The Last Words of Madeleine Anderson

by Helen Kitson

  Trust me: I’m a doctor, a priest, your friend. Trust me, when I’m jabbing the needle in your arm; when I’m pressing a rosary into your hand; when I’m slipping Rohypnol into your drink… My father advised me never to trust anyone, but my father was immune to the charm of beautiful men.

  It was Mr Latham who informed me that he’d been speaking to the head librarian at our nearest library who ran the local book group.

  ‘Quite popular, these things, aren’t they? Rather a good idea, I think.’

  Did he imagine I might want to join? That if I couldn’t find a comfortable place in church, I might pray with the other worshippers at the altar of literature and thereby find spiritual sustenance?

  ‘I mention it,’ he added, ‘because Mrs Evans wondered if you might be persuaded to give a little talk to the group – nothing too strenuous, just an informal chat about how you came to write your novel, the perils and pitfalls of publishing, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Me!’ I squeaked. ‘But it was all so long ago.’

  ‘I gather Mrs Evans is something of a fan. You might get some book sales out of it if nothing else.’

  When I told Simon about this conversation, he hooted with laughter.

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘How can I? It couldn’t be anything other than hideous.’

  ‘It might inspire you to write a sequel.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Well, you have published stuff, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not like that; not like her.’

  A painful silence. ‘No, not like her.’

  At least I was prepared for the email from Viv Evans: a brief message simply requesting that we meet to talk over her proposal. I sent her a few suitable dates and times, and she responded with an invitation for coffee and biscuits at her house.

  The directions to Viv’s house, a couple of miles away, written on a postcard Blu-Tacked to the steering wheel, I returned Simon’s cheery wave without enthusiasm and set out on a Tuesday morning.

  Viv stood waiting for me at her front door, immediately recognisable in a patchwork velvet skirt and red fleece, her legs bare, sensible Birkenstock sandals on her broad feet. Her greying hair was pinned up in such a fashion that it would only require a few twigs to persuade a passing starling it had found a readymade nest.

  ‘I love bright colours, don’t you?’ she said, showing me into her front room, not waiting for me to respond before adding, ‘I hope you’re not allergic to cats? We’ve got three of the brutes.’

  ‘No, I own a cat.’

  ‘You’re a cat person? Excellent! In that case I’m sure we shall get on.’

  It seemed a rather tenuous basis for future friendship, but I daresay she was just doing her bit to put me at ease.

  She wheeled in a trolley. On dainty china plates there were chocolate digestives, wafers, Viennese whirls, Jammie Dodgers and goodness knows what else. And a china teapot and a couple of Clarice Cliff-style mugs.

  ‘Your love of colour extends to the crockery, I see.’

  ‘It’s my dream to own a complete set of genuine Clarice Cliff tableware, but it’s far beyond my purse, alas.’

  ‘And you’d always worry about damaging it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t let that worry me. These things are meant to be used. What’s the odd chip between friends?’

  A hearty woman, not the type I generally got along with. People like her tended to interpret diffidence and reserve as moodiness, out of which one should be forced to snap.

  ‘Now.’ She sat down, feet planted a good yard apart, and slapped her knees. ‘Help yourself to tea – I know I said coffee, but I think tea is nicer with biscuits, don’t you? – and grab a plate. Take whatever you fancy, don’t bother asking first, and don’t forget to sign my book before you go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I managed to say, feeling as if I’d been battered by a hurricane.

  ‘First things first. Dicky Latham did warn you that I was going to contact you, didn’t he?’

  Dicky? Of course he must have a first name, but I couldn’t believe he allowed anyone to address him by that ridiculous diminutive. My surprise must have showed.

  ‘I don’t call him that to his face, of course. Means well, but a bit of an old woman, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be here unless you were basically amenable to addressing our little group.’

  ‘I’ve never actually done anything of that kind before and it’s such a long time since the book was published—’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. We still read Dickens, don’t we? Jane Austen? Eliot? Doesn’t matter that they haven’t produced any new stuff for centuries.’ She chuckled, gently nudging the trolley towards me with her foot.

  I grabbed a few biscuits. ‘I’m hardly in the same league,’ I protested.

  ‘It will be a great treat for us to have a living author to quiz. We’re readers rather than writers, but one or two of us enjoy a little wordsmithery of our own.’

  I tried not to wince, disguising my distaste with a firm bite into a Jammie Dodger.

  ‘We meet on Thursday evenings, seven till nine. Is that okay for you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And if you want to bring along that handsome young man you live with, do feel free.’

  ‘My…? Oh! You mean Simon? He’s not my young man, he’s just the lodger.’

  ‘Really? How disappointing! Well, bring him along anyway. Does he like books?’

  ‘He’s studying literature at university.’ Or was. Or might not have been, for all I knew.

  ‘Even better!’

  I wouldn’t let him come. I wouldn’t tell him Viv had suggested it, and I’d tell her on the night that he’d come down with a virus.

  ‘What sort of books do you choose for the group reads?’

  ‘We stick to novels – anything with a bit of meat to it, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘And the members, what are they like? Just, you know, so I can gauge how to pitch what I say.’

  ‘We’re a varied bunch. Meeting in the evening means we don’t limit ourselves to the retired and the unemployed. We’ve got one young lad in his early twenties – long hair, headband, bit of an arty type – but you don’t have to worry about us being old fuddy-duddies. We read Fingersmith a while back and we’ve tackled a Jeanette Winterson, so we’re pretty broad-minded.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, that’s very heartening.’

  ‘The group has been going for less than a year and we’ve only had one member drop out, and that was due to poor health.’ She brushed crumbs from her skirt on to the floor with an expansive couldn’t-care-less gesture. ‘You know, there are so many things I want to ask you, but I shall be very disciplined and save up my questions for when you speak to the whole group.’

  ‘Do you— Are you a writer yourself?’

  ‘Oh, the odd duff poem – jingling birthday card rhymes, the occasional short story. For personal amusement, nothing more.’

  ‘Where are your cats?’ Only one indication of the presence of cats: a little plastic ball with holes in it and a bell inside.

  ‘Bette’s upstairs – she’s an indoor cat, deaf as a post. The other two are out, murdering the local wildlife. The corpses aren’t so bad – it’s when they bring things back that are mangled but still alive. One is forced to finish them off for their own sake, but my God, it’s awful!’

  On this gruesome note she apparently decided our tête-à-tête was at an end, stretching out an arm to grab a book from the shelf behind her, which she then presented to me to sign.

  ‘Is there any special message you’d like?’

  ‘Could you dedicate it to Tom and Viv? Tom’s my hubby – he’s a fan, too. Such a lovely thing, a signed copy. I can’t wait to show you off to the group!’

  Viv’s first, predictable statement: ‘You’ve not brought your young man with you. Shy, is he?’

  ‘Stomach bug,’ I said. Viv’s disappointment was so palpable I wondered if
the invitation had been issued solely so that she and the others could gawp at Simon. ‘And he’s not my young man, as I’m sure I mentioned. He lodges with me, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ So much invested in those two words. A knowing wink, a nudge-nudge, an I-believe-you-thousands-wouldn’t.

  Unsure of the etiquette, I’d brought along a copy of my book, but felt it would have been not quite the done thing to bring along books to sell. I’d also brought a bottle of wine for Viv, though I wasn’t sure why – it wasn’t a dinner party, after all, and I’d be lucky to get more than tea and biscuits.

  ‘My dear, you shouldn’t have! And I shouldn’t say that, because it’s rude, so I’ll simply say thank you so much.’ She kissed me on the cheek, the powdery smell of her skin making me recoil.

  Taking hold of my wrist, she led me into a room that seemed to have shrunk in size now it was filled with people – perhaps only ten or eleven, but enough to make a crowd.

  ‘No point going through everyone’s names, you’ll never remember them all.’

  I noted the arty young man with the headband, immediately marking him down as pretentious and book-snobby, and I decided the man with a genial grin and a paunch must be Tom (I was right). For the first half hour or so, very little was required of me as the book club members discussed the previous month’s group read, A Room with a View. My opinion was sought.

  ‘It’s a long time since I read it,’ I said. ‘It’s a little… well, it’s good, of course, but it does feel rather dated in the way that Maurice, say, doesn’t.’ I was winging it, the only image of the story fixed in my mind taken from the film: Helena Bonham Carter and Julian Sands kissing in a cornfield. Was it a cornfield?

  ‘I think it has to be ultimately frustrating for the modern reader,’ a woman of seventy or so volunteered. ‘Lucy is presented as gaining freedom by the end of the novel, but it’s only the freedom to marry a man. She doesn’t have to marry awful wormy Cecil, but there’s nothing else she can do – according to Forster – except marry. It seems like a bad joke, doesn’t it, to those of us living when women have so many more options open to them?’

  I smiled, feeling a strong and immediate liking for this tiny woman with a cap of white hair and what looked like carpet slippers on her feet. She looked me in the eye.

  ‘You should have written more books. Why didn’t you?’

  Taken aback, I gazed imploringly at Viv, who immediately swung to the rescue, reminding the little bird-like woman that they must stick to the programme.

  ‘Gabrielle will be more than happy to answer questions later on.’

  ‘So bossy.’

  ‘Now, now, Lisel – we don’t want to risk running out of time, do we?’

  Lisel rolled her eyes. She caught me smirking and winked at me. She would likely give me a hard time during the Q and A, yet I rather looked forward to it.

  They carried on discussing A Room with a View, but no one’s comments struck me as being as perceptive as those of Lisel, who felt Lucy should have married Cecil.

  ‘At least she could have despised him cleanly,’ she said. ‘And then she could have gone off and had nice affairs with whomever she fancied. Romantic love is so terribly over-rated.’

  I wanted to talk to her, to ask about her life. Extraordinary as it sounds, I felt she might have been the one person who could understand what I’d done.

  At a nod from Viv I stumbled through an ad hoc (and necessarily invented) explanation of how I’d come to write The Song of the Air, how I’d sent it off without expecting anyone to publish it, and how it felt at once magnificent and anti-climactic when I finally held the book in my hands.

  ‘But why no more?’ Lisel asked. ‘The book seems to be written by someone who had so much more to say. Why didn’t you say it?’

  I stared at her blankly. She was the English teacher and I was the could-do-better kid who hadn’t done her homework. Worse, I was the kid who’d cribbed someone else’s homework and hadn’t bothered to disguise the fact.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ I finally managed to say. ‘I didn’t know how.’

  ‘Too much too soon, was it?’ Viv suggested.

  ‘No, it wasn’t that. Everyone wanted me to repeat the trick, but I’d forgotten how to do it. And the longer I went on not writing, the more confidence I lost until no one cared any more anyway.’ I was on the verge of tears, stumbling so close to the truth, but far enough away that what I said made no sense.

  ‘Well, it’s a damn shame, whatever the reason,’ Lisel said.

  When we adjourned for tea and biscuits, Lisel drew me over to one side. She spoke quietly, and as she was five foot nothing I had to stoop to hear her.

  ‘My dear, I’m sorry if I was harsh with you. I did wonder if there was perhaps some personal reason why you didn’t write another novel and I’m sorry if I put my foot in it.’

  ‘There is a reason, but it’s one I can’t share with anyone, much as I’d like to.’

  She nodded sagely. ‘I thought as much. Do forgive me for being clumsy.’

  ‘Please – there’s no need – and it was worth coming to hear your critique of A Room with a View. You put into words the thing that has always nagged me about that book.’

  ‘Poor, dear Lucy,’ she sighed. ‘Well, some women aren’t fit for much more than marriage, but if Lucy was such a woman then she didn’t deserve to have a book written about her. Isabel Archer is another one – Portrait of a Lady? Loathsome book! I can just imagine horrible Henry James chortling with pleasure as he pushed Isabel into Gilbert’s arms.’

  ‘Well… different times, of course.’

  ‘No excuse,’ Lisel snapped. ‘I’ve told Viv that if she ever picks a novel by Henry James for us to read, I shall boycott the group.’

  ‘Did you by any chance used to be a teacher?’

  She grinned. ‘For my sins. Head of English at a private girls’ school. The Henry Hill Hickman School, in Reabrook, where I live. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I knew of the school and I knew the village, little more than a hamlet, five or so miles south of Morevale.

  ‘Do I remind you of some hideous old baggage who put you off Shakespeare for life?’

  ‘Only in a superficial way. My English teacher used to bowdlerise Shakespeare, for which I never forgave her.’

  ‘Quite right of you. Shakespeare without the bawdy is like – oh – chips without salt, or cappuccino without the chocolate sprinkles. Are you glad you came tonight or has it been hellish, on the whole?’

  ‘Both,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to come again, put it like that.’

  ‘Fair enough. But if you ever fancy a chat—’ She ripped a sheet of paper from the pad Viv kept next to the telephone and wrote down her address and phone number. ‘I don’t do email, I don’t Skype, and I don’t like people phoning me after nine in the evening. And always ring first – I dislike people turning up unexpectedly.’

  I wanted to be like Lisel, the kind of person who set out her terms so there could be no confusion, no ambiguity.

  ‘Are you married?’ I asked, noticing that she wore no wedding ring.

  ‘Was your English teacher married?’

  I shook my head. ‘The rumour was that her fiancé had died in a tragic accident.’

  She gave a strange, enigmatic smile. ‘We all have our little secrets, don’t we? Perhaps I’ll discover yours. And perhaps you’ll discover mine, who knows?’

  The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly enough. No one quizzed me too thoroughly about the book, and whenever someone asked a question that sailed a little too close to turbulent waters I’d look at Lisel, whose imperceptible nod and small smile gave me courage.

  At the end of the meeting Viv led a ragged round of applause to thank me for coming and I was presented with a small box of artisan chocolates.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t pay you in actual money,’ Viv said, ‘but these are rather lovely, don’t you think?’

  A heart-shaped box with
a red bow tied around it diagonally. Not entirely appropriate, and rather too reminiscent of the fancy chocolates Russell used to buy for me.

  ‘We should have bought you a bottle of good single malt whisky,’ Lisel said as we walked back to our cars. ‘Typical of Viv to go for something so ridiculous.’

  ‘Why typical?’

  ‘No imagination. Well, at least you can eat the chocolates, which is more than you could a bunch of flowers.’ She unlocked the door of her car, a dusty black Golf. ‘Goodnight, my dear. I’m glad we met.’

  I presented the box of chocolates to Simon when I returned home. He raised an eyebrow. ‘My fee for addressing the book group,’ I said.

  ‘So how did it go?’ His voice was hard.

  ‘It was fine. I met a very interesting elderly lady.’

  ‘An interesting old lady and a romantic box of chocolates. Does it get any better than that?’

  ‘They were all perfectly nice people.’

  ‘I’m sure they were. Most people are, at first. I expect you thought I was nice when you first met me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘You’ve no idea.’

  How much damage could he do? He knew too much and it was entirely my fault that he did. Subconsciously, perhaps, I’d wanted to tell someone, had felt it was time the truth came out. Simon was not the person I should have told. I had no excuse for my behaviour, which was predicated on my hopeless greed for him. I adored him and I loathed him. Hated him; loved him.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Like most people, I can be kind when it suits me. Generous, even. Shall I kiss you?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘No? Isn’t that what you want? How long is it since Russell buggered off? Six months? A long time to be without anyone.’

  ‘You’re not as wonderful as you think you are. A pretty face will only get you so far in life.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you? It’s the beautiful people who will inherit the earth, not the kind ones.’ His vindictive gaze on the heart-shaped box which sat there like a reproach. ‘Aren’t you afraid of the future? Don’t you ever worry that Russell was your last shot?’