God Save the Queen!
Page 6
“That’s a sad little story.” Mr. Tipp looked up at the clock as he spoke.
“It was an overdose that took her.” Mrs. Much teared up. “Accidental, of course, because what woman with a fridge that makes ice cubes and a Laura Ashley bedroom would want to make away with herself? And I took it especially hard, because before Mrs. Frome I was with Mrs. Ashford who passed away, without a word of warning, minutes after finishing a bowl of mushroom soup.” Deciding that was enough reminiscing, Mrs. Much turned away from the sink. “Is something wrong, Mr. Tipp?”
“I wonder if I should go back upstairs to collect the tea things,” he replied vaguely, getting to his feet, then sitting back down again. “Flora came along to the kitchen a while back, when you were busy elsewhere, and told me Sir Henry had asked for me to tend to that task, but when I went up to the tower room her Ladyship threw a cushion.”
“That woman’s off her head.”
“She didn’t throw it at me,” Mr. Tipp hastened to explain. “There was a boy there, a boy in school uniform, with spiky hair and freckles, at the top of the stairs.”
“Perhaps he’d escaped from the tour group?” Mrs. Much suggested, as if talking about a lion at the zoo. “But however that may be, Mr. Tipp, it’s now almost six o’clock and it worries me you’ll be in hot water if Mr. Hutchins suddenly pops up and finds out you haven’t cleared away those tea things and brought them down here. Now, that wouldn’t matter if you was planning to hand in your notice along with me, but you’ve just been saying that’s not the case. So why don’t you put your skates on and explain to her Ladyship—if she’s still in the tower room—that you didn’t like to disturb her when she was all upset?”
“She was more than upset, she was ...” Mr. Tipp scratched his head as he searched for the right word, “she was ... distraught.”
“Over this schoolboy?”
“He said . . .”
“Yes?”
“That he was her sister’s grandson.” Mr. Tipp looked ashamed of himself for gossiping about his betters. He certainly knew that if Hutchins had been present he would have branded him a traitor to his class.
“And why should that get her Ladyship wound up like a grandfather clock?”
“Perhaps he’s a bad lot.”
“Come to hit her over the head, because she’d forgot his birthday?” Mrs. Much sounded as though she might be warming to the lad.
“And there was more. I couldn’t help overhearing ...”
“Of course you couldn’t.”
“... Lady Gossinger was talking to Miss Doffit about Sir Henry ... something about him changing his will.” Mr. Tipp hovered like a shadow at the kitchen door.
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Much was all ears to hear more, but (wouldn’t you know?) at that very moment Flora came into the kitchen by way of the outside door, wearing a damp mackintosh and a strained look on her face. Strands of hair had escaped from its coil to hang limply against her neck. And it seemed to Mrs. Much that the girl had brought some of the gathering darkness of late afternoon into the room with her.
“Here, let me help you off with that coat,” the housekeeper said, “and Mr. Tipp, why don’t you leave going up to the tower room for another few minutes and put the kettle on so Flora can have a cup of tea? It’s plain to see something has upset her real bad.”
“No, I’m just being silly.” The girl evaded the hands that were trying to undo her mackintosh buttons and sat down at the kitchen table. “I’ve been out looking for Grandpa, thinking he might have ... had to go out on an errand, but of course he has to be here in the house.”
“Well, I can’t say as I’ve seen him since early afternoon,” Mrs. Much said. “But I’ve been busy around the place myself and figured he’d be polishing the silver; although I can’t say for certain this is his day for it.” Sensing Flora needed cheering up she went on, “I must say Mr. Hutchins does a lovely job of keeping all those christening cups and whatnots sparkly. That polish he makes up is a miracle. I for one have never used anything that removes tarnish the way it does, along with giving a shine that’s not to be beat.” Mrs. Much hoped she did not sound as if she felt compelled to give the devil his due: It was clear it would take more than the cup of tea Mr. Tipp carried to the table to bring the girl out of the dumps.
“I am being silly,” Flora repeated. “It’s not likely, is it, that a flying saucer landed on the lawn and an army of little green men made off with Grandpa for outer space.” But her laughter was hollow.
“Could be they wanted that recipe for silver polish!”
It was unlike Mr. Tipp to attempt a joke, and Flora found herself smiling. Suddenly she was quite sure her grandfather would turn up any minute now and make nonsense of her concerns that he wasn’t overseeing the tour group. And as if to prove her right, the door to the corridor opened. But it wasn’t her grandfather who entered the room. It was Vivian Gossinger, with his tie askew and his usually well-groomed hair flopping over his forehead.
“Miss Hutchins,” he spoke gently, “you’d better come at once. There’s been the most dreadful accident in the garderobe. Your grandfather has fallen in and—”
“Is he badly hurt?” She came slowly to her feet.
“I’m so sorry, Flora. He was dead when he was brought out.” Vivian took hold of her hand. “God bless him, we won’t see Hutchins’s like again at Gossinger.”
Chapter Six
It rained on the day of Mr. Hutchins’s funeral, and that was a twist of the knife because Flora had always loved rainy days. Grandpa used to say that Lincolnshire rain was the softest in all England. When she was a little girl and it started to rain she would picture God wearing a pair of Wellington boots as he walked around his estates in the sky carrying a giant watering can.
Sometimes, if Flora screwed up her eyes just right, she could see God’s face in what most people would think was just another woolly cloud. She would smile at the idea of the Deity taking time out of his busy workday to peer down at the earthly garden he had planted so long ago, to make sure he didn’t miss sprinkling the tiniest continent or flower. And she would remind him that her name was Flora.
Even when she was all grown up she still loved the way the world looked when it was smudgy and out of focus, as in a picture she had drawn herself and then rubbed out because she hadn’t got it quite right. And the best-ever part of rainy days was knowing that afterward when the sun came out the world would be put back exactly as it always was, only better because it would be all polished up, in just the same sort of way that Grandpa polished the silver every Tuesday and Thursday.
But it was different on the day of the funeral, because Flora knew that when the rain went away and the sun came back out nothing would be the way it was before the accident. It was as though all the bits and pieces of her life had got put away in the wrong drawers. And all the drawers had locks on them and she didn’t have any idea where to start looking for the keys. The key to the garderobe had been found on the floor by Grandpa’s feet when he was discovered. Along with a piece of paper on which he had written the words:
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN’!
When the time came to leave for the church service, Flora put on her courage along with the black coat and the hat that looked like a fruitcake which Lady Gossinger had insisted on lending her for the occasion. As she was getting into the car she overheard Miss Doffit telling Sir Henry she was glad it was raining, because funerals weren’t supposed to be pleasant little outings with a picnic hamper from Fortnum & Mason stowed in the backseat of the car, along with a plaid traveling rug to be spread out on the cemetery grass. Flora did not hear Sir Henry’s response, because Vivian, who had opened the car door for her, now closed it very quickly.
The service, which was held at St. Sebastian’s—a rather vulgar-looking late-Victorian church with flashy stained-glass windows, located midway between Nether Woodcock and Maidenbury—included all Mr. Hutchins’s favorite hymns. There were no flowers, by request.
An
d Flora noticed when the coffin was brought down the aisle that it was a little dusty on top, but she tried not to think how this would have vexed her grandfather. It was important to focus on uplifting thoughts.
In addition to the Gossinger family and its employees, there were a goodly number of people lining the pews; but not so many that it looked as though free raffle tickets had been handed out at the door. The rector, Mr. Aldwin, was a roly-poly figure with a twinkle in his eye that even the solemnity of the occasion could not quite banish.
“Isn’t he a lovely man?” piped up a voice from the back of the church. “Such a nice change from the old rector. Mr. Roberts used to stand in the pulpit like he was stuck in the dock at the Old Bailey, falsely accused of cold-blooded murder.”
Then Sir Henry, there was no mistaking his mumbling voice, said, “You look like you’re about to faint, Mabel, m’dear. Awfully stuffy in here. Don’t suppose they ever open those confounded windows.”
One of the differences between Mr. Aldwin and his predecessor was that where Mr. Roberts had been partial to the occasional glass of sherry, Mr. Aldwin liked a pint of Guinness when the occasion arose. Despite only being on the job a couple of weeks, the rector spoke with boundless affection and admiration of the Dearly Departed, concluding with the assertion that Mr. Hutchins had ever been a good and faithful servant of the Almighty.
“He was that and all.” A woman’s voice floated up from behind Flora. “Devoted, that was Mr. Hutchins. Worked for the almighty Gossingers most of his life and ends up in the toilet. Doesn’t seem right, that’s what I say!”
Fortunately, at that moment the organist struck up the final hymn and Mr. Aldwin, now looking positively jolly, plunged into the first verse of “Shall We Gather At the River,” while beating time on the rim of his pulpit. And soon almost everyone was joining in with equal gusto, causing Mrs. Much, who sat in the second pew, to whisper into Flora’s ear that it sounded like a sing-along down at the pub.
“And I’m not sure your Grandpa was that sort, dear. You know, the kind to be doing a knees-up at The Golden Fleece.”
Neither did you like him very much, thought Flora. It was a comfort to have Sir Henry step forward to take her hand, as if she were still a little girl with stubby pigtails, and lead her from the church.
“Must say you’re holding up frightfully well, m’dear,” he said as they stepped out into the rain that bounced off his bald head. “But shouldn’t be afraid to break down, you know. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve shed a few tears m’self. Even caught her Ladyship having a bit of a sniffle this morning.”
“It was pitiful to see her so upset. Only a good woman would take the loss of a servant, even one of Hutchins’s sort, so much to heart.” Miss Sophie Doffit spoke up from right behind them, then added softly, “Surely no one could possibly think Mabel wasn’t genuinely shocked by what happened.”
The old lady was wearing a pale pink hat with downy feathers adorning one side, and a matching edge-to-edge coat quite unsuited to the weather. Her resemblance to the Queen Mother was more startling than usual. Several children who had been brought along, and told to behave themselves or be very sorry afterward, began jumping up and down and pointing excitedly at Miss Doffit.
This rude display stopped abruptly, however, when the naughty little things noticed a woman standing at the edge of the path who looked like a witch. Her cloak was a mustard-and-black plaid and she had extraordinarily long purple fingernails. At that moment she was staring at one little boy in particular in a lip-smacking sort of way. He let out a terrified squeal when she beckoned to him with one of her claws and offered him a piece of barley sugar.
The parents immediately rounded up their offspring and marched them away, while Flora stood looking into space, unaware that the witch woman had taken a couple of steps toward her before apparently changing her mind and retreating. By this time Lady Gossinger had emerged from the church on her nephew Vivian’s arm. It was impossible, with the rain now pelting down, for Flora to get a clear view of her face.
The drive to the cemetery and the walk down the mossy path to the graveside was also mercifully blurred by the steady rain. To the accompaniment of depressed-looking trees rustling in the chilly breeze, the rector imparted to the standard verses, including the one about “ashes to ashes,” a heartiness that again bordered on the jovial.
In a voice that carried on the wind, Miss Sophie Doffit declared the new rector was a vast improvement on Reverend Roberts, who had frightened her into deciding to forgo laying up treasures on earth, in order to have a hope of being admitted to the outskirts of heaven. Where, from the sound of it, she added, the vast majority of people lived in council houses in less than salubrious neighborhoods. Someone coughed. And Vivian held a black umbrella over Flora’s head.
The mourners, who included the witch woman with her mustard-and-black cloak flapping like a live thing, closed into a dark, silent huddle when the coffin was lowered into the grave. Flora found herself worrying that old Miss Doffit would move a little too close and fall in headfirst, thereby putting her knickers on view to all and sundry.
They would be pale pink, Flora decided, trimmed with handmade lace and little ribbons. It was easier for her to think about something like that than to dwell on the fact that the one person in the world whom she loved was gone forever. Suddenly she realized that they hadn’t sung all Grandpa’s favorite hymns in the church.
Much to her own surprise, Flora opened her mouth and began singing “God Save the Queen” in the reedy off-key voice that had caused the music teacher at the village school to call her aside one day and suggest (in the kindest possible way) that in future she should just open and close her mouth like a fish.
A boy, the one who hadn’t been particularly brave when the witch offered him a sweet, giggled.
Flora didn’t hear, nor did she notice when first Vivian and then several other straggling voices joined hers, until everyone was singing. She tossed a handful of moist earth onto the coffin and turned to walk quickly—almost at a run—away from everyone including the Gossingers, toward the waiting car.
Sir Henry had made the arrangements for her driver. He was married to Mrs. Warren who worked in the gift-shop-cum-tearoom at Gossinger, and would herself be traveling back to the house with Mrs. Much and Mr. Tipp. Flora wasn’t eager for chitchat, but it seemed unfriendly to sit in state in the back of the car. So she climbed in front with Mr. Warren and gave him a smile that was clouded by the brim of her hat.
“You sit quiet, little lass,” he told her, “I’ll have you home in next to no time.” The words, so kindly spoken, sent a chill through her, because the emptiness waiting for her back at Gossinger Hall was so enormous she was afraid she would get lost in it and never find her way out.
Mr. Warren said he knew a shortcut back to Gossinger Hall. He was a man in his late forties with a scholarly face and a receding hairline. Nothing worried him, his wife had been heard to say on many occasions with exasperation. Perhaps he was having an off day, but he didn’t strike Flora as a particularly good driver. He hummed hymn tunes as they bounced on and off a few curbs, pruning a few hedges along the way, and almost clipping a bus stop. Flora tried not to clutch the edge of her seat.
After motoring haphazardly along winding country lanes, they wound up in Maidenbury, a middle-size town in the opposite direction from Gossinger. Mr. Warren said—without appearing too embarrassed by the detour—that he was sure he could find another shortcut.
“There’s no rush,” Flora assured him, and thanked God for seat belts as they skidded to a stop at a crossroad, narrowly missing a man cloaked in rain and carrying a bulging briefcase. She was about to roll down her window and inquire if he were all right when, to her amazement, the man opened the car door and climbed, without so much as a by-your-leave, into the backseat.
“Keep looking straight ahead,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice. “I’ve just been to the local bank and made a rather large withdrawal.”
“Public transport just isn’t in the cards today.” The stranger settled himself comfortably. “Not after the grueling time I had conducting my banking transaction, with a gun in one hand and a note saying how much in the other. To make matters worse, the young woman teller wasn’t particularly polite. I’m thinking of writing out a complaint on one of those little evaluation forms. Of course,” the man conceded, “she could just have been having an off day.”
“We all have them,” agreed Mr. Warren, as he attempted to pass a bus and narrowly avoided a collision with an oncoming lorry.
“Ah, well,” said the man in the back, “I’m sure you nice people will understand I feel like pampering myself. Which means, if it’s not too much of an imposition, that I’d like to lean back in this very comfortable seat while you keep this car moving. Anywhere will do. I’m not concerned so long as it is in the opposite direction from Maidenbury. And speedily, if you please, because as you might surmise I am in something of a hurry.”
“You just robbed a bank? And you can’t afford a taxi?” Mr. Warren let loose a laugh, clearly intended at shoring up Flora’s spirits; but she noticed that he put his foot down on the accelerator as instructed.
“Sorry, I don’t have any small change. Nothing under fifty-pound notes.” The man in the back chuckled softly to demonstrate that he too had a sense of humor. He tapped out a merry little tune on the briefcase as they shot forward into the mist.
“But you do have the gun?” Flora suddenly had the oddest feeling that her grandfather, not Mr. Warren, sat next to her. She could hear him saying as clear as day: “Now you know what’s expected of you, Flora. At all times, in all situations, we represent the Family.” And she felt her spine stiffen as she said, “Because if you don’t have a gun, Mr. Bank Robber, it would be rather silly for me and Mr. Warren to sit here like a pair of lemons. Wouldn’t it?”