by Mary Wesley
I will write from wherever I may be, he thought, thinking aloud as people do under stress. I will tell her everything and she will laugh. It will be good for her to remember me with laughter. She needs laughter.
At the station he bought a ticket to Paddington and fell asleep as the train drew out of the station.
Folly’s body was hit by two more cars before she was found by the police, squashed flat. ‘Poor Mrs Pollyput,’ said the constable. ‘First that gander, now this. She isn’t in luck exactly.’
26
WAKING, HEARING THE birds, Matilda stretched, then curled up again. She wanted to prolong her sense of ease. She felt as though each bit of her body was free from the tension which had been there so long. She felt the bed beside her. Hugh had gone. It didn’t matter. A wren sang loudly in the garden. He would come back. There would be more. She tried to remember whether it had ever been like that with Tom. It hadn’t. Good but not perfect. Hugh was so much younger than she, it couldn’t last. He would go away, indeed he must go away otherwise sooner rather than later he would be in prison. She slept a little then woke, thinking of Gus.
No more honking, no more slap of feet, no more throttling noises, no more messes. She felt calm now, her horror and grief over his death had raised her emotions to the pitch which had allowed love. By Gus’s death I am complete, she thought. It was pleasant to stretch her legs without disturbing a dog. Since Stub’s death she had slept alone. Folly had slept lately with Hugh, she was his dog. Matilda hoped Hugh had fed her during the night. She remembered him leaving. He would have fed her surely. The police had been kind about Gus, nice of them to come and tell her, they might easily have telephoned or done nothing. It was lucky they had not run into Hugh, that he was out when they came.
Matilda remembered the two policemen. She had guessed that Gus lay headless in their Panda car. She had guessed too that one of the policemen would give the body to his wife and that Gus would be roasted and eaten. She was not shocked or angry about this, it seemed natural. She thought again of Hugh and, turning away from the light, thought he must be sleeping deeply after so much – she searched for the right word – expenditure. Yes, a great night of spending. She smiled, pulling the sheet up over her eyes, dozing, conscious of happiness. She must guard it.
At the police station the two constables from the Panda car made their report. The sergeant made notes.
‘Okay, just an ordinary night.’
‘Do we still keep an eye open for the fellow who killed his old mother?’
‘Nothing come through to the contrary. That missing bride is more urgent.’
‘Seems a waste of time.’
‘Putting the public’s back up. Every man with a large nose is feeling awkward,’ said the younger constable.
‘You’ve got a large nose, Sergeant,’ ventured his mate.
‘I know that. That’s why the public has my sympathy for once. The moment I’m in civvies I feel awkward. My wife says people stare.’
‘They stare because you’re such a fine upstanding man, Sergeant, not because of your hooter.’
‘Enough of that.’
‘Okay, Sarge, what about the dog, then? What do we do?’
‘The goose was last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You passing her way as you go off duty?’
‘No, we aren’t.’
‘Well pass her way, take her the dog, tell her before you go off duty.’
‘That’s overtime.’
‘No it isn’t.’ The sergeant wrote up a note. ‘That’s paying for the goose. It’s my guess one of you is going to eat it.’
‘Very well, Sergeant.’ The two policemen went out.
‘Crafty bastard. My Annie says with an old bird, boil it first, then roast it slow and it will taste like a young one. She knows a thing or two. She was brought up on a farm.’
‘Lot to be said for country lore.’ The second policeman, who was courting a secretary in the Council Offices, slipped the car into gear. ‘Seems stupid though to me.’
‘What does?’
‘We keep the bird and you eat it but the dog, which is much more of a mess, we return.’
‘You don’t licence a goose and you can’t eat dog.’
‘They do in China.’
‘I know that. Let’s get it over with. I hate this kind of job. Who is this Mrs Pollyput anyway?’
‘They’ve lived here a long time. He died a few years back. She doesn’t mix much. Got grown children. They never come to see her. He ran some sort of travel business from home. Never been any trouble there apart from the odd motoring offence. She doesn’t belong to the W.I. or go to church. She’s not above the occasional coarse expression. Talks to herself and sings too. It’s her time of life, I suppose.’
‘My Mum’s having hot flushes.’
‘There you are then.’
‘And here we are. You carry the dog and I’ll do the talking.’
‘That isn’t fair.’
‘Isn’t it? Afraid of messing your uniform? It’s in a sack isn’t it? Hold it well away from you so it won’t drip. You carry the dog, you’re eating the goose.’
‘We could share it.’
‘Oh belt up. I don’t fancy it.’
Matilda heard a car door slam and, shortly after, a knock on the door. She got out of bed and looked from her window.
‘You again? I’m asleep, can’t you bugger off?’ Her voice rose high.
‘Sorry, Mrs Pollyput, but –’
‘Wait a minute, I’ll come down.’ She withdrew her head.
‘You’re right, she is coarse.’
‘Told you so.’ They stood patiently.
Matilda’s knees trembled as she pulled on Anabel’s dressing-gown, ran a comb through her hair. She looked at the clock.
‘Christ, it’s late. What an oversleeping.’
She took a deep breath, put the comb down, pulled the sash of the dessing-gown tight and left the room. Before coming down she looked into Hugh’s room, her finger on her lips. It was empty, the bed made.
‘Taken Folly out. Please God keep him away while they are here.’ She ran downstairs and opened the door.
‘What is it?’
‘Mrs Pollyput, it’s –’
‘What is it?’
‘Is this your dog, Mrs Pollyput? Found her on the main road. Can’t have known what hit her.’
Matilda said nothing.
‘Must have been following somebody, she was nearly in the town.’
‘Following somebody?’
‘That’s what the sergeant thinks.’
‘Who?’
‘Who what, Mrs Pollyput?’
‘My name is Mrs Poliport.’
‘Yes, Mrs Poliport.’
‘Was she seen following somebody? Who would she follow?’
‘It was just his idea. We only found her.’
‘When?’
‘Coming off duty we –’
‘You were coming on duty when you found my gander.’
‘Yes Mrs Pollyput, Poliport.’
‘Yes, she’s my dog.’ Matilda put out a hand to touch the mangled body. ‘She’s cold.’
‘Er, yes.’
‘This is an idiot conversation. Where did you say you found her?’
‘On the main road by the turning to the station.’
‘The turning to the station. I see.’ Matilda was quite still. The policemen stood embarrassed.
‘You all right, Mrs Poliport?’
‘Would you be?’ Matilda stared at him. ‘Give her to me.’ The younger policeman made a protesting noise.
‘Give her to me.’ Matilda took hold of the body in the sack, holding it close.
‘Following somebody.’
‘Or running away. She may have been frightened. Dogs get scared on roads, Mrs Poliport.’
‘Yes.’
‘You all right, Mrs Poliport? Would you like us to make you some tea?’
‘No thank you. I mus
t buy some Brie and a bottle of Beaujolais.’
‘What, Mrs Poliport?’
‘Cheese and wine –’ Matilda stood staring at them, her face white, ‘not tea.’
‘Oh. You sure you’re all right? We could –’
‘You couldn’t do anything. Just bugger off.’ She turned into the house, shutting the door in their faces. The two men exchanged glances, one of them took off his hat, resettled it on his head. The other straightened his tunic. They turned to go. Matilda opened the door and shouted, ‘He’ll make very tough eating,’ and slammed it again. They heard her scream ‘Cannibals!’
‘Phew!’
‘Holy Cow!’ They drove off.
‘Hot flush or no hot flush, she’s put me off my dinner. Bugger off, is it? The sergeant can go himself another time.’
‘Funny her being in bed this time of the morning. She’s usually up at dawn, everybody knows that.’
‘Perhaps she had some fella for the night.’
‘Don’t be daft – at her age?’
‘Daresay it was just shock. She hasn’t had that dog long, only bought it a licence the other day, she told me. I told her it wasn’t yet six months and not to worry.’
‘Wasted her lolly then.’
27
WHEN HER ARMS began to ache, Matilda put the sack down on the kitchen table. The clock said midday. She went across the room and wound it. She felt dizzy and put out her hand to steady herself against the Rayburn. It was cold. She looked in the firebox. The draught she made opening the stove stirred the embers. As she straightened up she saw the mess on her dressing-gown. She took it off and wrapped it round Folly’s body. The rather tarty chiffon and lace garment which had once belonged to Anabel made a neat wrapping. Realizing she was naked she went upstairs and ran the bath very deep and hot. She washed thoroughly and shampooed her hair, ducking under the water to rinse it.
She dressed in the jeans and shirt she found on her bedroom floor. There was only the top button left, the others twinkled up from the carpet. She pulled on a sweater, combed her wet hair, put on espadrilles, went back to the bathroom to clean her teeth. As she brushed them she noticed that Hugh’s shaving things were gone from the shelf, that his sponge was gone and his toothbrush.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror without recognition.
From the garden shed she fetched fork and spade and dug a deep hole by the rhubarb bed where the ground was soft and free of stones. When it was deep enough she fetched Folly and laid her in the hole, covered it with earth and trod it flat. Her espadrilles were full of grit and she had hurt the sole of her foot, digging. She took off the espadrilles, shook out the grit, then walked awkwardly to the tool shed, carrying the shoes in one hand, the fork and spade in the other. Her hand was not large enough to hold the tools; she dropped the spade with a clatter, bruising her foot. She hung the tools on their hooks and closed the shed door.
‘Matilda. I heard. I came to see whether I could help.’ Mr Jones stood a few yards off.
‘Excuse me, I’ve just had a bath. My hair is wet.’
‘I heard about Gus and Folly. I wondered –’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Do you have a large flat stone?’
‘I can bring you a slab from my path, one of the paving stones.’
‘Could you bring it at once?’
‘Yes, of course. You look strange. Shall I make you some tea?’
‘Not tea!’ Matilda exclaimed harshly.
‘I’ll get the stone at once.’
‘Please do.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry to be rude. It’s just –’
‘I know. I’ll go and get it.’
Mr Jones broke into a trot, running towards his bungalow. Matilda thought he looked ridiculous from behind. Short, fat, middle-aged men should not run.
She went back to the house to wash her hands at the sink, cleaning the earth from under her nails with an orange stick. There was a stain on the kitchen table. She wiped it with a wet cloth.
Waiting for Mr Jones, Matilda wandered round the house. Everything was in its place. The spiders were back slung across ceiling corners. She left them alone.
In her room she made the bed, smoothing the stained sheets, pulling up the blankets, puffing up the pillows. She held her breath so that she would not smell what was there, covered the whole with the patchwork bed spread Claud had sent from America. ‘Pretty.’ She stroked it. ‘Sweet Claud.’
Hugh’s room was empty. She inspected for traces of his occupancy. There were none.
Mr Jones came with a stone slab in his arms.
‘Will this do? It’s Delabole slate.’
‘Yes, it will. Thank you.’
Together they went to the dog’s grave.
‘Where shall I put it?’
‘Here, across here.’ Matilda pointed.
Mr Jones laid the stone, rocking it to level the earth.
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
‘It’s nothing. Can I do anything else?’
‘No thank you. I have to go out and shop.’
‘Could I not do it for you? You should rest.’
‘No thank you. I’m going for a swim.’
Mr Jones stood looking miserably at Matilda.
‘I know Hugh has gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘He meant you to keep Folly.’
‘She was his dog. She followed him – naturally.’
‘He wouldn’t have wanted her to.’
‘I daresay not. I don’t think it matters now what he wanted, not any more, not now.’
‘He would have wanted to leave you happy.’
‘Don’t talk drivel.’
‘I’m sorry. I – I wanted.’
‘You what?’
‘I wanted to tell you I love you, Matilda. I always have. I want to comfort you. I’d like to begin by making you some tea.’
‘I don’t want tea, Mr Jones. It’s very kind of you but I don’t need comforting. I don’t think you do love me, it’s just an idea, all in the mind.’
‘It’s not only in my mind, it’s in my balls.’ Mr Jones found himself shouting at Matilda, longing to hit her.
‘It makes no odds to me whether your love is up or down, Mr Jones. I’m sorry, I have to go out.’ Matilda moved towards the house.
‘I chose the wrong moment. I thought we could live here in your house or in my bungalow –’
‘Oh, fuck your bungalow!’
‘All right. I’m sorry. I’ll go.’
Mr Jones turned and went. Matilda watched him go out of sight, fetched her towel and bathing dress from the line, noting that Hugh had even remembered to take his swimming trunks, which had belonged, she thought resentfully, to Tom.
She looked in her bag to see if she had any money. Hugh might have taken that too, but her purse was full. She put it in the beach bag with the towel and the bathing dress, went out, locked the door, put the key under the doorstep, got into the car and drove off to the town.
It was market day so she had trouble finding a place to park the car, finally leaving it on a double yellow line.
She made for the wine shop where she bought a bottle of Beaujolais, then to the baker where she bought rolls. At the delicatessen she persuaded the girl behind the counter who was more than usually busy to butter the rolls while she chose some Brie.
‘What d’you want to do that for? A whole crowd of people are waiting,’ the man who owned the shop hissed at his assistant as she buttered the rolls.
‘She had a funny look in her eye. I didn’t like to say no.’
‘Don’t let me catch you at it again. Here you are, Madam.’ He handed the Brie in its paper bag to Matilda. ‘Glad to be of assistance.’
‘I don’t suppose she’ll ask me again, she never has before.’ The girl watched Matilda leave the shop.
‘Did she pay for the butter?’
‘Paid for half a pound and on
ly wanted what I used on the rolls. I think she’s a nutter.’
There was a ticket under the windscreen wiper of the car. Matilda handed it to a passer-by, who examined it, puzzled, then shouted, ‘Hey!’ as she drove away without looking back.
Parking the car at the usual place, she sauntered along the cliff path, looking down at the sea, which was calm but grey. The beach was empty, the season over. She was glad she had her sweater, wished she was wearing socks. It was chilly and her foot bruised where she had dropped the spade. She sang softly going down the cliff path:
‘I paid a shilling to see
A tattooed La-a-dy.’
Reaching the sand, she kicked off her espadrilles, leaving them to lie, hurrying barefoot to the far end of the beach to the flat rock.
‘And right down her spine
Were the King’s Own Guard in line.’
The rock was cold when she sat on it. She shivered, unpacking the rolls and Brie, standing the Beaujolais carefully so that it would not topple over. She felt in the bag for the corkscrew.
‘Oh God! I’ve left it behind.’ She began to weep. ‘It’s got to be there –’ She tipped the bag over, shaking it. No corkscrew. A sheet of paper slid to her feet.
Darling Matilda. Hugh’s writing, a little blurred by the damp towel. I love you. I can’t impose my life on yours. I must go away. I love you. You are the kind of woman my mother would have loved. You are what I have wanted, what she wanted for me. I thought she knew nothing of love, was old, naïve. Christ, this is an impossible letter to write. Forgive me. Folly will look after you, hook on to her. She belongs to us both, just hook on. Killing my mother was an accident. She was terrified of mice. Don’t laugh. There was a mouse on the sofa. She cried to me for help. I smashed at it with the tray as she moved. I’ve been too embarrassed to tell anyone. Please don’t laugh, though I love your laughter. Hugh.