by Alice Castle
‘Good of you, yes, good of you. Infuriating woman, in many ways,’ she said, quite airily.
‘Excuse me?’ Beth felt herself bridle. Was this woman talking about her mother? True, very few encounters with Wendy came and went without Beth thinking far more highly coloured thoughts about her – but then, Wendy was her mother. She couldn’t tolerate even mild criticism of Wendy from a total stranger. That was breaking all the rules.
‘Heart’s in the right place, though,’ the tiny woman continued. ‘So, she’s got you looking into it, has she? Good for her. She did mention something of the sort, but I thought she’d never get round to it. You know what she’s like.’
Beth, who very much did, seethed silently. Perhaps the woman sensed something, for she carried on.
‘Well, let me think back. Not easy at my age, you know. But yes, there was definitely something odd about the way that poor old Alf snuffed it. You take it from me.’
Beth immediately decided to take nothing this woman said at face value. If she’d ventured an opinion about the day of the week, Beth would have checked and cross-referenced it thoroughly before trusting the information.
‘What makes you think that?’ she asked through narrowed eyes.
‘Bit fishy, that’s all. Fishy, wasn’t it, Tinker?’ she looked to her little mutt for confirmation, and the dog barked sharply. ‘See?’ she said, as if that was as good as a signed confession. And, with that, she was shuffling off again. Beth took a dainty side-step and stood in front of her.
‘Listen, I really need more information than that. Did you see anything? Is that why you’re so sure?’
‘Ha! Not catching me that way, young lady. Wasn’t born yesterday,’ said the woman, adjusting the angle of her shuffle slightly and continuing on. Tinker’s lead looped inexorably round Beth’s leg and she shook it off crossly.
‘Look, can we sit down and talk about this?’ Beth asked, gesturing to the bench, then remembering and hastily adding, ‘Not there, not there! Maybe inside Belair House?’ Then she realised how long it would take them to reach it at the current rate of progress. ‘How about that bench?’ she asked instead, pointing to one a short distance away.
The old lady looked at her shrewdly. ‘Want to pick my brains, do you? Hmm, I’m not surprised. After listening to all Wendy’s gibbering, you probably want a sensible version of the story. Can’t blame you. Well, do we have time, Tinker?’ she looked down at the little dog, who put his head on one side for a moment, before yapping briefly once.
‘Oh, all right then. He insists, you see,’ said the lady, starting the long (for her) trudge to the bench.
Beth wondered if it would be very rude if she just sat down and waited, but decided instead that she might as well start on her questions while they were infinitesimally on the move.
‘Taking you back to that day, did you see Alfie going out to sit on the bench?’ she started.
‘Nope. Must have missed that bit. Playing bridge, you know. That was the point of the exercise, not keeping the members under scrutiny. Just became aware of it once the whole hoo-ha was well under way. Surprising how much that happens,’ she reflected.
‘Once you did see him, what did you think? Did you, er, know he was dead straight away?’
The lady paused. ‘Nope. He was sitting bolt upright, but then, he always had a bit of a military bearing. Very nice shoulders, you know,’ she added confidingly, with a reminiscent look in her bright brown eyes.
Beth registered surprise for a moment, then wondered. Was it possible that Alfie had been a bit of a catch? And if he was, what did that mean for her mother’s interest in him? Beth shook off the uncomfortable feeling. The absolute last thing she wanted to be doing with her free time was probing her mother’s love life.
Wendy was entitled to have one, of course she was. It had been decades since Beth’s father had died, and these days Beth was in no position to pretend that it was necessary to remain forever faithful to one’s first love. But that didn’t make it any easier to think about. Beth suppressed a shudder and turned back to the matter in hand.
‘Listen, I’m so sorry, I don’t know your name?’
The lady paused in mid-shuffle and Beth immediately cursed her social instincts. She’d inadvertently slowed things down even further. But once she’d proffered a tiny hand and shaken Beth’s surprisingly hard, the woman got back to shuffling quite quickly.
‘Rebecca. Rebecca Greaves. Mrs Greaves to you. And you’ll be young Betty.’
‘Beth,’ Beth corrected automatically.
‘That’s right, Betty,’ said Mrs Greaves, finally reaching the bench and subsiding onto it gratefully. She turned a baleful eye to the other bench and shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Poor old Alf. He had so much more left in him, if you know what I mean.’
For a second, Beth didn’t quite realise what she was looking at. Mrs Greaves seemed to have something in her eye. Something enormous, given the contortions her face was taking on. Then it dawned on Beth that her companion was winking. Very, very slowly. Ugh. She had to move things on and try and find out something she did want to know about Alfie.
‘Um. If you could just tell me why you think something wasn’t quite right that day. You said…’
‘It was the way he was sitting. Rigid, you know. But not in a good way,’ she cackled.
Beth looked at her quickly. She was starting to get some odd ideas about the activities of the Bridge Club that she really didn’t want to explore.
‘Yes, quite a gathering there was, by the time I got here.’ This didn’t surprise Beth at all. She was only astonished that the whole matter, and poor old Alfie, hadn’t been tidied away by the time Mrs Greaves straggled onto the scene.
‘Of course, I had my electric chair that day.’
‘Electric?’ Beth ventured.
‘Well, I call it that. Like that nice Stephen Hawking’s chair – but faster. Amazing thing. And I can put Tinker here in the basket,’ she smiled, while the wiry little dog showed the whites of his eyes for a moment in what looked like terror.
Beth closed her own eyes briefly on the vision. ‘So, you were here soon – well, reasonably soon – after… it… happened?’
‘After he died. Yes. Why is your generation so mealy-mouthed about death, I wonder? It’s coming to us all, you know. Even if you’re gluten-free,’ she said with surprising venom.
‘I don’t have a problem with gluten,’ Beth said defensively.
Mrs Greaves snorted. ‘You’ll have a problem with death, though, I’ll be bound,’ she said tersely.
Beth wondered for a moment. Well, yes. But was that unreasonable? She thought not. Death wasn’t good, in whatever form it took you. She wanted to use her time, while she had it. All the more reason to crack on now.
‘So, if I can ask… what did Alfie actually look like? Were there any signs of, erm, foul play?’
Mrs Greaves thought for a moment. Beth waited breathlessly, and the whole of the Park seemed to breathe quietly with her. There was the mildest sound of dripping from the wet foliage, a husky panting sound from Tinker, very distant traffic noises from the Village. Quite peaceful. If she hadn’t been waiting for crucial information, Beth might have taken the moment to relax. As it was, she was at screaming point by the time Mrs Greaves opened her mouth again.
‘I’m sorry, what were we saying?’
Beth ground her teeth silently. ‘I was just asking you how Alfie looked, you know…?’
‘Oh yes. Ghoulish lot, your generation. In my day—’
‘Um, any thoughts on Alfie? You did say earlier you thought things were a bit “fishy”?’ Beth couldn’t quite believe that she’d got her hands on a witness, only to be baulked by the woman’s complete inability to divulge any information.
‘Rigid. That’s all I can say, really. A bit too, you know, upright. Usually people slump a bit. Seen a few, over the years, and generally people are horizontal, not vertical. Hum. That’s all I can say really. Flo would know, of cours
e.’
‘Flo? Flo who?’ Beth wracked her brains for a Flo that Wendy might have mentioned. ‘Is she in the Bridge Club, too?’
‘Flo? No, don’t be ridiculous, dear. Of course not. She worked at the undertakers. Years ago, now.’
‘Um, you think I should ask her, though?’ Beth considered the thought. Perhaps it wasn’t as batty as it sounded. If this person worked at a funeral parlour, she’d certainly know a thing or two about corpses. If there really was anything peculiar about Alfie’s posture, then she’d be the ideal person to chat to. ‘Where would I find her?’
‘Who?’
‘Um, this Flo you suggested?’
Mrs Greaves cackled again, and this time had to delve in her pockets for a battered old cough sweet before she could go on. ‘Don’t be silly, dear. Flo won’t tell you anything.’
‘She won’t? Why?’
‘Six feet under, dear, that’s why,’ said the old lady, laughing again at her own extraordinary wit. At her feet, little Tinker echoed his owner by opening his mouth in a big hairy grin.
Beth got up from the bench, propelled by a sudden burst of irritation. This was getting her exactly nowhere. Then she sat down again abruptly. Unless she was very much mistaken, there was another member of the Bridge Club coming their way. It was Miriam, a sort-of friend of her mother’s, who’d been tangentially involved in Beth’s investigation of an artist’s death last January. In fact, it was really Miriam’s dog Liquorice that she recognised. He was a bigger version of Tinker; she remembered Miriam and her friend describing him as a Heinz – fifty-seven varieties. His stubby tail was like a metronome on allegro, his bristly coat was studded with bits of leaf, and he had a chunky twig clenched in his teeth. It had clearly been a busy morning.
Miriam raised a hand in the air in vague greeting but looked set to march onwards. The collar of her jacket was pulled up against the chill and she had a scarf wrapped round her neck. She seemed deep in thought. Beth couldn’t let this chance pass her by, though.
‘Miriam, hi. Won’t you join us?’
Miriam looked up, seeming confused, then took a closer look. ‘Hi, Rebecca, I thought it was you. And… erm? I do know you, don’t I?’ she said, squinting at Beth.
‘It’s Betty, Wendy’s daughter,’ announced Mrs Greaves loudly, drowning out Beth’s attempts to put her straight. ‘She wants to ask you lots of questions about Alf. You know, poor old Alf Pole.’
‘Alf?’ Miriam all but leapt out of her skin. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Oh, Wendy’s got a bee in her bonnet. Thinks there was something up with him.’
Miriam seemed to weigh the matter, while her dog took advantage of her indecision to pad forward and say hello to Tinker. The two enjoyed a good sniff of each other’s bits and bobs before Miriam appeared to decide. Then she wedged herself onto the bench between the two women. It was all a little more intimate than Beth liked to be with virtual strangers, and altogether too reminiscent of the shoe department at Peter Jones, but she was excited enough about the prospect of getting more information not to edge too far away. She didn’t want to seem unfriendly.
‘So, you were there on the, erm, fateful day, were you, Miriam?’ she asked.
Miriam sighed and shook her head, her well-cut grey bob fanning out around her. Her lipstick was a vivid slash in a pale face whose tone was not a million miles from her ashy hair. Altogether, Beth thought she looked like a well-heeled woman who was determined to come over as ‘alternative’. Her clothes – a donkey jacket that Harry York would have loved (and would have looked devastatingly handsome in), her shiny Doc Marten boots, her thick magenta tights, and curiously pleated red cotton skirt – would all have looked at home on a twenty-something student at Central St Martin’s art school. But they were all suspiciously clean and fragrant which, Beth rather thought, was not authentic. Or hadn’t been in her own student days, at any rate. If David Hockney had decided to dress as a woman of a certain age and sit on a London park bench… but Miriam was speaking.
‘Well, yes, I was there, unfortunately. I rather wish I hadn’t been. Poor old Alf. One moment he seemed fine, the next… well, you’ve heard. When I say that, it was probably about twenty minutes, to be fair. Long enough for him to have a heart attack or whatever it was.’
‘Wait, were you actually playing with him right before it all, ah, happened?’
‘Well, yes, as it turns out. Wendy and Alf were North/South. Wendy always plays South. Even though she’s one of our more, ah, able-bodied members, she likes to stay put. All her scarves, you know. So, Jules and I were East and West, although Jules’s hip is giving her such pain these days,’ said Miriam with a sympathetic wince.
‘Oh, I see, the East/West team move around, do they?’ Beth asked. Both women looked at her as if she had two heads. ‘What? I’m just learning all this stuff.’
‘Yes, East and West move, North and South sit at the same table all through the session. Apart from during the break, naturally. And North does the scoring. I think that’s one of the reasons Wendy likes to be South,’ Miriam said confidingly.
Beth looked blank, until Rebecca Greaves took pity on her.
‘Well, she’s never really got the hang of the scoring,’ she said, as though it were perfectly obvious. ‘And, between you, me, and the park gates, I think worrying about losing her scarves is just a pose,’ said Mrs Greaves with a smirk.
‘Honestly, it’s not,’ said Beth, who had a cupboard full of scarves that Wendy had accidentally left at her house over the years. One day, she’d drive them to Wendy’s and dump them back where they belonged, along with her misplaced beads. But little though she liked some of Wendy’s quirks, she wasn’t quite happy with others laughing at them. ‘Can we just get back to Alfie?’ she asked a little stiffly. ‘He wasn’t showing any signs of being ill, or of anything being off, before he went for the break?’
Miriam thought hard. ‘Well, it’s some time ago now,’ she said apologetically. ‘And we don’t talk that much between hands. You know, some of us are quite serious about the bridge.’
Beth knew her mother fell into this category, though today’s revelation that she couldn’t manage the scoring system was surprising.
‘Not even a bit of chit-chat, about the weather, say?’ Beth couldn’t really imagine any English gathering that could function successfully without adequate discussion of what the day offered, in terms of precipitation, aeration, and illumination.
Miriam sighed. ‘I don’t think so… wait a minute, something’s coming back to me…’
Beth waited breathlessly. The three women’s shoulders rubbed against each other. It was a bit like being in a strange séance, as she tried not to move and derail Miriam’s train of thought.
‘Oh, it’s gone. Damn, I really thought I had something there. Does that ever happen to you?’ Miriam asked, turning her head to one side and then the other, her iron-grey locks brushing Beth’s shoulder.
Beth bit back her irritation. No, it didn’t, because she was still in possession of her full quota of marbles. Though more days like today might well see her losing them. ‘Rebecca? Erm, Mrs Greaves? Anything?’
‘Any what, young lady?’ said the older lady in stern tones. ‘Oh, I see. Reminiscences about dear old Alf. From his last day on earth. Well, I wonder, now. No, that couldn’t be relevant. And you wouldn’t be interested.’
Beth nearly jumped down her throat – difficult when she was separated from the woman by Miriam and two dogs. ‘What? What? Anything would help at this stage.’
‘Oh, just that he seemed worried about his allotment. You know, I always tune out a bit when men talk about gardening. Don’t you, dear?’ she asked Miriam, who nodded. ‘Can’t get excited about mulching. Never could, even in my youth,’ she added with her trademark cackle.
Here, Beth couldn’t blame her. ‘But what was he saying about it? It’s funny, my mother mentioned it, too. But she said Alfie didn’t actually do much of the work himself.’
Mrs G
reaves looked at her darkly from one side, while Miriam swung her bob at her from the other. ‘Really? She said that, did she? She can be quite perceptive at times, your mother. Despite all that froufrou.’
Again, Beth fought against annoyance. It was true that Wendy had moments of strange far-sightedness. And it was also undeniable that her mannerisms could try the patience of a saint.
‘Well, can’t sit here all day discussing gardening. I’ve got jobs of my own to be getting on with,’ said Mrs Greaves, levering herself off the bench with some difficulty and wrapping Tinker’s lead around her fist.
Miriam didn’t need any further prompting but shot up as well and was soon hurrying off in the opposite direction, with Liquorice at her heels. Beth sat for a moment or two longer, mostly to give both women time to get clear.
She, possibly uniquely of the little trio, did have important claims on her time. Ben, Colin, Harry, housework, Wyatt’s… but the more she thought about the weight of chores and responsibilities that awaited her, the comfier the cold bench seemed.
Chapter Eight
Despite Beth’s gloomy moment on the bench, everyone seemed to manage perfectly well that day without her micromanagement. When she’d picked Ben up in the afternoon, he’d been quiet but seemed happy enough. And Colin had apparently coped on his own for a few hours without either gnawing the furniture, or being gnawed in turn by Magpie.
Supper was produced, eaten, and cleared without incident, though she had to cover Harry’s helping with a plate and stow it in the fridge, yet again. No doubt something had come up. She supposed she ought to try and train him to let her know, but it was a lot more peaceful to let such niceties slide and just be happy to see him when he did deign to appear. She knew her mother would have had a lot to say about this arrangement, if she’d known. Much of it would have been along the lines of ‘why buy the cow, if you’re getting the milk for free?’ There was some truth in such views, but then, Beth was also getting something free, without the bother of a permanent man about the place and all the compromise that could involve. Perhaps they both benefitted.
