Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  She tutted her disapproval. ‘Don’t start that again. You have a cold, just as you deserve after running round outside in a night-shirt. Rather than risk pneumonia, you will stay here and do exactly as you are told for once in your life.’

  ‘And Polly?’

  ‘She is waiting outside. She will come in when the cortège has left. Understandably, she does not want to upset anyone today.’ Polly had promised to meet Jean again, but she was holding back until the initial period of mourning was over. ‘Polly Fishwick has a bit of intelligence,’ announced Anna. ‘Which is more than can be said for some people who want to go out and risk catching their death.’

  Henry grumbled under his breath. In a sense, he was still a prisoner, but his jailer this time was not a heavily muscled farm worker. No, he was locked up by the frailty of his body, by the toll taken by years of foolishness. And, in spite of everything, he missed his whisky. There were times when his very nerve endings screamed for the comfort they had once found in a decanter. But that was behind him and he must not think of it.

  ‘Right. I have left you a jug of tea and some biscuits.’

  ‘Yes, Nurse. Thank you, Nurse.’

  She grinned at him.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘you look like a bag of rags. Have you nothing that fits you properly?’

  ‘No.’

  He stared at her. The coat she was wearing would have gone round her three times with plenty to spare. ‘And that hat is daft,’ he pronounced. ‘It wobbles.’

  ‘I shall stick a pin in it,’ she replied tersely.

  He wondered how different Anna’s life might have been had she married her labourer. She had been a pretty girl, full of fun and life; now, she was just another eccentric old woman who didn’t care about her appearance. ‘You should have gone to Kent,’ he said.

  Anna sighed. ‘Don’t start all that again. We have both led lives of disappointment, but there is nothing to be gained from muddying our boots in old ground again. It’s all in the past, and that is where we shall keep it.’

  ‘And where shall we keep him?’

  She knew who he meant. ‘Jean is talking about painting and decorating your old room. Oh, she won’t lock him in, but I think the plan may well be to make his life in the rest of the house unpleasant. There is more to Jean than meets the eye, methinks.’

  Henry nodded his agreement. ‘The worm turned in the end. I should not like to be on her wrong side while she’s in her current frame of mind. Women can be like that, you know; all sweet and quiet on the outside, a raging inferno inside.’

  No matter how hard she tried, Anna could not see Jean Chandler as a raging inferno. No. She was just a woman who had been driven to the edge, who had stared into the abyss, who had dragged herself back into the land of the living. ‘She’s deep and she’s no lemming, thank God. A lesser woman might have taken that final leap, but Jean is solid.’

  Henry nodded his agreement. Jean owned resources, and that was just as well, because she had discovered within herself layers that could now be mined, brought to the surface and used as armour against a man who would, no doubt, be returned to the grange within the foreseeable future. ‘I wish they’d keep him where he is,’ he mumbled.

  Anna sighed. ‘Wait until the bill comes, then see how you feel. It costs an arm and a leg for a few weeks in there – and your arms and legs pay the bills now.’

  He grumbled about bossy women, then his head dropped forward and a gentle snore emerged from between slightly parted lips. She stood and looked at him, remembered summer days, cricket matches, dips in the shallow stream that ran through the grounds. Henry had been straight and tall, slender, but well muscled, and the girls had loved him.

  ‘You going?’ he asked, suddenly wide awake again.

  And Anna did something she had not done in years – she kissed her brother on the top of his head. ‘I’ll say a prayer from you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Thank you.’ When his sister had left the room, Henry Chandler wiped some wetness from his cheeks. That was the trouble with old age – the eyes began to leak …

  * * *

  It was wrong to feel such fury; a doctor was meant to be kind, trustworthy – even predictable – but Mike Beddows felt far from professional as he made his way along the neat corridors of the clinic. He did not see the statues, scarcely noticed nuns and lay nurses as they flitted about in the course of their duties. Mike was focused; he was focused on the person in room 3.

  He threw open the door and stared at the room’s occupant. The face was still florid and swollen, but the man was sober, at least. Mike knew that he ought to care, that his brief was to make life easier for the sick, but every ounce of charity seemed to have been drained from his soul. Again and again, he told himself that alcoholism was a disease, that the man was not responsible for his own condition, yet he could scarcely breathe, so hot was his anger.

  ‘Dr Beddows?’ Richard folded his copy of yesterday’s newspaper.

  The door swung closed and Mike stood at the foot of a neat bed. He took a deep breath. ‘I had a long talk with your wife last night. Her neck is healing, by the way.’ He nodded towards the newspaper. ‘Do you ever look at the deaths column? Is that the local paper?’

  ‘No and yes,’ came the reply.

  ‘Sally Foster died.’ Mike approached the seated man, leaning over him in an attitude that was almost threatening. ‘She tried to protect your wife, who was being strangled at the time. By you. Do you remember that? Do you?’

  Richard offered no reply, though his face bleached slightly, and the broken veins stood out against a paler backcloth.

  ‘And, when Sally scratched your face to make you release Jean, you punched her in the abdomen. That ruptured her spleen and the doctors at the infirmary failed to save her. I understand from your wife that the dying woman left a letter, a statement about what you had done. She felt ill, you see, ill enough to know that she might die, so she wrote down all that had happened. Statements furnished in extremis are often taken seriously.’

  Chandler’s face blanched even further, causing the bulbous nose to shine like a purple beacon in dirty snow.

  ‘The letter is with lawyers, I believe.’ He was lying, but he ploughed onward. ‘So, although you are not being prosecuted at the moment, I suggest you tread softly from now on. Your wife will not testify against you. That must be a great relief to you.’ For Jean’s sake, Mike had agreed with post-mortem findings, and the inquest would state that death was accidental.

  ‘They wouldn’t listen to her—’

  ‘Wouldn’t they? And would they not heed a statement written by the hand of your victim? You killed her.’ The doctor shook a finger. ‘You killed Sally Foster. Today, she will be cremated. That damned good woman has been wiped out by a nasty, drunken oaf. Find yourself another doctor – you are off my list.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I just did it. I shall treat your wife, your children, your father and your aunt. But you can go to hell. And, let me tell you, there are many people who would love to help you on your way to perdition.’

  Richard leaned back in his chair. The slight amount of strength he owned was draining towards the floor; he could not have walked an inch for all the tea in China. Yes, he remembered some of it; yes, he knew that he had gone too far that night. But murder? The woman must have had a weakness, because he had hit her only once. ‘Get out,’ he snarled. ‘If you aren’t my doctor, you have no business here.’

  ‘I was her doctor,’ came the swift reply. ‘And today, we dispose of her. When you eventually get home, you will find some changes, Mr Chandler – and none of those changes will be for your sake. During my life as a doctor, I have met many, many people – alcoholics included – and, in my experience, drink merely emphasizes characteristics that were already there. The Scotch has simply made you less inhibited in your behaviour, but your wickedness was there already.’

  ‘You go to hell.’ The voice raised itself.

 
; ‘And I shall prepare a place for you.’ Mike turned on his heel and left the room.

  Alone, Richard Chandler picked up his newspaper and found the funeral announcement, hands shaking from shock and from alcohol deprivation. God, if ever a man needed a drink … And there it was, Sally Foster, beloved friend and companion, near-sister to Jean Chandler, sadly missed by all who knew her, blah, blah …

  He threw the Bolton Evening News on the floor and shuddered involuntarily. They all knew about it. The police had not been brought in – if they had, the doctor would not have come – but the whole family knew what had happened. He was a killer.

  Outside the window, Dr Michael Beddows pulled away in his car. Richard looked down at his own murdering hands, noticed how they trembled because their usual fuel had not been provided; he had become an engine without oil, without petrol, without direction. And he was a murderer. Something akin to remorse was edging its way into his inner self. She had been a miserable bag of bones, his wife’s other half, the one who had encouraged Jean to stay away from him, to remain in the safety zone. How right she had been.

  His face was wet and he found himself sobbing. Was he crying for the dead woman or was he weeping for himself? Unable to think straight, his mind and body corrupted by years soaked in whisky, he could not work out why he was in such a state of grief. One thing alone was clear – he had no future. The tunnel in which he found himself was blacker than perdition, colder than charity, hotter than hell. Richard Chandler had done wrong and there was no way of eradicating this latest sin.

  The church was packed. For as long as many could remember, Sally Foster had been an integral part of village life. She had not been a chatterer, much less a gossip, but she had woven herself into the tapestry of Chandlers Green, was one of them, one of their own. So they left their farms and their businesses, many taking half a day from work to come along and pay respects to this quiet and self-effacing soul.

  At the front, Jean, Anna, Meredith, Peter and Jeremy sat in place of family. They were family, had been Sally’s only family. Jean stared resolutely at the altar, unable to glance to her right, unwilling to focus on the coffin. It was the best coffin available, because Sally deserved the best. A heavy silence occupied the church, a quietness broken only by a clearing throat or by the soft sounds of pages being turned in the order of service booklets.

  The vicar read from St John, led prayers and hymns, then raised a hand towards Peter. The shy one, the reticent twin, rose to his feet, left the pew and stood in the small pulpit. At last, Jean took notice. Peter? Surely this should have been Jeremy?

  Without notes, Peter began to speak to the congregation. ‘This is a life to be celebrated. Sally Foster was there when we children cut our first teeth, then our knees and our fingers. Never once did she lose patience with us, and we were not the easiest of children. Jeremy was an adventurous soul, I was a mouse and Meredith caused more trouble than the pair of us put together. Nanny Foster taught us to read, to dress ourselves, to count and write.’

  He sniffed back a tear. ‘She grew vegetables, cooked our meals and, above all, she was a good and faithful friend. I never heard her raise her voice in anger. She was a whizz at card games and a terrible opponent when we played Monopoly. I know you all saw her as shy and quiet, but she had humour enough to join in at birthday parties and she was a positive influence on us and a great support to our mother. She will be sorely missed.’

  Jean finally found the strength to look at the coffin. If Peter could face it, so could she. Tears streamed down her face, though she made no sound, while the resolve in her mind strengthened; he would suffer for this.

  At the back of the church, Mike Beddows slipped in and stood near the door. He had travelled straight from the murderer’s cell to the victim’s funeral and his fury was huge. Nothing legal would be done; Jean, as the only witness, would not testify, refused to drag her children through the mire, was fearful in case she might not be believed. But her fear stopped there. Richard Chandler had done his worst and his wife would no longer tolerate his crassness. Mike shivered. What would she do? How far was she prepared to go? Could he persuade her to hand over Sally’s letter? Should he?

  Peter was reading ‘If—’ by Kipling. This, apparently, had been the dead woman’s favourite poem. The doctor wondered how many here had truly known Sally Foster. Apart from Jean Chandler and her children, very few had taken the trouble to pass the time of day with her. Neatly dressed and with her mind focusing on ‘her’ family, she had flitted through their lives, a pivotal part of the grange’s routine. Who would take her place; who could possibly step into such well-worn shoes?

  It was over. People rose in a single movement and Sally Foster’s coffin was borne out on the shoulders of six men, two of whom were the twin boys she had helped to raise. Mike Beddows blinked away his tears. When Jean left her pew to lead out Anna and Meredith, he watched her face. She looked exhausted, beyond grief and beyond reach. Yet there was a set to the mouth, as if her teeth were clenched to form a barrier which might hold back words she dared not utter. In that moment, the doctor’s eyes met hers and he knew that she was capable of killing her own husband. If and when she did, Mike would keep his counsel. Sometimes, the breaking of law was acceptable; occasionally, it might even be termed essential.

  Aggie Turner had escaped from potato-peeling. She was in the Bodega Coffee Bar with Josie and Marie, neither of whom seemed to be in the best of moods. She scooped froth from the top of her coffee and licked the spoon. ‘I’d have been better off sticking to cod,’ she mused. ‘You two are about as much fun as a murder trial.’

  Immediately, two pairs of eyes were riveted to the speaker’s face. ‘What made you say that?’ asked Josie after a short pause. ‘Why did you mention murder?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied Aggie, pushing a tight red curl from her forehead. ‘Because you can’t beat a good murder for entertainment value, I suppose.’

  Josie’s eyes drifted across and fixed themselves on Marie.

  The latter wriggled in her chair before biting into her lunchtime ham sandwich. Did Josie know? Had Jeremy confided in her?

  ‘It’s difficult – we know we can trust you, Aggie,’ said Josie, ‘but the fact is—’

  ‘Trust me with what?’ Eyebrows raised on the freckled forehead. Josie and Marie had never kept secrets from her. In truth, these three girls knew each other’s innermost thoughts, so what was happening here? She leaned across the small table. ‘Tell me.’

  Josie shrugged a shoulder. ‘It’s not our secret,’ she said, a false nonchalance painted into the words. ‘It’s someone else’s.’

  Marie launched into a change of subject. ‘I’ve done it,’ she announced. ‘He leaned over my desk this morning and was looking down my cleavage. So I told him. I said, “Mr Garswood, any nearer and I’ll be wearing you.” He never moved, so I told him again, only louder this time. He ran back into his office as fast as sugar off a new shovel.’

  Josie smiled, though there was discomfort behind her expression. ‘About time, too. He’ll be rubbing against you in the stationery cupboard next news. That is one dirty old man.’

  Aggie leaned back and folded her arms tightly, her mouth set in a stern line. As far as boys were concerned, she was used to being left out of the equation, but what was going on here? She had mentioned murder as a joke, and these two looked as if they were on the way to the gallows themselves. ‘That won’t work,’ she told Marie. ‘Don’t be going on about Greasy Garswood just to take my mind off things. I didn’t get landed with the last Fleetwood catch, you know. What’s going on? And why am I being kept out of it?’

  Marie and Josie studied each other for a few seconds. During that small silence, they shared information that needed no voice. Marie answered after the pause. ‘Aggie, we trust you – you know we do. But sometimes, things are best left unsaid.’ She lowered her gaze. Josie, Aggie and Marie, three inseparable souls, had been welded together since infant school. And yet now, faced with mur
der, embroiled in a pattern woven by hands other than their own, two had to keep a secret from the third.

  Aggie sniffed in a way that expressed her disgust thoroughly, then she drained her cup, rose from her seat and picked up her handbag. ‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said, ‘Mam asked me to get some curtain hooks from Woolworths. So I’ll go now and you can talk all you like behind my back.’

  Marie opened her mouth, but Aggie steamed ahead.

  ‘I know I’m not much to look at, so you two beauties get all the boys while I get the curtain hooks in life. That’s just an accident of nature. But for you to keep secrets from me – that’s taking things a bit too far. You know I’d say nothing. But you—’

  ‘We have to ask permission,’ said Josie.

  ‘But you leave me on the sidelines. I’m not wanted in the team any more, girls. I’m a reserve, a laughing stock, all right for frying the chips, but not good enough to be let in on the serious side of life.’

  ‘Please, Aggie.’ Marie stood up. ‘Please, you have to understand that—’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand, so I’m going for curtain hooks.’ The little red-haired girl turned and dashed out into the street.

  Marie sank into her chair again. ‘Bugger,’ she said softly.

  Josie stirred her coffee. ‘Run after her if you like.’ She clattered the spoon into its saucer. ‘I have to get back, because we’re having a lecture about selling food. Just think, I could be out of stockings and into meat pies.’

  ‘Did Jeremy tell you?’ Marie asked.

  ‘No, my supervisor told me.’ Josie eyed her companion. ‘Yes, he did, and no, it isn’t something we should talk about in public. This isn’t about copying each other’s homework, is it? It’s life and death. It’s stopped being funny. And I don’t see why Aggie should have to carry the weight of it. Also, muck spreads, Marie. We can’t talk to anybody about the boys’ father.’