Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Peter advised.

  His sister grimaced. ‘Plenty of people know about it. Marie knows, doesn’t she? Or she will soon, because you told her what Father had done, and the death will be in the newspaper. And you won’t keep anything from your precious Marie anyway, will you?’

  Peter grabbed her arm. ‘Merry, are you jealous?’

  She shrugged him off. ‘Of course not. It’s just that you gave away your heart very quickly. Jeremy is clearly smitten with Josie, but you? You’ve been mooning around for days.’

  Peter had not been mooning around, but he was in no mood for argument. He had been sad and angry about Sally Foster, but he had not been pining for Marie – not really. ‘Merry, behave yourself or go away. We are here with a message and let that be an end to the silliness.’

  He knocked at the door and waited, knocked again and was surprised when the door of number 32 opened. ‘Hello,’ said Elsie. ‘Nay, they’re out, lad. Marie’s at work, so’s Alf, and Leena’s down town looking at curtain material. Were it summat special, like? Only I can give them a message when they come home.’

  Peter had been told about ‘Auntie Elthie’. Auntie Elsie was wearing a broad smile and a multicoloured turban fashioned from a scarf, plastic rollers peeping out at the front. Marie was plainly fond of this neighbour, so he decided to invest his trust in the woman. ‘Would you give this letter to Mrs Martindale, please? And pass on our regards to the family – we are Peter and Meredith Chandler.’

  Elsie, always ready for a gossip, took the envelope and leaned on the door jamb. ‘You courting Marie?’ she asked. ‘Only you won’t meet a finer girl and I should know, because I’ve known her since she were a baby.’ She righted herself and took a pace back. ‘You can come in and wait if you want – Leena won’t be long.’

  But Peter, who had been warned of Elsie’s wandering tongue, thanked her and returned to his car.

  Meredith lingered for a moment. She didn’t wish to appear curt or rude, so she thanked Elsie profusely before joining Peter. ‘I still think Mother is mad,’ she repeated as the Austin pulled away.

  ‘She would have to testify against her own husband,’ replied Peter. ‘And as it was never a happy marriage, her testimony could be viewed as prejudiced.’

  ‘So he gets away with it?’

  Peter pulled out onto Derby Street and drove towards the town. ‘Do you want to be pointed out as the girl whose father is being tried for murder? Is that your goal?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then leave it as it is. Surely, we have enough with the funeral? And stop arguing with Mother. She has lost her very best friend – she needs support, not criticism.’

  They completed the journey home in silence, though Meredith was scarcely able to remain still. It was as if every nerve in her body had become unsheathed, as if her skin had peeled away to leave her open to every available hurt. She was not used to feeling like this; perhaps she should return to the hotel; perhaps the grange was not the place for her.

  When they reached the house, she jumped out of the car and ran all the way to her room. She needed something. Oh, what would help her through all this? Should she ask the doctor for nerve tablets or a tonic? It was all too much, because everyone insisted on carrying on as if the world had not been shaken on its axis. Was she the only one who felt anything?

  Flat on her bed, she stared up at the ceiling. There were twelve points on the ceiling rose round the central light fitting, yet she could hardly count the familiar decorations, because even now, in this supine position, she felt like a marionette whose strings were being pulled sharply by a cruel puppeteer. Somewhere behind heavy cloud, the sun was beginning to set on yet another day. And Father was going to get away with murder, quite literally. Why would the room not stay still? She must steady herself, she really must.

  After ten minutes of restlessness and torment, Meredith dashed downstairs, made sure that the coast was clear, then returned quickly to her room, a bottle held under her cardigan. She took a mug from the shelf above the washbasin and half filled it with sherry. The edge had to be taken off life’s cruelties.

  And it hit her as soon as she had downed the first gulp. She was warm, she was free and her room was suddenly more colourful. When the cup was drained, most of her worries had melted; why on earth had it taken so long to find an answer? With a tiny amount of help from time to time, she would be able to cope with almost anything.

  For a split second, she thought about her father, remembered the Chandlers’ curse. But the moment passed and she refilled her cup. She would be able to stop; she was not going to be an old soak like her father, was she?

  EIGHT

  Leena Martindale sat with her husband at the kitchen table, a cup in one hand, a letter in the other. Her mouth was slightly open, while her eyes scanned the message for the third time. ‘What does she want us there for? She must know you can’t stand him.’

  Alf peered over the top of the Bolton Evening News. ‘Are you going to drink that flaming treacle you call tea? It’ll be stone cold. Anybody would think you’d had a summons from the palace, the road you’re carrying on.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m up to this.’

  With exaggerated patience, Alf folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. ‘What’s the matter with you? That cup’s been stuck in mid-air for about a quarter of an hour. It’s like living on the edge of a flipping volcano. I’m sat here trying to digest me food and I can feel it in the air.’

  She awarded him a particularly steely stare. ‘Feel what?’

  ‘The tension. This must be what Chamberlain went through when he got back with his bit of paper.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oh, never mind. We are having what I’d call a pregnant pause. Mrs Chandler is going to be one of our neighbours, like it or not, and—’

  ‘She isn’t. She’s got a garden the size of a bloody football field – back and front. There’s no way of calling her a neighbour, not like we’re used to here.’

  Alf sighed. ‘She’s got a detached house and we’ve got a detached house. So far, we’re equal.’

  ‘Equal?’ Leena’s voice was travelling skyward. ‘Equal? Except for about ten bedrooms and a load of antiques. They probably don’t bother with folk from the village.’ She swallowed. No way was she going to admit that she was afraid. Just because she came from the ‘bottom end’, the industrialized area – why should she feel inferior? She was as good as anybody and she knew it. If someone had asked her, she would have insisted that she was not fearful. But she felt – oh, she didn’t know what she felt. And her own husband was looking at her as if she’d gone daft.

  ‘You’ve a face like a month of wet Sundays,’ complained Alf. ‘I’ve seen better-looking ones in butchers’ windows with apples stuck in their gobs.’

  ‘What shall I wear?’ was the next subject to rear its ugly head.

  ‘Clothes,’ answered Alf, helpful as ever. Oh, God, she wasn’t going to do one of her full-blown shopping jaunts, was she? It wasn’t that the clothes couldn’t be afforded, it was the fact that she visited every shop in Bolton, Manchester, Bury and all surrounding villages. Even then, she nearly always came back to the first outfit she had seen. And she wouldn’t do it on her own, oh, no – she had to have her husband with her for approval. Approval? He was yet to get a word in edgeways on one of these expeditions.

  ‘I suppose you’d be satisfied if I wore me wedding dress.’

  ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere near you,’ he quipped.

  She picked up the newspaper and clouted him with it. Sometimes, he displayed all the sensitivity of set concrete. Clothes were important – they could make or break a woman. It was all right for men – they needed a couple of suits, half a dozen shirts and a tie – they didn’t have to think about it.

  ‘You can take our Marie shopping with you,’ he said now. ‘I’m not traipsing about all over the place for a frock and shoes.’

  ‘Oh, I shall. I’ll n
eed somebody sensible with me, somebody with a bit of taste and an idea of class. Just read your paper.’ She jumped up to make more tea.

  The front door opened and closed. ‘Hello.’ Marie’s voice floated up the narrow hallway. She arrived and stood near the dresser. ‘Mam, Dad?’

  ‘What?’ Leena paused, teapot held out in front of her.

  Marie swallowed audibly. ‘The housekeeper died. Mr Chandler’s still in that clinic, and the lady’s dead. It’s in the Evening News, Dad, in the deaths column. It looks like he killed her. Peter came and told me this afternoon. Mrs Chandler was the only witness.’

  Leena sank back into her chair. ‘Oh, my God,’ she breathed.

  ‘And,’ Marie continued, ‘I learned from my job how hard that can be. There’s no love lost between Mr and Mrs Chandler, so I don’t know what she can do – the jury might think she was acting out of spite. It’s very hard for a wife to testify against her husband, especially if she can’t stand the sight of him. Everybody in the house knows what happened, but Peter’s mother was the only one who actually saw it.’

  Alf felt the blood draining from his face. Flaming jumped-up coward. Just like him to kill a woman. His hands balled themselves into tight fists and he suddenly wanted to hit somebody. But no, Alf was a real man, knew he was a real man, and real men didn’t go about clouting folk.

  Marie continued. ‘And, as Mrs Chandler told Peter, somebody else might get accused of it if she can’t prove it was her husband. So she’s calling it an accident, blaming it on a fall and the stand where they hang their hats and coats. This is terrible.’

  Confused, Leena picked up the letter. ‘She wrote this yesterday. When did the woman die?’

  ‘The day before,’ replied Marie. ‘And yes, Peter says she wants to meet you, welcome you. She’s a nice woman, Mam.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ Leena asked.

  ‘No, not yet, but—’

  ‘Then we don’t know what she is. When’s the funeral?’

  ‘After the inquest. I won’t be going, because I didn’t know the lady. But Mam, Mrs Chandler – she needs friends. That was her best pal, you know. Please go – please say you will.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Leena busied herself with food and plates. Alf had eaten, but he was always interested in seconds. ‘Another plate of hash?’ she asked him.

  Alf’s eyes were closed. Bullets flying, grenades exploding, the man next to him groaning, an arm bloodied inside its khaki sleeve. Left flank, officer down, pick him up, carry him, hand him over, go back for the other one. Fenner, spine cracked, mouth set in a grim line in order to stop his screams, arms dangling, run, run. Then the glasshouse, a few days’ rest. Chandler. Standing bold as brass, arm in a sling, accusing Alf. Fenner on his trolley, spine dead, voice a whisper, nominating Alfred Martindale as a hero.

  ‘Alf?’

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that Chandler was one bad swine.

  ‘Alf? Do you want some more?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘No, love. But I’ll tell you what I do want. I want you to go out with our Marie and buy yourself a twenty-pound suit and some nice shoes. We’ve got to go, Leena. I think we may well be needed.’

  It was Leena’s turn to gulp with astonishment. ‘Thanks, Alf,’ she said.

  He looked at his daughter. ‘You and all – get yourself something nice. It’s a very short life.’ He stood up and left the room.

  Marie sat and stared at her plate. ‘Dad’s upset.’

  Leena nodded. ‘Your dad’s a decent man, Marie. He can’t stand violence, you know. God alone knows how he got through that war, because he wouldn’t hurt a flea.’

  ‘He came out decorated,’ mused Marie aloud. ‘And cowards don’t get that, do they?’

  ‘No, love, they don’t.’ Leena pondered for a few seconds. ‘There’s a difference between a coward and a man who tries to keep away from trouble. With the war, Alf knew his duty. So that answers my own question, I suppose. Your father’s a very brave man, a solid man. Don’t ever forget that.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Upstairs in the little front bedroom of a house that was soon to become a part of his history, Alf lay on the bed he had shared for many years with his much-loved wife. She wasn’t just a wife – the woman was his best friend.

  Jean Chandler had not enjoyed a proper marriage; she had probably invested herself in her children and in the lady who had just died. ‘I’m going to have to sort him out again,’ he told Germany-on-the-ceiling. Funny how the reverberations of that bomb had made a hole shaped like the country whose air force had dropped the missile. Bert Ramsden had filled it in, but the damage still showed through layers of distemper.

  From the kitchen below, the voices of his wife and daughter drifted up and touched his ears and his soul. Aye, they would have nice clothes for their visit to Chandlers Grange. Alf, too, would be decently dressed, but he knew that the social call was going to be more than a little tea party. Jean Chandler was preparing for something. And Alf Martindale was probably a part of her recipe.

  The coffin, closed and ready to be despatched, stood in the centre of the hall. The large round table onto which Richard Chandler had been wont to crash his cane was placed to one side; at the commencement of her final journey, Sally Foster was to have pride of place in the house where she had served for well over two decades. Doctors had cut her open. Doctors had agreed with Jean’s statement about the accident and the hall stand. Dr Beddows had kept quiet, while the letter containing Sally’s message to the world remained upstairs. Richard would not be prosecuted, but he would be dealt with.

  Jean surveyed her sons, straightened ties that didn’t need straightening, made sure their handkerchiefs showed a crisp point above their breast pockets. Sally liked ironing; no – Sally had liked ironing. Even when the village women came in to help, Sally had done her fair share. No more of that. No more chats in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a scone, no more shopping in town, no more evenings listening to The Archers on the kitchen wireless. Sally had always laughed at Walter Gabriel’s creaky old voice. She had liked ITMA, Billy Cotton’s Band Show, Family Favourites on a Sunday—

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Yes, Jeremy?’

  ‘We shall get through it.’

  ‘Yes, of course we shall.’ The coffin was covered in flowers. Inside that box lay the remains of almost twenty-four years of close friendship. It should have been him; Richard Chandler deserved to be dead. The rest of that man’s life would not be comfortable; it was time to redress the balance.

  ‘Where’s Meredith?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Upstairs. I shall go and fetch her.’ Jeremy took the stairs two at a time – the hearse was due to arrive at any second.

  She was not quick enough. Her brother’s head was in the room and the bottle was at her lips; she didn’t bother with a glass or a cup any more.

  Jeremy froze. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘How long?’ He almost knew the answer – had noticed how she had been eating strong mints. Meredith had never liked mints …

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did you start drinking?’

  ‘It’s only sherry,’ she replied, ‘just to get me through the funeral.’ Since the first taste, Meredith had been trying to achieve the wonderful feeling she had experienced that first time. Sometimes, she almost got there, but she had to drink a little more each time.

  ‘The Chandler curse,’ whispered Jeremy.

  ‘Nonsense. That only happens to men.’

  ‘Does it?’ He entered the room and sat on the bed. ‘Don’t you dare upset Mother today,’ he warned. ‘She has enough on her plate without being offered an alcoholic daughter with her cheese and biscuits. It will be just a matter of time before she finds out, but not today, definitely not today.’

  Meredith, whose brothers had already fetched her things from the Pack Horse, was resident at the grange again. She ought not to have come home, should have insisted on staying away. But no, she was here to support her mother at this te
rrible time and the drink was just a temporary crutch.

  ‘It is ten past ten on a Thursday morning,’ Jeremy said, ‘and you are drinking, supposedly in secret. You are an alcoholic, Merry. Alcoholics are born, not made.’

  ‘You drink,’ she snapped. ‘So does Peter.’

  ‘A pint or two on occasions,’ he answered, ‘but never from bottles hidden in our rooms. We are all borne of the same father, but the tendency does not exist in all of us. You are the unfortunate one.’ The discovery was more of a shock than Nanny Foster’s death had been. This was how it began, a few drops to get through a funeral, an interview, then an ordinary day. ‘There is no way to deal with this except to stop,’ he said. ‘You can never have just one drink. And no-one can do this for you, Merry. The decision must come from yourself alone.’

  He stood up and left the room.

  Meredith Chandler shook her head. What did he know? She could stop any time she chose and she chose not to stop at present. However, she must cope with this day and with her mother, so she took another strong peppermint from a paper bag and placed it on her tongue. With that and a squirt of Chanel, she covered up the scent of her sin. She was not an alcoholic, and that was definite.

  Anna Chandler was settling her brother in what had been the small drawing room, the room in which Jean and Sally had done their sewing and knitting. It now contained the master of the family’s bed, a wardrobe, a pair of easy chairs, a bureau and some occasional tables.

  ‘He’s got through a small fortune.’ The old man shook a bank statement in his sister’s face. ‘And all the time, I was locked away like a prisoner in my own house.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Anna chided. ‘I have a funeral to attend – and what is the point of upsetting yourself ? It would take just a heart attack or a stroke and Richard would be back at the helm.’

  ‘Yes.’ Henry placed the page on one of the occasional tables. ‘Yes, I know. And he would steer this ship straight into an iceberg. He has to be contained. Also, why can’t I go to the funeral? I knew that poor woman for many years and I ought to be able to pay my respects.’