That evening, when Marian told her husband of her visits to Elke and Margarethe, Adam accepted the news very calmly.
“I thought you’d be angry, Adam.”
“No need to be angry, precious. The answer is simple. I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it.”
“Simple?” She gazed at her husband in amazement. “Tell me.”
“Bedrooms,” he said. “We’ve only got one built, and that’s ours. I’ve been looking for an excuse not to start on the others for a bit. Partly because I can’t afford the time and chiefly because the timber and plasterboard are going to cost the earth and I haven’t recovered from installing the heating yet. Now I’ve got an even better reason for holding off.”
Marian decided it was time she joined her clever husband in his chair. She moved across to him and perched on his knee. “I’ll explain to gran next time I go.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry. I shan’t kick up a fuss. Just a reasonable but firm explanation—in case she won’t see reason. But I think it’s my job rather than yours. I can say you approached me to have her here but that I’ve vetoed it because of the bedroom problem.”
She kissed his forehead. Her mother had suggested that if she were to consult Adam the problem would be solved. It appeared mother was right.
*
But Adam, innately courteous and kind, had made one serious miscalculation in his estimate of Elke Carlow’s character and, consequently, of her reaction to his reasonable explanation. When he called on her and pointed out that it was impossible to house her at Helewou because of the shortage of bedrooms she did not—would not—accept it as a refusal to have her, but rather as a promise. A promise that as soon as the bedrooms were built, he and Marian would take her in. And from that assumption it was but a short step to start bringing pressure on Marian to have her husband start work on the necessary rooms.
This new campaign on Elke’s part started early in March. Marian, despite her resolve, began to find it increasingly difficult to beat off the insistent demands. Part of the trouble was that Marian herself and, indeed, her parents, believed Adam’s legitimate excuse could reasonably be interpreted as a promise: if Elke couldn’t move in because there was no room for her, as soon as there was room, she could move in. But the girl did her utmost to head off her grandmother without telling the elderly woman straight out that she wasn’t wanted and couldn’t be tolerated in Helewou. In vain she stated time and again that she and Adam could not yet afford the necessary materials. They had done wonderfully well to get so far, now there must be a pause whilst finances built up.
“Your man must work harder to earn the money.”
“Adam works very hard. And we can’t have it both ways. If he is to earn the money to buy things for the house, he cannot afford to take time off to build bedrooms. He is building a business . . .”
“A thriving business I am told by the doctor.”
“Maybe. But to keep it thriving he has to work all the hours that God sends. Even I am helping him now. I do some of the sandpapering and clearing up the workshop as well as the paper work and . . .”
“He should employ a man.”
“That takes money. Besides, any man Adam employs must be a craftsman, and they don’t grow on trees.”
“You should go out to work again yourself.”
The conversation came to an abrupt end at that point. Marian, at last out of patience, flung out of her grandmother’s house and hurried to speak to her mother.
“I’m not going there again,” she declared. “I shall tell Daddy Whincap that his nurse will just have to do an extra day.”
“We’ll see what we can do, dear.”
“You’d better, mum, because if I have to go there again I’ll strangle the old besom.”
“Marian! Don’t talk like that. Your grandmother is an old lady.”
“She’s only in her seventies. That’s comparatively young these days. She’s in full command of all her faculties so she must know what she’s doing. And in my book that means she’s a mischief-making old cat.”
“Steady, steady, steady,” said her father, coming into the room from elsewhere in the house. “I’ve been writing in the dining room so I’ve been close enough to hear something of what you’ve been saying to your mother, my love, a
nd I reckon you’re playing the old girl’s game.”
“How do you make that out, daddy?”
“You’re letting her get you rattled,” replied Rainford heavily. “And that’s just what she’s setting out to do. She’s half-way to success, you know, if she can upset your equilibrium. Once she knows she’s got you off balance she’ll start playing some other sort of game to get you completely down.”
“What sort of game, daddy?”
Rainford picked up an ashtray from the coffee table and went over to his easy chair. “I dunno, love. I haven’t got her sort of mind. But I can tell you this. Ever since I’ve known her she’s been a trouble maker. And long before that from all accounts. If she hadn’t put so many people’s backs up, she’d be having scads of visitors at that house of hers. As it is, people leave her severely alone. After her husband died, Mimi had to come over here to . . .”
“Had to?”
“Because nobody else could abide Elke. You’ll still find people round here who’ll tell you what a blessed relief it was during the war when she was carted off under Regulation Eighteen B. They say your grandfather, old Dick Carlow, was a new man during those years. He always was a nice chap, but Elke had repressed him. When she’d gone, he joined the Home Guard and became one of the lads—on parade and then into the pub for a pint. But it all had to stop when she got back.” He turned to his wife. “I’m right, aren’t I, my dear?”
“He was a lovely man,” said Margarethe. “I can remember that time—just. Father’s sister, Auntie Winnie, looked after us. But he died soon after the war.”
“Too soon,” said Rainford to his daughter. “And you won’t need three shots at guessing the main reason why.”
“Theo!”
“It’s right, Maggie. Everybody has always said so.”
“Gossip. You, a senior policeman, shouldn’t pay attention to gossip.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong, my love. We cops get most of our information from gossip. And I know for a fact that more than one of his friends urged your father to divorce her.”
“Father was too nice a man to do that.”
“I know. Besides, it wasn’t so easy to divorce in those days and I don’t suppose old Elke, for all her other faults, ever went off the rails with another man. She’d never have been able to find another daft enough after your father.”
Vicious Circle Page 3