Mum's the Word

by Dorothy Cannell

  I reached to touch the door of the flat. My laboured breathing was entirely the fault of the stairs. Nothing at all to do with the question I intended to put to Mother. If she and my father had found fame/land/fortune in America, would they … would they have remembered to send for me?

  No answer to my knock. And small wonder. Noise poured like smoke under the door. My first suspicion was a party. But when I got my ear tuned in, I realized this was the hurly burly of everyday living. The smell of kippers was gone, replaced—Olé—by the aroma of something wild and Mexican. Had Mother given up ballet for the evening? Would I find her playing a cutthroat game of Monopoly with Daddy? Or would she be wearing the rosy chamber pot on her head, the shaggy bathmat tossed across her shoulders, while she stalked the flat doing her impersonation of Aunt Astrid at Ascot?

  The door swung inward … Oh, no! Surely my eyes deceived me. Our flat had been invaded by another family. A mother wearing a bib apron was chasing around with the Hoover. A father sat, feet on the fender, reading a huge story book to children of assorted sizes, all with round, rosy faces and wearing hand-knitted cardigans.

  A red-headed pudgekin pointed at me. “Mummy! Daddy! Is she a ghost?”

  “Sorry!” I said, “I once knew some people who lived here.” Turning stiffly, I went back downstairs into sleep.

  I awoke feeling I had developed curvature of the spine overnight and that a hundred watt torch was being shone relentlessly in my eyes.

  “Ellie …” That was Ben speaking and the blinding glare was the sun. “… are you all right?”

  “Why?” I struggled onto one elbow.

  “Sweetheart, it’s gone noon.” He sat down on the bed, causing it to pitch leeward. My insides went into a heaving roll and, gripping his hand, I eased back down.

  “Morning sickness back again. As your mother said in her letter, you get a day or so of feeling good just so you can remember what it felt like. Darling, return to your Mangé meetings and let me die … I mean lie … in peace.”

  He patted my hand. “This is my lunch break and I intend to spend every minute with you. Would you like me to fetch you up something? How about a nice poached egg?”

  “Please!” I begged. “If you love me, don’t mention food. Tell me about Theola Faith.”

  He went to cross his legs, saw me wince, and in slow motion lowered his foot to the floor. “I aided in getting her to the cabin cruiser, but once aboard she became so … aggressive with me, insisting that she show me the sights …”

  “Of Mud Creek?” I had thought I was having trouble keeping his face in focus but I now realized he had been avoiding my eyes.

  “Her bedroom, to be specific. Damn it, Ellie! I don’t know what I do to bring out the beast in women! Do I have Eligibility Escorts tattooed across my brow?” Standing, he dug his hands in his pockets and glared miserably out the window at the choppy waters around the island.

  “Darling, no!” The room felt as though it were being shaken like a mat. Somewhere in the house someone was running the Hoover.

  “The result was Jeffries decided I was more hindrance than help. She said she’d take the cabin cruiser across, Pepys would follow in Miss Faith’s boat, and I came back ashore. So no Mangé rules were bent. You were dead asleep when I came up.” Head down, he paced toward the fireplace. “Sweetheart, there is something I should mention …”

  “Yes?” Were we finally getting to the climax? The lowdown on why he had turned shifty-eyed?

  “When we gathered downstairs this morning, the comte and Solange were gone. Their room is empty. Understandable they would wish to leave without any fanfare; the only question being who took them ashore. Pepys and Jeffries denied doing so, Valicia X was as curious as anyone, and … what did come as something of a shock …” He dropped down beside me and gripped my hand, his lips pressed together.

  “Yes?” I gripped the headboard but couldn’t keep the bed from going around.

  “Lois and Henderson had done a bunk too.”

  The bed stopped with violent suddenness. That left only Bingo and Marjorie Rumpson for Ben to compete against, I thought, and instantly felt ashamed. This Mangé competition was turning me into an animal. “That doesn’t make sense. The comte was disqualified for endangering Joan’s life, but Lois Brown was still in the running, wasn’t she?”

  “A prime contender, I would have said.”

  “Did they leave a note?”

  Ben turned my hand over. “Three words scrawled in lipstick on their dressing table mirror. First word the. The second looked like captured or captive and the third was badly smudged. But began with a b.”

  “Blood?”

  “Ellie, curb your imagination. There has to be a simple explanation.”

  “No one admitted to taking them ashore either?”

  “No.” Still his eyes refused to meet mine. An ugly thought crossed my mind. Surely no one—surely not Ben—would have done something to eliminate competition for the Mangé plum? No. It was too reprehensible to believe. Yet, people did believe the reprehensible things Mary had written of her mother in Monster Mommy. Surely …

  “Perhaps Bingo is playing a joke—although how he could make two people disappear …” I shook my head, turned horribly giddy, and lay still. “The comte might be able to manage it. Sorry darling, I know this is no time for jokes.”

  Ben worked a hand over his face. “Someone is up to tricks. Jeffries was carrying on about all the knives gone from the dining room wall. And finding one in a most unusual place.”

  A shudder passed through me. Someone below stairs had pounded on the gong. Time for Ben to leave me. He said he would find Ernestine and have her bring me up a tray, but I told him I would prefer to rest a while longer, and if I felt up to eating, I would go down to the dining room.

  Stroking my hair, he said, “How do you feel about the barbecue? Remember, it’s at five o’clock.”

  “I’ll try and be there.” I lifted a wan hand in farewell. Actually the thought of meat—spilling juices and spitting fat on a grill—had brought on a relapse just when I had begun to think I might live.

  I escaped into sleep, but Lois and Henderson Brown came dogging after me. She was wearing her corsage, his face radiated gloom. “I warned you about this fire-and-brimstone house, but you wouldn’t listen … listen … listen.” His voice became a mournful echo. Disembodied hands grabbed at me, spinning me around, and when I next looked I was standing under the pawnbroker chandelier at the bottom of the stairs, down which descended a butler with patent leather hair and penciled moustache; his candle held aloft. “The guests are all dead of unnatural causes!” A mournful rush of wind accompanied his words and I saw trailing behind him, each of them garbed in white—their complexions the colour of dill pickles—the Hendersons, Jim Grogg and Divonne, Comte Vincent and Solange.

  “Shall we adjourn to the Red Room?” The comte drew two large old style pennies from his sleeve, placed them over his eyes, levitated midway between ceiling and floor, and floated feet first down the hall.

  “Wait!” I cried as the rest of them drifted upward. “I have to know who is responsible for this … carnage!”

  “Ma fleur”—Solange pinched my cheek in passing—“You guess right last night when you theenk inside your head that Madame Theola Faith is more than zee monster. She eez a murderess! She slip into the house—chop chop with the knives and plop plop with our bodies down the well …” One last gauzy flutter of white and the Frenchwoman was gone.

  Grabbing the butler’s sleeve, I was aghast to discover he was Marjorie Rumpson. “Time’s awasting m’hearty!” He—she—rammed the flickering candle under my nose. “I have graves to dig in the herb garden before afternoon tea. Nothing brings on parsley like the right fertilizer.”

  “This is utter nonsense!” I cried. “Theola Faith was too drunk last night to make a decent job of murder, she couldn’t have returned at dead of night, unless …”

  “That’s right, darling! Unless I was acting.”
Theola Faith became the one holding the candle; her gamine smile as bright as its flame. “Think about it. Did I really leave the house last night, the moment your gallant husband went fleeing back to the house? Or did I tell Pepys and Jeffries that I had changed my mind about returning to Mud Creek? No sacrifice is too much for a mother …”

  “Never!” I cried, “You can’t be such a monster as to attempt to destroy your daughter this way!” I backed away from the candle, but now her eyes blazed fire—shooting toward me like twin blow torches. No place to hide; I had no choice but to wake up.

  I had twisted the poppy spread into a rope and was backed up against the headboard. The room was adazzle with sunlight. But I thought I heard a distant roll of thunder and the very stillness of the dead tree outside my window convinced me that a storm was out there waiting. All that electricity in the air, on an empty stomach to boot, no wonder I was having nightmares. Swinging my legs out of bed, I was relieved to find solid ground underfoot. Perhaps my earlier bout had not been morning sickness after all, but too much ginger ale the night before.

  Good heavens! Almost four o’clock! And nothing would be achieved by wallowing in shame. I would have a bath, get dressed and accompany Ben to the barbecue. Instead of focusing on the departed members of our group, I should count myself lucky—in this country of instant divorce—not to be returning home as the ex-Mrs. Bentley T. Haskell. What, I wondered, brazenly baring my shoulder of nightgown and flirting with the mirror, what would the lovely Valicia X be wearing?

  Ben was coming up the stairs as I came down.

  “Sweetheart, you look radiant!” In his enthusiasm, he almost sent us diving over the banisters.

  “You look mighty splendid yourself, Rhett!” I said as he put his hands on my waist (or the vicinity where it had once been) and swung me down in a swirl of skirts and hair onto the bottom step. No one was about in the hall except the pigeons; one perched on the grandmother clock and the other on the frame of Dame Gloom.

  “Probably spies, just itching to turn you in for conduct unbefitting a Mangé,” I whispered.

  Ben held the front door for me. “I certainly don’t envy the pair of them if Bingo loses. Coming my love?” He crooked an elbow and we set off in high style down the sooty red steps and along the herringbone path toward a refectory-sized table, spread with a white damask cloth and set out under a canopy of two trees. The remnants of the Mangé contingent—Valicia X, the Hoffmans, and Marjorie Rumpson—stood with tall, frosted glasses at the foot of a rock garden whose plants were all of the breed to have unpronounceable names. Pepys and Jeffries were over by a side table, administering to several silver dishes and what looked like an edible American flag.

  “A savoury cheesecake.” Ben quickened his step. “I glimpsed Pepys carrying it out. The stripes are pimiento and—”

  I missed the rest. I was distracted by a plop of rain on my hand, followed a second later by a low growl of thunder. What a pity if the picnic had to retreat indoors. Dodging a wasp, I collided with Mary Faith. Ben reached to steady her as she clutched a granite bird bath and teetered down a slide of rock into his arms.

  “I am sorry.” She backed into me.

  “My pleasure,” Ben assured her.

  “You look nice, Mary!” I lied. She wore a beige button-down frock that matched her complexion only too well. Her lipstick was too dark, her earrings too bulgy and those damn wing-tipped glasses really had to go—in the river.

  “Ellie, you will be mad with me I know, but I have to do this.”

  “Do what?” Another dollop of rain, on my nose this time. An added distraction was that the breeze was blowing the voices of the others our way. Bingo was talking about the need for different flavours of ketchup. He believed avocado would be a hit.

  “You are joining us for dinner?” Ben graced Mary with a smile which I trusted she would understand was not intended as that of a Mangé on the make.

  “Sorry, can’t do. That’s the point, you see! I’m taking the cabin cruiser over to Mud Creek, to meet with my mother. She sent word with Pepys this afternoon, when he went over to grocery shop, that if I wasn’t at her apartment by five P.M. I would regret it.”

  “But it’s already past that time,” I protested.

  Lifting her chin, her glasses sparked defiance. “Exactly. I’m making a statement that I can’t be bullied, but I do have to see her.” Her mouth hardened into a smile. “The pleasing thought came to me that she may want a hand-out! After all, I am suddenly quite a catch as a daughter. Monster Mommy has made me a multi-millionaire. Think I’ll hand her five bucks; you can’t tip less these days.”

  I was swamped with pity for her. “Mary, don’t go!”

  “A shame to miss the party.” To me, Ben’s quirky smile was irresistible.

  Mary looked at her watch, administered a swift hug while whispering to me, “Best friends forever,” and suddenly she was hurrying across the mossy rock to the dock. I lingered, thinking of all the damage a bad mother/daughter relationship brought in its wake.

  Ah, but the barbecue beckoned!

  “What’s the big idea?” Bingo leered at us. “Aiming to be fashionably late?”

  “Now then, dear!” Ernestine sounded like Kanga admonishing baby Roo. “Mr. Haskell probably lost track of time boning up for a calorie quiz.”

  Marjorie Rumpson snorted through the veil of her beekeeper’s hat. And, shucky darn, here came Valicia X, a wide, shiny black belt nipping in the waist of her flame-coloured frock, to hand span size. Ha! I had thought that fashion went out with the Civil War.

  “How are you doing?” she asked as though I were a cheese set out to ripen, then before I could uncork my lips, she tugged Ben, in a flutter of caped sleeves, toward the table. “Mr. Haskell, I do want your opinion on Jeffries’ Wineberry Whip and Artful Artichokes.”

  No reason for me to feel ignored. Ernestine smiled pityingly my way and Pepys appeared at my elbow, proffering a plate of crepewiches—as he identified the mini-layered slices. I was debating whether I could get away with taking more than six, when Jeffries appeared with some delicious smelling crabby things.

  “Drinks are help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Munching contentedly away, I caught another rain drop on the chin. Was it considered bad form in this country to permit weather to disrupt social functions? Would we be expected to smile gamely through the rain if a real downpour set in? Gazing out at the river I indulged in a fantasy: Ben and I alone on this island, sharing magical adventures out of reach of our own time. He the smuggler chieftain, face masked by moonlight, and I his lady, stolen from a manor house on the Cornish cliffs. On late afternoons such as this, we would take our trusty rowing boat and I would sit listening to the companionable dip and roll of the oars, trailing my hand in foam, white and soft as finest French lace. At the setting of the sun, we would turn back to Mendenhall, rising up like the figurehead of a mighty pirate ship.…

  The fantasy smashed to pieces. A blazing fireball pierced the sky. My immediate reaction was … fireworks. This was, after all, the Fourth of July. But surely the flash was too big, too close, and accompanied by a blast that could have nothing to do with festivity.

  Near the boat house a bonfire blazed on the water.

  “Oh, my God!” Ben cried. “The cabin cruiser has blown up!”

  Stumbling over bolders, cracking elbows with each other every third step we headed for the shoreline. Anyone watching must have thought we had been marooned on the island for twenty years and finally someone had cried, “Ship on the horizon!” Marjorie Rumpson forged ahead. Ernestine skidded into a sitdown, but Bingo took her in his stride—puffing over her legs with inches to spare. Valicia X made excellent speed, her high heels never sinking in the sandy sludge as we neared the water’s edge. Ben grabbed me as I twisted around to look back the way we had come. Was I missing two people? Ah, here came Pepys and Jeffries! She had him by the elbow, either to hold him up or prevent a vulgar display of haste. Tears stung my eyes, as much
from the acrid smell which hung over the island as from shock. I stared at the place where fire still licked the water. All that remained afloat of the cabin cruiser was some kindling.

  “Ben! Is there the smallest hope?” Numbly I watched as he tossed aside his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and raced through a sudden blur of rain toward the river’s edge, loosening his tie as he went. Marjorie Rumpson beat him into the water. Unnoticed by me, she had stripped down to her Maidenform and bloomers, her beekeeper’s hat forgotten on her head—unless it was intended to do duty as a flotation device.

  “Stand back m’lad, this is a job for a woman!” Her mighty fin kick sent an avalanche of spray Ben’s way; he went over on his back and she rose up pale and gleaming as a porpoise, then opened her mouth as if to breathe in the entire sky and vanished into the depths. Ben followed suit, with the grace of … a martyr being dropped into boiling oil by his heels. My brave darling, he hates having his face under water even to have his hair washed.

  Every few moments a head would bob to the surface and I would stop breathing. Please let this one be Mary! And when it wasn’t, my heart would take a dive along with the rescuers. Hopelessness settled on me, as damp and chill as my rain-spattered clothes. Valicia X was the only person whose hair was not being blown by the wind. Her French twist remained as smooth as her voice. “Surely the explosion was witnessed from Mud Creek. They must have some sort of primitive rescue organization!”

  “What if they thought we were just going all-out with the fireworks?” I suggested miserably, watching the increasingly turbulent water.

  Nobody responded directly. Ernestine’s stars-and-stripes scarf kept flicking her in the mouth. “You all know what this means if Mary is indeed … at rest. I don’t have to spell it out, do I, in front of Bingo?”