The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

“V-Viola.”

  “That’s a lovely name! How old are you, Viola?”

  “Th-Thirteen . . . ”

  “And why does Stephen hit you, Viola?”

  “’Cos . . . ’cos he’s angry.”

  “Is he angry often?”

  “Aye . . . ”

  “So what happened this evening to make him angry?”

  “I burnt his dinner. I . . . I wanna run away b-but I’ve nowhere tae go.”

  In the background she heard a door slamming and a man’s voice raised in anger.

  “Oh God, he’s comin’ back!”

  “Viola, Viola, don’t hang up!”

  “He’s gonna kill me!”

  The line went dead.

  Rita-Mae put her head in her hands. She’d failed another one.

  Less than a minute later the phone rang a third time. She snatched it up immediately, hoping it was Viola calling back.

  “Samaritans. May I help you?”

  “How you?” a man asked.

  “My name’s—”

  “Rita . . . Oh, I know who yeh are.”

  She heard the squeak of a sofa: the sound of a glass being placed on wood.

  Lenny!

  “Did you like that wee note I left for yeh, Rita?”

  She gripped the receiver more tightly to stop it trembling.

  “Look, I’m going to have to termin—”

  “If you hang up on me you’ll pay for it, Rita.” Irritated.

  “Enjoy that wee tea with the undertaker, did you? Yer wastin’ yer time with him . . . bit of a mammy’s boy. Not your type at all. No, you need a real man . . . like me. A woman like you shouldn’t be livin’ on her own.”

  “I don’t live alone!”

  Sniggering. “Hmph . . . ” She heard him drag on a cigarette. Wanted to drop the phone and just run. “Nah, you don’t live alone ’cos you’ve got me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you don’t—”

  “The one before you, she thought she was on her own too. And look what happened tae her . . . not much luck in that house, yeh see. Would be better if yeh just left it.”

  She was dumbstruck. Had she heard him correctly? Dear God, he knows where I live!

  She heard him gulp more of the drink.

  “But then, where would you go, Rita?”

  She slammed the phone down, distraught.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bram let himself into the Hilditch residence at 9.30 p.m. precisely. Her Grace had spent the evening in the company of Edwina Baldwin-Piggott, tucking into cocktails, canapés, and no doubt putting the world to rights on all matters royal. Going on past form, such an evening usually meant that when Edwina’s chauffeur dropped her off, Octavia, too addled for her “magic hour”, would simply collapse into bed and snore till morning, thus leaving her son a peaceful evening all to himself.

  He was quietly removing his shoes and contemplating getting stuck into part two of Memorial Photography: A Study in the Still Life when the unthinkable happened.

  “Where on earth have you been?” bellowed his mother from above. “I’m well into my magic hour. Come up here at once!”

  Bram’s spirits drooped. He let out a sigh.

  “Are you still awake, Mother?” he shouted up the stairs in a voice replete with impatience. “I expected you to be asleep by now.”

  “Do not raise your voice to me! If you can’t address me in a civilized manner I’ll . . . ”

  He sprinted up the stairs.

  To his chagrin he found her in her crimson night-attire, sitting atop the bed-covers, right leg heavily bandaged and resting on a pile of cushions. A glossy supplement featuring the royals lay open beside her.

  “My goodness, what happened?”

  “I tripped on Edwina Baldwin-Piggott’s Serapi Persian, more’s the pity.”

  “Pardon my ignorance but is that a cat or a rug?”

  “Both, if you must know. The silly woman has the rug in her entrance hall and her peke-face was sleeping under it. I fell over both of them on my way out.”

  “How awful!” He went over to inspect the injury. “In the circumstances, I expect her cocktails didn’t help matters. She does make them rather strong, if memory serves.”

  “I was not intoxicated, Abraham! Her hallway is badly lit and she failed to mention the feline’s propensity for napping under the blessed rug.”

  “Can you walk on it? Looks a bit swollen.”

  “I can. With difficulty.”

  “Then how did you get upstairs?”

  “Melrose, her chauffeur. How else?”

  “Sorry I wasn’t around. Had a lot to do today. It’s just that I assumed you’d forgo your magic hour as you usually do when you’ve been to Edwina’s, and that’s why I’m a bit late.”

  “Oh, I know very well what you assumed. You assumed you’d be able to slip in at this hour without my noticing. You assumed I’d be asleep. Well, as you can see I’m very much awake. I have a bone to pick with you – a rather large bone, I might add – before I can rest this evening. And I’ll have my gin and Dubonnet as usual, thank you very much. If anything, it will help ease the pain of this.”

  Bram went to the drinks tray and busied himself.

  “I expect you’ll be wanting a double in that case?” he said, aiming for appeasement, feeling a little guilty but consoling himself that, going on appearances, the fall didn’t seem to have fazed her overmuch.

  He’d committed quite a few transgressions in recent days, aside from having tea with Miss Ruttle. There was also the small matter of having signed the lease on a little premises in town, which he planned on turning into a photography studio. The idea had presented itself only the previous week. J.P. Rooney, the pharmacist, had very kindly offered him a couple of rooms over the shop at very reasonable rates. The opportunity was simply too good to pass up.

  The only problem was informing Her Grace that he’d conducted the business deal without consulting her first. Maybe after a couple of stiff gin and Dubonnets she’d be more amenable and he could broach the subject.

  “What on earth were you doing in the Heavenly Realms with that spinster tenant of yours? Edwina wondered if you and she were ‘an item’, as she called it. And I have to say I’m beginning to wonder myself.”

  He handed her the drink. “Never mind, Mother, we’ll get the doctor to have a look at you in the morning. Better he checks it, just to make sure nothing’s broken.”

  “I said—”

  “Yes, I know very well what you said. I spoke with Edwina in passing. I guessed she’d report back to you. Who needs the BBC when we’ve got Mrs Baldwin-Piggott? She certainly missed her vocation as a jobbing journalist.”

  “Oh, very droll. So why didn’t you tell me you were going to have tea with this Ruttle person?”

  He did not answer immediately. Went and poured himself a large brandy. Felt he was going to need it.

  “Because,” he began, sitting down slowly in his reading chair, “. . . because firstly, I don’t need to tell you everything I do in the course of a day, no longer being ten years old.” He held up the brandy glass, feigning appreciation of the lead crystal to buy time. “Secondly, I just happened to see Miss Ruttle parked outside the hair salon. She looked rather lost and . . . well, shall we say . . . lonely. I thought it might be nice to give her an unexpected treat. And in so doing get to know her a little better. So you see, I hadn’t planned anything, Mother dear.”

  He toasted her. “Chin chin! Life can be full of little surprises when you don’t make plans. So here’s to adventure!”

  “Adventure, indeed! I don’t understand any of this. She rang around four o’clock, looking for you. Weren’t you supposed to be checking her drains? And why was she calling you Bram? I had to correct her. What’s this bowdlerizing your name all about? You were christened Abraham.”

  He shut his eyes briefly, making a mental note to apologize to Miss Ruttle at his earliest convenience. How very embarrassing
that she be subjected to a harangue down the telephone line!

  “I think you mean truncation of one’s name, Mother,” he said, going off-topic just to annoy her. “Dr Thomas Bowdler published an expurgated edition of Shakespeare in the eighteen-hundreds, hence the term ‘to bowdlerize’, which in essence means to clean up or sanitize, not abbreviate, which is the word you were looking for.”

  Octavia shot him a withering look. “People who think they know everything are of great annoyance to those of us who actually do. I know very well what it means. You’re dodging the issue as usual. So, where were you and why weren’t you checking her drains as you said you would?”

  “I sent Dan Madden to do it as I’m no expert on plumbing.”

  He felt bad about using Dan Madden to make the drain story more plausible, but what else could he do in the circumstances? Madden wasn’t the sharpest knife in the block so wouldn’t give it a second thought.

  “Dan Madden! Why on earth are you involving him? You know the fewer people she gets to know, the better.”

  “Dan’s a specialist.”

  “Specialist my eye! Daniel Madden, to give him his full appellation, is nothing more than a trailer-dwelling car-salvage man from the boglands of Donegal. And a gasbag to boot.” She took a sip of gin and Dubonnet. “There are rumours about him, you know.”

  “Yes, I dare say there are rumours about everyone in these parts.”

  “Not very pleasant ones either! I wouldn’t trust Mr Madden with the silver. What if he blabs about that O’Meara woman?”

  “I trust him because I warned him not to. Also I’ve given him the job of cleaning the windows and tending the garden. I also intimated to Maud Gilhooley that she could be a bit more neighbourly and win Miss Ruttle’s trust a little more. That way, she’d be more usefully employed than watching soaps and talking to that budgie of hers.”

  “But—”

  “And by the way, Dan is not a trailer-dweller. He’s in a mobile home on a temporary basis while he does repairs to the roof of his house.”

  “If you say so.” Octavia rested back on the pillows. “Well, I suppose you’re making some kind of sense. And this little tea you had with her: I hope it yielded something of interest. Did you learn anything new about her?”

  “Yes. Apparently she had a twin sister who died at birth.”

  “Really? Would that explain the baby clothes Maud saw on the clothesline?”

  “Hardly. She’s thirty-four after all. I doubt baby clothes would survive that length of time. Besides, I asked her if she had children.”

  “You did what? How utterly impertinent of you! It’s a wonder you didn’t ask why she stayed out all night too. You need to be careful, you know, or she could have you up for stalking.”

  Bram had his reasons for asking such a direct question of Miss Ruttle. Reasons his mother would never be privy to.

  “Now who’s being preposterous? Give me some credit. No, sometimes the direct approach is called for. I wouldn’t like to think she was harbouring a baby in there without my knowledge.”

  “Well . . . I suppose you have a point. But I’m sure she was rather taken aback by your forthrightness?”

  “You’d expect so, but it didn’t seem that way . . . It’s just . . . ” Bram studied the contents of his glass.

  “Just what? Stop keeping me in suspense! I’ve had enough to cope with for one day.”

  “Okay. It was the way she answered me. She didn’t seem to be shocked at all by ‘my impertinence’ as you put it. Calmly said ‘no’ and reminded me she was a spinster. I think there’s more to her than meets the eye. You just never know what’s going on with someone, do you?”

  “Or indeed what they’re up to.”

  Octavia drained her glass. Rested her hand on her chest.

  “This gin and Dubonnet tastes funny.”

  Bram shifted in his chair. “Oh . . . perhaps the glass wasn’t rinsed properly . . . washing-up liquid . . . a little residue can mar the taste. What’s that you’re reading about the royals?”

  “Since when did you become interested in the royal family? And I always rinse my glassware thoroughly, thank you very much.”

  He shrugged. “I could arrange for Blossom Magee to come in.”

  “No, you certainly will not. I’m not a helpless infant and I will not tolerate Mrs Magee – pleasant and all as she is – handling my things and telling me how I can be saved by the Lord. She has that dead husband of hers on a pedestal, but everyone knows he was nothing more than a layabout with a drink problem who collapsed between the Gents and the cigarette machine in the Bull and Pig bar. Heart attack indeed! Liver failure in anybody’s book. He was as yellow as my grandmother’s churned butter.”

  He wished Octavia would not be so critical of the poor woman, but then she was critical of most people she deemed to be of the “inferior classes”. In other words, people who weren’t as educated or well off as herself.

  “Abraham, are you listening to me?”

  He flinched.

  “Sorry, Mother, I was miles away there.”

  “I could see that. You’re up to something.”

  “Certainly not.”

  He saw that she was still examining the glass. Time to change the subject. He eyed a photo of Sarah Ferguson.

  “Miss Ferguson not to your liking then?”

  Octavia yawned. “No, she certainly isn’t. Her mother ran off with a polo player to live on the Argentine pampas. With a mother like that, one can see there’ll only be trouble ahead for lovely Prince Andrew. Besides which, she’s barely . . . she’s barely . . . edu . . . educated.”

  She stifled a yawn for the second time.

  “In that case she’s perfectly suited to marry royalty,” Bram said. “As far as I can gather no scholar’s ever become the consort of any of them. Who needs an education to dress up and eat lavish dinners, I say.”

  Octavia covered her mouth with her free hand and yawned.

  “Oh, I feel . . . I feel very drowsy of a sudden.”

  “That’s not so surprising . . . you’ve had a nasty fall.”

  He got up, took the glass and placed the magazine to one side.

  “You need to rest now, Mother,” he said, pulling up the eiderdown. “Tomorrow’s another day. I’ll have the doctor look at that leg in the morning.”

  Without another word, Her Grace fell asleep.

  He lifted the glass, scrutinized it. Sat down again.

  Well, his mother might think he wouldn’t be hiring Mrs Magee, but on this matter he’d be overruling her whether she liked it or not. He’d brought the subject of Blossom up because he’d met her by chance that very day and she’d imparted some rather interesting bits of information. He reflected on the exchange now as Octavia’s slumber deepened.

  “How are you, Bram, and how’s your lovely mother?” Blossom had said, ambushing him in the doorway of J.P. Rooney’s shop. “Hope she’s keeping well.”

  “Oh, she’s fine, Blossom, but between you and me she could use some extra help. I can’t always be around . . . now with the property business to run.”

  “I understand, Bram. With your poor father gone, God rest him, it isn’t easy. I miss my Arnold so much and he’s three years gone. But I could maybe help your mother out.”

  “You could?”

  “Yes, I’m a ‘home help’ these days . . . it’s parish work I do with the Senior Citizens’ Outreach Club. Do three days a week . . . visiting the sick and people living on their own . . . do cleaning and run the messages for them and the like. People only pay if they want to or can afford it. All the money we get goes to charity, so it’s all in a good cause.”

  J.P. had interrupted at that point. “The bunion pads and knee-high compression supports have come in for Miss Scullion, Blossom, if you want to take them away with you now.”

  “Good enough, J.P.”

  Bram had found himself wondering what on earth knee-high compression supports actually were.

  “That�
�s very interesting, Blossom. I’ll certainly run the idea past Mother. I’m sure she’d appreciate your help.”

  “No bother at-all, Bram . . . anything to help out. You have my phone number, haven’t you?”

  They’d said their goodbyes at that point, but Blossom turned back to him.

  “I was talking to that lovely lady who’s renting from you earlier.”

  “R-Right . . . ”

  “Yes, wee Rita. We had a lovely chat.”

  “Oh.”

  He’d wanted to ask where they’d met, but hadn’t wished to appear nosy.

  “Yes, she’s a lovely lady . . . so nice-looking and with such a good heart too. Well, cheerio, Bram. Let me know when you need me.”

  With that she’d taken off, leaving him wondering what exactly she’d meant by Miss Ruttle having such “a good heart”.

  It was hardly the kind of thing you said of a complete stranger. So how come Miss Ruttle had made such a favourable impression?

  Her Grace stirred in her slumber and let out a low moan. Bram looked at the glass still in his hand. Well, she wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. He was sure of that.

  Time to retire too.

  He got to his feet and quietly left the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There is little difference between a verbal fist and a human fist. Harry was an expert at wielding both. Ugly scenes from Rita-Mae’s marriage spun forward without pause, like footage from a war zone.

  The Lenny call and the suicide of Kevin on the Samaritan helpline were forcing her down a dark path she was powerless to steer clear of. Harry had said she was useless often enough, and now his slurs and charges were booming in her head so loudly that he could have been standing right there in the bathroom where she was brushing her teeth . . .

  “You stupid, useless bitch. Can’t do nothin’ right, can yeh? I said that bath is not clean!”

  She stopped brushing and stared at the toothbrush, helpless in the face of the memory pulling her back.

  “But I scrubbed it thoroughly after you left for work . . . and I . . . I haven’t used the bath—”

  “How dare yeh contradict me?” His face was in hers, the stench of alcohol on his breath nauseating. He wrenched the toothbrush from her, rinsed it under the tap. Put the plug in the bath. Found a tin of scouring powder.