The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Ben, perhaps this editor of yours, Mr. Brady, might wish to attend Abigail’s premiere and plug the book.” So much to be accomplished in a short time-and with Christmas in between. Some of the vigour fizzled. I was back to no Dorcas and Jonas.

  “Remember last year?” sneered the Ghost of Christmas Past. All too clearly. Oh, the anguish of searching my client listing for the name of a single man who, for the price of a new window treatment, might accompany me to the office party.

  I would invite Miss Thorn and Rowland for Boxing Day dinner. Moving the tray aside, I slid my arm around Ben, who was sitting on the edge of the bed talking about glacé pheasant Viennese style.

  “Sounds delicious,” I said.

  “So you said at breakfast.” He turned sideways, met my lips in a kiss, stood up and placed my plate of eggs Benedict on the floor. “Here Tobias! Thousands of starving cats in China.”

  Those words hurt. They also made me mildly angry. My husband’s ego was upstaging my physical well-being. “Ben…” I stopped. The mirror showed that yesterday’s calories had settled on my hips. As I twisted this way and that, striving for a better angle, Ben caught me by the shoulders. His eyes shot blue-green sparks off the mirror.

  “Ellie, no woman looks her best with her jaw out of kilter and a look of unspeakable horror in her eyes. You know what your problem is?”

  “I fail the can’t-pinch-an-inch test.”

  His voice softened. “You haven’t gone browsing in the shops for a while. You’re suffering withdrawal. Go into the village, squander money, have your hair done.”

  I began brushing my hair. “While I’m about it, I’ll get a nose job and a tummy tuck.” My spirits lifted. “I’ll phone Sidney for an appointment; you and I can drive into the village together.”

  Ben moved my hair aside and kissed my neck. “Darling, I wish I could wait for you, but Freddy and I are due to meet Mrs. Hanover, owner of The Dark Horse, in twenty minutes. We have to discuss sharing some deliveries of wine. But you’re free to take the car. We are going on the motorbike.” A kiss on the other side of my neck. “How about joining us for lunch?”

  “I don’t think so, thank you.”

  “Is something wrong, Ellie?”

  “Of course not.” I plunged the brush into my hair. “A passionate embrace ere you make your getaway might have brightened my day, but…”

  “I’m sorry, Ellie. Unlike the heroes in those da-romance novels you are forever glued to, I can’t stand with my arm draped over the mantelpiece all day, looking delectable.”

  He did have this habit of reducing everything to culinary terms! He took a step toward me, then retreated to the door. “Drive carefully, dear.”

  Not “sweetheart,” not “my beloved”! The brush flew through my hair. “Don’t worry, Ben, I will rescue any car parts that fall off en route.”

  “We aren’t quarrelling, are we?” He spun the door handle.

  “Absolutely not,” I said with a pang of nostalgia for the old days when quarrelling with a vengeance meant a sizzling relationship, not a marriage with problems.

  And that’s what comes of reading Felicity Friend.

  This was my first visit to Sidney’s salon. My initial impression was that I had made a mistake. This wasn’t the sort of place that automatically made a girl feel pretty. The air was laden with hair spray and permy smells. The linoleum was maroon, speckled with grey; the lighting was harsh, and the washbasins lining one wall looked like urinals for extra tall men. The girl behind the desk had surely been employed as a warning against do-it-yourself glamour. Her hair was straw-coloured… straw.

  “Hallo?” She beamed a gapped-tooth smile.

  “Ellie Haskell. I have an appointment at-”

  She looked me over. “Wouldn’t bother if I was you-look lovely the way you are, but if you’re sure…” She threw up her hands. “Sidney will be with you in a few minutes. Hang your coat on a peg and take one of them pink overalls. Quite like Vidal Sassoon, aren’t we? Coffee’s on the table.”

  It came out of the pot like treacle, but the assortment of teacups and saucers didn’t come from Woolworth. Each piece was different; some were old, all were pretty. I studied the urinal wall. Two girls in trailing skirts and lumpy sweaters were shampooing. Sidney, stationed between them, looked in this environment more than ever like a caveman. Gloom radiated from him. The woman whose hair he was swirling into puffs and coils was talking away at a furious rate. Rings flashed as she gesticulated. Her face shook like a blancmange which wouldn’t set.

  I leaned sideways. It was Mrs. Amelia Bottomly. Better not to be seen by her. She would want to know if I had located any dungeons yet at Merlin’s Court.

  “Psst! Mrs. Haskell!” A hairdryer lid flipped up and a blond head emerged. “Thinking about that brand-new gorgeous husband, eh? Remember me? Bunty Wiseman?”

  “Yes-hello.” She was the young woman in the thigh-length, ostrich-feather coat at the reception, the one whose photograph had been on Lionel Wiseman’s desk.

  “Bunty’s a nickname, but don’t ask me what my real one is, it’s too awful. Most times I let my hair dry natural, but I promised Li I wouldn’t walk down Market Street with a wet head.”

  “Not the weather for it,” I said.

  She wiggled her shoulders and flapped a hand at me. “Doesn’t fit the image of a respected solicitor’s wife. Balls, is what I’d say to that, only I’ve my eye on this nifty diamond dangle at Pullets Jewelers, so have to keep the old darling’s fur laying right.”

  Mr. Wiseman’s wife? I had thought she was his daughter.

  “Mrs. Haskell,” the receptionist’s voice cut in, “Sidney is ready for yooo.”

  “Hold on.” Bunty had both hands on the dryer lid. “Teddy Peerless-she’s Li’s secretary-and I are lunching at The Dark Horse. Care to join us?”

  “I…” Amelia Bottomly was coming our way, like a buoy bobbing on the ocean.

  “See you. Twelve-forty-five.” Bunty clasped the hairdryer on like a crash helmet.

  Mrs. Bottomly’s voice boomed, “Ellie Haskell!” The chins shook with apparent pleasure. “Tell me, dear, what do you think of Sidney’s handiwork? Makes me look years younger, don’t you agree? The man’s an artist. Well, they so often are. The sweet things give us women the coiffures they would like themselves.” She lifted a mirror off a wall shelf, twitched a side curl, pursed her lips, and patted the chins into shape with the back of her hand. “You get my meaning, don’t you, dear? You are a married woman.”

  “One who’s keeping her hairdresser waiting,” I said.

  “And that certainly won’t do. Believe you me, a visit to Sidney is a health cure! I tell him everything from the pills I take for constipation to what I enjoy most in opera. Take my advice, dear, put yourself totally in his hands. If Sidney says cut”-she patted down a loop atop the mound-“then so be it. And, dear”-she jerked me back by the shoulder-“I will be phoning you about the Historical Society doing a home tour, and the Hearthside Guild is interested in having your husband put on a cookery demonstration. Nothing too Frenchified-a stew perhaps. I did try to catch Mr. Haskell a half-hour or so ago as he was going into The Dark Horse but he was lost in conversation with that cousin of yours who created such an uproar… ious diversion at your wedding. And now he’s moved in with you, I hear.”

  Somehow she managed to make the situation sound unseemly. My natural defensiveness was aroused. But before I could explain that Freddy’s life had derailed and I was the depot, a hand touched my elbow.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Bottomly,” interposed Sidney. And before she could get going on an apology, he led me to a chair and spun me to face a washbasin and mirror.

  Taking the pins from my hair he tossed it dispiritedly into the air. “What’s it to be, Ellie luv? Oh, don’t you look awful! Hollow eyes, white lips. Either the honeymoon didn’t agree with you or you’ve just lost your best friend.”

  My eyes met his gloomy ones in the mirror. Problems were what this man did b
est. At last someone who understood that happiness is sometimes burdensome.

  “The honeymoon was fine, but you’re right about the best friend-doubled.”

  My hair floated into the washbasin as I explained how the U.S.A. had enticed Dorcas and Jonas to defect. Warm water soothed; its gentle rushing softened my lament.

  “Terrible, Ellie! How you must have suffered. I feel your pain-right here.” Sidney’s hands sudsed and massaged so it was impossible to tell with which part of his anatomy he empathized, but his sigh, gusting down my neck, warmed the cockles of my heart.

  “And to top it all, Sidney, there has been this worry over Ben’s mother. You understand, we are not broadcasting the facts over the BBC, but since you’ve known the family for years, it won’t matter telling you, Sidney, that her disappearance is connected to rumours that my father-in-law is involved with another woman. Not to mince matters-Ben’s parents have separated.”

  “Never! Won’t my mum be shocked! This other woman, would she be a Mrs. Jarrod? Redhead? Given to tight-fitting jumpers?”

  I got water all down my back. “None other.”

  “Good God, I can’t believe it! The woman’s not his type at all. Why, she’s yards taller than him-he’d have to hop like a rabbit just to kiss her good night. And I told you what Mr. Haskell thinks of tall women. I hate to make you feel worse than you already do, Ellie, but has to be the man’s in love and his brains have dropped below the belt. Believe me, it happens!” Sidney draped a dry towel around my neck and gusted another sigh. “Poor sainted Mrs. Haskell. Ben must be out of his mind with worry.”

  I shook my head and apologised to the woman at the next basin for spraying her. “He speaks with surprising calm of his mother going off on an extended holiday. Whenever I bring up the subject, he brushes me off.”

  “You feel shut out. Who wouldn’t?” Sidney deftly parted the front of my hair into sections.

  “Sidney, if I didn’t know Ben to be a very deep-feeling person, I might be concerned at his apparent callousness. I might wonder just how bothered he would be if anything happened to me.”

  Sidney produced scissors and began snipping. “Ellie, you mustn’t let yourself get worn down. Are you sleeping well?”

  “I hate to complain, Sidney, but since you ask-no. I keep having these dreadful nightmares.”

  “Ask your doctor to prescribe something.”

  “I don’t know. I keep hoping the nightmares will stop. Mrs. Haskell is always in them-and so is food. One night I was pursued by chickens-cooked ones. And there was the one about the hamburgers with their tomato sauce smiles. Ben thinks I am becoming obsessive about my diet.”

  Sidney plugged in the hand dryer. “Obsession,” he said with relishing gloom, “is part of our culture. You’re not normal if you aren’t a little cracked. Even dear Ben has his claustrophobia.” The broad shoulders lifted and fell. “I don’t think he ever believed it was that idiot Patterson kid, not me, who shut him in the potato bin. And your goblin is…”

  “Yes?”

  “Trying to please that savage little tyrant-you.”

  “Really? What about you, Sidney?”

  “Duck-waddle Sid?” He turned the hairdryer down to a hum and blew a welter of hair over my forehead. “Old-fashioned bloody greed. I tell you, Ellie, it can be a pain. I can never buy two matching pillow slips. I can’t be satisfied with stripes, I want flowers-until I see polka dots.”

  “I noticed the teacups. All different and beautiful.”

  He turned off the dryer and rippled his fingers through my hair. “Mum thinks I’m this way because Dad left us. Course, she thinks Maggie Thatcher’s Prime Minister because Dad bunked.” Sid’s eyes met mine in the mirror and he gave me a clown’s sad smile. “Is this satisfactory? We didn’t want anything too drastic, did we?”

  I reached up a tentative hand. “Perfect, Sidney.”

  “Nice seeing you, Ellie. Best to Ben. That will be five pounds fifty, please. Pay Sally at the desk.”

  Another customer approached. Time for me to decide whether Sidney would consider a tip an insult. Something about the way his right hand dangled, palm outward, indicated he would not. Sidney must rake in a lot of pennies to keep himself in pillow slips and Minton teacups. I walked outside into a grey drizzle and wondered what the devil had come over me in there.

  According to the tower clock it was only five to twelve. Would Ben still be at The Dark Horse? My feet hesitated under the creaking pub sign. But, after downing a few pints of malt-liquor air, I crossed the square. The secure, confident wife does not tread on her husband’s shadow.

  High noon. Before meeting Bunty, I had time for a little window shopping. I idled past The Muffin Pan Bakery and drooled past The Chocolate Box. Damn this diet! I would break out at lunch and eat… the leaves on my celery. To sublimate my base urges I would look in at Abigail’s and measure the staircase window. I had found a marvellous ruby-and-gold damask which would be ideal for a valance. And if Ben had finished at The Dark Horse and happened to be there, I could lure him into the buttery to… to take its measurements.

  I went up the red brick steps of Abigail’s and stepped under the dark green awning to the pounding of invisible workmen. A building inspector had denounced sections of the attic floor as dangerous, so I imagined that most of the carpenters were up there. Not so the painters. A little man, so wizened even his bald head was wrinkly, a paintpot dangling over his arm, careened into me as I came through the door. Before I could say hello, he was off down the hall, muttering.

  “I know, I know, your husband told you to come spying. But I’ll have you know this is the lunch hour, so don’t give me any gaff. Get enough of that from the gov’ner.”

  Really! Naturally not everyone could love Ben as I did. But such hostility!

  Then I forgot the painter. A wave of warmth flowed over me as I looked around the square hall with its heavy, timbered door frames and uneven floor. This building had originated as a small inn in 1703, and the ghosts of caped and bewigged travellers passed to and fro as I went from room to room. No sign of Ben. However, he was present in spirit. Taped to the walls I found numerous notes to workmen. Some kind, some restrained, many caustic, all ending with a scrawl of initials.

  A firm hand, yes-I could see that might be needed (as I stepped around two purple-haired youths doing lasso tricks with electrical cord), but I would probably have inserted it in a velvet glove. I went into the kitchen which was stripped pathetically naked, imagining how it would be when all shiny white and stainless-steel bright, with Jonas’s geraniums flourishing on the wide quarry-tiled window sills. I knew equally well how the reception room to the left of the front door would look. That bluebell wallpaper I had discovered would be perfect. Trailing up the stairs, my fingers savoured the satin feel of the bannister. I took the measurements of the landing window and went on to the second floor. This long room with its linen scroll paneling, elaborate ceiling molding, and tall latticed windows would be ideal for our opening bash. There would be candles in sconces and white roses in silver bowls on refectory tables flanking each side of the room.

  I unflipped my tape measure and went into the room two doors down, already being used as Ben’s office. Its neatness brought a tender smile to my lips. Even the paper clips were stacked in rows, and the notes he had made to himself were all lined up. I stopped smiling. One of the notes was to me. It said: Ellie, don’t care for the paint you chose for the kitchen. Would prefer oyster shell to oyster pearl, and darling (this word was an afterthought, a little arrow pointing to it), don’t leave your wallpaper books laying around. It undercuts morale. It was signed with the initials B.T.H.

  I almost forgot myself to the point of crossing out the ‘a’ in laying and initialing above the correction, but a passage from Deadlock in Wedlock swam before my eyes. I unclenched my fist, smoothed out the paper and wrote, Will make requested changes, then signed it E.S.H.

  My watch told me I had time to nip down to Delacorte’s Antiques to s
ee if they still had those picture frames. Even should they be gone, there was bound to be something to tempt me.

  Delacorte’s bow window was lush with treats. There was a late nineteenth-century copper kettle and matching trivet, an embroidered shawl draped over an easel. Cold and repellent Mr. Charles Delacorte might be, but he did know his business.

  I entered to a tinkling rendition of the William Tell Overture. Should I stick an apple on my head and stand to attention? Better not. The crossbow hanging on the wall behind the brass till looked in good working order, and above, a quiver sprouted bolts like a porcupine. Oh, good! There were my picture frames. Now all I needed was someone to sell them to me quickly before I began filling my arms with things I couldn’t live without. I coveted so much here except-the feeling crept over me slowly-the ambience. This was odd because usually I love the reek of age. I moved between tables, fingering an enamelled snuff box and a pair of silver grape scissors. Was it that everything here was almost too indicative of a stage antique shop? Those amber velvet curtains screening the nether regions should part right now and a body plummet to the floor. As I watched, they did inch apart and Charles Delacorte entered.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Haskell.” Inclining his head of fair hair and consulting his watch, he stationed himself behind the counter. As I went up to him, the curtain spread again and Ann came in. Today she was wearing an olive green brocade suit, the skirt narrow, the jacket pinched at the waist and fanned out over her hips. Her dark hair was puffed into a roll in front, the back falling in a smooth pageboy behind. Very elegant and undoubtedly the height of fashion forty years ago.

  “Ellie, how charming to see you.” Her cool hands touched mine. “I have been wanting to tell you again how radiant you were as a bride.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And the wedding dress was a good fit? When you bought it, I was somewhat concerned about the waist.”

  “Oh?” I clutched my side.

  “I thought it might be too big.”