by Susan Sallis
Connie nodded with the awful sadness that was emerging from the horror. She said, ‘He had that light suit on, Mummy, waistcoat and all, because he had taken Mrs Heatherington into Penzance for something or other. He was still wearing it, caked in sand, when he went back in to look for Philip. Oh Mummy, it was so awful. I knew then I couldn’t ever marry him, yet he was the finest man I ever knew.’
‘Listen, darling. I know you won’t like this but I have to phone him again. I tried on Friday morning. Don’t look like that – I had to know what was happening. He wasn’t at home and the office said he was still in Cornwall. But if we care tuppence about him, Connie . . . and surely we do . . . then we have to ask how he is. And later you must see him, Connie. You must try to tell him why you have cast him off—’
‘Mummy, I haven’t cast him off! Can’t you see that before I marry anyone – anyone at all – I have to become a person? Not just a heavy parcel to be carted around and—’
‘Constance! Stop talking like that. That is bordering on self-pity, which is something we do not do.’
Connie dropped her head again and stopped talking until she had finished the next triangle of toast. Then she said, ‘If you do telephone William, will you say how sorry I am? Please.’
‘Of course I will.’ Rosemary put cups and saucers together on a tray. ‘But all this guilt is stupid, Connie. I suggest we both get ready and go to church. And perhaps lunch at the golf club.’ She looked out on the sweep of the Lickey Hills. ‘You had quite a decent handicap when you played regularly. How about taking it up again?’ She almost added . . . until this mess is sorted out. She swallowed the words but she had already said the wrong thing. Connie was giving her that incredulous look again.
‘Mummy, I cannot see people. Not yet. I’m still in Cornwall.’
‘Darling, Mrs Penrose did the ironing yesterday. D’you think she won’t have told your friends that you are back?’
‘I don’t mean I am down there still. What I mean is, in my mind I am not back yet.’ She shook her head with the despair of being misunderstood so often and picked up the tray. ‘Let’s have salad at lunchtime and I will cook this evening.’
‘Oh Connie – I don’t want you . . .’ Rosemary stopped herself. Housework had its place in the healing process; she knew that only too well. ‘Thank you, darling. That would be nice. Shall we drive to the lakes later?’
Connie nodded and took the tray into the kitchen. Rosemary went into the hall and lifted up the telephone receiver. She already knew that William was not a churchgoer and she prayed that he would pick up her call. It was all so . . . so unsatisfactory. Tragic, yes. But one could cope with tragedy and it was better to cope with it as a couple, surely? When that dreaded telegram had arrived all those years ago, she had had Connie. Now Connie had William. And she seemed to be . . . discarding him.
Six rings went by before William’s rather dry voice came down the line. She said, ‘Oh William, I’m so glad you’re there. I tried you on Friday. I thought you might have gone away again.’ There was a pause and she added, ‘It’s Rosemary. Rosemary Vickers. After hearing more from Connie about what happened in Cornwall I was worried about you. It all seems so . . . unnecessary.’
He did not reassure her. ‘Ah. Yes. Events often have a way of appearing to be unnecessary.’
Another pause. She had forgotten the reason for her call. Was it to arrange a reconciliation? She had to say something.
‘William, how are you?’
Yet another pause, then he said as if surprised, ‘Not too bad, actually.’
That annoyed her. She thought of Connie’s awful empty stare and said, ‘I rang the office. They told me you were still in Cornwall.’
‘Yes. Yes, I went back very early on Friday. I have clients down there, unfinished business. I returned home late last evening.’
She was so taken aback she did not even notice whether there was a pause or not. She blurted, ‘Will you go back to work tomorrow then?’ If he said yes then she would absolutely give up. Connie was right, he didn’t give a damn.
He said, ‘No. I still have a week’s holiday left. I am going back to Cornwall probably on Tuesday. Perhaps Wednesday.’
There was a small mirror above the phone, placed there for people to check that their hats were straight before they left the house. She focused on her reflection and noted her eyes were bulbous.
Then he said, ‘Will you tell Connie that something positive is happening down there. After the funeral, which as I say is either Tuesday or Wednesday of this coming week, I will have more information. I would like to tell her about it myself but obviously if she finds it difficult to see me then I can write to her. I think – I hope – that what is happening will help her to . . . accept . . . things.’
She sensed he was about to say goodbye and replace the receiver. She raised her voice. ‘William, wait. Do you mean . . . your engagement might be . . .’ Her voice died as she realized she was well past certain limits.
He did not replace his receiver. After an extra long pause, he said carefully, ‘I think we both know now that we are not suited. It was one of those moments of – of –’ she could almost see his tiny wry smile ‘– of unrestrained optimism.’ And then he did replace his receiver. And she looked again in the little mirror and saw her eyes were watering.
He telephoned the following Friday and came for tea. Connie watched from her bedroom window as the familiar grey car turned off the road to Barnt Green and negotiated the lane that ran parallel to the golf course until it reached the small cluster of desirable detached houses, the first of which was Fairways. Her mother had said, ‘I would like you to answer the door to him, Connie.’ Then, seeing her daughter’s expression, had rescinded the request immediately. ‘All right, but – darling – please come down and let him tell you what has happened.’
‘He has persuaded Mrs Heatherington not to sue her manager,’ Connie said. But then she nodded. ‘Of course I’ll be there, Mummy.’
The hot weather had dissolved into rain at the beginning of the week and since then had been suddenly autumnal. Connie wore a white blouse and cotton skirt; it made her feel drab. She had felt drab for a week now; it made no difference what she wore.
She watched as the car did a U-turn before the front door and parked facing the gate; clearly he wanted to leave quickly. Her mother emerged and was there as William opened the driver’s door and stepped on to the gravel. He was wearing the lightweight suit he had worn that day, that terrible day when life had changed. She was surprised that it had cleaned up, and shocked that he would choose to wear it ever again. Beneath the window, almost out of her sight, they both hesitated, then William held out his hand and Rosemary took it in both of hers. It occurred to Connie that her mother was on the point of tears and she loathed herself anew for bringing her to this. She registered that Rosemary’s hair, newly coiffed every other week, was looking straggly and her skirt seemed to be dipping in the front as if she was stooped. She had dropped William’s hand – or he had pulled away – and they both disappeared into the house. For a moment she did not move. She did not want to see William in his suit. He simply reminded her that if she had not been with William in Cornwall, Egbert Pardoe – Philip Marlowe – would still be alive, encased in that childlike happiness that sprang from simply being, simply existing in a beautiful world.
She must have been in her private no-man’s-land longer than she thought because Rosemary’s voice came from the hall. ‘William is here, darling. I’m going to put the kettle on now. He can’t stay long.’
Connie got the message. If she wanted five minutes alone with William then she should come down immediately. And the ordeal was not going to be protracted. She tucked her blouse hard into the waistband of her skirt and went downstairs. William was sitting in the bay window overlooking the sweep of hills. He leaped up as she came in. She remembered that one of the things she admired about him was that he was completely non-judgemental. That was how he looked now but s
he suddenly saw that his careful lack of facial expression was judgemental in itself. She started to cry. He came forward at a rush and she thought that he would take her in his arms, but at the last second he simply took her hands and held them loosely between his.
‘I’m sorry. My dear, I’ll leave. I did not want to upset you.’
She sensed her mother in the hall and could imagine her rushing into the room and commanding William to sit down – this very minute!
She gulped and said, ‘It’s me. I know I’m overwrought. You. And the suit.’
He looked down. ‘This suit? It’s new. I had to get another one and I thought . . . I mean, I didn’t think. That it was almost autumn.’
She too looked and saw it was not the same suit. ‘Oh William. I’m sorry. I’m not myself – not one bit. Please stay for tea. My mother will be so upset if you go.’
He released her hands and sat back down. ‘I don’t want to go just yet, Connie. I’ve been back to Cornwall twice and I think that what is happening down there might cheer you up.’
She wondered why William and her mother kept talking of cheering her up. As if anyone could be cheered up after causing the death of someone else.
There came the click of trolley wheels and her mother entered, beaming. There were sandwiches and two kinds of cake on the lower tray. The top tray held tea things for two.
Rosemary said, ‘I’m going to leave you to have a chat and pop next door to see Maria. She’s not too good and might need shopping.’
Connie looked at her helplessly. William said, ‘My news is not personal, Mrs Vickers. Please stay and hear it. I think it will encourage you too.’
But Rosemary was determined. She knew that general ‘news’ could easily slip into something more personal. It was definitely not encouraging to hear William call her Mrs Vickers but even that could change if the two of them were left to themselves. She went out, closing the back door firmly enough for them to hear it.
Connie left the trolley where it was and sat opposite William. She said, ‘Sorry about this. My mother still thinks it’s just a storm in a teacup.’
‘I don’t think so. But then we disagree on so many things.’ He looked at her almost sadly. ‘We worked together for so long and so well, I thought . . . Never mind. Let me tell you what has happened and then I’ll go.’ He glanced out of the window. The house next door was lower than this one. Rosemary was tapping on the window. It was obvious no one was in.
He said, ‘I have a new client, Connie. In Hayle. Lucy Pardoe.’ He waited for a reaction. Connie was shocked. Was Philip’s mother going to bring a case against her? Manslaughter? Was it possible? In a way it would be good. It would be wonderful.
William said, ‘She telephoned me that night. The Thursday when you and I drove home. I had just got into the house. She had walked to the telephone box in the village – the three girls were with her and I could hear the little one grizzling. It was raining and her feet were sore.’ He actually smiled. ‘Lucy wanted to borrow money to buy the cottage. It had to be a very quick deal. I told her I would be with her the next day before the banks closed. I got the money in cash and the vendor came over in the afternoon and she bought her little cottage as if it were a pound of new potatoes.’ This time he laughed.
She was horrified. ‘How could . . . She lost her son the evening before, how could she even think about buying the cottage the very next day? Oh . . . sorry, this must have been planned for some time.’
‘Not at all. She would have discounted such a thought. They haven’t got two ha’pennies to rub together!’ He actually smiled. ‘For a moment on the telephone my reaction was like yours. It was bordering on the macabre. But then . . . I trusted her. She wasn’t telling me much because she was determined that the shilling she had put into the phone was enough. And of course –’ his smile became wry ‘– I wanted to help her for both our sakes. At the time I honestly thought that it might make a difference to us. You and me.’
Connie felt the treacherous tears again. She would never be able to explain to anyone in the whole world how she had felt about Philip that dreadful afternoon in the beach hut with the rain drumming incessantly. So no one, no one in the whole world must know. Especially not this man.
He said in a low voice, ‘Connie, do you want me to leave? Now?’
She shook her head and motioned with her hand for him to go on. He looked uncertainly at the hand, then stood up, drew the trolley towards him and began to pour tea. And she managed to smile and thank him and sip the hot liquid.
‘I’d like to hear the rest,’ she said. ‘There is more?’
‘There is.’
He told her about the rumour and the way Lucy Pardoe – suddenly realizing what she was asking of him – said, ‘’Tis only a rumour, though as it comes from Dr Carthew . . . ’E offered the money too. But I thought as you said you wanted to help if you could . . . but it is only a rumour and I might never be able to pay you back.’
William passed her the sandwiches and she took one. So did he. They looked strangely formal sitting in the window with the trolley between them.
He said, ‘The cottage is owned by the local carpenter, a man called Penberthy who had offered Egg a seven-year apprenticeship. He saw the boy as cheap labour. Luckily Egg had already told his mother he did not want to take it up.’ He sighed and then went on steadily. ‘I think after Penberthy had come round and more or less propositioned her, she was desperate. And . . . quite frankly . . . at first, she thought we owed it to her. Perhaps she still feels that way. I don’t think so. I stayed that night in Hayle and had a long talk with her doctor. John Carthew. He brought Egg into the world and the others too. Ellie, Barbara, Denise.’ He spoke the names slowly, recalling them one by one. They were becoming real people to him. Lucy, the doctor, Egg – he called him Egg – and the little girls Egg had loved so much. ‘He couldn’t tell me a great deal but he said negotiations to build a holiday camp are already under way with the local council. He also said that if she did not buy the place herself the owner would make the most of it, sell it to the highest bidder. Now it is hers, Lucy will be able to sell Pardoe Cottage for very much more than she has paid for it.’
‘She won’t sell,’ Connie said.
‘I think she will. We both went to see her yesterday afternoon – Carthew and myself. The girls made us tea.’ He smiled. ‘Not quite like this but just as formal in its way. She has to make a new start and Ellie is going to school in Truro next month. It will take some doing of course but I think she is wise. Penberthy will pester her. If he suspects she knew about the development plans he might get nasty. One of her husband’s friends, chap called Joshua Warne, he’s going to keep an eye on things.’ He folded his napkin and put it back on the trolley. ‘I drove back late that night. I slept well. And I slept in Cornwall too.’ He smiled. ‘I hope that this will help you to sleep well, Connie.’ He stood up. ‘I won’t see much of you next week. I’m going back to Cornwall either tomorrow or Tuesday.’ He did not mention the funeral. ‘I want to talk again to Mrs Heatherington.’
She was amazed that he too did not understand she could not work with him any more. She tried to explain and after a moment he nodded. Then he stood up.
She walked to the door with him and watched him leave. She wished she had asked him about the funeral. She wished she could have been there. But invisible. As the car turned downhill and disappeared she realized that she really had loved William Mather. She was still holding the front door and gazing after him as her mother rushed from the side of the house and enveloped her.
‘I know, darling. I know. Come along in and try not to think too much.’
She got a job in Worcester. She told her mother she was a general dogsbody though as it was at the cathedral it was called something much more dignified. It was a tentative joke and was greeted ecstatically by Rosemary. She kissed Connie and told her she was going to be all right. Connie began to believe it. Each day she knew she loved William more and more. She
remembered that night when they had slept together. She remembered his tenderness . . . how he had held her until she slept. But she also knew that in many ways she had not been right for William then. She had been – what was the word – was it petty? Yes, she had been petty in her ‘feelings’ and she had been petty about Mrs Heatherington and downright stupid about the awful Mrs Pentwyn! She had known at the time that the woman’s anger was really about the wretched cabinet pudding and the trifle. She should have shared it with William and laughed. And instead she had somehow blamed William.
There were times when self-loathing went to extremes and she wondered whether she had made love to the beautiful Philip to punish William in some way. If only she had not helped him – with her new-found knowledge taught by William – had not shown him how sweet was the comfort and glory of love. If only she had not made him so happy that he wanted to be in that sea as a kind of baptism. If only. Two futile words that helped no one.
But she was stronger after William’s visit. Stronger for seeing him, stronger for hearing his news. She knew full well that he hoped his quixotic gift to Lucy Pardoe would expiate a little of the guilt and though it could not do that, it did change things. It enabled her to put the awfulness aside for periods of time. At first just long enough to search the jobs column and find the place at the cathedral. And to make up her mind that, dogsbody or assistant steward, she would do a good job; she would immerse herself in it. Because of what had happened, she was different. Perhaps she was a ‘better person’? She had no idea. She kept going and got to know every corner of the cathedral and everyone who used it. She was well liked from the outset and knew she had found a niche for herself. One of the stewards, an older woman, talked about the history of the cathedral and Connie took an interest and began to read it up for herself. Mrs Adams suggested a visit to the museum and they went together. Then she wondered whether Connie ought to apply for a place at Birmingham University to read history. It was as if a future was opening up for her, page by page.
