by Beth Corby
‘Ah, here’s Jane,’ she says with satisfaction, and I glance at Alec, who goes to answer it. Mrs Jennings puts her cup on a side table, ruffles her dog’s ears and smiles beatifically as Jane walks in.
‘Jane, it’s been a long time.’ She gestures for Jane to sit down and motions for me to pour more tea.
‘It has,’ agrees Jane, and neither of us comment as Mrs Crumpton comes in and quietly seats herself in an upright chair near the door. Mrs Jennings gives her a curious glance. ‘So, why did you want to see me?’ asks Jane hurriedly, diverting Mrs Jennings’ attention. ‘Hannah didn’t seem to know.’
Mrs Jennings breathes out a beneficent sigh. ‘I thought it high time I settled some old scores. After all, you took something precious that wasn’t yours,’ she says, her smile faltering as a fleeting expression of hurt crosses her face.
Jane looks at her blankly. ‘I never took anything from you.’
Mrs Jennings’ lips tremble and she purses them together, taking a moment to regain her self-control. Her eyes turn steel-hard as she focuses on Jane. ‘You took Donald.’
Jane glances perplexedly at me, and I’d grab her hand if I could. I try to warn her to hold it together with my eyes. ‘I was under the impression that my time with Donald was a gift; a gift of his own choosing,’ she says, turning back to Mrs Jennings.
‘He was mine. It was of my choosing. Nothing was his choice!’ cries Mrs Jennings, glaring at Jane. Then, adjusting her posture, she adds calmly, ‘He was never the same after you, and I will never forgive you for that.’ She strokes her dog, her eyes narrowing infinitesimally as she studies Jane.
‘Your choice, of course,’ replies Jane coolly. ‘But it still doesn’t explain why I’m here.’
‘You’re here for two reasons. One is to explain to . . .’ Mrs Jennings stares at me, obviously flummoxed.
‘Hannah,’ I supply unhappily.
‘. . . Hannah that she would be well advised to do as I say, and secondly in order to witness that I have won.’
‘Won?’ asks Jane.
‘Yes! I have outlived Donald, and now that he’s dead, either his final wishes will not be carried out or the truth will come out. All those smug, hypocritical marriages will be revealed as the shams they are, including yours, and everything Donald worked so hard to protect will be ruined. I win,’ she says simply, smiling with malicious satisfaction.
‘Except that you don’t,’ says Jane. ‘Not yet.’ She glances at me and I nod, trying to look unconcerned, while desperately hoping Mrs Crumpton’s ammunition is worth all the faith we’re putting in it.
Mrs Jennings regards Jane with mild puzzlement. ‘If you’re trying to appeal to my better nature, you’re wasting your time, Jane. I’m self-aware enough to know that I don’t have one.’
‘No, I wouldn’t bother trying. No, I was referring to the fact that you lied to Hannah.’
Mrs Jennings laughs. ‘Embellished a little, perhaps. A little poetic licence—’
‘You lied,’ says Jane flatly. ‘Donald never went near young girls. The only one who wanted him to was you.’
‘And he’s told me about everything else,’ I add, glancing at Alec, who gives me an approving wink.
Mrs Jennings titters contemptuously. ‘We’ve already established that you don’t know a thing about me.’
‘That was yesterday. We’ve learnt a lot since then.’ I hold up Donald’s letter like a trophy. ‘Donald told me himself.’
‘We know all about Theresa,’ says Jane, ‘and why he left. So I’ll tell you what happens now. You say nothing about Donald, the marriages you mentioned remain intact, the people you threatened will not suffer, and Donald’s money will go exactly where he intended.’
Jane and I give each other a satisfied nod, and for a second I think we’ve got her. Then Mrs Jennings smiles. I hate it when she does that.
‘That letter proves nothing. It’s just the ramblings of a jilted lover. I’ll deny everything, and since there’s no proof . . .’ She dismisses the tattered remains of our defence with a flick of her wrist. ‘Whereas I can have you all named and shamed in the newspapers without the least difficulty. I can picture it now, “Wife of famous MP involved in sordid sex scandal”,’ she says as if reading out a headline. ‘You remember Margo?’ Mrs Jennings asks Jane. ‘And then there’s your husband – he was a district judge, wasn’t he?’ Jane looks like she’s struggling to breathe. ‘Oh yes, the papers will be all over it. And then Donald can be investigated for immoral earnings, and the government will seize his assets.’ Mrs Jennings focuses on me. ‘Do you really want to put everyone through all that just because you won’t ignore Donald’s final wishes?’
‘You don’t have the right—’ begins Alec, but Mrs Jennings holds up her hand to silence him.
‘Stay quiet and you may come out of this unscathed,’ she warns him chillingly. ‘I asked you a question, Hannah – are you going to do as I say?’
Jane stays absolutely still, and out of the corner of my eye I see Mrs Crumpton shake her head ever so slightly.
‘No,’ I answer quietly, hoping Jane will forgive me.
‘No?’ Mrs Jennings laughs in disbelief. ‘Jane, are you going to let this young woman ruin your life?’
Jane doesn’t flinch. ‘I stand by Hannah’s decision,’ she says bravely.
‘Commendable, but misguided . . .’ begins Mrs Jennings, and behind her, Mrs Crumpton quietly gets up and comes to sit on the sofa beside me. ‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ asks Mrs Jennings coldly.
‘Joinin’ the conversation,’ says Mrs Crumpton, pouring herself a cup of tea. She takes a sip, winces, gives Alec a disgusted look and puts it back on the tray.
Mrs Jennings looks on, flabbergasted. ‘Jane, your friend needs to be put back in her stall,’ she spits, but though Jane and I shoot each other wide-eyed glances, we stay quiet.
Mrs Crumpton looks Mrs Jennings in the eye. ‘Are you talkin’ about me? Because the only old nag round ‘ere is you, and I wouldn’t even use you for glue.’
Mrs Jennings gapes as if she’s been struck. ‘How dare you! Jane, muzzle your watchdog or I’ll make your life a misery.’
‘I thought you were doin’ that already,’ says Mrs Crumpton. ‘But I wouldn’t start threatening people.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because Mr Jennings will be mentioned, that’s why, and I know how you’d hate that. I might even contact ‘im and ask ‘im to visit. Never did get that divorce, did you?’
Mrs Jennings’ eyes bore holes into Mrs Crumpton. ‘Who are you?’ she demands. ‘What makes you think you have even the faintest right to speak to me?’
‘Twelve years of service should earn me at least five minutes, don’t you think?’
Mrs Jennings still looks mystified.
‘What, don’t you recognise me? And me your cook for so many years? Shocking it is. I’m hurt,’ mocks Mrs Crumpton. ‘It’s Mrs Crumpton, but you always called me “Cook”!’
Mrs Jennings shakes her head. ‘You can’t be. If you were her, you’d be dead!’
‘The cheek of you! I might not have all your la-di-dah lotions and posh clothes, but I’m younger than you.’
Mrs Jennings stares at Mrs Crumpton, and I can see she’s trying to peel back the years. ‘But . . . but you were dowdy and worn. And the teeth!’
‘Watch it!’ snaps Mrs Crumpton. ‘Or I might start talkin’ about Mr Jennings.’
Mrs Jennings face loses some of its colour. ‘I will not have that man’s name mentioned!’ she hisses furiously.
‘Why not? It seems to me like you’ve been sayin’ a whole lot of things you shouldn’t. Some of which are downright lies.’
There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Mrs Jennings’ eyes.
‘Didn’t you accuse Donald of doin’ the very thing he refused to do for you? And now you want to ruin his good name with it? Shame on you!’ declares Mrs Crumpton, her tone even more frightening than when she said it to me.
�
�� “Good name”? You know what he did for a living – he didn’t have a good name, and besides, he deserves it. It’s poetic justice!’
‘About Mr Jennings—’ begins Mrs Crumpton.
‘I told you not to say that man’s name!’ bleats Mrs Jennings, clutching her dog to her chest, her bottom lip trembling.
‘No? Well I’m about to, unless you take back every word you just said. In fact, I might do some embellishing of my own. Like that your husband is now a famous drag queen livin’ in Milan an’ performin’ on stage every night in six-inch heels under the stage name Fanny Maybe.’
Jane gasps, Alec claps his hands together and I gape mutely.
Mrs Jennings’ eyes widen and dart between us. Without her bravado she looks twenty years older. ‘You wouldn’t dare – not with everything I have on you.’
‘Perhaps I wouldn’t under normal circumstances,’ agrees Mrs Crumpton. ‘But if you was to carry out those threats you talked about—’
‘No one would believe you.’
Jane smiles. ‘They might if I tell all my London friends and ask them to vouch for it. Plus, it’s easy enough to add a little backstory. Didn’t I hear that he has a marvellous repertoire of Abba songs?’
‘His “Dancing Queen” is a must-see,’ agrees Alec.
‘And he knows all of Barbra Streisand’s music off by heart,’ I add.
Mrs Jennings is lost for words. ‘You’re all perverted,’ she finally manages.
‘And you’re a bigot,’ adds Mrs Crumpton without rancour. ‘So, do we have a deal?’
Mrs Jennings’ mouth tightens. ‘There must be no more talk of Mr Jennings in any form, to anyone, from any of you!’ she stipulates, looking formidable once more.
Mrs Crumpton folds her arms. ‘I’ll make this agreement: it’ll go no further than me, Hannah, Alec and Lady Jane ‘ere, so long as you leave all Donald’s friends and family be and never mention any of them ever again.’
Mrs Jennings stares malevolently at Mrs Crumpton, like a toad squatting in a hole, but finally relents. ‘I never should have written you such a good reference,’ she mutters darkly.
Mrs Crumpton shakes her head. ‘It never made no difference either way. So, seein’ as we’re all agreed?’ she asks, checking with Jane, Alec and me, and we all nod. Mrs Jennings looks slightly ill, but she dips her head once. ‘In that case, I’ll show you out.’
We all stand, none of us daring to say a word in case we break the spell. Mrs Crumpton escorts Mrs Jennings from the room, and we hear her call out, ‘Goodbye. Don’t come again.’
Mrs Crumpton comes back in. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish!’ she says triumphantly, and we burst out laughing.
‘I can see your skills extend beyond just managing Donald,’ says Jane when she can finally speak.
‘That one needed a firm ‘and,’ agrees Mrs Crumpton.
‘So can you tell us the real story about Mr Jennings?’ I ask. ‘What’s the big secret?’
Mrs Crumpton regards us speculatively. ‘I’ll tell you, though it’s against servants’ etiquette – “What’s heard be’ind closed doors, stays be’ind closed doors”, an’ all that.’ She pauses. ‘But in this case, there should be more than just me that knows it. After all, it’s the only thing that does the trick with that woman, and she needs to be kept in order.’
None of us disagree.
‘The truth is, in my first year of service, back when she was with her ‘usband, she found ‘im in bed with another man. Mortified, she was. Screamed and shouted and said some ‘orrible things. So he told ‘er how she’d always revolted ‘im. How she bullied and complained, nagged and was so awful she completely put him off women. Not that I think it’s true. Some people are just born different – nothin’ wrong with that. But he really had a go at ‘er, and made ‘er that upset that I think it accounts for some of how she’s been since. Not that she was nice before,’ Mrs Crumpton adds frowning.
‘Blimey!’ says Alec.
‘Yes,’ sighs Mrs Crumpton. ‘Trouble is, word got out, and what with him bein’ high up in the military, he was busted down to Mr Jennings and booted out of the officers’ mess faster than you could say “dress uniform”. It was a different time, you see,’ she explains, shaking her head sadly, and I start to see why Mrs Crumpton’s references to ‘Mr’ Jennings were so effective. ‘Anyway, a bit of a cover-up happened, an’ they left in hush-hush circumstances without it goin’ too much further, but it was still a bit of a comedown for ‘er. Proper shamin’, and she couldn’t bear the sight of anyone who knew.’
‘What happened then?’ I ask.
‘They went their separate ways. He went off to Italy with his “friend”, with no intention of comin’ back, and she set herself up in London with ‘er family’s money – a complete clean slate . . . not that it stayed clean, mind. But she’s always been that afraid of him coming back, ruining ‘er new life and everyone findin’ out and sniggerin’, so I knew what to do if she ever got out of ‘and.’
‘And you’re still in contact with Mr Jennings?’ asks Alec.
‘No, but she wasn’t to know that. But she’s that ashamed of what happened and has been trying to make up for it ever since by being the big “I am”. Explains a lot, I reckon.’
‘Mmm,’ agrees Jane. ‘But why didn’t you or Donald reveal all this years ago?’
‘He wouldn’t hear of it. Said ‘e didn’t want to hurt ‘er. He said it took two whiskies to explain everythin’ wrong with that woman, and one evenin’ we had two whiskies.’
‘You’re telling me he understood her?’ I ask incredulously.
Mrs Crumpton nods. ‘One night, we sat out in the dark on the terrace and he explained it all. Told me he reckoned that Mrs Jennings was desperate to be loved, but was frightened that she was unlovable, and that afraid of bein’ hurt, she wanted someone she could control. That’s where Donald came in.
‘Trouble was, even though she could control ‘im, Donald didn’t love ‘er, much as she loved ‘im, and she hated that he made her feel so weak. So she sent ‘im to other women to prove to ‘erself that she was above love and didn’t need ‘im, and she held on to that power and told ‘im who to be with and when. So you can see what a mess Mr Jennings left be‘ind?’
We nod.
‘Donald felt sorry for ‘er,’ says Mrs Crumpton, shaking her head. ‘Said she’d been through enough, and that he could never betray ‘er unless she forced ‘im. But attacking those ‘e loved, and that included me,’ she reminds us all firmly, ‘was not allowed. He told me I was to stop ‘er, and I ‘ave.’
‘But why attack him now, after all this time, and once Donald has gone?’ I ask.
‘Do you think that woman could ever forgive and forget, ‘specially someone who left ‘er? Someone she was frightened she had chased away? Someone she could punish in the place of her ‘usband?’ Mrs Crumpton gives me a penetrating look.
‘Wow, I guess not,’ I breathe, amazed at how all Mrs Jennings’ spiteful actions suddenly make sense.
‘Well, now you know,’ says Mrs Crumpton.
I shake my head in wonder. ‘I almost feel sorry for her.’
‘Don’t waste your breath,’ snaps Mrs Crumpton. ‘She’d eat babies if someone told ‘er they were good for the skin!’
Jane stifles a shocked laugh. ‘That’s more like the Mrs Jennings I know. But thank you for coming to our rescue. I could almost kiss you.’
‘Best not,’ says Mrs Crumpton, draining the last drops of her tea and putting the cup back down with a grimace. ‘Though a nice cuppa wouldn’t go amiss.’ She lifts the lid on the teapot and looks inside. ‘I don’t know what you two did to this pot, but I don’t fancy it.’
‘I think the milk curdled when Mrs Jennings came in,’ I giggle.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ mutters Jane. ‘Milk turning sour, locusts, boils, the lot.’
‘Well, let’s make another pot,’ says Mrs Crumpton. ‘I’m parched.’
Chapter 26
There
’s almost a party atmosphere as, with a fresh pot of tea and some oatmeal cookies, we all settle down in the drawing room to recover. Mrs Crumpton regales us with some of Donald’s antics at The Laurels, and Jane describes Donald’s wonderfully dreadful behaviour in London. It’s all very relaxed and I love that, after years of only passing Mrs Crumpton in the hall, Jane seems to have neatly sidestepped Mrs Crumpton’s usual reservations and jumped straight into being one of the family. So much so that, when Mrs Crumpton talks about making us all some lunch, Jane follows her into the kitchen leaving me and Alec in the drawing room.
Alec smiles at me. ‘It never occurred to me that they would get on so well. In fact, I’m not sure they’d have ever spoken more than two words to each other if it weren’t for this whole Mrs Jennings thing.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘It’s an unexpected silver lining. So, what do we do now that the pressure’s off?’
Alec gives me a long look, a warm smile sneaking onto his lips as if he’s considering his options. ‘Let’s tackle the last task,’ he says, playing safe. ‘But take our time over it. Did Donald say what it was in his letter?’
‘No.’ I take it out of my pocket and read the last few lines. ‘Apparently Mr Sanderson has it. But he does say that he wants you to read his letters.’
‘OK. Should I start with that one?’
I glance down at Donald’s suggestion that Alec and I could make each other happy. ‘No. I think you should read them in order, like I did.’
Alec raises his eyebrows expectantly, so, keeping the last letter with me, I go and collect the full set. He’s waiting at the foot of the stairs as I come back down, and I hand him the small stack of envelopes, carefully tucking the last one at the back, and follow him into the drawing room. I watch as he takes out the first letter.
‘Donald said they would have their own special relevance to you,’ I say.
‘Really? How intriguing,’ he says, and makes himself comfortable in an armchair, while I curl up in another.
He skims the first few letters without a hint of emotion – he could be reading a dishwasher manual for all the effect they’re having on him – but I keep a careful track of his progress, and as he reads the letter about Billy, his forehead creases. Now reading with avid concentration, I watch the emotions flit across his face as he reads about Judith, May, Mrs Jennings, turning the pages quicker and quicker as he gets to Jane, Mrs Crumpton and finally the end.
