‘But you don’t know anything about me!’
‘I know I need you, don’t I? Nobody’s come for a week now. That’s why I want Dr Braddock. There’s no milk and no eggs and no bread. And the heating’s gone mad. He said I mustn’t try and go downstairs on my own, that’s why I was trying to get him. I can’t just lie here in bed and freeze to death, can I?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sensible question. Eighty. Fine till I got these aches, had this fall, got old. Never thought I’d see it. Never thought I’d say it. How old are you?’
‘Thirty-three. My name’s Helen Westley. My mother just died. I’ve got to get out of the house. But I’ve not got a lot of money, I’m afraid. I’ve got some redundancy pay and some savings and a little coming from the estate.’
‘When the lawyers get done with it. How soon can you get here?’
‘Where’s “here”?’
‘Another good question. Leyning, near Lewes, East Sussex.’ The thin old voice was beginning to fail. ‘Beatrice Tresikker, the High House, Leyning. Taxi from the station. I’ll pay. Key’s in the flowerpot.’
‘But that’s not safe!’
‘Nothing’s safe. I’ve got to crawl to the loo now. See you in the morning, Helen Westley.’
‘Can you manage for tonight?’
‘I’ve managed for a week, haven’t I?’ Helen heard a clunk as the receiver was dropped back into its base.
Quite crazy. She sat staring at the silent phone. What in the world had she committed herself to? Call back after a suitable interval and say it was impossible? No, that was impossible. She could not leave that frail-sounding eighty-year-old all by herself in a house with no bread and no milk and no eggs and the heating gone mad. There had been a spirit she had liked in that dwindling voice, and Beatrice Tresikker’s description of her plight had been both terse and lucid. Why angry old woman? she wondered, finished her sherry and began to plan.
Two
Helen’s first decision was easily arrived at. She would tell no one what she was doing until she had seen Beatrice Tresikker and found out how the land lay. Whatever happened, she would stock the house up, see the old lady through Christmas and the looming millennium. Then it would be time enough for the two of them to think about the future. At least her own immediate problem had been solved: she had board and useful occupation for Christmas and New Year’s after all. She went upstairs and packed a holiday ration of warm clothes into a small case from the elegant, expensive lightweight set her mother had bought during her cruising days. The rest of her clothes went easily into her mother’s other cases, to be left in her bedroom along with her other effects, ruthlessly collected from all over the house. If she decided to stay with Beatrice Tresikker (Mrs or Miss?) Brother Frank could have them sent on to her.
In the morning, her conscience pricking her, she rang the one neighbour with whom her mother had remained on good terms. Miss Jepson was full of apologies for missing the funeral and thought Helen very sensible to get away to the country for Christmas and ‘that dreadful millennium’. Of course she would keep a neighbourly eye on the house, but should Helen not tell the police? Helen supposed she should, and when she had battled her way through the minefield of their switchboard left Beatrice Tresikker’s name, address and telephone number with them, though they did not seem much interested. She had managed to get through to rail enquiries too, and set off at last without a backward glance, to catch the connection for the Leyning train at Clapham Junction. Pausing at the newsagent to cancel her mother’s Telegraph she bought herself The Independent and agreed that she was lucky to be getting away so early for Christmas. It would be mayhem by the end of the week, the girl said.
Could it be only Tuesday? She seemed to have lived several lifetimes since Monday morning. Death times? But here was Clapham Junction and she must hurry across the spreading station to catch her train. The sooner she got to the High House in Leyning where Beatrice Tresikker awaited her, the better. She did not like the thought of the aches and the fall, though some sign of old age at eighty was hardly surprising. She sat gazing out of the carriage window at rows of suburban houses, The Independent neglected on her lap, and wondered what the angry old woman would be like. Had there been a trace of an accent behind the standard vowels of that dwindling voice? She rather thought there had but could not identify it.
It had been a murky morning, but presently the train pulled out of a long tunnel into sunshine and more green fields than houses. How long since she had last got out of London? Hard to remember. After her mother had taken to her bed it had become increasingly difficult to leave her, even for a weekend. Too many planned visits to friends had had to be cancelled at the last minute because Mother had had one of her attacks, or taken against the carer. In the end, friends had stopped inviting her, particularly as the return visits she had tried to arrange to the theatre or concerts were just as liable to last-minute sabotage. If I do decide to stay with Beatrice Tresikker – if she wants me, she reminded herself – I must make sure that we lay down the ground rules clearly from the start. Useful to be so well versed in the caring business.
After Gatwick, the country got better and better, with woods instead of fields, and a viaduct with views that took her breath away. Turning from side to side, not to miss a thing, she was aware of a strange sensation. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and felt grateful to the unknown Beatrice Tresikker. The train divided at Haywards Heath, but the guard who checked her ticket had reassured her that she was in the right bit, and that Leyning was the stop after next. And now she saw the long line of the south downs, their folds and hollows thrown into relief by sun and shadow. Whatever happened when she got to the High House, she was glad she had come. If this turned out to be a wild goose chase, maybe to a madwoman, which was entirely possible, she would find a bed and breakfast place and spend the night in Leyning just the same. They were running through what must be its outskirts now, and she liked what she saw, as suburban fringe gave way to a great slope of graveyard with a church above, while on the other side a huddle of red brick houses clung to another hill as if they had been there for ever.
There really was a taxi in the station yard, and her slight anxiety about the sparse address was relieved at once when the elderly driver, who had actually got out of his cab to take her case, opened the front door for her and said, ‘High House, is it? Fancy that. How is old Madam Tresikker? I haven’t driven her for … can’t think how long. Good to hear she’s still alive.’ He closed the door on her.
‘That’s a relief,’ she said as he got in and started the car. ‘I was afraid the address might not be enough.’
‘Oh, we all know the High House,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘And Madam Tresikker. A good tipper. Not lavish, you know, but fair. Understands about waiting time, too. Not like some. Mind you, if you were late, she were poison. No tip then. But, hey, you’re not a relative are you? A lost niece or something? I reckon she could do with one of those.’
‘No, no kin, and I’ve never met her.’ They were driving past Safeway and it reminded her of something. ‘Is there a local shop anywhere handy where I could drop off for a minute and get a few supplies? She said on the phone that she was out of everything.’
‘You spoke up just in time.’ He swung the car into a side street. ‘Mr Patel will see you right. He stocks just about everything, I reckon. Pricey, mind you, but much quicker than Safeway except when school’s just out. There’ll be waiting time, of course,’ he warned, stopping the cab outside a little shop with a window full of advertisements.
The grey-haired man at the till gave her a beaming smile as she picked up a basket and quickly collected eggs, bread, milk, butter, tomatoes, sliced ham, orange juice, a can of condensed soup and some bacon. Reaching the checkout, she saw a small wine section and added a bottle of her favourite dry sherry. It reminded her of something else. ‘Coffee?’ she asked, putting her basket on the counter.
‘Round there,’ he pointed and bega
n to ring up her purchases. ‘Taxi waiting?’
‘Yes.’ On an impulse, because she liked him, she added, ‘I’m going to the High House. Do you know it?’
‘Old Madam Tresikker? Sure do. And glad to hear it too. Haven’t heard from her for a while; thought she might be dead. Except we’d have heard about that all right, lady like her. Ill, is she?’
‘She doesn’t sound too good. I’m on my way to see. Is it far from here? Will I be able to walk it?’
‘Course. Active lady like you. Ten minutes, fifteen maybe. Quicker on foot by the lanes.’ He was packing her groceries efficiently into two bags. ‘But I’ll deliver if you phone. Always used to. Charge, of course. After hours. Here.’ He handed her a printed sheet, took her money, gave her the change and came out from behind the counter to open the door for her.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
He beamed at her. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Look forward to seeing you, and I hope you find the old lady OK.’
‘What a nice man,’ she said to the driver. ‘Thank you for taking me to him. Where’s he from?’ She expected him to say Pakistan or India, but he surprised her. ‘Bradford. Born there, didn’t like it much. Came down here five, six years ago. Bit of a hard time at first. Well, I expect you can imagine. Leyning’s not a bad place, but it’s got its yobs like everywhere.’ He was driving slowly over a narrow old brick bridge. ‘That’s the Ley,’ he told her. ‘Runs into the Ouse a few miles out of town. Now you’re in Old Leyning. There was an abbey at the top of the hill; the church is all that’s left of it. Madam Tresikker told me her house was built of abbey stone. She loves that house, talked about it a lot. Told me once it saved her life. I don’t know what she meant. It’s not where I’d want my old mum to be living.’ He turned the car sharply uphill and round a couple of hairpin bends, then pulled up in front of a flight of stone steps. ‘There,’ he said. ‘See what I mean?’
Helen got out and stood looking up the steps to the house above them; two storeys of grey stone like the steps, with a built-on porch for the front door, big sash windows along the front and an extraordinary turret at one end. ‘Goodness gracious,’ she said and then, ‘Oh, thank you, how kind,’ as the driver got her case out of the boot and carried it up the steps. ‘And how much?’ she asked, putting her groceries down and hoping she would get the tip just right, like Madam Tresikker. Paying him, she faced another problem: which flowerpot held the key? Twin bay trees stood on either side of the porch and pots of geraniums, some still in straggling bloom, lined the terrace.
‘Thank you, miss.’ The tip had been right. He smiled at her. ‘It’s usually in one of the bay tree pots,’ he told her.
‘You mean everyone knows?’ Appalled. ‘But it’s not safe!’
‘Well, yes and no. Most people know about the key, but most people know she’s nothing left to steal. She’s been done one, two, three times, standing alone like this. “All my pretty ones”, she told me once. Nothing’s left but a lot of old books, and who wants those? Best of luck, miss.’ He produced a card and handed it to her. ‘Here’s our number when you need us, but the old lady knows it. If she remembers it.’ And on that slightly daunting note he left her standing there, got into the cab and drove away.
No time now for the view the house commanded. Somewhere inside the old lady had presumably heard the car, would be waiting for her. She found the key tucked down at the back of the right-hand bay tree and was glad to see that at least it was a Chubb. Turning it with some difficulty she opened the door and stepped into a tiled hall that ran from front to back of the house. ‘It’s Helen Westley.’ Her voice sounded strange to her. ‘I’m here.’
No answer. She locked the door behind her, picked up a pile of what looked like junk mail and stood looking around. Open doors to the right and left showed a sitting room and dining room, scantily furnished, deeply dusty, very empty. Built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling lined each side of the hall, crammed almost beyond bursting with books. Nobody on this floor. And where were the stairs?
She found them behind one of two doors that faced each other at the far end of the hall. What a strange house. ‘It’s Helen Westley,’ she called again as she started upstairs. ‘Are you up there?’ Still no answer. Deeply anxious now, she hurried up the awkwardly turning stair and emerged in another long hall. And now she did think she heard the faintest of sounds from the front of the house. ‘I’m coming.’ She pushed gently on a half-open door and stood for a moment gazing at chaos. Time for that later. Her concern was for the figure slumped in the big bed. All she could see was short, shaggy white hair. ‘Are you all right, Ms Tresikker?’
‘Mrs. No.’ It was a thread of a voice. ‘Doctor said drink … Can’t…’ An empty jug on the bedside table made the point for her. If she had been crawling to the loo there was no way she could have fetched herself water.
Filling the jug in the en suite bathroom, Helen looked about her at more chaos. Clean chaos, she noted with relief, the loo had been flushed and the room was dusty, not dirty.
‘Let me help you sit up.’ She put an experienced arm round Mrs Tresikker, pulling up pillows with the other hand. Then she held the glass to dry lips that drank desperately.
‘Thanks,’ said the old lady at last. ‘You know how.’
‘Yes.’ Helen put down the glass and they looked at each other. Beatrice Tresikker was brown and wiry like an old root that has been exposed to wind and sun for years. Her short, white hair stood up on end; she was wearing a brilliant peacock-blue bedjacket and leaned back against dark purple pillows that matched the duvet cover.
The old lady was seeing a woman beyond her first youth, wearing a navy-blue all-purpose coat, which she now took off and laid on a chair, revealing a business-like navy suit. Taking off the suit jacket and rolling up emerald-green sleeves, Helen made a final adjustment to the supporting pillows, drew up a chair beside the bed, sat down on it and smiled. ‘What first?’ she asked. ‘Are you hungry too? I brought some food.’ And, as an afterthought, ‘And a bottle of dry sherry.’
‘Fetch it then,’ said Beatrice Tresikker. ‘Glasses in the kitchen. You’ll find them. Restful.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘No hurry. I’ll wait. Been living on bananas. You might take the skins down.’ A gesture drew Helen’s attention to a waste basket on the far side of the bed which proved to be full of banana skins, explaining a curious over-sweet smell that permeated the room. ‘The last one this morning. Glad you came, but not starving. Yet. Wondering a bit.’
‘I should think you might be.’ Helen picked up the waste basket. ‘Anything else to go?’ She glanced round the room, spotted a plate and glass on the floor by the bed and picked them up. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘Don’t rush. We’ve time. Don’t be shocked, either. God knows what it’s like downstairs. Wendy’s good as gold but she only comes once a week. I can’t afford more and she’s not got the time anyway. Single mum,’ she said, as if that explained everything.
‘When does she come?’ Helen paused in the doorway.
‘Thursday. Ten till twelve. She got me the bananas.’
‘And you’ve seen no one since?’ Appalled. ‘What are the social services doing?’
‘It’s a long story. Better over sherry?’
‘Right.’ She was relieved to find that the kitchen was comparatively clean. Single mother Wendy obviously had her priorities right. It was a pleasant room with a window over the sink that looked across a rising slope of shaggy garden to a high stone wall. Cupboards to right and left above the sink held china on one side and glass on the other – odd pieces of good glass; the old Wedgwood celadon Helen remembered from childhood. Heavy Le Creuset saucepans in another cupboard suggested a real cook. How strange to try and read a woman from her kitchen. There was a small deep freeze with a microwave on top, and a real larder with nothing in it but some ancient looking tins, amongst which Helen was delighted to find one of stuffed green olives. She had been worrying a li
ttle about sherry on a stomach that had met nothing but bananas for the last five days. How many bananas? she wondered, finding a light tray in a cupboard. A tin opener proved more elusive, but she found it at last at the back of a drawer and drained the olives into a little dish someone had bought in Avignon.
Back upstairs, she found Beatrice Tresikker sitting very upright in bed, looking anxious. ‘Loo first, please. Do you mind?’ she said. ‘Nicer than crawling.’
‘Course I don’t mind. I’ve been helping my mother for years. Dressing gown?’
‘No need.’ She was light as a feather, Helen found, and much easier to help than her solid mother had been. Placed safely on the seat, she dismissed Helen. ‘Call when I’m ready. Shut the door. Thanks.’ The word seemed to surprise her.
Now Helen had time to look round the shambles of a room. Great piles of clothes on all the furniture, and books everywhere: piles on the floor by the bed, piles on the dressing table by the window; paperbacks, hardbacks, two unmistakable London Library books, many of them with markers in or their dust jackets tucked in to mark a place. And a pile of folders on the beside table, and on the floor, full of handwritten notes.
The violent ringing of a bell made her start. The front door. ‘Are you all right for a minute?’ she called through the bathroom door. ‘I’ll see who it is.’
‘Do,’ came a croak. ‘Taking my time. No hurry.’
As she negotiated the awkward stairs the doorbell rang again, louder than ever, making her suddenly furious. She turned the key in the lock, flung it open and confronted a tall man in a baggy grey tweed suit, bag in hand. ‘You must be the doctor,’ she said and, simultaneously, ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked, stepping across the threshold.
‘Helen Westley. I answered an advertisement.’ She found herself moving aside to let him pass. ‘Lucky thing I did; she’d been on her own for five days. What on earth are your social services doing down here?’ And then, as he headed down the hall for the stairs, ‘Hang on, she’s in the loo.’
Deathline Page 2
