The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  ‘He was much better and I do hope he feels well enough to be on his way. He might’ve already gone.’

  She knew he was still there when she unlocked the door and opened it wide. She had learned as a girl to know when the house was empty. It was not empty today. He was in the kitchen, almost exactly where she had left him that morning. The girls were delighted. They wanted to know about Rosalie and Lily. Lucy introduced Margaret and took the kettle to the tap. Margaret sat down opposite him and looked at him as he stalled the barrage of questions. He avoided looking back at her.

  Lucy made tea and they sat around the table and listened to Barbara explaining about French knitting and Denny explaining about her latest painting. At the first sign of the girls running out of breath, Margaret drew hers.

  ‘And now you are better, Mr Membury, I guess you’ll be moving on. There’s a small hotel at Charlestown. A very pretty place. I’m sure you’d like it.’

  Lucy said in a low voice, ‘No money.’

  ‘Gee, I’m sure we can lend you enough money to get you bed and breakfast.’

  Margaret leaned forward. ‘You know you cannot stay here, Mr Membury.’

  He flushed. ‘I have the most honourable intentions, Mrs Trip. I assure you of that.’

  ‘I am assured. Completely. But Mrs Pardoe has not been able to tell you certain . . . arrangements which are going forward.’

  The girls stared at her. Lucy stared at her. Harry Membury swallowed visibly. ‘They will come together eventually.’ Margaret was now completely in command. She smiled around her like a benevolent aunt. ‘You will all know in good time. But meanwhile I think we must speed Mr Membury on his way.’

  Ellie came in then, closely followed by Gussie. There were fresh exclamations. Ellie sat next to him, her brown eyes brimming with sympathy.

  ‘We know how you feel. If we hadn’t been able to come here we would have been destitute. Mr Penberthy would have sold the cottage over our heads to the holiday company and we would have had nowhere to go.’

  He looked at her, near tears himself. ‘Would he have done that?’

  ‘Oh yes. He would have called it good business. Dr Carthew and Mr Mather saved us.’ She put out her hand as he had put out his just over a year ago. He took it with a small sob.

  She said, ‘You need looking after for a while, don’t you, Mr Membury?’

  He said nothing. Lucy made a sound of protest.

  Ellie smiled at him. ‘We’d look after you if we could. You know that. But you will be much better out on the towans. I think you need space . . . sea and sky and sand dunes.’ She smiled. ‘I sound like an advertisement for a caravan holiday, don’t I? Perhaps you could try that later on. But for now . . . perhaps the Reverend Hobson would put you up for a while. Later on you could help him.’ She looked up at Gussie, who nodded approval. Lucy looked at them both with astonishment.

  Margaret put her hands together, delighted. ‘That’s a terrific idea, Ellie. D’you think your reverend would agree?’

  Ellie nodded definitely. ‘We got to know him, didn’t we, Barbara – didn’t we, Denny?’ The girls also nodded; they were wide-eyed and unusually silent.

  Unexpectedly Harry Membury spoke up. ‘I don’t think I could ask charity from Matthew Hobson. I am not asking charity from you either, Lucy. We are connected – you must understand that.’

  Ellie looked at her mother. Lucy said nothing; she seemed stunned into silence.

  Margaret picked up the baton. She was making it up as she went along but it came so easily it had to be true . . . somewhere or other. And if not, then she would make it true. A dream. Come true.

  ‘As I said before, sir, Mrs Pardoe has other plans.’ She smiled at them all. ‘It’s all still in the melting pot and will be a big surprise for Mrs Pardoe herself, but I do assure you that she still has family who wish to get in touch with her. She is going to be very busy with them.’ She beamed the smile on to Harry Membury. ‘You’re not asking charity, sir. You are asking to rent a room in a house.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Come on, Gus. Let’s go. We’ve got a phone and a directory and we will suss out the position at the towans.’ She squeezed Lucy’s arm. ‘We’ll be back soon with news. All will be well. And that’s another thing – Marvin will get a phone installed in your hallway.’

  Gussie allowed herself to be swept to the door, where she turned and rolled her eyes at them all. ‘Just go with it,’ she advised. ‘She isn’t often like this but when she is, it’s easier to roll.’

  Ellie laughed, stood up and hugged her mother’s arm. ‘I just knew you’d get on with Mrs Trip.’ She turned to Harry. ‘You’ll be all right now, Mr Membury.’

  Lucy sat down because unexpectedly her legs were trembling. She wondered what on earth Margaret had been talking about just now. She wondered whether she had been too hard on Harry Membury, who looked as if he could see the end of the world and it was much too close. And she wondered – marvelled – at her girls, who were now bustling about the kitchen making boiled eggs, chattering like sparrows. Ellie looked more like Daniel every day, Barbara some version of herself, and Denny . . . just Denny. She wanted to cry. Had she treated this man unfairly? Should she, even now, be making up the bed for him in the attic, letting him talk about his wife and girls, telling him he could stay a few days until he found a job and sorted himself out? He was so weak. In every way he was the sort of man she mistrusted. Bertie, Daniel, Egg . . . they had had some inner strength and determination. Dr Carthew and William Mather had it too. Josh Warne. Her father and Chippy Penberthy had not had it. Surely she did not think this man sitting opposite her was like them?

  He was propping his head on one hand and she had to lower hers to see his face. He was crying.

  She stood up and fetched the bread from the crock and the butter from the marble slab in the larder. She cut bread and pushed it across to him. ‘Butter this and put it on this plate.’ Ellie handed him a pile of plates. ‘Put these round the table. Each one to have a knife and an egg spoon.’

  She watched him do it and thanked him and he blinked and smiled. She said, ‘Do the small things and they will pile into big things. Eventually.’

  His eyes filled again and he said, ‘Oh Lucy.’

  And she said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Membury. I really cain’t help you more.’

  He said, ‘No, I am sorry. Really sorry. I had no idea you had other fish to fry.’

  Her sympathy dried up instantly. He had a very unfortunate turn of phrase.

  She said coldly, ‘I en’t got no idea what Mrs Trip was on about, I do assure you of that.’

  Ellie brought the girls to the table and settled them in their chairs. A bowl of eggs appeared and Lucy gingerly fingered them into eggcups and handed them round. Lucy took Denny’s egg top off while Ellie saw to Barbara’s. They smiled at each other. Ellie used Daniel’s words, ‘Nothing like an egg to cheer you up.’ It had been his way of teasing Egg and it was the first time anyone had said them for over a year. Ellie watched her mother.

  Harry Membury said, ‘I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can manage—’

  He got no further. Lucy leaned across the table and decapitated his egg neatly. ‘You will eat your egg like everyone else.’

  ‘But Avis says that even eggs are not proper vegetarian food.’

  Lucy looked around the room. ‘I don’t see Mrs Membury lurkin’ in the shadows. Do you, Ellie? Do you, Barbara? Do you, Denny?’

  They all recognized a game when they heard one and they roared, ‘No!’

  Lucy grinned at Harry Membury. ‘Eat your egg. Get strong again.’

  Later that night Marvin Trip lay on his back in bed, hands behind his head, watching his wife brush her long hair. She was wearing a new nightdress. Demure but perhaps not so demure as it would look on anyone else. He knew she had not settled properly in England but this new friend of hers had changed her in two short days. Tonight, she was the girl he had met in Detroit. Her length and consequent ungainliness made
her at once desirable and . . . tender.

  He said sentimentally, ‘Do you realize we’ve been married twelve years next month?’

  ‘Actually it’s thirteen.’ She looked at him in the mirror and lowered her eyes.

  He laughed and said, ‘I thought Lucy Pardoe started off with a baby and no husband at all – surely we can stop pretending over here? They’re far more liberal and understanding.’

  ‘Not all of them. And speaking of Lucy, honey—’

  ‘I know, I know. Television. Phone. Will yesterday be soon enough?’

  ‘Give it a few days. She has to get used to the idea.’

  ‘OK. Come to bed, honey. You’ll catch cold out there. God, it’s September and no frost, certainly no snow. Yet it’s as cold as charity.’

  ‘Yeah . . . that’s what that man Membury meant, I guess. Charity is kinda cold. But this isn’t charity . . . this is making a dream come true.’

  ‘What is? The phone? The television?’

  ‘No. Something more important than them.’ Margaret turned on the stool so that her nightdress rode above her knees. He moaned theatrically. She stood up and let him see all her legs and a little bit more. He took his hands from behind his head and held out his arms and she fell into them, laughing.

  She said afterwards, ‘About making a dream come true, Marvin. Marvin, are you listening? I’m talking about Lucy Pardoe.’

  ‘Again? Darling, I need my sleep. I’ve got a phone and a television to install tomorrow evening . . .’

  ‘You’re in a position to find things out, baby. And you can do it. There must be records still kept in Devon. Names of all the men who were drowned.’

  ‘Told you earlier on, baby. It’s still classified. It was a ghastly accident and embarrassing to the British. No can do.’

  ‘You can do, Marvin. You know you can. You can do anything. And you can tell the truth if you have to. One of those men had a son. He’s got family back home, honey, who know nothing about Egbert. Don’t you think they deserve to know that he didn’t just die? He made a baby, honey. Like you made our Gussie. And if he hadn’t been drowned he would have married Lucy and taken her to the States and – and—’

  ‘The boy might not have drowned.’ Marvin’s voice was quietly serious. ‘Listen, baby, what is the point of all this? It would be worth doing if the boy was alive. But he’s not, is he?’

  ‘Marvin, he wanted to go to America. He wanted to find his family. He still wants that.’

  ‘You’re not going all psychic on me, are you, babe?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know that we have to find out something about Bertie McKinley. We have to, Marvin. We have to find his family and let them know . . . let them know . . .’

  ‘That they had an illegitimate grandson – or nephew – or whatever? That he is now dead?’

  ‘Oh Marvin . . .’

  He could feel her tears on his shoulder and he gathered her to him, concertinaing her into a small bony child again. He smoothed her hair, kissed her eyes. ‘Go to sleep, baby. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Oh Marvin . . .’

  Ten

  GRETA HEATHERINGTON’S ANNOUNCEMENT, made just before Christmas, brought mixed reactions. She told Arnold Jessup first. They were drinking their coffee after a particularly good lunch in Birmingham and he actually choked on his.

  ‘You are what? Marrying that no-good manager of yours so that he can finally fleece you of the rest of your money? Are you mad, Greta? You practically took him to court this time last year, then we talked you out of it – you didn’t stand a chance, old girl, so don’t look at me like that – and what happens next? You go to bed with him. Then he ditches you and you go to bed with me. Then you and he are on and off like yo-yos. And now he’s talked you into getting hitched so that he’s got someone to look after him in his old age!’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’ she retaliated. ‘You and that Rosemary Vickers! You must be all of fifteen years older than she is. And what you see in her I cannot understand – she’s one of those women with a poker up her—’

  ‘Leave her out of this, Greta! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I am not Archie Fielding. I would not dream of marrying her and tying her down to anything. When she’s had enough of me she can walk away.’

  She had never seen him really angry like this. She had been looking forward to a good slanging match and suddenly backed out of it.

  She sipped her coffee and held the cup between her hands as if she were cold. She said, ‘Arnold. You know me. I need . . . someone. Someone who will be there at the end of the day. Perhaps will put my slippers to warm by the fire. I’ve landed a decent job after Christmas. Wardrobe mistress at the Cochrane – that tiny theatre behind the station. It’s the first regular job I’ve had for years and I’m going to work at it – what I don’t know about clothes isn’t worth knowing, so I can do it. But at first I’ll be tired. Dead tired, Arnold. No one who hasn’t worked in theatre can begin to imagine how tiring it is. The adrenalin highs are all very well but there are usually more lows than highs. Believe me.’

  ‘I believe you. I simply do not see Archie Fielding as a support. Think what he’s getting out of it, Greta. A good-sized flat in the middle of town, very handy for about six different pubs – and the casino. And as he is your manager – still – he will be taking his percentage for every dress you stitch, every hour you put up with histrionic actors . . . Greta, is it worth it?’

  She said very quietly, ‘You are making me sound pathetic, Arnold. But . . . yes, I think it is worth it.’

  ‘Oh my dear girl. The last thing I want to do is to make you feel pathetic. My God, I think you are courageous. You’re a realist down to the soles of your little feet. This is what you want . . . he is what you want. You know all his flaws and you still want him. So . . . I apologize, Greta. If you want it, you have my blessing.’

  He tried to smile at her, wondering how long it would last, knowing that when it came to an end he would be unable to comfort her as he had done in the past because of Rosemary. And his own heart warmed at the thought of Rosemary. And then shrank a little with grief because of course Greta was right; he was already an old man and Rosemary was still young. And he could never tie her down now. Somehow or other he had cut her loose from the constraints she had made for herself. To bind her again was unthinkable.

  ‘I do want it,’ Mrs Heatherington said. ‘I want it very much, Arnold. And you are a man who knows about love and how very sweet it can be.’

  She put down her coffee cup and reached across the table and he took her hands in his and remembered saying something like this to William once.

  That evening he phoned William and told him bluntly that Greta Heatherington was planning to marry Archie Fielding.

  The Mathers had become very fond of Greta, and William called Connie to the phone immediately and told her the news. Connie said loudly down the shared receiver, ‘Can you come round, Arnold? As soon as Frank is in bed we’re going to have fish and chips and sort out the Christmas decorations – there are some gorgeous ones from before the war, real glass. Come before Frank goes to bed, he can actually knee that ball you brought him.’

  William held her to him and said, ‘That sounds as if she is in full agreement with Greta’s decision. I think it’s good too, don’t you?’

  Arnold said, ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’

  Connie called, ‘Neither do I, Arnold. She wants a comfort blanket like Frank has got and Archie won’t be any good at all at that.’

  Arnold smiled to himself. ‘We’ll talk about it. But there’s nothing to be done, she is determined.’

  ‘Come as soon as you can then,’ William said. ‘I need fish and chips. Soon.’

  He put the phone down and kissed his wife and over her shoulder Frank appeared from the living room and scrambled towards them on hands and knees.

  They watched him, smiling like all the doting parents in the world. William said, ‘We could tell Arnold our
news tonight, if you like.’

  ‘Yes. I told Mummy this morning. She had to be the first to know.’

  They leaned down together and with practised ease hauled Frank into their arms. He gave a shriek of pleasure and bent forward to share a three-way kiss. Then William took him, and Connie went for the soft ball Arnold had given him when he started to crawl. He knew what he had to do and butted the ball with a plump knee as they rolled it towards him and then clapped his hands with them. Connie sat on the hall chair and watched, smiling, as the ball skidded towards her across the parquet. She no longer worried about Frank; she had accepted her mother’s assurances that his placidity did not mean he was anything but happy. Her new pregnancy helped. William was even happier about this new baby than he had been about Frank. She had thought her mother might think it was too soon but she too had been overjoyed.

  ‘Darling, don’t you see? This is nature’s way of getting things on an even keel. And it’s so obvious that baby Frank is perfectly all right. You must stop worrying right now and get ready to enjoy your two babies.’ She had hugged Connie enthusiastically. ‘I did wonder whether you were pregnant, you know. The day of Frank’s christening, you were so up and down – typical symptoms.’

  ‘Oh Mummy, you couldn’t possibly have known! I didn’t know myself till September!’ But she returned her mother’s hug and then said, ‘And you’re right about Frank. When he started to crawl last week at just seven months, it was obvious he was far in advance of the other babies at the clinic.’ She smiled, hearing her own words and knowing she sounded like every boastful mother that had ever lived. ‘When I see William playing with him I am pretty certain I was wrong when I told you . . . what I told you. They are so close, Mummy. It’s wonderful to see them together. And William says that his grandfather on his mother’s side had really piercing blue eyes!’

  ‘Really? Thank God, darling. I did toy with the idea of going to Cornwall myself and seeing if I could get anything out of the family doctor. But if you really think—’