Amenable Women

by Mavis Cheek

  Pausing only to collect yet more post-funeral commiserations from the mat in the hall, Flora closed the door behind her and started to hum a tune as she went up the stairs.

  The following day Lucy arrived clutching several empty black plastic sacks to her small bosom and with a defiant look about her. Flora said nothing until they were upstairs in Edward’s bedroom. Then, very matter-of-factly, she said, ‘We’ll go through the trunk first, then the chest of drawers and sort things into piles on the bed. Then we’ll go through the wardrobe starting with the shoes and working upwards. The cupboard in the corner will be last – that’s got the hats and sticks and bags and boots and stuff like that.’ It sounded so reasonable, so sensible. And so they began.

  Flora had already tipped out the contents of the top two drawers of Edward’s dressing chest and removed all of its vulnerable-looking socks and underwear which she sorted into several bags. It was the day before the recycling collection of glass, tin and cloth and her box was already full and spilling over. Since the Green Guards touched nothing that was remotely outside the plastic container, she had to think again. There was nothing else for it and so last night, by moonlight, she tiptoed towards the pond and put a small bag of underwear and socks into some of the other boxes so properly lining the route, fixing their lids down with forceful determination since she did not want the sight of a fox dragging Edward’s vests and pants across the lane in the early hours. Hurcott Ducis’ foxes had a habit of nosing over-stuffed containers open and investigating any plastic bags they found. It seemed to be the vulpine equivalent of a good night out. If the neighbours see me, she thought, they will only think it is a mad aspect of widowhood and close their curtains and their minds to it. One thing she could say for her deceased husband, he had fought, and won, the campaign to not have surveillance in their bins. She had laughed at the time, now she was truly grateful.

  It was a strange feeling, this orderly disposal – it was almost like putting bits of Edward inside everyone’s recycling boxes – it had never occurred to her until now how personal underwear could be. The whole exercise took it out of her and left her feeling quite weak. But at least it was not Lucy. No one, apart from a wife, husband or long-term lover, should riffle through a dead person’s underwear, even if it is clean and folded. Even for a deceased’s spouse – the very woman who bought it all in the first place – the act contains an air of betrayal.

  Only very much later, with her one glass of wine, as she sat by the window in the lamplight and reviewed the day and evening just passed did the enormity of what she had done hit her. This, after all, might be grief. It was certainly not normal. And nor would the following day be normal. In fact, nothing looked like it would be normal for quite a while. If ever. Now it was time for the rest.

  The two women faced each other across the bed. They had worked efficiently and harmoniously and speedily. Each type of garment was folded and piled neatly upon the counterpane. The black sacks were safely stowed on Flora’s side of the room but they were still empty. With luck the confrontation would never take place – if the Hospice’s ladies were true to their word.

  ‘Shoes next,’ said Flora.

  And Lucy immediately knelt on the floor to go through the boxes and loose items with a definitely proprietorial air. ‘Pretty worn out,’ said Flora.

  ‘Oh, not really,’ said Lucy.

  They stared at each other and it was quite clear what they were thinking. They began to fill the sacks. Eventually Flora, her heart beating with inappropriate excitement, looked at her watch again and said, ‘Will you make us a cup of coffee now? I think we deserve it. There are chocolate biscuits in the pantry.’

  Reluctantly Lucy stood up. She eyed the remaining few piles on the bed, the shoes on the floor, the now filled array of bags and cases leaning against the wall – with the eye of one who covets all she sees. But she was being paid to do a job and this included making hot drinks. She nodded, gave the room one last lingering look, and went downstairs. Almost immediately Flora heard a car coming slowly along Blowhorn Lane. She went to the window. Yes. Right on time. There they were. She shoved the few remaining items into the empty bags, and waited.

  The car was very bright green and very small and shiny. A Good Woman’s car. She opened the window. After the Lodge’s two battered wooden gates were negotiated, renegotiated and tried once more for luck, the car passed through the enormous gap very gingerly and parked on the drive by the front door. Out stepped two ladies with almost identically white hair and haircuts – fringed straight across the forehead and short and straight at the sides. They were also wearing beige skirts and pastel tops – one the colour politely known as pistachio and the other very pink. On their feet they wore flat shoes in brown, though one of them wore daringly dark stockings. Hospice shops in bigger towns might be serviced by more glamorous-looking women, but in this area of rural rectitude those who served were comfortingly, warmly, homely.

  The ladies looked about them – at the house, at the garden, at the parking arrangement – and then, as if satisfied with all they saw, they began to walk towards the front door. At which point Flora called out in a theatrical whisper, ‘Wait, wait there. Hallo. Thanks for coming so promptly.’

  They looked up, much startled.

  ‘I can’t come down,’ she continued, deciding there was no reason she could think of for not coming down and therefore not offering one. The two ladies stood with their hands on their hips staring up with puzzled expressions.

  ‘But it’s all right,’ called Flora in a stage whisper, ‘Wait there.’ She quickly finished putting the sorted piles into bags, tied them all securely, and began dropping them out of the window. With great success.

  ‘Right-ho,’ said one of the ladies, ‘I get it.’ And they both began stowing them in the car.

  Flora had put Hello Magazine on the kitchen table. Because of this she knew that Lucy would take a long, long time to prepare their coffee and return with it. ‘This is the last one,’ she called to the waiting women below. The final bag containing an assortment of sticks and boots and odds and sods thudded on to the gravel just as Flora heard the rattle of mugs and spoons on a tray and Lucy coming up the stairs. She waved at the ladies who waved back and called out cheery thank-yous. Those who stand in charge of a charity shop must accept the world as it is and not as they would like it to be. If a woman wishes to play Rapunzel and let down her black plastic bags, who were they . . .

  ‘Must go,’ she said. And closed the window. The timing could not have been better. When Lucy pushed open the bedroom door and re-entered the room, she saw Flora pulling out drawers and checking they were empty – and a bed and floor and a series of surfaces that were also – empty.

  Lucy’s face was what Flora’s Aunt Helen (now deceased) would call A Picture. It reminded Flora of Rembrandt’s series of etchings depicting emotions. Back in the days when she had visited art galleries (plain young women always had time on their hands which was not always a bad thing) Rembrandt’s love of silly finery and posing had touched her and these studies of human response made her laugh. Now here was Lucy living it. Rembrandt could not have drawn better a woman in the throes of utter surprise and confusion and loss as Lucy presented when she re-entered the room. Happily the coffee mugs and the biscuits were on a tray which Flora took from her as she stood there and stared.

  ‘Where’s it all gone?’ she asked.

  ‘To charity,’ said Flora firmly. ‘They came and collected it all while you were in the kitchen.’ She was very close to laughter nervous of course. She controlled it.

  Bemused and with a little squeak of amazement Lucy crossed to the open drawers and felt in them as if they might reveal a magical trick – then she ran her hands over the rucks and indentations of the counterpane where once had lain good-quality clothing. Flora sipped from her mug, nibbled her biscuit, continued to suppress her laughter, and waited. Shaking her head Lucy opened the wardrobe and felt about in it. Empty. Except. As she fluttered her
hand about in the darkest corner there was the sound of plastic being rumpled. She pulled out a long black bag decorated with a drycleaner’s motif. It contained – Flora suddenly remembered - Edward’s dress suit – not worn since he went to the Game Fair up at Grantham. She smiled remembering that she had asked why he could possibly want his dress suit for country pursuits and he became quite uppish with her and told her that they didn’t spend the whole three days up to their necks in muck and bullets nowadays – that there were some perfectly civilised evenings arranged. Gourmet stuff. Wind quartets. That sort of thing. Quite different from the way of Game Fairs in the early days of their marriage. ‘They need to be,’ she replied.

  When she was first married Game Fairs were rough-andready jaunts and after the first couple of visits she never went again. When you’ve seen one brace of dead pheasants you’ve seen them all, was how she put it, and the joys of Falconry and Ferrets held little charm. On both occasions she attended Grantham it rained and the plumbing facilities in those early days were, to put it kindly, a little less than adequate. Some years on Edward argued that this had all changed and that Fairs were now recognised as big business, with sponsors, and facilities and – well – wind quartets. But by that time she was a planet removed from fancying it and much more inclined to look forward to a few days in the house on her own. Edward was already becoming very, very exhausting. He never asked her again after the first few years and agreed that it was, largely, a man’s pursuit. So to see him packing posh gear was strange. Flora had considered going with him this time but, as he’d said, they hadn’t booked her in and it was too late now. ‘Next year, perhaps?’ she had said. And he’d agreed. Well, so much for that.

  Of course she had taken the dress suit to the cleaner’s afterwards. Flora undid the first few inches of the zipper on the plastic bag and checked. Yes, there it was, Edward’s cleaned dress suit. A sorry reminder, really, rather than a poignant one. Like all men, he looked wonderful when he wore it – even better than usual as everyone liked to tell her – and there were times – yes there were – when she looked at him and her heart did strange things and she loved him all over again and they had danced or laughed or did the party chit-chat and felt happy and unremarkable in their coupledom. But not for a long time. How was it that their united happiness just seemed to fade away rather than be lost to too much arguing and fighting and – latterly – indifference? How was it that two bodies which knew each other so intimately could turn their backs so cheerfully on sharing their nights? Too late now and best forgotten. She realised that she was grieving for her marriage more than for Edward.

  Lucy was looking at the plastic bag, hope replacing her expression of fear and amazement. Flora longed to waggle her fingers and say Hey Presto but managed to contain herself. Whatever was being said of her, or not, in Hurcott Ducis, she did not want to add to it. Of course she must give the dress suit to Lucy. No way out of that. At least the rest of the stuff had escaped her acquisitive little clutches. A mollified Lucy went home with the black plastic bag flapping in the breeze. Had Flora any idea of what such a gift would bring in its wake – she would have thought twice, thrice about gifting it.

  Odd behaviour, mine, thought Flora. She remembered the newly bereaved retired doctor’s wife, Stephanie Blount, a woman renowned for her mild temperament and capable lap, who had behaved immaculately up to and including Dr Blount’s cremation, and who suddenly began behaving in an entirely uncharacteristic way by becoming rude and aggressive and foul-mouthed to people who came to condole. ‘If one more person squeezes my sodding hand and says they know how I feel I shall do a bloody murder,’ was what she reportedly said.

  Now Flora could believe it. So yes, it helped to remember that even the best of bereaved could behave strangely. Woebegone empathisers did not bring succour. He was dead. He was gone. He would never come back. She would find compensations. She would find other things to do. That History, or even some slovenly idleness. Love, with her features, must be out of the question. But she would not do Good Works – which, she remembered, was the second suggestion made to the doctor’s widow and resulted in her not only pushing the vicar’s wife in the pond but holding her down while using several loud words of the Anglo-Saxon variety.

  Flora’s sympathy at the time lay with the vicar’s wife, the straightforward Mrs Bernice Oakes, committed spouse of the slightly vague Reverend Arthur Oakes who, after she clambered out of the pond with immaculate dignity, despite weeds and other unmentionable stuff adhering to her bony shoulders, forgave her assailant with great good grace. Now, Flora found her sympathies were more with the widow Blount. There was something altogether infuriating about the way everyone talked either in hushes and whispers – or loudly and heartily. It made one consider taking up the trumpet as a life-enhancing option. Between her husband and her daughter Good Works was what Flora felt she had done for most of her adult life. Now there were other possibilities.

  Ewan wrote to say that he would be back in the office on Thursday. It surprised her that he did not come to Edward’s funeral but she decided that he was too discreet to make the grand gesture of cancelling his holiday. His letter of condolence was lovely as was his request that Flora name a charity of her choice for his donation. She longed to write back and suggest the Great British Eccentrics Society, of which Edward was member number one in a field of one, but it would worry Ewan. Humour was not his strong point where the proprieties of life were concerned. She liked that about him, too. You could make a throwaway remark to Ewan – something along the lines of – Oh, it doesn’t matter if they haven’t asked me to their party – and he would wrinkle that balding brow of his and look concerned and think about what he could do instead of taking the easy way out and saying something such as More Fool Them and going on his way. Flora knew this because she had once said that very thing to him about Betty Gregg’s Post Office Party when Edward was away and he had discreetly, and kindly, sorted it out.

  The appointment made was for Thursday late afternoon which was perfect. It meant that Hilary could arrive in good time for lunch and she could also – with a bit of luck – get back to Cambridge on the same day, too. With all Edward’s clothes gone and this final deed over, Flora would be able to feel the corset was definitely off for good. She was not looking forward to the reading of the will and could imagine the Lady Bracknell of a scene as Ewan spelled out the truth of it. She braced herself accordingly, and rang Hilary.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Be good to get it all sorted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said her mother faintly. ‘Though I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high . . .’ But she was talking to a dialling tone.

  That evening, at dusk when the April showers had cleared – Tuesday, a night to remember – Flora had a sudden desire to see if she could find this carved stone that was supposed to be in the boundary wall. She put on her wellington boots, took the torch, and plodded through the wet hinterland between where their garden and paddock ended and the boundary wall divided it from the new houses. There was a long line of hawthorns and elder and, from the middle of June the most wonderful pink dog roses marking the end of their civilised world and the beginning of the new buildings, and nothing was touched by electric mower, hedger or strimmer. It was very shaded and nearly always damp and tonight the trees were dripping with moisture. No one was likely to see her as she roamed around.

  It was not an easy task in the half light, even with a fullblooded torch, as the mosses and lichens needed rubbing away and each of the older stones was bumpy and irregular enough to require careful checking. She was about halfway through the first corner when the evening finally turned to night. A sudden vision of returning home to a glass of something cheering came to mind. She had all the time in the world now and need never race through anything ever again. She placed a large stone at the point where she had stopped and felt pleased with herself. Clever Flora, she said as she made her way home. She cast off her mucky boots, which made dirty marks on the kitchen floor when t
hey landed, and she decided that she would tell Lucy, very soon, perhaps tomorrow, that she no longer needed a cleaner. That she could no longer afford a cleaner. Well, she couldn’t. She would give Lucy her severance pay and that would be that. It was not an interview that she relished but once it was over – Freedom.

  Just as she was pouring out her one glass of wine – she still allowed herself only one a night – into a very large glass she had found at the back of one of the cupboards – or possibly ‘hunted high and low for’ was nearer the mark – preparatory to putting her feet up to watch the news , there was a ring at the doorbell. Very reluctantly she put down her glass, opened the door, and found a strangely countenanced Little Treasure on the doorstep. She looked unusually nervous but was bold enough to step determinedly into the hallway. She was wearing full make-up, which somehow did not bode well.

  ‘Lucy,’ said Flora, surprised. ‘Come in’. Her heart sank. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Lucy stood there with an air of importance, a disturbing sense of having grown a couple of inches.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’ She walked confidently into the kitchen. The Little Treasure saw the very large torch on the kitchen table and the discarded wellingtons. ‘Problem?’ She asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Flora, ‘I was just looking for something in the garden.’

  ‘Lost something?’

  ‘No – nothing like that’.

  Lucy was prepared to wait.

  Flora gave in. ‘Well, I was just looking for a special stone. In the far wall. Something historical apparently.’

  They both blinked at each other, waiting. If Lucy has come to have another go at me about Edward’s clothes, Flora thought, I shall be very terse. ‘Anyway – you didn’t come to discuss – er – stones,’ said Flora.