The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  “I was just trying to be helpful, darling,” he’d said with that innocent look on his face.

  “It would have been helpful if you had left them where they were… darling.”

  A kiss on the back of my head-where I couldn’t feel it, let alone see it. “Ellie, you know I can’t stand clutter. I was brought up to be orderly.”

  “And I was brought up to dislike mildewed drawers.”

  The Heinz did a swerving figure eight. Relaxing my hold on the steering wheel, I turned to Ann. “Speaking of Ben reminds me-mind if I stop in at Mr. Wiseman’s office? Ben wants him to check some point on the lease.” We were vibrating down Cliff Road. The sea below was dark as malt liquor, its white head foaming into great spills.

  “Of course not, Ellie!”

  Something in her voice made me glance sideways, but I couldn’t read her face because of the glasses.

  “I can as well go tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it; I know you and Ben are down to the wire where the restaurant is concerned.”

  Teddy Peerless was pegging away at a fantastic clip upon a medieval typewriter, her projecting teeth clamped on her lower lip in concentration, as we entered the outer office of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith. In a corner of the book-lined room near the window a green and crimson parrot strutted and squawked in its cage.

  “Greetings from your king, pretty damsels!” That was the parrot.

  Teddy stopped typing. She rose, tugging the ends of her beige cardigan, and jabbed a comb more securely into her birds-nest hair. She was introducing us to Flinders, the parrot, when Lionel Wiseman came through the door. Some men have the knack of making an entrance-even I, a comfortably married woman, acknowledged that. Pressing my fingers, he thanked me for coming in about the lease. I found myself a little captivated by his deskside manner, the deep timbre of his voice, his impressive height and broad shoulders, his crisp, silvery hair glinting in the light from Teddy’s lamp, but, needless to say, only in the way I would have been captivated by a handsome piece of furniture. I pictured Lionel Wiseman’s first meeting with Bunty, imagining him leaning over the theatre balcony rail, deciding he wanted the second girl from the left in the chorus line, the blonde with the legs that went from here to eternity.

  Releasing me from his intent dark gaze, he gave me back my hand and said he would sort out the lease quibble. I was sure he would. Teddy was at the file cabinet plucking out a yellow folder. She was saying something about the weather to Ann, who was sinking slowly into a chair, her face the colour of moonlight against her dark glasses. Teddy dropped the folder and pressed Ann’s head down toward her knees. Lionel strode over to them; concern made him even more handsome.

  “Mrs. Delacorte, let me fetch you a brandy, or ring for a doctor.”

  “I’m perfectly all right.” Ann grew, if possible, paler.

  A question mark took shape in my mind. Was there more here than met the eye? I had sensed an antagonism between Ann and Bunty at The Dark Horse. Had Lionel botched some legal matter for the Delacortes or (I studied his Saville Row suit) sent them an exhorbitant fee for services rendered?

  Ann, truthfully or otherwise, blamed her dizzy spell upon Flinders, saying in a faint voice, “Silly of me, but I thought he was going to peck me through the bars.”

  I offered to take her directly home, but she insisted the zesty sea air was what she needed. So we said our goodbyes and drove along Coast Road through Pebblewell to Snaresby. There we got out and walked, coming almost immediately upon a little tucked-away shop which sold china doorknobs. I found one with enamelled bluebells. Perfect for the ground floor reception room at Abigail’s. Afterward I pressed Ann to stop at the cafe next door for tea. As we sat sipping away, I strayed the conversation back to her fainting attack.

  “It was nothing to do with Mr. Wiseman.” She was quite definite. Too definite? She twisted her cup around in her saucer. “Ellie, do you recall my telling you that several people have hinted that Charles is having an affair?”

  “You told me you didn’t believe it,” I replied.

  “I didn’t, but this morning I received a letter signed A Friend, informing me that I am a wronged wife.”

  “Did it look like a form letter?”

  Ann smiled. “Do you think it could be that sort of thing, Ellie?”

  “Absolutely.” As it happened, I was speaking the truth. I could not imagine Charles Delacorte thawing out long enough to start an affair.

  Ann spread her fingers and looked down at them. “Charles and I… He never was very keen, you know; he always said”-she twirled the necklace at her throat-“that sex was… untidy.”

  “I see.” I blushed.

  “It could have been worse, I suppose.” Ann tried to smile. “The note could have said, ‘Your husband is carrying on with another man.’ ” Now it was her turn for her eyes to avoid mine. Was I missing something? My eyes fixed on a man with an abundance of glossy black curls seated at the corner table. Mr. Daffy? Yes, but a drastically changed Mr. Daffy. Pale, hollow-cheeked, thin. Or was it that all the stuffing seemed to have gone out of him? He saw me looking at him, but instead of bouncing out of the chair and foisting his relentless sales technique on me, he actually shrank back in his chair, his ripe olive eyes growing dull. So this is what I got for refusing to sell Merlin’s Court! After a minute, he walked slowly over to the table.

  “Well, well, ladies. Fancy seeing you here! You weren’t looking for me by any chance, were you?” He was inching backward as he spoke.

  “No, I’m afraid not.” I felt guilty about it.

  “Good, good.” His face broke into a trembling smile. “I’ve been having these odd notions recently that I’m being followed, that… the bloodhounds are after me, closing in.” He wiped a hand across his sticky brow. “All nonsense, of course. But I think I’ll see my doctor, get a tonic. Here, let me give you another of my cards.” He dropped one in my hand, as if it were hot, and virtually fled out the door.

  We were on the outskirts of Pebblewell when I noticed the first beading of moisture on the windscreen. In seconds water sheeted down, puddling in our laps. And, to make matters worse, the road kept getting narrower until it looked like a smoker’s breath. A glance over the stupidly low wall to my left showed waves far below, whipped by the wind into a spiteful froth, encouraging me to drive as straight a course as possible. Minutes later, seeing became the number one problem. Heinz scraped against the wall, which now seemed to be on my right. Add to that our feet being underwater and I had to agree with Ann that it might be wise to pull over and wait out the deluge. But pull over which way? Right meant running up the side of the cliff; left meant going over the sea wall. Time out for a moment of prayer.

  Miraculously, the gusting wind lifted my hair away from my eyes and through the downpour I espied two towering pillars. Affixed to one was an unreadable sign board. The essential point was that between them ran a steepish track, pathway, lane, whatever.

  “Mind if we pull in here?” I asked.

  Ann removed her hat, shook it free of water and replaced it. “I’d mind if you didn’t.”

  Not trusting Heinz to stay parked on an incline, I drove up the short rise. We were in an avenue, darkened to heavy shadow by the thick overhead branches. Rain drummed against the windscreen. Turning off the engine, I wiped my face on my soggy coat sleeve and apologised to Ann for bringing her to this pass.

  “Ellie, really-this makes an interesting interlude in my uneventful life.” Her lips smiled serenely but her eyes were hidden by rain-spattered glasses.

  “I wonder where we are?”

  Ann lifted the glasses to her forehead then lowered them, without looking round. “Sorry, Ellie, I’m quite useless when it comes to getting my bearings.”

  I glanced around. This avenue was undoubtedly pleasant at times, but now the sea was muffled to a soft, ominous stomping.

  Never mind, we were about to get out of here! To my joy, I could count the raindrops landing on my upturned palm.
A cheery word to Ann, a flick of the ignition key, a trounce on the accelerator, and… Nothing.

  This is all Ben’s fault, was my unwifely thought.

  “Do you think…?” suggested Ann.

  “No.”

  We sat and listened to the trees drip.

  Ann buffed the face of her watch, then pulled up the collar of her beaver coat. “We’ll be all right, Ellie.”

  Easy for her to talk. Beavers dress for this weather.

  Being females of passably quick brains, it occurred to us that there might be light at the end of this tunnel-er-avenue. We climbed out of the car and trudged forward until we emerged from groping shadow to a bleariness wherein drenched sky and earth merged. We stood at the edge of a semicircular sweep of lawn, ornamented by mossy statues and bordered by box hedges, glossy and olive-black with rain. Beyond the lawn rose a huge, granite slab of a house. Its windows were so heavily mullioned they looked barred; its double doors led out onto a pillared terrace.

  Ann’s arm brushed mine. “Ellie, this has to be The Peerless Nursing Home.”

  “A bit grim, isn’t it? I see why Lady Theodora didn’t repine-”

  At that moment the huge doors cracked open to reveal a woman dressed as a nurse. Two dogs, one white, one black (quite small but with such oversized heads they had to be transplants), bombarded out from behind her, barking furiously.

  Ann’s elbow jabbed me. She stumbled over my foot. “I don’t like dogs.”

  I didn’t like the nurse. She had stepped swiftly back inside and closed the door. Gripping Ann’s arm, I warned her to keep her voice down. The animals ceased plunging up and down the terrace. They froze. Necks arched, muzzles pointing to the silvery haze above, they sniffed the air. The gloom of the place, as well as the chill damp, seeped into my pores. Particularly menacing was the fact that the dogs’ eyes never once swivelled our way.

  Until, that is, Ann blundered up against a tree. Hands moving in slow motion to her throat, she let out a moan and, before I could grab her, flung around and was gone, stumbling across the lawn.

  The dogs came down the terrace steps like bullets.

  “Ann, don’t! You’re encouraging them to play. If you will only…” I caught up with my elegant friend as she scrambled to climb the hedge. Her wits had completely gone. A forty-foot tree would have made better sense.

  She threw off my hand. “Ellie, leave me alone!”

  The air bristled with fur and canine breath.

  “Heel, Virtue! Heel, Sin!”

  The words were spoken calmly and conversationally, by a male standing several yards away. His face swam before my eyes. The danger was past. Tails whirring, sniffling with puppyish pleasure, the dogs now gamboled about the black-trousered legs.

  “Home!”

  Ann had grabbed me around the waist and was holding me in front of her like a shield. I didn’t blame her. My legs had gone peculiar. I wanted Ben. I wanted to sit by the fire, sipping Ovaltine, writing to Dorcas and Jonas.

  All of a sudden Ben was no longer the husband who hadn’t quite measured up to his potential; he was the lover who had awakened me.

  Slowly, Ann detached herself from me. The dark glasses cast semicircles of shadow and her face gleamed as though with rain, but she was steady on her feet.

  “How can I be of help to you, ladies?”

  There could be no mistaking those melancholy eyes, the black hair swept back from the high forehead. At close quarters Dr. Bordeaux looked more than ever like a poet suffering for his art. I could visualize those bone-white fingers clenching the quill-

  I extended my hand, and he brushed it with his fingertips before letting it fall as though amputated. I blundered into explanations about the car. There was a clammy sort of fascination about this man. How many of the stories whispered about him were true? Perhaps a doctor’s license to practice was revoked only if the murder victims complained personally.

  Dr. Bordeaux held Ann’s hand longer than he did mine. Was he taking her pulse?

  “Do you have any idea what is wrong with your auto, Mrs. Haskell?”

  “It won’t start.”

  His eyes were black, not brown. I had never seen black eyes before. Yes, I could picture him tucking a little old lady into bed and murmuring, “Sleep, Mrs. Jones, a sleep unbroken by dreams or waking.” The spooky atmosphere of The Peerless Nursing Home grounds was clearly not conducive to my mental health.

  “I will take a look at the car and see if I cannot have you both speedily upon your way. I wish I could invite you to wait in our reception rooms, but we are in the process”-he smoothed back his hair-“of varnishing the floors.”

  With the dogs running in and out? I wondered. Ann said hastily that she would prefer to stay outside on their account.

  Dr. Bordeaux glanced toward the massive house. “We are rather isolated here. And Virtue and Sin do make us all feel more secure. They are devoted to the patients; so much so that sometimes they don’t want them to go home.”

  The wind knifed through my damp coat. I did hope that Mrs. Woolpack’s stay here would not be prolonged by severity of her illness or the dogs.

  Dr. Bordeaux began walking toward the avenue. “Shall we set to work on your car, Mrs. Haskell?”

  “This is very good of you.” I linked arms with Ann, to help her feel warmer, safer.

  “Not at all.” He flexed his white fingers. “I quite enjoy fixing things. It relieves tension.”

  What sort of tension? Professional or personal? In the gathering dusk, the statues on the lawn seemed to move. I imagined they became people on a train-a man with an invalid in his arms, an old white-haired woman hovering. A small girl with sandy plaits proffering pillows. Jenny.

  “Hello,” said her voice.

  She was moving between the statues. The wind tousled her plaits. Her eyes, those too grown-up eyes, looked into mine, as they had done when I handed her my wedding bouquet.

  “What are you doing here?” Her arms were wrapped around her thin chest; her blue-and-white check dress whipped around her legs. She never looked at Ann.

  I explained about the car, all the while sensing Dr. Bordeaux’s contained impatience and… something else. He was displeased by this encounter.

  “And what about you, Jenny?”

  “I live here.”

  “Oh!” My surprise was reflected in Ann’s face.

  Jenny laughed. It was, I realised, the first time I had heard her laugh. “Not in the hospital.” She hugged her arms tighter. “I live at the Dower House. With Mumma and Nonna. Mumma was a friend of Uncle Simon’s”-her eyes flickered to Dr. Bordeaux-“before she got sick. And a few months ago when we had no other place to go, he brought us here. Would you like to come and meet Mumma and Nonna?”

  “I would love to.”

  “Ellie.” Ann tightened her hand on my arm. “I would appreciate the opportunity to sit and rest for a few minutes.”

  “Jenny,” said the doctor sternly, “your mother will be resting.” The smile he tacked onto this statement only made it colder.

  “Then, I’ll wake her.” Jenny lifted her pointed chin and flicked one of the plaits over her shoulder. “She needs company. And so do I. Apart from school, the only time I ever see people is when I go to the youth group or out on my bike.”

  “Which school?” I asked.

  “The Miriam Academy. It’s on the other side of Snaresby.”

  “I know,” I said. “A friend of mine named Dorcas used to work there.” If Dr. Bordeaux let Jenny go to school and the St. Anselm’s youth group, her plight could not, I supposed, be too dire.

  “Where’s your friend now?”

  “In America.”

  “Oh; I’d much rather stay at home and have Nonna teach me. She used to be Mumma’s governess. Then later…” Jenny dropped her arms. “Are you coming? The Dower House is quite beautiful. The Peerless family used to send the old grannies and such to live there.” She was pointing to a gap in the trees beyond the hedge to the left.
<
br />   Dr. Bordeaux had turned as inclement-looking as the weather. What sort of lives did Jenny and her family endure, under the domination of this man?

  13

  … “Ellie, I sense something momentous happened at The Dower House?” Primrose quivered and gripped her shawl.

  “No.” I fiddled with my spoon. “The sitting room to which Jenny took Ann and me was brim full of charming simplicity-the floors were natural pine, the chairs were cane-seated and ladder-backed, the curtains at the window nooks were yellowed lace. There were several rather nice prints, a seascape and portraits of Sarah Siddons and David Garrick.”

  “Any mirrors?” The pages of Hyacinth’s green notebook fluttered shut.

  “No.”

  “Are you saying, Ellie,” Primrose touched my hand, “that there was something rather unsimple about the mood of that room? The feel?…”

  When I replay that visit in my mind, I don’t see movement. We’re all frozen in place. Jenny pouring tea, the old woman-so like an old-world nanny she only needed a frilled cap on her white hair, stooping to adjust the rug covering the invalid who lay on the sofa before the blazing fireplace. The nanny’s gnarled hands are fixed in the act of holding back a corner of the quilt so Ann and I can glimpse the pallid face on the pillow, a face that must have been very beautiful once. It is impossible to tell her age. She might be in her forties or sixties. There are lines on her face but they may have been put there by pain. The auburn of her hair could be artificial, but the most striking thing about her is her eyes. They are empty. I can’t tell their colour. A record is going around and around on one of those marvellous old gramophones with the horns. A pain-drenched voice sings, “You are my rainy days, my rainy days, my rainy days…” over and over until Jenny lifts the mechanical arm and turns the machine off.