by Simon Brett
After about half an hour, he fell asleep in his armchair. He was clearly exhausted. I didn’t know what time he’d got up that morning to make it from Nottingham to Chichester. Or maybe he’d travelled overnight. And if he was so depressed, the chances were that he hadn’t been sleeping well for some time.
I looked at my son, his mouth sagging open, looking smaller than he really was, vulnerable. And I remembered how many times I had seen that vulnerable look, as a baby, as a toddler, small boy, teenager, student. He’d always looked as if he needed someone to sweep him up in their arms, to tell him things would be all right. It was a role I had always been happy to take on.
I was forcibly reminded, once again, how much I love my son.
I’d left the mobile in the kitchen, so fortunately it didn’t wake Ben when it rang. I went through and answered. It was Alexandra Richards.
‘Just wanted to say, nice to see you yesterday. Thanks for coming all the way over.’
‘No problem. Good to see you too. And to meet Walt,’ I added mendaciously.
‘Yes. He’s quite something, isn’t he?’
I could think of no suitable answer to that, so I didn’t offer one.
‘I was just thinking, Ellen, there was something I forgot to tell you …’
‘Oh?’
‘… about the night Ingrid died.’
‘Right.’
‘Walt said I ought to tell you about it.’
‘Fine.’
‘And I do listen to what he says. He’s full of good sense, you know.’ Again, I had nothing to add, as Alexandra went on, ‘I’m so lucky to have met him. I’d really given up hopes of anything ever happening on the romantic front.’
If I didn’t say anything this time, it might sound as though I was endorsing her view of her unattractiveness. So, I managed to come up with, ‘I’m so glad that you found each other.’ Which is not the sort of cheesy remark I usually make.
Moving on, ‘Anyway, Alexandra, what was it you were going to tell me?’
‘All right. Well, the night Ingrid died, I said that I went to see her earlier in the evening.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I was probably with her about an hour.’
‘Fine.’
‘And I probably gave you the impression that I went home to Hastings straight after that.’
‘I’m not sure you actually said it but that’s what I’d assumed, yes.’
‘Well, I didn’t.’
‘Go straight home?’
‘No.’
When there’s an obvious question to ask, I ask it. ‘So, what did you do?’
‘I stayed in my car, parked in Brunswick Square.’
‘Why?’
‘I was confused. I was always confused after I saw Ingrid. Here was this person who was my mother, to whom I owed a kind of duty of care, and yet I never knew whether she really cared for me at all. And the confusion was worse that day.’
‘Why? What had made it worse?’
‘It had been worse ever since Walt and I got together.’
‘Ah. Was that because you hadn’t told him of Ingrid’s existence?’
‘How do you know I hadn’t?’
‘Walt told me yesterday, while you were in the kitchen getting drinks.’
‘I see. Once she was dead, I felt I could tell him. Up until then I didn’t know. Our relationship was so new and fragile, I hardly dared believe it was happening. I wondered whether I could keep Walt in complete ignorance that I had a mother alive. I was afraid he might be scared off if he found out I was the daughter of a monster like that.’
I curbed my instinct to defend the late Ingrid Richards.
‘So,’ Alexandra went on, ‘I just sat in the car trying to reconcile these conflicting thoughts and emotions.’
‘How long did you stay there?’
‘Till after midnight, just parked right outside Ingrid’s block.’
‘So, you could see who went in and out of the building?’
‘Exactly, Ellen. That’s what I wanted to tell you. In all the time I was there in the car, no one did go in or out of the building.’
I wondered for a moment why Alexandra had thought it necessary to tell me that. Of course, she didn’t know how her father had stimulated my suspicion of her. Now, telling me she was almost definitely the last person to see her mother alive could only reinforce that suspicion. But then I reminded myself that she had been telling me on Walt’s instructions. And only God knew what kind of power game he might be playing.
I was about to go back into the sitting room when my mobile’s tone told me I’d received a text.
It read: ‘We haven’t met but I think you know who I am. My name’s Tracey. Could we talk?’
SEVENTEEN
I doubt whether filling your son full of whisky and putting him to bed with an expired Zopiclone is recommended practice in most books of parenting. But that’s what I did with Ben on the Sunday evening. As requested by Tracey, I didn’t mention that she was in the area, staying with a schoolfriend near Worthing. Nor that she and I had fixed to meet the following day.
I also contacted Dodge again. He sounded in a bad way. Never one to make a fuss about anything, he did admit that he hadn’t been able to get out of bed since we last saw him. His bruised body had stiffened up and, in spite of his various herbal remedies, he was in a lot of pain. I’m sure it was for that reason that he didn’t raise objections to the plan I suggested for the next day.
Ben was bleary and uncommunicative the following morning. Probably the booze and the sleeping pill. But I did manage to get a cooked breakfast inside him. And quite a bit of black coffee, whose rehydrating effects, as they sometimes can, seemed to make him drunk again. He was almost giggly as I laid out my proposal for his day. But it was a dangerous, edgy kind of giggly. It had always been one of the danger signs when Oliver got like that.
First stop was Homebase to buy paint. I asked if he needed fine art stuff, but Ben said basic house paints would work better. Gloss. He chose the colours with care and got a set of different-sized brushes. He made only token objections to my paying. He agreed he was an impoverished student and I said I was investing in his future. (There was always in the back of my mind the fact that I had provided the deposit for Jools’s flat in Herne Hill and I must at some point make an equivalent amount available to her brother.)
Then we drove to Dodge’s. He looked terrible. The bruises on his face and arms had found a whole new palette of colours. I made him some nettle tea before I left. I’d watched him often enough making it for me. And I’d brought a picnic lunch for the pair of them.
Making the furniture for Amy had not been a first for Dodge. He’d made stuff for children before – there was always a need for it in various charities. But, until the addition of the Frozen stickers, everything had been in plain wood. I’d suggested once or twice that maybe Ben could bring his skills to decorating the stuff, and Dodge had not ruled out the suggestion. But my son was rarely around in West Sussex, so the idea had never been followed through.
Till now. I thought it was the perfect short-term solution. Like his father’s, Ben’s gloomy introspection could be eased by having a project to get on with. A physical, practical project. And Dodge was in no condition to do anything for himself. I thought I’d devised a good mutual-aid scheme. Which might offer some stability at least until I’d talked to Tracey and hopefully got some idea of what was going on in my son’s life.
But Tracey couldn’t meet me till early afternoon, so I’d made a morning appointment to visit Edward Finch again.
The bungalow in Lancing looked extremely tidy. Whether that was due to the efforts of Edward or his long-suffering friend Cara, I had no means of knowing.
Even better, in the hall, neatly piled up against the wall, was a pile of boxes. They were new archive boxes, available from any stationery supplier. I was impressed by the fact that Edward had been organized enough to buy them. It suggested he was beginning to take the task
of removing Pauline’s clothes seriously. Very definitely, a step in the right direction.
He looked pleased, almost smug, as he saw me take in the pile of boxes.
‘All her stuff in there?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
Ceremoniously, he led me through to the bedrooms. The first one, where he had been sleeping, was also much tidier than when I last saw it. So was the bathroom, which we had to go through to reach the master bedroom.
There, the transformation was complete. To demonstrate how totally he had fulfilled his brief, Edward had left the wardrobe and the dressing-table drawers open. Except for a clump of his clothes on hangers, pushed up to one end of the wardrobe rail, everything was empty.
‘Well done,’ I said, and I meant it.
‘Yes,’ he said with modest pride. ‘It wasn’t easy. But I managed it.’ He looked around the room. ‘And this no longer feels like Pauline’s space.’
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘You can keep your memories of her, without needing the constant prompt of her belongings.’
‘Yes,’ he said, almost dismissively. ‘And also, of course, it means I can move on to the next stage of my life.’
‘Exactly.’
He stood there, looking at me for a moment, and then said, ‘You’re a widow, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Cara told me.’
‘Oh yes.’ I’d forgotten I’d mentioned it, but now remembered her asking me. I’d thought it was rather a strange question at the time.
Edward continued to look at me. I felt slightly uncomfortable. Of what interest was my marital status – or lack of status – to him?
I moved almost brusquely through to the bathroom. ‘I’ll get that lot into the car. Then, when I get it home, I’ll check through the stuff that has a resale value and take it to a charity shop in Chichester. You still don’t want me to try to sell any of it for you?’
‘No, no,’ he assured me.
We were in the hall by now. ‘If you wouldn’t mind helping me, Edward, we’ll get this lot into the car.’
‘I wish you’d call me “Eddie”,’ he said, almost plaintively.
‘All right, Eddie.’ It seemed a small concession, given that I wasn’t anticipating ever meeting him again. ‘If you could just open the front door …’
The Yeti’s boot is surprisingly capacious, and we got all of the boxes in with no problem. When the job was done, he lingered by his black front gate.
‘I’ll send you an invoice,’ I said. ‘At the rates we agreed.’
‘Fine.’
‘And I’d like to say: “Congratulations, Eddie.” I know how hard it must’ve been for you to achieve what you have. And I hope that having made this enormous step will help you to come to terms with your loss.’
‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ he said casually.
‘So,’ I stretched out my hand to take his, ‘good luck for the future.’
‘Thank you.’ He held my hand for a little longer than was necessary and seemed about to say something.
I didn’t give him the chance. Extracting my hand, I said goodbye and got into the Yeti.
As I drove off, he still stood by the front gate, looking at me strangely.
For some reason, I didn’t feel the appropriate sense of achievement. It should have been a case successfully concluded, an example of my skills as a declutterer helping a client come to terms with bereavement. But it didn’t feel like that.
For the first time in a while, I found myself remembering Edward Finch’s assertion that he had murdered his wife.
I didn’t feel comfortable, anyway. But that was probably because I was nervous about my forthcoming encounter with my son’s girlfriend … or maybe ex-girlfriend.
Giovanni, who runs Buon Caffè, knows I’ll have a flat white and started making it as soon as I came through the door.
‘How you doing?’ he asked. ‘Still sorting other people’s rubbish?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘No. I’ve got enough rubbish of my own that still isn’t sorted.’
It’s an exchange we have, with slight variations, every time I go in the place. Fortunately, the weather was fine, one of those May days which feel like summer. So, I could sit outside, with a view of what used to be the Shippams Fish Paste factory. Depending on how the conversation ahead went, I might be better placed there than in the eavesdropping intimacy of the interior.
Tracey had described herself to me on the phone as ‘long, thin, with frizzy hair’, and I had no difficulty in recognizing her as she approached.
She said, ‘I knew it must be you.’
‘Why, has Ben described me to you?’
‘Not physically, no. But from what he’s said about you, you fit the description.’
‘I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or not.’
‘Oh, you should be, definitely.’
Tracey was, as she’d promised, long and thin, and her dark brown hair was suitably frizzy. She had lively brown eyes and sparkly ear studs. Wore a grey hoody with the hood down, black jeans and white trainers. The jeans had splits at the knees which made me feel my age. I know, it’s a generational thing, but I will never understand a fashion which actually makes people look shabby.
‘Take a seat, anyway. Let me get you a coffee. What would you like?’
She asked for a flat white. Like me. I wondered if she was like me in other ways.
I gave the order to Giovanni. He said he’d bring it out.
Tracey and I sat opposite each other.
‘You do know who I am, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘I’d hardly be meeting you if I didn’t, would I?’
‘I didn’t know. Ben can be so secretive at times. He’s quite capable of denying that he’s got a girlfriend, keeping my existence a secret.’
‘Yes, he is,’ I agreed. ‘But you can reassure yourself, he has at least talked to me about your existence.’
‘Good. I suppose.’ She hesitated. Fortunately for her, at that moment Giovanni brought out the flat white. She took a sip and wiped any potential froth off her top lip (there wasn’t any) before asking, ‘What has he said about me?’
‘Not as much as I would wish.’
That was possibly the wrong answer. It had the effect of making her anxious. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry. I’m just naturally curious. All he’s said is that he’s been seeing someone called Tracey who is at Nottingham University – not Nottingham Trent – studying criminology. He hasn’t told me anything else.’
‘Typical Ben,’ she said, which warmed me. It meant she knew a bit about how my son worked.
‘And I’ve been a very good mum,’ I said, ‘not asking him for any more details. Waiting for him to volunteer some. Which I think could be a long wait.’
She chuckled, an encouraging sign, I thought, as I went on, ‘So, I’m extremely glad to meet you.’
‘Thanks.’ Tracey took another sip of coffee and again wiped her upper lip, before saying despondently, ‘I’m not sure that Ben and I are still seeing each other.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s why I’ve come down here. I want to know what’s going on.’
‘Did you have a row, back in Nottingham?’
She shook her head. The frizzy hair took a moment to settle. I was beginning to feel strong empathy towards her. This was a woman I could connect with. Now I was hoping that the relationship would continue.
‘Not a row,’ she replied. ‘Ben doesn’t do rows. He just goes quiet, doesn’t look me in the eye.’
What she said was all remarkably familiar. It’d been just the same when Oliver descended into a black mood.
‘And now I’m down here,’ she went on, ‘I sort of don’t know why I’ve come.’
‘To see Ben, presumably.’
‘Only if he wants to see me.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve tried everything since we last
spoke.’
‘Which was when?’
‘Saturday lunchtime.’ I comforted myself that that was only two days ago. ‘He’d agreed to meet up again.’
‘You hadn’t seen each other for a while?’
‘Ben said he needs space.’ That dreaded word. ‘And, OK, because we’re on different campuses, at different universities, it’s easy enough to give each other space. But since then, each time I’ve tried to contact him, he’s shut down on me. Won’t answer his phone, won’t reply to texts or email. He’s cutting me off.’
She suddenly looked at me, with an expression of something like horror. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you. It feels like a total betrayal of Ben.’
‘It would only be a betrayal,’ I said, ‘if one of us was trying to do him harm. And neither of us is. We both have the same thing at heart – Ben’s welfare. His happiness.’
‘Hm,’ she said. ‘Yes. I have a bit more at heart too, though.’
I was puzzled. I didn’t know what she meant.
‘Listen, Ellen,’ she said. ‘OK for me to call you Ellen?’
‘Of course.’
‘What I mean is, Ellen, that yes, I care about Ben’s welfare. But I also care about my welfare.’
‘So you should.’ I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
‘The fact is, I love Ben …’ That was good to hear, though I was waiting for the ‘but’. It came. ‘But I find being with him sometimes can … I don’t know … mess with my head.’
Now I could see where this was going. It was dispiritingly familiar.
‘We have some great times together. Everything works.’ She coloured, so I knew she meant the sex, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you said to your boyfriend’s mother. ‘And nobody’s ever made me laugh as much as Ben has.’ I had used exactly the same words about Oliver.
‘But’ – I knew she was going to use the word again – ‘then there are these times when he … just isn’t there. I don’t know where he goes’ – I knew she wasn’t talking about a physical absence – ‘but it’s not a good place and, even if I could go there with him, I wouldn’t want to.’
‘No,’ I agreed.
