Ashes From Ashes

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “The hospital,” said Harry in the background, “is overflowing with our friends and acquaintances.”

  “And you’ve caught Lionel?”

  “Not yet,” Morrison told her, agreeing to the coffee. “But there’s half the police force of Gloucestershire out looking for him with a fair knowledge of where he should be. I await the phone call.”

  “Iris,” said Sylvia, accepting the coffee which Harry had ordered, “is someone I really want to help. I met her in the casino. Yes, I know that sounds a bit odd, but I was there out of boredom, dragged along by – a friend. And Iris was there because she’s ill. I really mean ill. She’s a gambling addict, to extremes. She’s lost everything to the slot machines. It’s horrible and extremely sad. She was found unconscious and frozen and three quarter starved in the street.”

  “There’s quite a lot we need to discuss, it seems.” Morrison was looking unusually tired. “Peggy spends a good deal of her time overseeing and getting involved with Aged Care. No doubt she’s thinking of putting me in a home sometime soon. In the meantime, come over tomorrow evening if you’re free. You’d be welcome, and I might even be home too. Peggy and the two hundred kids will probably order in fish and chips.”

  “My favourite,” Harry hated fish and chips. “But I should go on a boring diet. So many people are running for their lives – I’d be lucky to outrun a hedgehog.”

  “Lavender is thinking of hiring guards,” Sylvia nodded, “for the manor. It might be a good idea, though I think Arthur would be as good a guard as anybody.”

  “We’ll come over at about seven,” Harry added, “if that sounds O.K.?”

  Morrison thought a moment. “I’ll ask Peggy to visit your old lady tomorrow afternoon while the kids are at school. One thirty? You could meet her there. But she’ll invite you for dinner anyway.”

  It was a natural decision to visit to the hospital the next morning, but it was Ruby they went to see first, expecting her discharge at about ten. Joyce Sullivan, however, was clearly the patient attracting the most attention. The press had heard the rumours, from a bored nurse perhaps. And although not admitted to visit, they shoved and pushed around the main doorway and were most definitely in the way of anyone whose visit was more valid. An elderly man in a wheelchair being pushed by a young woman in uniform was at first hurried inside as the media squash parted for them, yet were discovered to be from the local paper.

  “I’m afraid not,” said the doctor, tapping one neat black leather foot. “She’s under police guard at present. Only family members are permitted.”

  “She hasn’t got any, except the man who attacked her,” said Sylvia.

  “Nevertheless,” said the doctor, “rules are rules, and I’m very busy. I’m afraid you cannot go in to see Mrs Sullivan.”

  So they went in to see Ruby, who was almost ready to leave. They had brought her the clothes she now wore, but looked fragile. “Beautiful Bluebell, we have a mountain of cakes waiting at home.”

  And Ruby collapsed back onto the bed in tears. Grabbing a tissue, she wiped her eyes and sniffed. “I’ve been such a fool.”

  “Depression,” said Harry, “is a horrible thing. I got that way once, after – well, that doesn’t matter. No children, you know. And I was a slow learner. Recuperation, that’s what we all need sometimes. Not just cake. Holidays. Fun. Comedy at the cinema. Parties”.

  “Now don’t you go feeling ashamed or embarrassed or anything like that – it would be a quick road back into depression.” Sylvia grabbed her hand. “Everyone at the Manor admires you. Fame and fortune, my love, along with beauty and brains.”

  Harry blinked. “How do you fancy an African safari?”

  “Not alone,” sniffed Ruby.

  “No. With us.”

  Her eyes glittered both with tears and with growing excitement. “I’d love to.” The glitter dulled. “But you have to go alone. It’s a sort of honeymoon.”

  “No it isn’t, and we want you. We’re thinking of booking for September when all the school parties have gone back to their maths, and the backpackers are heading home.”

  “We could take you to the circus, and you can eat your next cake while twirling on the Merry-go-Round. That’ll put you off cake for years.”

  Ruby giggled, and that helped.

  Iris wasn’t laughing and appeared to be fast asleep. Having taken Ruby home and tucked her in bed with cake on the bedside table, Harry and Sylvia had returned to the hospital but had no intention of waking the woman, white-faced, who seemed to disappear beneath the bedclothes.

  “She’s badly dehydrated and seriously undernourished,” the nurse said, all of them standing outside in the corridor. “We’ll be keeping her here for at least another week. But in a day or two, I’m sure she’ll be delighted to have some company and see friendly smiling faces.”

  Peggy Morrison met them in the corridor and joined Sylvia and Harry for a coffee and somewhat unexciting lunch in the hospital cafeteria.

  Ruby’s welcome back at the manor was arranged for the day after her return, allowing her one more day to settle back and cheer up. She slept, ate, and slept through the night. The next day was her carefully arranged welcome home. The cheering up part didn’t take too much time. Two cakes, twenty two cuddles, and three glasses of wine finally did the trick.

  “It all seemed suddenly pointless,” she explained to Sylvia, her voice a little slurred. “You were so busy. I mean, you used to be my sister. I love Harry too, but you just love him. I wasn’t bluebell anymore. I was just in the way.”

  “My dearest and gorgeous Bluebell,” Sylvia said, “Although not my husband, you’re still very much my sister. Sometimes my daughter, since I probably had you when I was five.”

  “I’m not just blaming you,” insisted Ruby. “It was all this death and misery and that sad little Iris. Another flower. But very wilted. They call it the Black Death, don’t they?”

  “Winston Churchill had horrible depressions. He called them Black Dogs.”

  “Perhaps he was bipolar. I’m not. I just sometimes feel sorry for myself. That’s shocking, isn’t it? I miss Rod horribly, of course, even though I have to be honest with you Sylvikins and admit he wasn’t bothered about me at the end. But I still loved him. I know – pathetic. So I get all wound up and do stupid things. Maybe it was just a call for help and attention. I’m sorry. And I’ll never do it again.”

  “You’re drunk, Bluebell.” Sylvia hugged her again. “But you’re still gorgeous even when a little worse for wear.”

  She passed the cakes. But none of the cakes had come from the little café and bakery down the road owned and run by Kate Howard. The shop remained shut, no lights glimmered inside, neither from the shop nor from upstairs in the family apartment. The cakes came from the larger bakery in Cheltenham, but Sylvia and Harry now had to stretch their concern from Ruby to Iris, Joyce, and the disappearing Kate.

  “Tomorrow I’m reporting this to the revolting Inspector Cramble,” Harry told Sylvia. “It’s unnatural.”

  Lionel had stepped back from the road immediately on seeing the car headlights. Backing into the forested shadows, he watched as the car stopped and Joyce started talking. Turning, avoiding the crash and thud of broken twigs and branches, he ran back, bounding from slope to ditch and ditch to field. He did not claim his previous stolen car but strode on through mud, snow drifts and wooded slopes until he was too tired to continue. Heaving anger tired him quicker. The pain in his groin continued, and the throbbing was at first agonising, which weakened him. He cursed his divorced wife, then curled to sleep in a rustle of undergrowth, his hooded jacket over him and his thoughts fervently tracing all the tortures he would have liked to perform on his wife’s naked body. Yet after some moments, the wracking pain became a strange pleasure, and finally an ache of pleasant memory.

  Lionel slept badly, but at first light he was able to rise, brush off the leaf litter from his jeans and jacket, stamp his feet to encourage the circulation of his frozen bl
ood, and managed to stumble on, guessing at direction. Three long and miserable days spent dragging his feet while Olga sneered at him and threatened him, he discovered another shed that seemed quite empty except for a scattering of dirty old straw and a hen’s nest which looked long abandoned. One egg remained. He was hungry, so Lionel broke it into his palm. But the rancid black slime and pungent smell disgusted even him, and he wiped it off his hand on the grass outside.

  The shed was barely visible from the small country lane since it was on a downward slope leading into a valley of woodland. At some distance from the shed, and deeper into the valley was a large house, peaked roof and grand. Even the tip of its attic rooms were hidden from the road, but from the shed, it stood clear and impressive. At the back, a car was parked, but this did not seem like a car Lionel might consider stealing since it was sleek and expensive, a Bentley perhaps. Lionel was hoping for an old banger. He was hoping for other things too, but he had one immediate priority.

  Piling the scattered straw into a small heap, he called it bed, lay down and slept well for the first time in a week or more.

  He did not leave the new shed for the next two days. Fury and Olga’s threats kept him pacing, cursing and stamping although hunger plagued the calmer moments. Playing with the spikes of straw sharp enough to prick his arms and thighs cheered him and he stayed long hours on the cold ground, imagining and remembering. He re-lived the glorious obscenities of his past and slept increasingly well, with even his dreams turning to comfort instead of threat. Olga remained but he managed to push her into the darkest corner where she fluttered her batwings only rarely.

  Day by passing day, Lionel smiled more than cursed. Before arrest and imprisonment, his games had been more frequent, and young women in need of a friendly lift to wherever they wanted to go were more common. But now his face and appearance was known. He wondered whether freedom was in any way better than the more comfortable bed and occasional television, hot tea and regular meals. Yet his dreams told him yes. Shouted at him. Freedom was free, and there was possibility floating over his head, as huge and as powerful as Olga.

  A fox trotted past that night, sniffing at the stench of the rotten egg outside the shed door, but did not eat the poison, and pattered on. Only its paw prints in the frost the next morning proved its clandestine ramblings. Owls called, soft half whispering hoots of curiosity after soundless flights. There were cockroaches scrabbling in the straw beneath Lionel’s bulk, but he did not wake.

  Light through the holes in the roof woke him at dawn. He ate the two cockroaches which still burrowed in the straw, and stretched. He knew he’d been inactive for too long, and intended to go out searching, both for food and for recreation.

  The house further down in the valley was also waking. The lights flicked on behind the ground floor windows, and a little later someone walked from the back door to the elegant car waiting on the granite paving outside. The car turned, took the driveway up the slope on the opposite edge, and disappeared along the road.

  Iris Little sat up in bed and smiled. Her sunken cheeks were pink, her eyes awake, and her hair was washed, wisping into small grey curls. “Oh, my dear Mrs Joyce, I believe you saved my miserable life,” she murmured, still smiling. “I have made such a ruin of my life. I don’t know why you bothered to save me, but I am truly most grateful.”

  “Sylvia,” she corrected. “Mrs Joyce sounds like a military governess or something. And Iris dear, you’re not your own victim. Of course we all do the silliest things sometimes. But I’m delighted to see you looking so much better.”

  “They’ve given me such lovely food.”

  “In a hospital? I’m amazed.” She had brought unseasonable fruit and flowers since the first protected daffodils were in bloom.

  Since Ruby was no longer in hospital care, Harry had gone to see Joyce, and this time had been admitted. Although still under police guard, Joyce was ready to leave.

  Harry said, “You’re going back to a different safe house?”

  “They told me off because Lionel traced my iPad and now he knows the address. So my iPad had been kept in the police station, and my address has been changed. I haven’t seen the place yet, but it doesn’t sound fun. It’s a flat in a high-rise or something, all boxy and boring. I’ll just sit in front of the telly and go to sleep.”

  “I’ll come and visit if you want me. With Sylvia, of course. She’s more entertaining than I am. Actually, I’m surprised you can stand any men around you these days.”

  “This time they’ve promised me I can have two female cops on guard,” Joyce nodded. “And I’d love visits from you and Sylvia. I can show you my wedding photo.” She thought a moment. “No I can’t. That’s on the old iPad.”

  Harry thought he could live without seeing Lionel Sullivan’s wedding photo. “I don’t suppose,” he said thoughtfully and carefully, “a companion in the new safe house would make life any better?” He noticed the lift of her chin and the faint beginnings of a smile. “No, no,” he added. “Not me. Not that you’d want me, I’m sure. If Sylvia ever throws me out, I’ll ask. But no, I’m thinking of a rather frail old woman who fainted of starvation in the street, and she’s in the next room along the corridor. Older than you by some years, and not the brightest on the block. But she desperately needs looking after, and I’d guess that’s something you’d be extremely good at.”

  Having not the faintest idea whether she’d be any good at looking after a Guinea-pig let alone a gambling addicted old woman, Harry shook his head, about to change his mind. Joyce, however, had already flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Harry, what a magical idea. I should love that. Company, and a dear little old lady who needs my help.”

  “I have to tell you,” mumbled Harry attempting to escape her embrace, “that she’s a gambling addict. That’s why she’s homeless and penniless. You might have to lock her up. And talking of lock-ups, I’ll have to get someone’s permission first, I mean, do safe houses take in friends? I’ll see if Morrison can fix it.“

  This evidently appealed even more, and Joyce, although dropping the embrace, seemed ever more delighted. “I trained once as a counsellor. Well, that was when I left school. Hundreds of years ago now. But I remember a great deal, and I need a friend. A friend that needs me. I hate being the needy one, the pathetic one and the lonely one. Having someone worse than me would be perfect. I’ll love her. Lionel never permitted me to have friends, you know.” She flopped back down on the hospital bed. “I’ve not had a single friend since I was twenty three. Now, to be actually needed. What a wonderful thing to come out of the blue. Don’t let the police muck it up and don’t let her say no.”

  “She’s Iris Little. I’ll tell her I have the perfect solution,” said Harry, getting up and approaching the door of the tiny private room.

  Joyce called after him. “And catch that bastard Lionel for me, throw him back into prison, and I shall be as happy – no happier – than ever before. And I promise to look after little Iris Little like a babysitter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “My goodness gracious me,” spluttered Iris, clutching the top of the sheet as though reassuring herself of the truth. “What a kind thought. But I must admit I’m not an easy lodger.”

  “Not a lodger,” Harry said, pulling up another small chair beside the bed. “A friend. Sharing. I’ve got official permission, so rent free while the police are protecting her.”

  Sylvia regarded her husband with slight amazement. “What an excellent idea. Did Joyce agree?”

  “Loves it,” Harry insisted.”And I phoned Morrison. He says he’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

  “Oh, and me, and me,” sighed Iris. “It’s such a miserable long time since I’ve had any friends at all. My own fault, as I know. But sad. I used to love my friends. I started a book club in the conservatory.”

  Trying to imagine whether her own slightly faded black tweed coat with the fake fur lining would fit Iris, Sylvia had to remind herself that while sh
e was five foot eleven, Iris was about five foot maximum. The coat would swamp her, but anything would be better than the stained and threadbare pink polyester. Harry interrupted her thoughts. “You might not like each other. You might not wish to be friends.”

  “I will love her,” Iris whispered, almost timid. “Anyone who wants my friendship has it at once. I’ll love her, poor lady, and after such a difficult life. I read about Lionel Sullivan although I don’t remember it all. I’ll cook poor Joyce one of my best custard and ginger tarts. I used to love cooking, especially baking. But I’ve had no oven, nor anyone to bake for. But I won’t have forgotten.”

  “Strange,” smiled Sylvia. “We had another young friend who adored baking. She was a queen at producing cakes and opened her own little shop. But now she’s disappeared.”

  “I never started a shop,” Iris said, sitting forwards which pulled her hospital gown open at the back. “But I taught some of my neighbours. There was a girl next door, the eldest daughter of my friend Agnes Gilbert. Kate was the little girl. She was so pretty and so eager to learn. Then she moved away. I heard later from Agnes that she’d married one of triplets. Fancy having triplets. What a shock.”

  “I know a Kate who married one of twins,” nodded Sylvia. “Identical twins. Not that I’ve ever met the other one.”

  “Oh, I never met any of the triplets, this was much more of a tragedy.” Iris lowered her voice as though sad stories should not easily be overheard. “Agnes told me all about it after she got to know the family better. The mother, poor lady, she died giving birth. It was a horrible story.”

  “What happened to your friend Agnes?” asked Harry. “We could look her up if you’ve lost touch.”

  Blushing bright pink over the white, Iris looked away. “We were friends for years. But when I started gambling and my marriage split, and I lost my home – well, it was all so shameful. I could see it in her eyes. She disapproved. And I wasn’t myself, all I could think about was the great good luck waiting for me around the corner. Then finally I couldn’t face Agnes at all. Then she moved, and that was that.”