Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  But to no avail. In a triumph of genetics over parental ambition, Ophelia proved to have inherited her mother’s modest intellect and lack of athletic prowess, together with her father’s well-rounded figure and sturdy legs; and while her parents, in increasing desperation, had continued to throw money at the problem, by the time their daughter reached eighteen, even they had to admit defeat. Ophelia knew that her parents loved her in their way, but she didn’t feel they loved her for herself, and so the disappointment was mutual and, for Ophelia at least, not a little damaging.

  Now, at nineteen, Ophelia lived in a small bed-sit and worked in a nursing home as a care assistant. Her mother had tried to sound encouraging about her choice of occupation (“It sounds very worthwhile, dear.”) but Billy had been furious.

  “I didn’t give you an expensive education just so that you could spend your life wiping bottoms!”

  “I quite like wiping bottoms,” Ophelia had replied. “After all, someone has to do it, and it’s the owners of the bottoms that matter.”

  And it was true. Wiping bottoms was fine once you got used to it, and besides, that was only a small part of her job. Ophelia liked the old people in her care; they had led interesting lives, and above all, they needed her. Ophelia had never in her life felt needed, and it was a new and rather pleasurable experience. Some of the residents would smile when they saw her arriving in the mornings; ask when she was coming back if she was leaving for her day off; offer her elderly chocolates or dried-out fruit off their bedside lockers. No one expected her to be a success or look glamorous (it would have been hard for anyone to look attractive in that unappealing sack-like uniform). Ophelia was accepted for what she was, and while she wasn’t exactly happy, she had at least found a measure of contentment, and for that she was grateful.

  “You could train to be a proper nurse,” Billy had said, in a last-ditch attempt to persuade his daughter into some sort of recognised, respectable career. “Get some letters after your name.”

  Ophelia thought of application forms and interviews, of lectures and exams and the very real possibility of failure at the end of it all, and declined. She had done exams; she had also done failure. She wasn’t going to risk repeating the experience.

  Now Ophelia thought of her grandmother on her own in that dreary house, without the threatening, critical presence of Ernest, and for the first time tried to imagine what it was like for her. Unlike her father, she could well imagine that Annie might not grieve for Ernest in the conventional way (whatever that was), but her life was bound to have changed dramatically, and Ophelia’s curiosity was aroused. She thought of Ernest’s big wing-backed Parker Knoll chair; Ernest’s huge Wellington boots by the back door; Ernest’s chickens (Ernest had always kept chickens, and no one else was allowed to go near them. As a small child, Ophelia had been spanked for feeding them peanuts and crisps); Ernest’s allotment (potatoes, carrots and greens, but no salad vegetables. Ernest had abhorred salads); the ancient packs of cards with which Ernest had played his endless games of patience (a strange game for such an impatient man, Ophelia had always thought). What had happened to them all?

  Ophelia sighed again. She had a feeling she was soon to find out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Andrew

  “It’s the chickens! Oh, the chickens!” Annie’s face, shocked and ashen, hovered behind the security chain across her front doorway. “Oh dear, oh dear!”

  “Have I come at a bad time?” Andrew immediately realised that under the circumstances, this was a particularly stupid question, but Annie’s distress had taken him by surprise.

  “No. Come in! Come in at once! You’ve got to help me! I don’t know what to do!”

  “Well, can you unfasten the door?”

  Annie scrabbled feebly at the chain, her scrabblings punctuated by little gasps of anxiety, and finally managed to get the door open.

  “Now, what’s the problem?” Andrew asked, wiping his feet carefully on the doormat.

  “The chickens!” Annie repeated, wringing her hands.

  “What chickens?”

  “Ernest’s chickens. Rhode Island somethings. Ernest was very fond of them. And now they’re all dead!”

  “But how? I mean, what happened to them? Was it a fox?”

  “No. No fox. It was me. I killed them. I — I forgot to feed them.”

  “Ah.” Andrew was beginning to understand. “How long were they without food?”

  “Weeks,” said Annie. “I haven’t fed them since Ernest died. He always did it himself. He wouldn’t let anyone else near them. I forgot all about them. And then I went down to the bottom of the garden and there they were. They look terrible.”

  Andrew could imagine that chickens which had been starved to death over a period of weeks might indeed look terrible.

  “Would you like to come and see them?”

  “Well, I’d rather not,” Andrew said. “After all, if they’re dead, there’s nothing much I can do for them, is there?” Ernest’s ashes he could cope with. Ernest’s dead chickens Andrew felt he could do without.

  But Annie appeared not to have heard him.

  “They’re this way,” she said, visibly cheered by his presence, as she led the way through the house and down the garden path. “They all had names, you know. You wouldn’t think that Ernest would be the sort of person to give chickens names, would you?”

  Andrew, who felt that he was beginning to know Ernest quite well, agreed that you wouldn’t.

  They made their way through a rickety gate in the hedge which divided the small back garden, and found the half-dozen pathetic little bundles of feathers scattered haphazardly about the bare earth of the chicken run. Together, they stood regarding the scene of devastation.

  “What do you think we should do?” Annie asked.

  “Well, they’ll have to be removed, of course,” Andrew said, with the sinking realisation that the task of disposing of the corpses was almost certainly going to fall to him.

  “We could bury them,” Annie suggested. “Or,” she added, thinking of Ernest and what he would have liked, “we could burn them.”

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” said Andrew, who had neither the time nor the inclination to start making bonfires. He had allowed half an hour for this visit, and if you took into account the length of time it had taken Annie to answer the door, he had already been with her for twenty minutes. “We’ll bury them. It shouldn’t take long.”

  But anyone who has ever had to dig a hole big enough to accommodate the remains of six chickens in rock-hard ground in the middle of February could have told Andrew that his approach to the task was somewhat over-optimistic, and, with Annie making encouraging noises from the relative warmth of the garden shed, it took nearly an hour for the job to be completed.

  “There!” said Andrew at last, treading down the last of the soil and acknowledging that he had greatly underestimated the work involved in grave-digging. “That’s done.”

  “Should we — should we mark it in some way?” said Annie, who was still somewhat preoccupied with ritual and funerals.

  “I don’t think so,” said Andrew quickly, for he had three more visits and a confirmation class to squeeze into the rest of his day, and was already running late. “After all,” he added more gently, “they were Ernest’s chickens, and he was the one who would have wanted to remember them. It’s probably best just to leave them like this.”

  “Then we’ll have a cup of tea, shall we?”

  “That would be nice. Just a quick one.”

  As Andrew stood in Annie’s kitchen watching her fill the kettle at the sink, pour milk into a jug, and assemble blue and white cups and saucers, it occurred to him that he still didn’t really know any more about her than he had at the end of his last visit. He had come hoping to draw her out; to get her to talk. And all he had done was spend an uncomfortable afternoon burying chickens.

  “How — how are you then?” he asked casually, as Annie pass
ed him his cup.

  Annie looked at him warily. “What do you mean, how am I?”

  “Well, how’ve you been managing recently? How are you feeling?”

  Annie stirred her tea. “I wish Billy hadn’t sent you,” she said suddenly. “It would be better if you’d come without Billy having sent you.”

  “Billy didn’t send me,” Andrew said. “He asked me to visit you. And,” he added, guessing where this was leading, “what you say is strictly between the two of us. I shan’t tell him anything of what we talk about.”

  “You won’t? Not even about the chickens?”

  “Especially not about the chickens.”

  Annie smiled, and it occurred to Andrew that it was the first time he had seen her do so. He leaned forward and patted her hand.

  “You can trust me, you know.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Annie paused, sipping her tea. “Ophelia might be coming to stay,” she said suddenly.

  “Ophelia?”

  “My granddaughter. Billy’s daughter. She’s coming to spy on me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’s not.”

  “Yes, she is. She’s never been to stay before, and then she rings up, bold as you like, and says can she come and stay for the weekend. What d’you think about that? I’ve managed to put her off for a few weeks, but I can’t do it forever. And I haven’t even got any bedclothes for the spare bed. I expect she’s used to sleeping under one of those thick fluffy things, and I haven’t got one of those, either.”

  “You mean a duvet?”

  “That’s the one. Nasty hot things. Ernest and I had to sleep under one once in this bed and breakfast place. It kept sliding off, and I woke up to see Ernest’s feet sticking up at the bottom of the bed. He had very big feet, did Ernest. Size thirteen. They gave me the fright of my life, I can tell you.”

  “What’s she like, your granddaughter?” Andrew asked, anxious to get away from the subject of Ernest’s feet.

  “I don’t see her that often,” Annie said. “She’s all right, I suppose. Not pretty, and she’s inherited Billy’s figure. Not clever, either, or that’s what Billy says. But she’s nice enough. To be honest, I don’t really feel I know her that well.”

  Andrew privately thought that for a young girl to be the same sort of shape as Billy as well as being his daughter must be an unfortunate start in life, but at least the girl was making an effort, and that had to be applauded.

  “It will be company for you, anyway,” he said. “Someone to talk to.”

  “Someone to talk to!” Suddenly Annie was shouting. “Someone to talk to about Ernest dying! That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? That’s what Billy wants. It’s what you want.”

  “Not necessarily—”

  “Yes it is! But why should I want to talk about Ernest? Ernest is dead. He died outside the fish and chip shop. Why did he have to die there?” She was banging about the kitchen now, clearing away the teacups. “He’d had his lunch, hadn’t he? What was he doing outside the fish and chip shop? You tell me that, if you can. I gave him a nice lunch of sardines. What was he doing?” Annie paused, red-faced, clutching the teapot to her chest.

  “I don’t know,” Andrew admitted. “But it’s okay to feel angry, you know. In fact, it’s quite normal. Lots of people feel angry when someone they’re close to dies. It’s quite natural.” Just for a moment, he felt he was on home ground. Annie was going through one of the recognised stages of bereavement, and Andrew knew all about those. Maybe at last he was getting somewhere. Perhaps he would be able to help after all.

  “But don’t you see?” shouted Annie, exasperated. “I wasn’t close to Ernest! No one was ever close to Ernest! Well, perhaps Billy was a bit, but not me and not anyone else, either. It’s you I’m angry with. You and Billy and everyone. All asking questions and wanting to know how I feel. No one ever used to ask how I felt when Ernest was alive. That was when I needed asking. Not now. Not any more.”

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew said, feeling that once again he was getting out of his depth.

  “I don’t want sorry!” Annie cried. “Everyone’s sorry now, when it’s too late! No one was sorry then. Not when I needed them. No one understood. Not even Billy. He saw the marks. He should have known. But he never said, and Ernest wouldn’t let me tell anyone.”

  “Are you saying — are you telling me that Ernest hurt you?” In spite of himself, Andrew was shocked.

  “Not often. Not so much recently. He wasn’t so strong recently, what with the arthritis.” Annie put down the teapot. Her anger seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it had been aroused, and she looked tired and drained. “But he’s always had a nasty temper, and if things weren’t right — if I didn’t do things the way he wanted — then he’d get angry and sometimes he’d hit me.”

  “And you never told anyone?”

  “Who was there to tell? Billy wouldn’t have been any good. He’d never hear a word against Ernest. And there wasn’t anyone else. Ernest said I wasn’t to tell anyone and that no one would believe me anyway, and I expect he was right. People — other people — thought a lot of Ernest. He was on committees and things. Not the sort of person you’d expect to hit his wife. Not that sort of person at all.”

  “So now you feel he’s — got away with it.” At last Andrew was beginning to have a glimmer of understanding.

  Annie considered for a moment.

  “I suppose that could be it. Now no one will ever know what happened, will they?”

  “Not if you don’t choose to tell them.”

  “But I’ve told you. I shouldn’t have told you.” Annie plucked anxiously at her cardigan. “Not now he’s dead.”

  “But that’s exactly why you can tell me. It’s safe to tell me now. Perhaps you need to tell someone what happened. It’s a big secret to keep to yourself, isn’t it?”

  “A big secret,” Annie echoed. “Not a very nice secret, though.”

  “A horrible secret,” Andrew agreed.

  “But there’s a lot more. A lot more that Ernest wouldn’t want me to tell anyone.” Annie paused. “Could I tell you all that as well, even though I promised not to?”

  “I suppose it depends what it is. Would it harm anyone? That’s what you need to ask yourself.”

  “It would harm Ernest. That’s what he always said. He said it would harm me, too, but I didn’t mind as much as he did. What would people think, if they knew?’ he used to say. He minded very much what people thought. Because of the committees and things.”

  “Well, it can’t harm him now, can it? And if it makes you feel better to tell someone, then I don’t see that it would matter that much. But only you can decide.”

  “Only I can decide,” Annie repeated, and it occurred to Andrew that she had probably been allowed to make very few decisions in the course of her marriage. Ernest would have seen to that. “It’s got sex in it,” she added unexpectedly.

  “What has?”

  “The secret.”

  “That’s all right. Lots of secrets seem to be about sex. You’d be surprised.”

  “All right then. I’ll have to see.”

  “Think about it. In the meantime, it’s time I got going.” Looking at his watch, Andrew saw that he was now running horribly late. His remaining visits would have to be postponed, and even then, he would be in danger of being late for confirmation class. He stood up.

  “Shall I come back?” he asked. “Would you like me to come again?”

  “I think you’d better.” While her expression was serious, there was a note in Annie’s voice which was almost teasing. “After all, you’ve only heard the beginning, haven’t you?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Andrew

  Nowadays, Andrew rarely thought about sex. There had been a time when, in common with most young men (or so he imagined), he had thought of little else, but that time was long past. It must be a couple of years — maybe even more — since he and Janet had made love, and now it seemed no more than a d
istant memory. She had never been keen, although she had always made herself available (that was how Andrew thought of it) when required, and finally, thus starved of encouragement, any desire he might have felt for her had shrivelled and died. He could see that she was still a nice-looking woman, but he no longer wanted that kind of intimacy with her. Years of one-sided sexual activity had made him feel somehow vulnerable and at a disadvantage, and he was at enough of a disadvantage in his marriage as it was. Eventually, he had moved his things into the spare bedroom, pleading insomnia, and Janet had let him go without comment. Their sex life had died, its death unmourned and unacknowledged.

  At first, Andrew had blamed himself. Janet had never enjoyed sex, but maybe there was something more he could have done. She had been a virgin when they married, her Christianity and her virginity packaged together and presented to him like a dowry, and while he himself had had one or two groping sexual encounters, he had hardly been experienced. He had — naively, he now realised — imagined that married love would be something special; that the fact that their sexual congress had been sanctioned by the church would make it easy and natural, as well as enjoyable. But the solid, lumpish, dutiful form of Janet waiting for him between the sheets on their wedding night had put paid to that. Whereas before, she had appeared to be affectionate and responsive, now she seemed braced, as though for some form of combat. In vain had Andrew murmured endearments, kissed her and caressed her, but all to no avail. Janet and her honeymoon nightdress (white broderie anglais — she had pulled it up over her hips to aid his progress) awaited his attentions with stoicism but no enthusiasm. I am here, she seemed to say; take me; do what you have to do. But don’t expect me to get involved.

  Afterwards, as they lay awkwardly together while Andrew tried to think of a suitable way of disposing of the wedding-night condom (no instructions on the packet for that), he tried to talk to the still silent Janet.