The Silent Lady

by Catherine Cookson

  Alexander sat back in his chair, an expression of wry dismay on his face. Then he voiced his thoughts: ‘Look at me,’ he said, ‘I’m almost sixty. She’s a woman in her prime – she’s only forty.’

  ‘She’s older than Jackie.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ Slowly Alexander shook his head. ‘If there wasn’t enough trouble here and there as it is. Now this. How on earth am I going to face her?’

  ‘That’s up to you, but she’ll give you her notice in the morning, I know that, if not today. Apart from Jackie, and I’ll explain that to her, I don’t think it’ll make the slightest difference. She knows and I know and you know that any firm in this city will just jump at her once they know she’s free. And I’ll tell you something else you didn’t know. Rankin – yes, Rankin, your kindly associate at the Bar – offered her a job about three years ago and at much more than she’s getting here.’

  ‘Rankin did that? The swine!’

  ‘No; he’s a businessman. He’d lost his secretary and he’d heard about her. None of your papers ever went astray nor was a word misspelt, nor the grammar anything but perfect. Oh, no, he knew what he was after. He put it to her quietly one day. “If ever you want a change, Miss Fairweather, just come and see me,” he said. I was there; well, I was within earshot when he said it; and I remember when I passed him I said, half in fun and wholly in earnest, “Do you want your throat cut?” He burst out laughing, and he said, “All’s fair in love and war.’”

  ‘Well I never!’

  ‘Yes; that’s something else for you to think about. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t ring for Miss Fairweather tonight. I would put your things on and get yourself away home, or along to Glenda’s.’

  ‘What I want to say to you now,’ said Alexander tartly, ‘is, go to hell!’

  ‘Yes, I know you do; but I’m going along now to tell your secretary, who is going to be your secretary no longer, that she made a mistake. Not that it’ll do any good. I’ll be seeing you, Father.’

  James went out, laughing now, and Alexander put his head in his hands and said, ‘Oh, my God! What have I done?’

  Glenda was laughing heartily as she said, ‘And what advice do you expect to receive from me, dear brother?’

  ‘Oh, Glenda! Don’t take it as a joke. I’m in a fix here . . . Miss Fairweather and me!’ His voice had sunk to a scornful note.

  ‘It’s as James said, you’re a blind idiot.’

  ‘Oh, he’s been on the phone already and told you?’

  ‘Yes; and you deserve all you’re getting. It’s as he said, even when Miss Fairweather knew who the girl was, she was still adamant that she was going to leave. And, you know, I don’t blame her. When I’ve been in your office I’ve noticed your manner towards her. You do treat her like a machine.

  ‘I do nothing of the sort. I’ve been a very good boss to her.’

  ‘Moneywise, oh, yes, perhaps, but there are other bosses who’ll be glad to give her the same, or more, to get somebody who’s so efficient. James may have laughed about it, but I can tell you he’s right.’

  ‘But what can I do about it, Glenda? Look at me. I’m nearly sixty. I’ve never thought of anybody since Mary went, and she’s . . . well, she’s not forty yet, I don’t think.’

  ‘She’s forty and she’s a very good-looking woman. I’ve seen her out of her office gear and she’s attractive.’

  ‘Then why the devil hasn’t she been married before now?’

  ‘Because, you idiot, she fell for you and, what was more, years ago she was tied to her home and her mother. Her mother was riddled with arthritis, and she stayed at home after office hours and saw to her. Did you know she was brilliant at school and heading for university when her father died? He wasn’t as well insured as he should have been, leaving barely enough to keep them both, so she had to change her thinking. She went to a managerial college for a year and sailed through. Then she became a secretary and she landed with you when she was twenty-five.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because we’ve chatted. The first time was when I met her in the restaurant round the corner from Beverley Square and she recognised me from my visits to you at the office. That was when James was just starting and I came and set up his office for him, if you remember, for he had as much idea then of order as he has now. He’s very like you.’

  ‘Look here,’ put in Alexander now, ‘you’re going too far. You’d think we were a pair of idiots.’

  ‘Well, that’s what you are when it comes to running an office. You’re all right on the law and on the courtroom floor, and with the clients, because it’s already been set up for you.’

  ‘Good God!’ Alexander got up from his seat, went to the sideboard and poured himself out a whisky from the decanter standing there, threw it back and said, ‘How strange it is that our firm has managed to get where it is.’ Then, as if asking a question of the air, he continued, ‘How on earth did we manage until fifteen years ago?’

  ‘All right, but you were very much smaller then, and even so you were often in a muddle; changing secretaries and other office staff as often as your coat. You look back.’

  He sat down again and his voice now had an almost pathetic note about it when he asked, ‘How am I going to get through the next month with her?’

  And the answer that came was, ‘That’s up to you, Alex. Have you ever thought of looking at her? Have you ever asked yourself if you like her?’

  ‘Oh, I like her. Yes, I like her. I admire her. But honest to God! I’ve never thought past that.’

  ‘Well, once again,’ said Glenda, ‘have you ever looked at her?’

  He thought. Yes, he had looked at her. She had an oval face with a very small nose. It was a snub nose. He couldn’t remember what her mouth looked like. Her eyes . . . he couldn’t remember the colour of her eyes either.

  Glenda’s voice came at him now, saying, ‘Try looking at her during the next few days.’

  As he was answering, the phone rang. ‘Yes? This is . . .’ She got no further for a voice said, ‘Is Mr Richard Baindor with you?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Dr Bell.’

  ‘Yes, Richard is here.’

  ‘Well, will you tell him his father is dying and that I think he should be here.’

  ‘I will do no such thing.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I will do no such thing. He saw his father this morning.’

  ‘Yes; and the heart-attack and stroke have followed that meeting.’

  ‘Dear, dear!’ she said; then, ‘My brother, Mr Baindor’s solicitor, is here. Would you like a word with him?’

  She handed the receiver to Alexander. ‘Yes, this is Armstrong here.’

  ‘Hello there! We know each other.’

  ‘Yes; yes, we do, and I understand from the little I have heard that your patient is dying.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Do you like him? Have you ever liked him?’

  ‘That is a very odd question to ask of me.’

  ‘But I am asking it of you. Do you like him?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Never have.’

  ‘Good. Well, I can say the same.’

  ‘Nevertheless, no matter how we like or dislike anyone, it isn’t good for a man in his state to die alone.’

  ‘He deserves nothing else. You say he’s dying; well, so is his wife.’

  ‘What d’you mean? His wife died years ago.’

  ‘His wife didn’t die years ago. It might be news to you, Doctor, that she’s lying here, but she is also dying, and her son is with her. When your patient tried to murder her he didn’t finish off her body but he almost finished off her mind. She lost her memory and for a time was a vagrant on the roads and would have been still but for a kindly woman who looked after her for these twenty-six years or so. That’ll be news to you, and I would ask if you will keep it to yourself until I see you, which will be after you have rung to tell me that your patient has died.
’

  The voice that came over the phone was very low now as Dr Bell said, ‘Will you tell his son?’

  ‘No; not until you phone me finally.’

  ‘Very well. Goodbye.’

  Alexander turned to Glenda and said, ‘So he’s going. Thank God I didn’t answer his demand this morning, for Richard would now be without a penny.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have troubled him.’

  ‘It mightn’t have, but it’s his due and he can now use his father’s ill-gotten gains to put things to rights. I’ll see to that.’

  It was three o’clock in the morning and the voice on the phone was Trip’s. The night nurse took the call and Trip said, ‘Could I speak to Miss Armstrong, please?’

  ‘She’s asleep. But I could give her your message as soon as she wakes. Is it important?’

  ‘No. Not all that important. Just say Mr Baindor died at half past two this morning . . .’

  By nine o’clock Richard had telephoned both Alexander and James and asked them the same question, should he tell her? And the answer was similar from both. It was up to him. If he thought it would ease her mind, yes. But what did Glenda think? Glenda thought she should be told and added that she had had a quiet night and seemed rested this morning.

  Now, as he sat in Glenda’s office, Richard said to her, ‘I don’t know how I’m going to put it to Mother because, although I have no regrets whatever, I know our meeting yesterday morning caused the attack.’

  ‘He would have had it in any case, and shortly. I spoke to Dr Bell first thing and he told me that of late he’d had minor heart-attacks and that he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had dropped dead straight away. But he rallied, then had the stroke.

  ‘Knowing him, he’d make himself rally until Alex appeared and he’d had time to change his will. But all I can say is, thank God for the stroke. So don’t let his going worry you in any way.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s not; believe me, Glenda. And you know something? It wasn’t what I said that upset him most, I’m sure it was the breaking of that vase. I only wish there had been more of the wretched things I could have smashed.’

  There was a tap on the door now and a voice said, ‘May I come in?’

  When it opened Jackie entered, and Richard, getting to his feet, said, ‘You’re early. I thought you’d be at work.’

  ‘I’ve taken the day off . . . no, the week off.’ And then she added, ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘All right. All right in one way but worried in another. We’ve just been discussing if it would be wise to tell Mother of his going.’

  Taking a seat near Glenda, Jackie looked at her and said, ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I think he should tell her.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Will you come in with me?’ Richard asked her.

  Jackie paused, then looked at Glenda and said, ‘Yes, if it’s all right with you, Glenda.’

  ‘Of course. But I would suggest that you get it over as quickly as possible.’

  Irene was lying with her eyes closed, but she wasn’t asleep; she was thinking, thinking it had been a strange night because of the dream she had had, and she could remember it. That was very odd because she often dreamed but when she woke she could never recall details. Her mind was mostly in a jumble, and she made it worse when she tried to think.

  She had seen herself as a young woman walking through some kind of hall; she went upstairs and into a room where a man was lying on a bed; and she walked up to the side of the bed and looked at him. She saw that he looked frightened; then she realised why – he was wearing handcuffs, and they were clamped to each side of the bed. Yet, strangely, his plight did not move her to pity for him, or sympathy. His brow was running with sweat, but she made no effort to wipe it.

  She had no feeling whatever for the figure on the bed; so she turned away from him, and was now in a garden, a beautiful garden, and there was pulsing through her such a feeling of relief that she wanted to skip and dance. But she shouldn’t, you only did that when you were a child. But there she was, she was jumping over narrow streams; she was running through woods; and then, of a sudden, she stopped and found herself back in the bedroom. But there was no one in the bed, the man had gone. She turned about and ran down the stairs and out into the garden again. She looked up at the sky and began to sing – she could hear herself singing – and then a voice spoke to her, saying, ‘Would you like a drink, dear?’ She had looked at the kind nurse and shaken her head slightly. Then she had gone to sleep again, and went once more into the garden. But now she was walking slowly and her body had a strange feeling. There was a lightness about it as if it were about to flyaway from her. It was as if she had been released from somewhere. She sat on a seat. Everything about her was peaceful.

  Then she was on her feet again, walking once more into a kind of light. Beautiful light. Rosy light. She was watching the dawn breaking, feeling so happy to be in the light, for the night had been so long, so very long. She was still walking in the light when a nurse’s voice said, ‘There you are, dear. Let me put a pillow behind your head. That’s it. Now drink this. That’s right. You’ve had a good night. The night nurse told me you only woke up once, and that was early on. Do you feel better?’

  For a moment she did not answer, because she was asking herself if she did feel better. She felt something, she felt different, she didn’t know how, or why she should feel different, but she did; and she enjoyed the tea. Her answer was plain and clear, ‘Yes.’ And then after a moment she added, ‘Thank . . . you. Thank . . . you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s splendid! Your throat’s a lot better. Now rest easy; we won’t disturb you for a while, you look so comfortable there.’

  It was odd, but she did feel comfortable. Her body did not seem to trouble her any more. She made a great effort to swallow some porridge when breakfast came, which brought murmurs of approval from the nurse; and further murmurs when she ate three teaspoonfuls of the beaten-up softly boiled egg mixed with thin pieces of bread and butter.

  When later she was washed and her hair combed and she was lying waiting for the time when her son would come back into the room she slid into a light doze, to waken and see not only Richard but that nice girl he was going to marry looking down at her. It was the girl who said, ‘Good morning.’

  And she answered her with a smile and said, ‘Good . . . morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Richard, ‘you sound much better this morning. That proves your chest is easier.’

  He turned from the bed, pulled a chair forward and motioned Jackie on to it so that she could be closer to his mother’s head; and he took his mother’s frail hand and, bending over her, said in a low voice, ‘You do sound stronger this morning, Mother; do you feel better?’

  She looked at him, then nodded. He turned now and looked helplessly at Jackie. Jackie knew he was afraid to start, so taking hold of Irene’s other hand, she stroked it for a moment before saying, ‘Richard’s got something to tell you, my dear, and he’s afraid it might worry you.’

  Irene was staring at her son and to his amazement she said, quite clearly, ‘I know . . . He’s gone . . . dead.’

  They stared at each other for a long time; then slowly she withdrew her hand from his and stroked his face, and there was even a smile on hers as she said, ‘Free.’

  He turned from the bed and walked blindly towards the window. All the tears of his childhood that he’d had to clamp down on for fear of his father seemed to have formed a well inside him that was now overflowing, and he seemed unable to stop it.

  He heard Jackie saying to his mother, ‘You’re wonderful . . . wonderful.’

  And she was wonderful; but, he realised suddenly, she would soon be leaving him.

  4

  The funeral of Edward Mortimer Baindor took place four days later. It did not make headlines in any paper, but in one of the leading journals it was stated in so many words that it was a great surprise that the financier had been cremated with less att
ention than would have been given to most men of his position. It was a private occasion and was attended only by his solicitors, Alexander and James Armstrong, and representatives from his businesses in America, Germany, France, Italy and Holland. It was regrettable that his only son had been unable to attend the service; he was indisposed. A near neighbour, Lord Blakey, father of Miss Jacqueline Franks who was engaged to Mr Richard Baindor, was also present.

  Mr Richard Mortimer Baindor would inherit what amounted to a financial empire.

  After the funeral, Alexander, James and Richard had been tied up for hours each day talking to the managements of the overseas companies of the firm. They had come to the conclusion that a chief executive should be appointed to oversee all the separate businesses and report back on whether some of the companies should be dissolved or sold off.

  When at last the three men had the office to themselves, Richard burst out, ‘I can’t handle this, Alex. You can see they all expected me to take his place and run them all more or less as he did.’

  ‘As I’ve told you and we’ve told them, a new chief executive will take his place,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Well, it’ll be a very tough man who could deal with that lot. What I suggest you do, Alex, is sell as many of the companies as you can.’

  ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. As for a candidate, I know the very man.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, why haven’t you mentioned him before?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t. I haven’t spoken to him yet. But I know he’s a man who will be delighted to analyse these various companies and get the general feel of the best way forward.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  ‘George Peacock. He’s the senior partner of a firm of accountants across the square. He’s only in his late forties. Like me, he was pushed into a family firm to follow his father’s footsteps. What is more, he’s had wider experience than I ever had; he’s a very good accountant with receivership experience and investment banking contacts. Now he would just jump at the chance to immerse himself in the reorganisation and scaling down of the Baindor empire. Anyway, we can talk to him, but I know before I start what his answer will be. And he can quite easily leave what he’s doing to his younger brother, who, like his father, has a feeling for the more general side of accountancy.’