A Serious Widow

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  “I don’t know, exactly. I just do imagine it.”

  “Believe me, you’re much better off to keep right out of it.”

  “You sound just like Edwin.”

  He frowns. “That’s not a friendly remark.”

  “Well, you could show a bit more sympathy. He’s so lonely. And of course that’s only one part of what’s so sad and grim about his situation now.”

  “Old age is sad and grim, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be humiliating and –”

  “Nobody will thank you for interfering, I warn you.”

  “I don’t want to be thanked. I just don’t want him victimized by that –”

  “Come now, Rowena. Be rational. It’s nobody’s fault he’s laid up, is it? Or that he’s a cantankerous old chimp too fond of the bottle?”

  “I don’t think he’d be either of those things if –”

  “Now let me finish. Those capsules you’re in such a hoo about. What makes you think Mrs. B. is drugging him? Those pills were probably prescribed by his own doctor. There’s no need to dramatize. A mild sedative to help him sleep, that’s all it is.”

  “Heavily? In the middle of the day?”

  “You can’t be sure, can you, that wasn’t just one of his naps? Of course you can’t.”

  “He was groggy and confused, Charles.”

  “Is that unusual at his age?”

  “It’s been worse lately,” I say stubbornly.

  “And that, too, is unnatural, I suppose.”

  “God knows I don’t want to get involved. And of course it’s none of my business. It’s just that he’s … special, somehow.”

  “Look, if you go over there once in a while to cheer the old boy up, you’ll be doing all you can for him. Right? What else can you do, when we get right down to it? Nothing.”

  “Well –”

  “You know I’m right.”

  “I guess so. Well, I could at least take him over a nip of whisky next time.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, either, if I were you. Alcohol and tranquillizers don’t mix, you know.”

  “True.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You know perfectly well I’m giving you good advice.”

  “Yes, but why did I ask, when I knew beforehand just what you’d say? And also that I’d agree with you?”

  “Well, of course people only take advice if it’s what they want to hear. If it’s right for them, in other words. And that makes perfectly good sense. For you, in this case, it’s right to do nothing.”

  “I know. That’s what depresses me so much.”

  “Cheer up,” he says kindly. “We are what we are. Just have to make the best of it. I ought to know that, if anybody does.”

  Cuthbert has called to ask, with rather elaborate politeness, if he might come round this evening with more papers for me to sign. I tell him, of course, and firmly resist the impulse to go upstairs and change or fidget with my hair. Instead I hustle away my dinner things and sit down to wait for him in the living-room, after reducing it to a state of severe tidiness. I sit first on the sofa, then in the armchair. We have not seen each other since Christmas Day, or spoken about anything personal since our New Year’s conversation. Minutes tick away in the silent house. I get restlessly to my feet and open the venetian blind to look out at the empty street. The dark is bejewelled with stars. There is a big moon with a bite out of it behind the trees. Whatever can be keeping him? He is never late for anything. Wittgenstein sits in the window, with the extreme tip of his black tail twitching. With a start, I move out of sight as Cuthbert’s car glides to the curb. After a pause his small figure emerges, carrying a long florist’s cone and his briefcase.

  “Hello, Cuthbert. Come in.”

  “Hello, Rowena. Here’s a bit of spring for you.”

  Awkwardly he hands over the cone.

  “Oh, thanks. How nice.”

  “They’re from Victoria, the man said.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He gives me a hopeful, desirous look, and I back away. In the kitchen I take as much time as possible to fill a vase and arrange the tulips. In the dining-room I can hear him shuffling his feet and clearing his throat. Finally with a flop he sets his briefcase on the table and draws some papers out of it.

  “Sorry I’m bothering you this late in the day, Rowena, but I’ve been tied up at the office.”

  “It’s no bother, Cuthbert.”

  “Well, now, if you’ll just … will you use my pen or would you rather …”

  Because I suddenly want one myself, I say, “Can I get you something to drink, Cuthbert? You look a bit tired.”

  “Actually, I’d appreciate that. Brandy over there, isn’t it? Yes, that would be nice.”

  I pour two smallish drinks and hand him one.

  “Thanks. But first if you’ll just sign your name here and here, where I’ve put an X – that’s it.”

  This done, I shepherd him into the sitting-room and we sit down. He looks, I think, not so much tired as deeply preoccupied, or faintly puzzled. We say things about the weather, the news, and our health. Then he gets up and fussily repacks his briefcase. Then he pauses at the front window looking absently out at the moon – or so I think at first. Then I see he is gazing at his own reflection, as if something new about it intrigues him. Eventually he sits down again opposite me.

  “Everything all right at work, Cuthbert?” I ask cautiously.

  “Yes, fine. Except, of course, for Elaine’s misery.”

  The name sends a light shock through me. I have no wish to hear any more about that girl’s problems. Nor do I enjoy this little pang of sexual jealousy, which is not something I expected to feel. It’s disconcerting because it’s a surprise; and it seems absurdly misplaced, as well, because I never felt like this about Edwin, even after learning about his other life.

  “Just look at how fat Witty is getting,” I say brightly. “He must be cadging meals next door – getting the best of both worlds.”

  “How are the Wrights these days?” he asks politely.

  “They’re gearing up for a couple of weeks in Barbados, lucky things.”

  “I should have taken you places, Rowena,” he says sadly.

  “No – no – I never meant –”

  “I know, but …” Moodily he swirls the dregs of his brandy. “Sometimes I feel I’ve been very selfish, because you … well, you’ve been so sweet and generous.”

  “Come on, Cuthbert, if it comes to generosity, you’ve –”

  “After all,” he goes on, studying his glass intently, “it’s not too late, is it? We could go away for a weekend somewhere nice.”

  “No, no, no,” I say hurriedly. “We agreed about all that, dear. And besides, what on earth would Marion say?”

  There is a brief silence. I am afraid he will pursue this topic, but instead he says, “Actually, she called me at the office today.” My hand smoothing Wittgenstein’s fur gives a little twitch. “She did?”

  “Yes. She was – er – asking for an update on things … our application and so on. She thinks – I mean I know it seems to be taking a long time in the works, but I explained to her that I’ve done all I can – once these papers go in, it will be out of my hands till the hearing. People don’t realize how long these things take, specially in a case like this where we have an opponent.”

  “I know you’ve done your best for me, Cuthbert, and so does she. But her temperament is … She likes everything to be cut and dried, over and done with quickly … I hope she didn’t say anything to –”

  “No, of course not,” he says too quickly. “It’s perfectly natural for her to be concerned. She’s a good soul, Marion.”

  There is another short pause. Then I say with reluctance, “I suppose she means well.”

  “That’s right,” he says. His voice sounds tired.

  “More brandy?”

&nbs
p; “No, thanks, Rowena. I must be getting along.” He gets up smothering a great yawn. Winding on his scarf he gives his head a little shake. “You think she’s a bit difficult – wow, you should meet Elaine’s ex-husband. What a Hindu he’ll make. He’s suing for half of everything they’ve got, you know – perhaps I told you this before.”

  With an effort I keep my voice neutral. “Hardly fair, is it, when he’s the one opting out.”

  “Fair is not a word in that guy’s vocabulary. The one thing he doesn’t want is custody of Sarah. Poor old Elaine will have all the responsibility of that. Poor kid.” He yawns again.

  “You’re worn out, Cuthbert; would you maybe like to –” But fortunately he has pulled down his fur hat snugly over his ears, and fails to hear this.

  “Yes, I must get home. Thanks for the drink, dear. Give you a call soon.”

  He pats my shoulder and takes himself off to the waiting car. The cat and I watch as he pulls away and disappears under the stars. I stand there for a while looking at the empty road. Now you cut this out, I tell myself sternly. This is only the beginning, and it’s how things are going to be. At least he didn’t mention that ring. We seem to have come out of this without doing any real damage to each other. But it will stay that way only if you’re not a fool. And that will be the hard part.

  Tom’s black umbrella enlarges its own small puddle on the kitchen floor, quietly domesticating nature. Outside a gust of sleet rattles fiercely at the window like a housebreaker. Tom himself sits at the table hunched round-shouldered over his crossed arms. I fill our cups with tea and push his closer. His extended silence has been, in its way, statement enough, but I ask, “Weather got you down, Tom?”

  “No,” he mutters. “It’s not that.”

  “Well, drink that while it’s hot. And try a bran muffin – I made them this morning.”

  “Bless you,” he says a moment later through a well-buttered mouthful. “Delicious.” After a loud swig or two of tea he wipes his moustache and leans back with a politely repressed belch.

  “It’s my day for hospital visits,” he says, breaking off another bite of muffin. “And that never does much to lift the spirits. Worst part of my duty, in fact. Today I saw a child with leukaemia – then a parishioner who miscarried in her sixth month. But worst of all was poor Miriam Whittaker. She went in for tests last week – nothing but a stubborn cough, we all thought – but they’ve diagnosed lung cancer. She’s being quite marvellous about it, but –” He pauses here to pull out a handkerchief. With a honk he blows his nose and openly wipes his eyes. “Well, God must be comforting her in this adversity, poor soul, because she was much more cheerful today than I was after hearing the news. I’ve seen this before in the condemned, of course. The struggle to accept is hard and long.”

  I touch his hand. It is clear to me now, if it wasn’t before, that Miriam has been one of Tom’s parochial sheep on particularly friendly terms with her pastor; but this detail seems of no consequence now, if it ever was.

  “It won’t be long now, Rowena,” he tells me heavily, “before I know as many dead people as living ones.”

  I think of Sebastian’s hooded eyes looking bleakly at the future and refill Tom’s cup. “Does it help to believe you’ll see them all again?” I ask, too curious to keep silent. “I suppose you do really believe that?”

  “Our Lord did not tell lies,” he says firmly. “Why should the promise of life everlasting be any less true than the other things He said?”

  “Well, but that one does ask for such a huge suspension of disbelief.”

  “That doesn’t alter the truth of it.” But his shoulders have sagged again, as if he feels both tired and discouraged.

  “Why don’t you have a little brandy, Tom. You’ve had a rough day. It will do you good.”

  He makes no objection, so I bring in the bottle and a glass from the dining-room and pour him a generous tot, not without a rueful sense of déjà vu.

  “Thanks, my dear. Not joining me? Your health.”

  Wittgenstein’s squawk can be heard faintly at the back door. When I open it he shoots in and shakes himself indignantly, scattering ice-cold drops everywhere. Tom draws his robe to one side to protect it while I towel the cat dry. Under the rubbing a purr like a lion’s emerges.

  “Doesn’t that beast live next door?”

  “Not now.”

  “What a friend to all the world you are, my dear. Myself, I’ve never seen the point of cats.”

  “I guess it’s a matter of faith, Tom. It’s their self-confidence I like so much. And envy.”

  “This bottle’s very low. I’ll have to bring along a replacement next time I come.” I let this observation pass without comment. “Can we go and sit in the other room?” he says, getting stiffly to his feet. “This chair is hard on my old bones.”

  Once established in the big chair, feet propped on a hassock and glass in hand, he sighs with contentment. “There, that’s better. Tell me, Rowena, how is Marion these days?”

  “About as usual, I think. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, last Sunday – you know she takes the eight-to-tens at Sunday school (I had to be there because my curate’s down with flu), I found her in the vestry telling off one of the youngsters. Now no doubt the child had been very trying; heaven knows these days they can behave like demons. But she said to this one, ‘If you can’t behave decently, you have no business being alive.’ I really did think that was too strong – the child was already in tears. I hate to see anyone cry, you know, so when the youngster was gone, I remonstrated a little with Marion. Very gently, you understand. You know I’m an admirer of hers, and very fond of her, as well. But her reaction quite took me aback. She actually snapped at me. Offered to resign on the spot. Well, of course that was the very last thing – in the end, I found myself the one more or less apologizing … At any rate the whole thing made me wonder whether she has … Is she unhappy for any reason, do you know?”

  “I think,” I say with reluctance, “that Marion is far from happy. Worse, I’m beginning to wonder if she ever has been.”

  “Of course I know she felt her father’s death very deeply; but you’d expect a sensible girl like that, after this length of time …”

  “Somehow, I think that’s only part of it. But she’s always kept me at arm’s length, you know. Perhaps all those years with Edwin, she was afraid I’d cling too much, to compensate for … Well, anyhow, that’s all over now, but we both appear to be stuck in the old postures. If there’s anything I can do about her current frame of mind, I wish you’d tell me.”

  Tom has laced his hands together and closed his eyes rather in the manner of one hearing confession, but he says nothing. After a silence he murmurs, “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. I shall put her into my prayers.”

  “That may be all anybody can do. That is, if you believe we make our own misery, much of the time.”

  After a pause I glance at him inquiringly. But the conference is over. His head has sunk forward and a faint, sighing snore escapes from under the grey moustache.

  An hour or so later a taxi takes Tom off to a synod meeting, leaving Wittgenstein and me alone. Outside the storm is still histrionically hissing and rattling at the windows. We both find the sound of it satisfactory because it doubles the pleasure of being indoors. Over a bite of supper, I say comfortably to Mrs. Wilson, “Pleasant, isn’t it, that nothing has happened lately.”

  “Ah, well,” she says, switching her wheelchair closer to the table. “Occurrences can be invisible but still potent.”

  “Possibly. The thing is, what can I do for my poor girl?”

  “Not much one can do for an adult child, is there?”

  “No, but if I could just get to the bottom of what … It’s not just a man she wants, is it? Or a woman, either. I mean, I’ve met Bernice, and … No, I don’t really think it’s that. Marion’s neuter, I’ve always thought, which may after all be a very disturbing c
ondition. My guess is that a long time ago she might have overheard something between Edwin and me that put her off the whole thing – traumatized her, if you like those terms. More guilt for me, I suppose. I did the best I could at the time, or tried to, but –”

  “Sea gulls,” says Ethel. “They pay no bills and have no conscience. They never say ‘if only.’ What dignity.”

  “But this worries me, Ethel. I used to admire Marion for making a good life for herself, but it begins to seem I was wrong about that. Do you think it’s a child she wants?”

  “If that’s the case, they’re easily available.”

  “Well, I’ve been her child, in a way. Till lately, that is. Maybe that’s the answer. I’ll get her to explain fuses to me or something like that. I’ll ask her advice. Come to think of it, I could do a lot worse. She might well suggest some better job for me than those pies. Telling me what to do would probably cheer her up quite a bit.”

  “In the end she’ll find connections of her own,” says Ethel. “You can trust things in general to lead somewhere. The whole web is there.”

  “I want something good to happen to her, Ethel.”

  “Once you never wanted anything to happen. Now you do. Hopeful sign, that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We may be more alike than I think, Marion and I. Nothing will ever really happen to either of us. We’re not the type.”

  “Now you’re being pretentious. Everybody’s the type. Love, breakfast, death … nobody escapes. Besides, by happen, do you mean going over Niagara Falls in a barrel or blackmailing Prince Charles into a divorce? Of course you don’t. Making a sauce or laughing in the dark – those are happenings.”

  “Well, of a trivial kind, yes.”

  “Have some proper respect for triviality, then.”

  “I’m going to phone Marion right now and ask her to take me to lunch or something. You once wrote that everything of importance happens indoors, and I guess that’s true.”