Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I know.’

  ‘This is the first day. You are born again today. Because you are a woman, you can do this. If you leave it any longer, you may be lost.’

  The water was cooling. It was a cold world. ‘Two months is nothing,’ Meredith said softly. ‘Two years, twenty years – yes – I can see my future.’

  ‘Crossroads,’ answered Anna. ‘Don’t look left or right, because you are the only traffic on that road.’

  ‘Lonely.’

  ‘Yes, lonely. Go straight on, Meredith. Prove what you are – a great girl with an even greater woman inside. Believe in you.’

  ‘I shall try.’

  Anna left her great-niece to begin that solitary journey. On the landing, she sank into a chair, because her legs would scarcely bear her weight. Could Meredith do it, could she break the new and dangerous habit?

  ‘Aunt Anna?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Go down now. Go to Grandpa. You know I have to do this all by myself.’

  So Anna did as she had always done. She put one foot in front of the other and placed her faith in God.

  TEN

  It was D-Day. Richard Chandler was getting out and his sons had been summoned to collect him. Sister Mary Vincent handed him the clothes in which he had arrived ten weeks earlier. They were washed and ironed and only the straitjacket, which had topped the ensemble on that fateful night, was absent.

  The little Irishwoman eyed him quizzically. Since his general practitioner had abandoned him, he had received no visits except one, when a doctor from another village had arrived, reluctance etched into every line of his young face. And the patient spoke so little—

  Oh yes, there had been that woman, the one who had left him wild-eyed with agitation, though he had fought to conceal it. Mrs Fishwick, that had been her name. And she hadn’t looked too pleased at the end of her brief stay. Although his wife was listed as next of kin, there had been no telephone enquiries, no messages from his family.

  Richard Chandler seemed to be universally unwanted. He had a grand-sounding address, some children and a terrible problem with whisky. In spite of her close relationship with Christ and her devotion to all His teachings, Mary Vincent understood the attitude. Not once during his stay had this man uttered a word of thanks. Most drinkers had their bad times, but they also had their better side. It was clear that this man owned no better side.

  ‘Did they give a time?’ he asked her.

  ‘About ten o’clock, I believe,’ she replied.

  He glanced at his watch. Fifteen more minutes and he would be out of here. But what awaited him on the outside? A welcome from his family, a stretch of red carpet, a brass band and a finger buffet? Not likely.

  ‘You must not take a drink again,’ she warned.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And there’s a list of the meetings and locations folded into your wallet. If you can get yourself along to AA a few times a month, it will help no end. And your fellows will support you on the telephone when the going becomes hard. Do not suffer alone, Mr Chandler.’

  He intended not to suffer at all. The lectures had been many, his liver, his kidneys, his eyesight, nerve endings, stomach, on and on had gone the list of reasons why he should never indulge again. Life was hard with a drink; without, it was a sight worse.

  ‘You do know it will be the death of you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Everybody died of something and he would sooner die drunk than sober. Also, he had a strong suspicion that life at home would be greatly changed and that none of the changes would be in his favour. He would need to drink to survive mentally. Why didn’t she go away? She stood there like an oversized and black-clad doll, rosary hanging from her waist, a large crucifix suspended from its end. She wasn’t a bad looker, but the wimple did her little justice and he could not wait to escape her piercing eyes. The nun knew that he would drink again.

  She sighed quietly and accepted that there was nothing she could do. After years spent caring for drunkards, she recognized defeat when she saw it. At least this one had paid his way, had handed over money that might save a few of those who could not contribute, the tramps and the poor who were crowded into shared wards. ‘May God go with you,’ she said.

  He looked at her. God had nothing to do with any of it. No longer master in his own house, Richard suspected that he would be marginalized as soon as he got back to the grange. There would be just himself and a bottle, but he would tread carefully, as he must not lash out again. This bloody woman was so calm, so resigned – she was enough to drive a teetotaller towards the demon drink. If he lost control again, he would be back here with Sister Mary Vincent, Sister Mary Clare and the beatified mother of the order – Olivia. Well, bugger that, he was going to keep his nose clean. ‘Say goodbye to Mother Olivia for me,’ he said, sarcasm colouring the words.

  Sister Mary Vincent swivelled on the heel of her sensible shoe and left the room. There was no more to be done; he would drink himself to death and she prayed that he took no-one with him. There was a look in his eyes, almost an absence of emotion. So she travelled on to room 4, because there was hope in there. In room 3, there was just emptiness, isolation and a man whose spirit had been drowned by years of self-abuse. It was time to forget him, because, despite the precepts of her faith, she knew in her heart that he was beyond prayer.

  Richard Chandler waited for his sons. Although he had concentrated for days, he had come up with no plan for his future, because all at home had changed and, beyond the little Pol Fishwick had said, he was unable to quantify those changes. There was nothing to be done until he had spied the lie of the land. It was enough for now to know that he would soon be away from here and back in the land of the living.

  Where were they? Damn them, they never got anything right. ‘Patience,’ he muttered. Yes, he had to play them at their own game until he could invent some rules of his own …

  It had been hell. For the first time in her young life, Meredith Chandler was beginning to understand her own father. This fact did not mean that she loved him, but she had some insight into his suffering. She was an alcoholic. The quantity she had consumed thus far would not impinge on her life, yet she understood that the rest of her days would be spent in active abstinence.

  For most people, a drink was just a drink, something to be taken before, during or after meals, a passport to social banter and camaraderie. But she could never be like that. She could never join in, would be forever unable to take just one drink. Because inside her there was a demon that had existed since the day of her birth, a monster-in-waiting, a prescription for doom.

  Anna was holding her hand again. Confined to her room by ‘influenza’, Meredith had hidden herself from the world for many days. Her brothers visited her, as did her mother, but Anna was her mainstay. And what a strange-looking mainstay this was, mused Meredith as she clung to her lifeline. Wearing a cardigan the size of a one-man tent and with her skirt stapled into place by nappy pins, Miss Anna Chandler looked as if she had dressed herself from the contents of one of Mr Martindale’s collections of rags. ‘Buy some clothes,’ she pleaded yet again.

  Anna tutted. ‘Why? When I am at home, I mess about with chickens, geese and bees. They never complain. Anyway, I have better things to do with my money.’

  Meredith sighed. Great-Aunt Anna was a hopeless case, yet— Yet Meredith was thinking about someone else. Recent days had been spent in self-pity, but she was emerging from that state and it had to be a good sign. Now, at last, she was actually looking at Anna, was seeing beyond her own frailty. ‘I think I am coming out of it,’ she said.

  Anna inclined her head. ‘You will never be out of it, my dear. You will cope with it. With help from your brothers and your friends, you will take each day, each hour, as it comes. In time, you will be able to sit in a pub with a glass of lemonade, but the craving will never leave you.’

  Meredith swallowed. ‘Father comes out of it today,’ she whispered.

  ‘Out of it and
back into it.’ Anna’s tone was one of resignation. ‘There is no hope for him, just as there seemed to be none for my brother.’

  ‘I have been trying to imagine what Grandpa went through,’ said Meredith, ‘because this was bad enough. To be locked away after fifty years of drinking must have been hell. And I expect Father has had a dreadful few weeks.’ The living evidence was all around – she needed only to look at her father and her grandfather to see what lay ahead if she continued to drink. ‘I am going out,’ she declared.

  ‘There is no point in avoiding Richard.’

  ‘I know. I am going out just to be out. If there is no ice, I shall borrow a horse and get out onto the moors. Hiding in here isn’t the answer, is it? I must get back into my stride. I shall be all right.’

  ‘Yes, I dare say you will.’

  Anna left her great-niece and walked down the stairs. The hall clock, which had witnessed the assaults on Jean and Sally, echoed gloomily, as if it, too, had dreaded this day. The comforting clatter of dishes emerged from the kitchen and Anna allowed herself a tight smile. Agnes Turner was the best thing to have happened in this house for some time. She was cheerful, industrious and possessed of that wry, dry Lancashire humour. Kitchen sounds were so ordinary, so comforting, were reminders of the day-to-day events that kept life going.

  In the drawing room, Jean was busy knitting. Even from the doorway, Anna noticed the tension in the woman’s shoulders, watched needles that flew too fast, a spine that refused to relax against the back of the chair.

  Jean looked up. ‘Is Meredith better?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I think she has overcome the germs. I got another telling off because I have not stepped into life via the pages of Vogue. She is dressing as we speak and I think she will go riding this morning – needs to get some fresh air into her lungs.’

  Jean put down her knitting. ‘I am making this sweater for you, dear. If I see that old grey cardigan just one more time, I shall scream. As for the rest of your clothes – we need to get a new coat, and a hat that actually fits, then Leena Martindale will take in your skirts.’

  Anna sat down at the opposite side of the fireplace. People were always trying to improve her. Oh, she knew she was the subject of much discussion within the village, but that had never concerned her. Life was not about clothes, it was about being usefully occupied and occasionally amused. ‘I shall stay until he is home, so the hens must wait.’ She returned to the gatehouse several times a day to check on the livestock.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘He will not take kindly to your arrangements.’

  Jean shrugged stiff shoulders. ‘The rooms are pleasantly decorated. He returns on his father’s terms, as this is his house.’

  ‘Henry has been agitated all morning,’ said Anna.

  ‘Yes, I know, but he will cope. Is Polly with him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Polly, too, was in a state that might have been described as nervous, though terrified would have been a more appropriate adjective. ‘The poor woman has been in something of a pickle since the day she visited Richard. She knows him, Jean.’

  ‘Yes, she does. And that is why we need her here. I realize that we are just women, but Polly, you, Aggie and I are prepared.’

  ‘So are the children,’ said Anna, ‘and the twins have to fetch him home. How happy we have been without him.’

  Jean would not have described the past ten weeks as happy, though there had been a wonderful absence of immediate tension. But Richard had hung over her like Damocles’ sword, a threat, a weapon that could kill, that had killed already. Still affected by Sally’s death, Jean was fighting depression. Her symptoms – early waking, absent-mindedness and lethargy – had to be fought, because the most depressing item in her life was on its way home. Richard. Had she ever loved him?

  ‘Jean?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Did you take your tablets?’

  She had not taken the tablets, because they slowed her down and she needed to be alert. ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  ‘Dr Beddows is concerned about you. We need you to be well and the best thing would be for you to stay away from him altogether. The house is big enough – let me deal with him.’

  Jean smiled. Anna was in her late seventies and she had lost weight at an alarming rate in the last couple of years. Undoubtably tough, she was not tough enough to deal with a strong man in his cups. ‘Thank you, but this will be a joint effort, with Pa at the helm. As long as Polly is with him, Pa will take no nonsense.’ Her smile broadened. ‘It will be a shock when he realizes that his former mistress is his greatest enemy.’

  ‘She made that clear when she visited him.’ Anna glanced at the clock. ‘They will be almost there. Any minute now, the beast will be on the loose.’ Poor Jeremy, poor Peter – they were the instruments that would bring back the man who had caused so much anguish. But it had to be done …

  The two women sat and waited for their foe to return, both staring into the fire, both wishing that he would never come home and knowing that he must.

  They had brought Richard’s Bentley. He would not have liked to travel in his sons’ battered Austin, as it was not particularly large and its suspension left space for improvement, so a nervous Jeremy sat behind the wheel of a bigger and much more powerful car.

  ‘Can’t we lose him on the way home?’ Peter let out a deep sigh.

  ‘He’d find his route,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Bad pennies are famous for turning up when they are least wanted. No, we are stuck with him. I just hope I can keep my hands off him.’

  ‘And that Aunt Anna doesn’t find the guns. She is a good shot, you know. I’d bet she could wing a bluebottle if she concentrated. She wouldn’t want to kill it, though, whereas …’ His words died a natural death.

  Jeremy picked up the thread. ‘Whereas she would kill Dad as soon as look at him. Yes, I know. If you think about it, poor old Auntie has had a rough trip. She picked up where Sally left off, comforted Mother, looked after Grandpa, smoothed the way for Pol Fishwick to move in, showed Aggie what to do, attended to Meredith – it’s a lot for a woman of over seventy.’

  Peter drew a hand across his brow. It was the middle of December, yet he was hot because of his level of agitation. Like his twin, he hoped that he would be able to stop short of beating up his father. ‘I vote we order another twelve bottles of whisky and leave him to it. Two months of solid drinking and he will be needing a shroud.’ It occurred to Peter that he was not afraid any more; he was anxious, but not terrified.

  Jeremy turned a corner. ‘Horrible, isn’t it? Hating your own father and knowing that he is a killer. I don’t know which is worse – wanting him dead or wanting him alive and suffering. But it isn’t going to be easy at home, Peter.’

  ‘It never was.’

  ‘No.’

  They pulled up in the forecourt of the convent nursing home. The legend St William’s Recuperation Centre was cut into stone above the main lintel and a figure of Christ, hands held out towards the road, stood in the centre of the lawn. ‘We have to go in,’ said Peter after a pause of several seconds. ‘We may need to sign something.’

  ‘A death warrant, preferably,’ muttered Jeremy. Then he pulled a comb from a pocket and dragged it through his tangled thatch. ‘We have to give peace a chance,’ he said when the comb was back in its rightful place. ‘Perhaps there has been a miracle – these nuns pray all the time. We may find a completely changed man.’

  Peter grimaced. ‘Yes, and a pig just flew over the chimneys.’

  ‘At least you have Marie.’

  ‘And you have Josie.’

  Jeremy shook his head slowly. ‘No. No-one has Josie. I can’t talk to her – everything’s a joke. Oh, I know she’s a stunner, but there’s nothing underneath. She’s … she’s insulated.’

  ‘And you feel isolated.’

  Jeremy nodded. ‘Aggie’s the one who keeps me sane. She went on strike yesterday – did you hear about it?’

  ‘No. Why on ea
rth would she do that?’

  Jeremy grinned. ‘Grandpa wanted chips. Egg and chips, if you please. So she marched into his room and told him that she was withdrawing her labour – he laughed so hard that he spilled his coffee. She said she has cut up about three tons of spuds in her time and that she’s going cordon bleu.’

  ‘Did he get his chips?’ Peter asked.

  ‘No, he got pommes frites with deux oeufs.’

  Peter laughed out loud. Aggie was a card, had turned herself into a character because she felt there was no other option. Overshadowed by the prettiness of her two friends, Agnes Turner had become the clown, the ice-breaker, the jolly good sport who performed the tricks, who told the jokes and got the laughs. Josie was very funny, as was Marie, but there was little warmth in Josie. ‘We are lucky to have Aggie up at the grange,’ Peter said. ‘If nothing else comes of Meredith’s advertisement, we got a damned good housekeeper.’

  ‘I am beginning to wonder whether Meredith will function at all.’ Jeremy laid his head on the steering wheel, hands clasping the rim as if his life depended on it. ‘And we can’t leave Mother yet. If this is privilege, Peter, I would rather not have it.’

  ‘I know.’ Peter opened his door. ‘Stay there – I’ll get him.’

  Peter walked into the reception area and waited for his father. A rather stern woman took his name and asked for proof of identity. It occurred to Peter that those who cared for alcoholics must need to stay several steps ahead – some patients might have got out via friends posing as family. When his driving licence had been scrutinized and handed back to him, he sat and waited for Richard Chandler to be returned to the less-than-welcoming bosom of his family.

  A small nun appeared. ‘Mr Chandler? No, no, please remain seated. Your father is on his way.’ Mary Vincent was not supposed to say anything; every rule in the book forbade her to pass on information unless it went to an inmate’s doctor, but this was a special case. ‘He isn’t over it, he isn’t even trying,’ she said bluntly.