The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Well, it’s ‘ome, in’t it, Benny? Course my Fred an’ me always wanted a place at Southend. And, six months gone, whole street thought it was gonna be out on its lug’ole. Up to the armpits we was in talk that old man Patterson”-she nodded the blond curls at me-“the landlord he is, was ready to sell out and this was all gonna be an arcade, with all sorts of fancy shops. But it didn’t come to nothing. Never thought it would! Them what got up the petition said it done the trick, but I says to Stell, someone be’ind the scenes ’as put a cog in Mr. Patterson’s wheel.”

  Ben was leaning up against the shop window, a look of boredom hovering around his lips.

  Mrs. Merryfeather wriggled her shoulders, setting the beer bottles off again. “Serve ’im right. Always seems ’is sort flourishes like dust under the bed.” She prissied up her lips. “We now ’ave to post the rent to some fancy address office. The dim-witted son don’t come round collecting door-to-door no more. Remember ’im, Benny? Always pretending to be ’Umphrey Bogard or the like.”

  Ben moved away from the wall, his eyes bright in the lamplight. “I remember he stole an apple from the shop once and I gave him a nosebleed, but we mustn’t keep you, Mrs. Merryfeather, your beer will go flat.”

  “Aren’t you a caution! But I know you want to get inside and start cheering up your dad-not that he in’t getting plenty of that already.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben’s brows came down like iron bars, but Mrs. Merryfeather, with a coy giggle, was already clanking away.

  Ben began idly punching the bell. “What was she implying?”

  “I don’t know.” I nudged a suitcase with my foot. “But I do know you are wonderfully loyal to your father, who you say won’t speak to you even if we do get to see him.”

  “He’s a man of his word. I have to admire that.”

  Nothing in the Bible says a woman has to understand her husband. A light flared with sudden and dazzling brilliance against the glass door of the shop. Someone was crossing the floor to open up. I was instantly very uneasy.

  A key turned, bolts were thrust back, the shop door swung inward and a deep voice spoke graciously but remotely. “Who comes here at this time of night?”

  This man looked nothing like the father-in-law of my imagination. I had pictured Mr. Haskell as short and stocky, certainly elderly, and prone to woolly dressing gowns. This man had to be at least six-foot-four, was broadly built, of similar age to Ben, and wore a flowing purple caftan. He was also indisputably black.

  Had we come to the wrong address? Had Ben’s parents sold Haskell’s Fruit & Veg. and his mother not mentioned doing so in her letter?

  Ben’s eyes flashed with something I couldn’t read. “Paris, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were off treading the boards of some Shakespearian theatre.”

  “Ben-and your wife-how splendid!” The man stepped backward to let us enter. He was holding a book. “I work for your father. If you remember, it was my parents who dreamt that I would play Othello.” He closed and locked the door. “I tell them that one day my name will be above a door, but not in lights. All I ever desired was to own a shop like this.” His smile gave a glimpse of perfect teeth. “One day.”

  “Do your parents still live on the street?” Ben picked an orange out of a bin and tossed it in the air.

  “They moved to Reading. I have the back bedroom here.” The purple caftan swished. I had worn one once, but had not looked so magnificent.

  “I hope you were not waiting long at the door. Eli and I were wearing earphones and listening to music. Mrs. Haskell has been a little edgy lately and the wireless bothered her.”

  The air was sweet and earthy. A hook of bananas moved above our heads. Paris tucked the book under his arm. “Forgive the inquiry, but is this a visit of reconciliation or have the rumours concerning your mother’s disappearance reached you?”

  Ben tossed his orange in the bin. He explained about Constable Beaker. “Is my father still listening to his earphones?”

  “He was in the bathroom when I came down. He and I have both become rather fond of medieval love ballads. Shall we go up? Mrs. Haskell, I will make you some tea.”

  Such a voice-a sun-drenched sea of a voice, in which to drift forever. A gift, surely, from the gods. And those black eyes! In their depths I caught a glimpse of lost civilisations. The purple silk did not so much rustle as breathe softly. I adjusted the belt of my detestably dowdy coat and fingered a strand of loose hair. “Tea would be lovely, and please call me Ellie.”

  “Willingly.” The perfectly chiseled lips lifted in a smile, highlighting his marvellous bone structure. A silken arm gestured toward the staircase in the corner. “Ben, please lead the way.”

  The stairs were sharply perpendicular, carpeted in a chrysanthemum yellow and burnt orange floral design. The treads were pinned down by gleaming brass rods.

  A mezuzah was attached to the door jamb of the entrance facing us across a small, dark landing. My arm brushed a holy water font. Talk about hedging all bets! The room we entered was heated to intense stuffiness by a fake-log electric fire. While Paris went to find Mr. Haskell, Ben moved around, touching things. An enormous maroon sofa and chairs were positioned on a carpet of similar pattern to that on the stairs. The curtains at the wide window were mustard yellow with a green leaf design. Strung from the ceiling in front of them was a row of hollowed-out hen’s eggs, each painted a primary colour and sprouting spikes of vegetation.

  I dropped my coat on the sofa and studied the rainbow galaxy. “What interesting planters.”

  Ben lifted up my coat, hung it on a stand, and came back to plump up the cushion. “Dad’s handiwork. The crocheting and tapestry work was all done by Mum. See those pictures over the fireplace? The one of the old rabbi won a blue ribbon at some church show.”

  “He looks like St. Francis of Assisi.”

  Mr. Haskell was clearly taking some persuading to see us. I sat down, then stood up, straightening the crocheted doily on the back of the chair. There were crocheted doilies on tables and cabinets, crocheted cushions on overstuffed chairs. I did covet one thing in the room-Ben’s photo on the sideboard. He was about seven years old, in school cap and wrinkled socks, looking adorably cross.

  “What do you think of the furniture, Ellie?”

  “Very… solid.”

  “Dad made every piece, can you believe that? The man never took carpentry class.”

  “My word!” I looked admiringly at the sideboard, with its Victorian body and Queen Anne legs.

  Ben was adjusting a bowl of plastic fruit when the door opened. My immediate impression of my father-in-law was that he was the spitting image of Father Christmas. He was stocky and wore a red cardigan. He had a beard and hair (minus bald spot) so white and downy it might have been made of brushed nylon. His dark eyes never moved from Ben as the door closed behind him.

  “Hello, Dad,” said my husband.

  The silence became as stifling as the heat. I walked around the sofa, hand outstretched.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am your new daughter-in-law, Ellie. Ben and I took the first train here after a policeman stopped by during our wedding reception to alert us to the fact that your wife-”

  “Humph.” Mr. Haskell stroked his white beard, then begrudgingly took my hand. “Better than I expected. You don’t look rich.”

  I took my hand back. “And you don’t look like a man who would quarrel with his only son and vow never to speak to him again, all because he wrote a… flagrante novel-which never got into print.”

  “It would have”-the dark eyes burned into Ben-“if he’d let me help him write the tricky parts. But he’s stubborn-he was always that way. In the end I washed my hands of the book and him!”

  Another silence. The two men assessed each other. I slumped down on the sofa. “What about charity and forgiveness?”

  My father-in-law patted his bald spot. “What sort of a man would I be if I raised my son to be a man of his
word and then broke mine to him?”

  I must rethink having children. I had assumed that Ben’s genes would water down any eccentricities I might pass along.

  Ben leaned over the back of the sofa. “Ellie, ask Dad about Mum.”

  I felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “What about Mum… um… Mrs. Has-”

  “Call me Poppa.”

  Paris appeared with a loaded tray. Cups and saucers circulated, along with a platter of egg sandwiches. I took one and nibbled around the edges. Pretending to eat avoids a lot of outside pressure. Paris picked up his book and was about to leave again, but Mr. Haskell insisted he stay.

  “You’re one of the family.” He turned to me. “Paris is very devout. We read the Torah together.”

  Ben put down his cup as though it contained poison.

  Poppa leaned back in his chair and spread his hands expansively. “We’re a devout family. When Maggie was three years old, she wanted to be a nun; when she married me, she still wanted to be a nun. When we would argue, which sometimes happened in forty years of marriage, I would tell her to make up for lost time and get thee to a nunnery.”

  I looked at Ben. If he ever spoke to me like that… but of course he never would.

  “And this time”-Mr. Haskell emitted a sigh which sounded horrendously cheerful to me-“this time, for once in her life, the woman listens to her husband.”

  The only sound in the room was the whispering of the purple caftan until Ben pounced out of his chair. First he opened his mouth, then he closed it, then jerked round to me. “Ask my father what he means.”

  A more experienced wife might have taken the situation in stride. I stared, mute.

  It was Paris who answered, imbuing his words with a grandeur worthy of the Old Vic.

  “The sad truth, Ben, is that your parents have parted.”

  My husband staggered and I helped him to a chair. “You mean separated? At my age I find myself the child of a broken home?”

  “Was it anything we did?” I stood twisting my hands like Miss Thorn. “Did the wedding feature somewhere in this catastrophe?”

  Poppa chuckled. “You young people always have such a big sense of your own importance.” He rose from his chair, smoothed out the bald spot, and spread his hands. “The reality is poor Maggie suspected me of having a romantic flutter with a Mrs. Jarrod, a nice widow lady who makes the best pickled herring in the world.”

  “Mum thought you were having an affair?” Ben visibly relaxed. “Why the devil didn’t you tell her she was making something out of nothing; that at seventy years of age you are past making a fool of yourself, in some areas?”

  His father stood in front of the fireplace looking like he had come down the chimney.

  Paris bent to remove my cup as I said, “I’m sure the personal touch is very important in your business. Did Magdalene perhaps misinterpret?…” I left the question hanging open.

  Poppa, brown eyes gleaming, closed it. “That, dear daughter-in-law, is my business.”

  From the Files of

  The Widows Club

  1st December, Commencing 7 P.M .

  Vice President:

  Kindly be seated, Mrs. Woolpack.

  Beatrix Woolpack:

  Oh, surely, must we be so formal? Please call me Beatrix!

  Vice President:

  Christian names are not permitted at emergency sessions, summoned only at moments of gravest crises. Our president being out of town, I, in accordance with Article Six, Section C, of the Bylaws, will preside. All board members are present, saving Mrs. Shrimpton, who is indisposed. Mrs. Howard, kindly pass Mrs. Woolpack that box of tissues so she may proceed to answer the charges that she willfully rescued a Subject To Be Retired. Tonight being the final episode of the BBC’s serialization of Pride and Prejudice, I’m sure we all wish to facilitate matters.

  B.W.:

  (Gulping sobs.) I will try to get a grip on myself, but I am so utterly devastated! So ashamed! Please believe me, Mrs. Howard and all my dear, good friends, I meant to do everything perfectly. I purchased the mice, as instructed, from the source in Bainsworth. I released them at precisely the right moment, using a magazine for camouflage. The train was coming. The S.T.B.R. was standing right at the edge of the platform-exactly as his personality profile suggested he would… Excuse me, may I have a cigarette? Thank you so much… When I released the mice, I felt productive, fulfilled. The S.T.B.R. screamed, clutched at his trouser legs, and pitched forward. (More sobs.)

  Vice President:

  As you say, Mrs. Woolpack, a job well done-until you forgot duty, loyalty, and sisterhood and snatched him off the line.

  (Rumblings from the Board.)

  B.W.:

  I don’t know what came over me! The noise from the train filled up my whole head, and those lights-charging! I was hypnotised. I couldn’t think of anything, see anything… except the butcher’s scraps I had fed my cat at breakfast, all bloody like Mr. Daffy would be…

  (Fist pounding on the table.)

  Vice President:

  You were instructed never to put a name to the S.T.B.R.

  B.W.:

  I know, but-

  Vice President:

  Consider, if you will, Mrs. Woolpack, how you would have felt if the person charged with the office of dispatching your husband had been overcome with such sentimentality.

  B.W.:

  (Weeping.) I know, I know. What can I say, Mrs. Howard? I was abominably selfish.

  (More rumblings.)

  Vice President:

  You volunteered for this assignment.

  B.W.:

  Indeed I did. But it was stressed to me during my briefing that murder is not an exact science. I was told there was only a fifty-fifty chance that I would succeed. Don’t think I am excusing myself, but I do ask for a little understanding.

  (Prolonged silence.)

  Vice President:

  Mrs. Woolpack, had the operation gone awry through no fault of yours or had you unwittingly bungled, you would have met with profound sympathy. As it is, the Board and I will bear in mind the excellent job you did in Correspondence. However, I feel it my duty to advise you before we convene, Mrs. Woolpack, that to err is human, to rescue is unforgivable. All rise.

  9

  … Primrose’s blue eyes misted. “Ben must have been seriously alarmed about his mother’s state of mind.”

  “He was upset for her, but he didn’t believe she would jump off a bridge, if that’s what you are thinking. For one thing, her religion frowns on such behaviour. For another, Ben was certain she wouldn’t want to make things easy for Mrs. Jarrod.”

  “Ben didn’t think his father was showing off, in regard to Mrs. Jarrod?” Hyacinth’s earrings hung motionless.

  “Upon calming down, that’s exactly what he did believe-a wink or two and an extra orange slipped into the woman’s bag, that sort of thing. I didn’t know what to think. Poppa looked so smug. Quite like Tobias when he knows we know he has been in the pantry. When we mentioned Constable Beaker, Poppa said he was glad the police had time on their hands. He told us that his wife had dragged her suitcase out from under the bed on the morning of the twenty-seventh November and announced she was leaving to take up a life of prayer and abstinence. I kept picturing her trudging some lonely road clad in sackcloth, but Paris relieved my mind on that score. He said my mother-in-law had telephoned the afternoon of her departure and told him she had found a safe harbour at the seaside. Ben spent the rest of our visit to the flat saying that a change of scene would do his mother the world of good and that he was certain she would soon come to her senses and return home, to the embarrassment of the gossips.”

  Primrose clasped her papery hands. “Paris! I do hope he was named for the Trojan. So romantic, that whole story! Aphrodite and the apple, the incomparable Helen: the face that launched a thousand ships. Foolish of me, but as a young girl I used to think I would be quite satisfied if I could launch a couple of rowing boats.”

&nb
sp; I know the feeling. I suppose every woman does on her honeymoon…

  The Hostelry was known the length and breadth of England for its home-away-from-home atmosphere. So said the liveried porter as he carried our luggage into the bridal suite. But looking around at the cream and gilt splendour, I could believe Ben and I were guests in someone’s home-a someone who did not know we were here and would have been hopping mad if he knew we were treading down the pile of his champagne carpet, fingering his filigreed light switch plates and fogging his rococo mirrors. The marble fireplace reminded me of monuments in St. Anselm’s churchyard. Drawing a silk handkerchief from his gold-braided pocket, the porter flicked a single speck of dust from a carved rose on the headboard of the exquisitely fragile Louis XIV bed.

  “Slept in by the Empress Josephine.”

  “I trust the sheets have been changed since her visit.” I had to say something, anything, to draw attention from the fact that Ben had rested a hand on the garlanded footrail while probing in his pocket for change.

  The instant we were alone, I buffed away his fingerprints and examined the petit point rug in front of the fireplace. Ah ha! A footprint. Breathlessly, I ordered Ben to remove his shoes.

  “And my socks and my…” My beloved’s voice was hushed and raspy. This Versailles away from Versailles atmosphere was getting to him too. He kicked off his shoes without untying the laces (I would have to break him of that habit) and pulled me into his arms. When I could break away from his kiss, I had to repeat three times that we should unpack and go downstairs to the restaurant. Ben had to be starving.

  “Ravenous.” He was unbuttoning my jacket. “We’ll have something sent up later. Maybe breakfast… tomorrow evening. We can unpack some other time.” He was sliding my jacket off my shoulders, a look of intense concentration on his face. Was he thinking about his mother? Pondering Mrs. Jarrod’s true role?

  “My nightdress!” I closed my eyes; even as I responded to his renewed kisses I regretted not finishing that last chapter of Everything Your Mother Did Not Tell You (Because She Did Not Know) About Married Bliss. I had not planned on being nervous, but this had been an unsettling day, and I wasn’t sure I could live up to this room.