by Emma Jameson
Old Enemies
12 October, 1939
Ben’s first day of medical practice was gentle. His caller at the side door turned out to be the vicar’s wife with a covered dish—pear crumble—and an invitation to church that Sunday. She’d accepted his vague assurance to visit St. Mark’s “soon,” complimented his new office, and offered condolences on the loss of his wife. Like Juliet, the woman seemed reluctant to speak of Penny or reminisce about their school days. Clearly, the rector’s wife had never counted Penny as a friend.
Perhaps I actually should be compiling an enemies list, he’d thought. Not for me, but for Penny.
The special patient-door buzzer didn’t sound again, leaving Ben free to examine his new home’s lower level more thoroughly. In addition to the donated furniture, rugs, framed art and wireless, someone had provided a battered old steamer trunk filled with distractions. Inside its newspaper-lined, camphor-smelling depths, he found a jump rope, two decks of cards, eight metal darts, a paperback copy of Treasure Island, some watercolors, a bag of marbles, a cricket bat, a baby doll whose porcelain head was only loosely connected, and a wooden board carved with letters and numbers. Ben, who’d grown up playing anagrams with plastic letter tiles, puzzled over it for a moment, taking it for some sort of word game. Then it all came together: A-Z, 0-9, a rayed sun on the upper left, a crescent moon on the upper right, HELLO at the top and GOOD-BYE at the bottom. His grandmother had owned one of these “talking boards,” as she called it, though most people referred to them now as Ouija boards. There was no planchette for alleged spirits to move and spell out messages, however, which made Ben unaccountably grateful. He was a man of science, not superstition, and certainly not old Victorian parlor tricks. But as a little boy, he’d feared the talking board, the collection of letters that could bridge the gap between life and death. His grandmother had forbidden him to so much as touch the planchette. So its absence was comforting, though he could hardly admit it, even to himself.
By four o’clock he was hungry. The pantry contained a few staples like flour, baking soda, and Lyons Golden Syrup; the icebox held margarine and one brown egg. He had no idea how to transform those raw elements into what he really wanted—a filet mignon and mashed potatoes—so he uncovered the dish of pear crumble and went to work. He’d demolished half of it, washing it down with a mug of tap water, when Lady Juliet and Mrs. Cobblepot arrived. What they discovered—dessert eaten straight out of the pan with the first utensil he could find, a gravy spoon—apparently confirmed their opinion he was a man incapable of surviving alone.
“A housekeeper?” he echoed as the determined pair swept into the kitchen, Lady Juliet armed with something wrapped in butcher’s paper. Two impulses warred inside. One resented the interference of officious, condescending females bursting into his new home, clucking over a perfectly serviceable meal as if it were anyone’s affair what he chose to eat. The other wanted to cheer in relief. Rescue had arrived and brought along a nice leg of lamb. He could keep the food and shoo them out, but he couldn’t properly season and cook that joint, not if it meant the firing squad.
“A housekeeper, cook, and light nurse all rolled into one,” Lady Juliet confirmed as Mrs. Cobblepot unpacked her grocery basket: onions, potatoes, sausage, oats, dried currants, coffee, and tinned milk. “No doubt you’ll be on your feet soon enough, and while I’m sure you can brew your own tea and sew your own buttons, don’t forgot you’re the only physician for miles. That means Barking and the outskirts of Plymouth, as well as Birdswing. Once word gets out, you won’t have a spare moment. In a time of war, it’s criminally inefficient to task a doctor with doing the washing up. Besides, this cottage is too large for one person. Best go ahead and take in a useful sort like Mrs. Cobblepot, someone who can contribute, before the Army billets a stranger in your spare bedroom once evacuations resume.”
Lady Juliet sounded so matter-of-fact as she said this, so sweetly rational, Ben found all shreds of resistance draining away. At the same time, he regarded her with fresh admiration. How very deft of her to prop up his ego, promote Mrs. Cobblepot’s abilities, and make it all sound like patriotism in the process.
“I agree completely. And feel certain Mrs. Cobblepot will soon make herself indispensable.” Ben nodded at the matronly woman, sixty if she was a day, her smile as bright and unfiltered as a little girl’s. “But I can still depend on you to carry me around from time to time, can’t I, Lady Juliet?”
He expected a laugh, but received a glare. “No, indeed, Dr. Bones. Such expectations only breed sloth. Arise and walk as quick as you may, or I’ll tear a page from the Sir Shackleton’s book and have you transported around the village via dog sled.” Shoulders back and head high, Lady Juliet swept out of Fenton House without a goodbye for the second time that day.
“I can never tell if I’ve offended her or not,” Ben told Mrs. Cobblepot.
“Oh, don’t fret, love. No one understands Lady Juliet. Dog sleds and South pole explorers! She always says the oddest things.” Clucking indulgently, Mrs. Cobblepot drew aside the curtain concealing the larder shelves, pulling her spectacles down her nose to read the tins’ labels. “It’s why she and your Penny never got on. But I’m sure you know all about that. Penny was the belle of the ball. She expected the other girls to hang on her every word, not try and change the subject to bygone eras and faraway places. I was their elementary school teacher, you know, before I married.” Peering into the flour canister, she let out a grateful sigh. “No creepy-crawlies, thank goodness. Mr. Vine’s raised the price of flour twice since war was declared.”
Intending to rinse his gravy spoon, Ben wheeled to the sink. “I have the impression no one much cared for Penny.”
Mrs. Cobblepot gave him a stricken look. “Heavens, listen to me! Lady Juliet’s not the only one who has trouble controlling what comes out of her mouth. Only what I say is all too easy to decipher. Never mind that, dear.” She plucked the spoon from his hand. “From this moment forward, the kitchen is my domain. And do forgive me if I seemed to speak ill of the dead.”
“Yes. Avoiding that is a nice custom, a well-meaning custom,” Ben said carefully, hoping his new housekeeper liked to talk as much as he suspected. “But at the moment, I’m more interested in honesty. I realize we’ve only just met, Mrs. Cobblepot, but would you permit me to share something with you in confidence?”
Her eyes widened. Smoothing her dress with both hands, she said, “Why, yes, Dr. Bones. Yes, of course.”
“Penny and I had a brief courtship. Some would say we married in haste. As we became more accustomed to one another….” Lord, he sounded like a patient, launching into a saga starting with his birth in response to the question, “How long have you had that rash?” Was it really so hard to admit the truth?
He started over. “The fact is, we were on the point of separating when the accident occurred. And as I come to know Birdswing and the people who live here, I suspect I hardly knew my wife at all.”
Mrs. Cobblepot didn’t answer right away. Locating the kettle, she filled it with water and set it to boil. Placing a pair of cups and saucers on the table, she sat down on one side of the table while he maneuvered his chair to the opposite side. When she spoke again, her manner had changed. Gone was the housekeeper, eager to please. This was the woman behind the amiable mask, her tone more serious, her sentences not peppered by self-conscious smiles or laughs.
“Tell me, doctor. Have you known many pretty girls in your life? No doubt London’s full of them. Perhaps there Penny was just one in a crowd, but here… here she was a beauty. There’s only one of those per village per generation, thank goodness. No small community could ever survive two.” Lifting her cup, another donated bit of neighborly goodwill that didn’t match its saucer, she ran a finger along the chipped rim. “But back to my question. Have you known many pretty girls?”
“Only by acquaintance, I suppose. I had no sisters, and Penny was the first girl to give me the time of day when I was still a
gawkish student. Though I’d like to think I don’t categorize anyone, male or female, solely by their looks,” he added, hoping it was true.
“Of course not. I don’t mean a pretty face guarantees any particular qualities. But we’re only human. We always think what we see is what we get. And girls like Penny know that and take advantage. It’s almost as if… oh, Dr. Bones, you mustn’t think us terribly unchristian, but there’s a touch of the old religion in Birdswing. In all of Cornwall, really. My mother believed in fairies, the good and the bad. She would have said a bad fairy slipped into baby Penny’s nursery and whispered in her ear.”
“Old religion?” Ben repeated, lost.
“The faith of the first people in Britain, before the Anglo-Saxons. The people who raised the standing stones. There was a henge here once, when it was a hamlet called Crow’s Wing. Long before Sir Thaddeus Linton turned up in 1840 and renamed it Birdswing.”
“And… fairies?” Ben fought to keep a neutral expression. “Whispering what?”
“Why, what bad fairies always tell us. ‘You’re the only one who matters.’” Mrs. Cobblepot flicked at a crumb on the tabletop. “You must remember, I was Penny’s primary school teacher. I watched her spread stories about her little friends, the very girls she played dolls with, telling half-truths and lies. I don’t know which child was the first to give her a present—her own favorite toy—to make Penny stop. But I know after that she had power over all of them. And the power grew every year. She always had ha’pennies, mint humbugs, a new ribbon for her hair. Sometimes a parent would make an accusation but naught ever came of it. Penny’s father worshipped her, and for him she was sweetness, dimples, and curls. Maybe he should have seen through her.” Mrs. Cobblepot shrugged. “Some say the mum and dad are always to blame, and since I was never blessed with children of my own, I have no right to my opinion. But I taught little ones for more than fifteen years, and all I know is, she came to me like that. All time and experience did was strengthen what was already there.”
“She didn’t look back fondly on Birdswing,” Ben said. “She told me the villagers were envious of her father’s fortune.”
“But Mr. Eubanks hadn’t earned it yet.” Mrs. Cobblepot looked surprised. “That came later, when Penny was about sixteen. They packed off to London soon after.” The kettle began to whistle. Rising, she went to the stove and filled the teapot. “I do hope these tea leaves aren’t stale. Let’s give it extra time to steep.” Placing the pot between them, she resumed her seat. “It’s just as well they left when they did, after that awful business with the Archers and the Hibbets.”
He waited.
“But you know about all that, don’t you?”
Rather than meet her eyes, Ben picked up the teapot and poured. He’d only just met the woman, passed only a little time in her company, and yet he was tempted to spill it out to her, that first betrayal, the thing that had come between him and Penny. He’d never confided in anyone, telling himself it was dishonorable to share his wife’s secrets but really just ashamed to admit the truth. The mad impulse to blurt it out, to get it off his chest at last, held sway until he realized there was no cream or sugar on the table.
“Oh, we’re missing a few things. No, stay there, Mrs. Cobblepot. This wheelchair works, I assure you.” Maneuvering carefully in the tight space, he found teaspoons but nothing else. “Ah, well. I often drank it plain on hospital rounds. And no, if Penny had some trouble before she left Birdswing, she never saw fit to tell me. What happened with the, er, Hibbets, you said?”
“The Archers came first. That story was always muddled, and I know so little, it’s naught but gossip. Still, you have a right to know what folks might say about your late wife, so I’ll repeat it to you.” She blew on her tea before tasting it. “I didn’t live in Birdswing when it happened. I lived in Plymouth with my husband Tom. We married late, you know, and had only sixteen years together before he went—boom!—like that. But as I was saying. Bobby Archer and his wife Helen were a young couple, new to the village. Helen had twin boys, toddlers, and it was all she could do to get hot meals on the table and clothes on the line. One of those who gives birth and loses her looks forever, poor thing. Bobby was a handsome man with a roving eye. He used to plop himself down in the Sheared Sheep when his dinner was burnt and complain to anyone who’d listen that his wife was a slattern, starving him to death.” She snorted. “Penny was fifteen then. Pretty as a picture she was, and started going round with Bobby. Maybe she was a sympathetic ear. Maybe she was more. What actually went on between her and Bobby is pure gossip. What’s fact is, Helen Archer rowed with her about it in the middle of Vine’s Emporium. Ambushed Penny by the tinned mackerel and accused her of—of interfering with her husband. Only she was a deal more specific. Not to mention loud. My brother Clarence was there shopping. He said it was the only time he ever saw Penny shaken.”
“Was that an end to it?”
“Not quite. Bobby Archer left Birdswing a few days later. Helen stayed and brought up the boys alone. She still can’t hear Penny’s name without getting angry.”
Ben took a moment to digest that. Perhaps the notion of compiling a list of Penny’s old enemies wasn’t as absurd as it had first seemed. “And the other business?”
“That wasn’t just gossip.” Looking unhappy, Mrs. Cobblepot took a sip of tea as if to fortify herself. “I knew Ursula Hibbet from birth. She was a sweet thing, and one of Penny’s oldest friends, though she took her lumps along with the rest. One Saturday night she and Penny went to a Plymouth dance hall. They came back in the wee hours along Stafford Road.”
“A road I’ll not soon forget,” Ben said. If he thought about it, he could still feel the impact, not pain or fear so much as a rush of impossibility, of unreality as potent as suddenly taking flight. So he did his best not to think about it.
“Well, the car went off the road. It was Penny’s father’s car, an Austin Twenty she used to careen around in, sailing through crosswalks and giving fright to the old and young alike. They were drinking, of course, but still might have made it home, if not for the milk float idling outside Daley’s co-op. John Leigham was unloading crates when they struck him. Old doc Egon said he died instantly. It took time for Mr. Daley—this was before he married that poor foreign girl—to sort through the crash, but he found Penny in the passenger seat with a great bruise on her chest and Ursula Hibbet dead behind the wheel.” Another sip of tea. “Both girls had been drunk; it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work that out. But John’s wife and Ursula’s father were both convinced Penny was the one driving, and should have been held to some kind of account. The constable questioned her. A detective from Scotland Yard even came to talk to her after Ursula’s father went to London about it. But no one could prove Penny switched places with Ursula, and the matter was dropped.”
Ben sighed. The note said, Forgive me, it was never meant to be you, just her. Was it a coincidence Penny had died on Stafford Road, struck down in the dark just like that milkman?
“Do Ursula’s parents still live here?”
“No. Mr. Hibbet died of a heart attack three weeks after the case was officially shut. Mrs. Hibbet went away to live with her sister. Poor woman lost everything, her husband and her only child, in the space of a month.”
For a long time, neither spoke. Ben, casting about for something to say that had nothing to do with Penny, finally said, “I believe I saw Mrs. Daley when I left the Sheared Sheep. And perhaps her child at the window?”
“If you saw a colored lady and a mixed child, then yes, you did. She’s from some island in the Caribbean. The little mixed girl is Jane. Mrs. Daley runs the co-op in Hugh’s absence, but I don’t suppose she has many customers.”
“What’s she like? Mrs. Daley?” Ben asked. He’d known of Caribbean immigrants in London but even in the city they often kept to themselves, buying and selling from one another, renting to one another as much as possible, seeing doctors originally from Jamaica who mostly practiced
in secret. How strange must it be for this woman, marrying into English village life and probably viewed as a bit of a curiosity on her husband’s arm, only to be left alone to carry on in wartime?
“I don’t know. I’ve never had the courage to speak to her. And I shop at Vine’s, because… well. I can’t say. Habit, I suppose.” Mrs. Cobblepot grimaced. “Oh, forgive me, doctor, but let’s put all this behind us for now. If I’m going to pass along gossip, I prefer it to be the happy sort. No, don’t!” she cried, as he lifted his teacup to drain it.
“What?”
“I told you, there’s a touch of the old religion in these parts. I’ve been known to leave out a dish of cream for the fairies on St. John’s Eve—Midsummer’s Eve, as my mother called it. And I read tea leaves. Swirl your cup three times and pass it to me so I can see.”
He did as she asked, wondering how a woman who seemed so grounded in everyday life could practice such superstitious nonsense. As he watched, she took the cup in both hands, closed her eyes, and tipped it to the four cardinal directions. “Spirits of the North… spirits of the East… spirits of the South… spirits of the West….” Opening her eyes, she carefully poured the remaining fluid into his saucer, then overturned the cup onto hers. The pattern of soggy brown leaves looked meaningless to Ben.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Cobblepot murmured. Staring him right in the eye, she said in a commanding voice, “Your every move in this village will be noted and commented upon. Your doorbell will ring all hours of the day and night. Your peace will be intruded upon by a very tall woman with iron resolve, who shall bring round equipment from her own gymnasium, the better to strengthen you….”
He chuckled. She did, too, eyes sparkling as he took her hand. “I’m glad you’ve come to stay, Mrs. Cobblepot.”
“So am I, Dr. Bones. So am I.”
