The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Marrying me was a compromise?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” He tossed the menus down and pressed his palms against his forehead, pushing hard. “I was talking about the cookery book. You know, Mum was right when she said that-”

  An electrician came through the door, spotted us and immediately backed out.

  “What did Benny’s mum say?”

  He paced away from me, then back. “Only, Ellie, that you are supersensitive.”

  “You can’t hurt me.” How dare she! I smiled at a point six inches above Ben’s head. Only the tensing of the facial muscles kept the tears from sloshing down my face. “And I’m not surprised; such is the usual comment of the superinsensitive.”

  Ben let his hands fall. He leaned, weary and spent, against the counter. “I wanted you to love my mother! Haven’t I always showered your relations with courtesy and kindness?”

  “I suppose you have.”

  “And they’re not easy to like, excepting Freddy.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  A sigh. “Let’s not try and be funny, Ellie.”

  “I’m serious.” A pause, as I realigned the facial muscles. “One of them left you money, didn’t he?”

  As soon as I said them, I wanted to draw the words back. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and weep that I was sorry. But when he curled his lips and dusted his hands on a dish towel, as though ridding himself of my touch, I took a step backward instead.

  “At last we have it,” Ben said. Every word a knife thrust. “You are suggesting I married you because I wasn’t content with my half of the inheritance. Greedy me wanted yours too.”

  “Not at all,” I replied, digging my grave deeper. “I am suggesting I married you for your half.”

  And with that I walked, rigid as a tin soldier, from the room.

  As I left Abigail’s, I could hear Ben on the phone snarling about a case of goblets which had failed to get delivered. To hear him talk, he would be reduced to serving drinks in jam jars. For some, life went on. I made it back to Merlin’s Court, without coming undone, by means of adding up all the ways I had violated chapter six of A Blow By Blow Approach to Fair Fighting. But it was downhill the minute I entered the kitchen. Magdalene was having a bath, there was no one to save me from myself. I did a disgusting, revolting, unutterably vile thing. Opening up the refrigerator, I piled a plate with every fattening food I could find. When the plate was almost as tall as I, up I went to the bedroom, where I locked the door, climbed into my wardrobe and crouched down with my prey. But are we ever completely alone? Unseen?

  As I chewed, my clothes spoke in rustling whispers. She’ll have to let out my waist. My sleeves will be too tight again. Back to a quadruple-D cup.

  When the plate was empty, I buried my face in my arms and cried. My clothes weren’t the only ones that knew the truth about me. I knew: I had a fat mind.

  Magdalene commented on my red eyes when I went downstairs, but I explained that I had recently had a cold and was given to the occasional relapse. To change the subject, I brought up her marital situation. She was adamant in refusing to contact Poppa or allowing me to do so.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have taken the law into my own hands, but I was swept along on a tide of inertia. Besides, I had Freddy on my hands. He arrived at the house midafternoon, murmuring in a weakened voice that his meals would be cold if I had to carry them to the cottage. Once in the door, he slumped in the kitchen rocking chair, and there he remained all that day, defying doctor’s orders that he return to work. Amazingly, Magdalene had taken a fancy to Freddy. Not to bother, she told me, she would get his meals. And she would not listen when I told her she had already elected to do too much. By that evening, the china cabinets had been given a good going through; everything was rearranged so I would never find my egg cups again. The hanging plants were pruned down to stubble. The window ledge was lined with statues. And every flat surface, bar the floor, was covered with doilies. I became convinced that her black holdall contained a false bottom.

  When Ben returned from Abigail’s that evening, we were frigidly polite to each other. He made only a token protest when I said his mother was cooking dinner. Later I was to wonder if perhaps one of us might have tried to bridge the row, had the timing not been all wrong. But his mother, Freddy, my binge, and Abigail’s premiere crowded in on us. Immediately after the Welsh rarebit, which he hardly touched, Ben took himself off to the study. When I peeked through the crack in the doorway later, he was asleep in the leather chair.

  That night we lay in bed with an imaginary bolster running from pillow to post. Sometimes a foot would brush mine and I would roll away, clinging to the edge of the bed. Sometimes my foot would stray and he wouldn’t move a muscle, compelling me to roll off the bed again to ensure he thought I thought he was the one doing the straying.

  Wednesday morning at three o’clock I awoke from the worst nightmare I had experienced since the homicidal hamburgers. This time there had been no visual effects, only a vast blank screen and an offside voice whispering, “Someone’s going to die. Guess who? Guess who?”

  Struggling up from the pillow, I found the room thick with shadow and Ben sitting on the edge of the bed rocking a baby-no, his arm. I spoke to him, but he didn’t answer.

  Moonlight spilled over his arm. Hand pressed against my mouth, I slid off the bed. Mustn’t cry out and panic Magdalene. I would get to the phone and… The door pounced open and there she was in pink flannel, a scapular around her neck and a rosary in her hands.

  “Is something wrong, Giselle? I heard noises.”

  Another time I might have asked my mother-in-law if she knew the meaning of the word knock, but who could think over the low moaning sounds Ben was making? Like a tree trying to prop itself against a daisy, I clung to his mother.

  She pushed me away quite gently and bent over Ben. Her hand hovered over his head as she murmured, “My boy, my only child. He’s so dreadfully flushed.”

  “Are you sure? This is that sort of room-maroon tends to give a warm look…”

  “Shouldn’t you be phoning the doctor, Giselle?” Magdalene’s face looked like mine felt. “Don’t think I’m taking over, but at a time like this, a child, however old, wants his mother. Better phone Eli, too.”

  Dr. Melrose answered at the second ring; there was no answer from the flat in Tottenham.

  The verdict was blood poisoning. And the blame which I saw in Dr. Melrose’s eyes was only a reflection of what I was feeling. As he stashed away his medical equipment, he said, “I realise, Ellie, that Ben may have put up resistance to seeing me, but you could have employed the tactics he used when getting me out to see you. If that finger had been lanced promptly and antibiotics administered, he would be on the mend now. As it is, you must understand his condition is quite serious.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “The cottage hospital is full to overflowing, otherwise I would have him admitted tonight. However”-his lips tightened-“you should manage, Ellie, if you and Mrs. Haskell divide the nursing.”

  “And Ben will… live?”

  “Certainly, bar complications.” Dr. Melrose clapped on his hat, thumped me on the shoulder, and trod briskly down the stairs, black bag swinging at his side. I kept close behind him. I didn’t want him to leave. Magdalene’s voice drifted down from the upper bannister rail.

  “Don’t worry, doctor. I shall be with my boy, reading to him, singing to him.”

  For the first time I saw a softening of Dr. Melrose’s eyes as he paused in the hall. “Don’t either of you ladies go overdoing things. Get out for a walk round the garden two or three times a day.”

  “Not me, doctor.” Magdalene’s voice quivered above our heads. “Fresh air doesn’t agree with me.”

  It was as well Ben was too ill to realise that his mother had closed not only the bedroom window, but also the curtains. With only one small lamp lit, the character of the room changed. The furniture acquired a hulking lo
ok. The pheasants on the wallpaper seemed to fly into each other. Magdalene kept saying the air wasn’t stuffy-we had plenty of ventilation from the chimney.

  During most of what was left of that awful night, Ben remained sunk in restless sleep, kicking off the blankets and twisting his reddened face upon the pillows; but every half hour or so, he would jerk upright, calling for the painters or ranting at the underchef. We had to keep assuring him that Abigail’s premiere would go on as planned.

  Each time his eyes opened and he looked at me, the knives of misery and guilt twisted deeper. Every so often I would creep behind Magdalene and open a pane, so Ben wouldn’t feel claustrophobic in his sleep. I didn’t fight her for pride of place at his pillow. I was consumed with remorse over the row. It helped me emotionally when she would send me downstairs for lemon barley water for Ben or tea for us. What did bother me was that each time I got back she had locked the bedroom door. For fear of Tobias coming in, she’d explain. I was tempted to tell her that closing it was sufficient-Tobias isn’t good with handles. And waiting-sometimes for five minutes-for her to hear my knock was becoming a strain. But the rest of that night and the next day were long enough for both of us without our bickering.

  By early Wednesday evening, Ben’s temperature was close to normal. The antibiotics had taken hold. Dr. Melrose, making his third visit of the day, patted everyone, including himself, on the back. And Magdalene announced it was now clearly a blessing that we hadn’t been able to reach Eli. Not wishing to bring her share of the good mood crashing down, I decided not to mention that I had spoken to him that morning to invite him to visit his lost wife and ailing son. He would have come at once but I asked him to wait until the following afternoon so as not to panic Ben that this was a deathbed visit.

  Thursday morning saw Ben propped up on his pillows. So far he hadn’t said a word to me about our troubles and it was Chinese torture for me not knowing if this was because a) they now seemed trivial in the vaster scope of things; b) he wasn’t up to discussing his feelings on divorce; c) his mother was always between us, straightening the bedclothes or tenderly inserting a straw between his lips so he could drink his lemon barley water without lifting his head.

  And of course Ben was desperately worried about Abigail’s opening night-only thirty-six hours away.

  “I know you won’t listen to me, son.” Magdalene bent the straw for easier swallowing. “But I maintain food doesn’t have to be fussy to be good, especially when it’s free. Leave it to Mum. I’ll make plenty of fishpaste sandwiches, and we can buy lots of bags of crisps.”

  I rushed to Ben’s side. “That would be lovely, Magdalene, but I do think we owe it to Freddy to give him the chance to prove he can cope in a crisis.”

  “Ellie’s right, Mum.” Ben leaned weakly back on the pillows. “We don’t have any other choice.” His voice was grim.

  8:00 A.M . I summoned Freddy to the kitchen and broke the news that he was the understudy about to assume the starring role.

  “Ellie, believe me, I sincerely wish I could do this for you, but-not to steal Ben’s thunder-I have been on the brink of the great abyss myself.”

  I set Ben’s breakfast tray down and began unloading into the sink. “Dr. Melrose assured you, in my presence, that your injury is ninety-nine point nine percent mental.”

  Freddy didn’t look at me; he leaned against the table brandishing a broom at Tobias, who kept leaping to attack. “Old Doc is right. This wound will eventually heal.” He tapped a finger to his chest. “But in a far more important way, I am a man scarred for life. I may never play darts again.”

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “I have decided to sue Sid Fowler for physical and emotional anguish.” He gave the broom another flick.

  “Know what I think?” I dropped, and broke, a cup for emphasis. “I think you are afraid to tackle preparing the food for this party. You’re nothing but a coward.”

  Freddy watched Tobias pounce on the broom. “As you please, Ellie, but I owe it to Jill to turn my injury into a comfortable living.”

  Grabbing the broom away from him, I pondered whacking sense into him. “You owe it to Ben to get cracking with your little paring knife and start fluting mushrooms for tomorrow evening. If you don’t, I’ll flute you.”

  Freddy took the broom back, tossed it into a corner, and sank into the rocking chair. “This hurts me, Ellie, more than it does you. Sid’s assault has left me, at least for the present, unfit for work. So I will tell the court, and you wouldn’t want me to look like a liar, would you? Can you imagine the unfavourable impact of upward of a hundred witnesses streaming into the dock, all ready to swear on holy writ that they had partaken of a banquet prepared by yours truly within days of the alleged assault?”

  I trod down on one of the chair’s rockers. “Why don’t you telephone Mr. Lionel Wiseman and ask his professional opinion?”

  “That man! I wouldn’t let him represent me. I hear the bugger always inclines to the woman’s point of view.”

  “There is no woman involved in this case, Freddy.”

  “Yes there is, cousin. His wife Busty-sorry, Bunty-is a chum of yours.”

  “Enough of this nonsense, Freddy. Either you get to work now or lose the perks that go with the job.”

  Freddy’s yawn swallowed his whole face. “You’d try and kick me out of the cottage? Sorry, old sock, you’d have to sue me.”

  I was saved from ramming one of the hanging plants down his throat by a knock on the garden door. Sid Fowler was on the step. Our unwitting villain held a bunch of narcissi in each hand. Behind him was the milkman, who avoided my eyes and made a production of clanking down bottles in a row.

  “All hail, false friend bearing flowers!” came Freddy’s ebullient greeting.

  Sid’s head was sunk into his shoulders. “Hope you don’t mind this early-bird visit, Ellie, but I’ve a string of appointments starting at ten.” He turned his gloomy eyes on the flowers. “One of these is for Freddy, the other for Ben. Okay if I go straight up to the bedroom?”

  The milkman kept rattling the bottles. “Six pints enough today, Mrs.?”

  I drew in a deep breath. “Make it two dozen. I have rather a lot of cooking to do.”

  Magdalene agreed to keep mum, but my biggest fear was that Ben would learn that Freddy had thrown in the wooden spoon and left me holding the mixing bowl. I therefore elected to work at home rather than in the sterile sanguinity of Abigail’s kitchen with its bevy of ovens and army of appliances. That way, I could hurl off my apron every half hour or so and race upstairs to perpetuate the myth that I was spending the morning catnapping. One thing in my favour was that we did not have a telephone in our bedroom. Ben could not ring Abigail’s to check on Freddy’s progress.

  8:30 A.M . The minutes started ticking off inside my head. I pounded my fists into my hips and blasted Freddy with my eyes as he took his flowers and left.

  8:31 A.M . I accompanied Sidney up to the invalid’s chamber. Between landings he told me that he was remorseful about Freddy and should have known life would bomb out. It always did when he began getting a renewed enthusiasm for it. I made consoling noises, but again sensed that misery was meat and drink to Sidney. Magdalene acted edgy on first seeing him, but warmed sufficiently to tell him he looked worn to the bone and shorter than she remembered.

  My heart leapt. Ben’s eyes were asking me to stay. Had the memory of the dreadful things we said to each other merged into his hours of delirium? Did he think it was all a nightmare? But how could I stay? His recuperation depended on his not discovering that the fate of Abigail’s was in my hands.

  8:40 A.M . Ten loaves of bread multiplied by twenty slices, multiplied by eight made how many mini-sandwiches? And two hundred sausage balls, divided into six batches, times twenty minutes per batch, oven time, took how long?

  9:45 A.M . I made a list of items to be prepared and a list of ingredients needed from Abigail’s culinary coffers, then telephoned Bunty. She agreed to transpo
rt same in her car, on condition that I make thousands of those little chicken tarts everyone was so crazy about at the wedding reception. My pleasure! What could be easier than mushing up chicken with mayonnaise and filling Tom Thumb pastry shells? First, one skinned the chicken, boned it, and cooked it… I rang Bunty back and requested she purchase six tins of jellied breast.

  10:15 A.M . The hands on that clock could have been arrested for speeding. I rolled up my sleeves and heaved cannisters of flour, granulated sugar, and chopped nuts onto the working surface. Telling which was which at a glance wasn’t easy-someone had dressed the cannisters in crocheted cosies. Off they came, but I was not much further forward; someone had washed off the adhesive labels which normally would have advised me whether this white powder was cornflour or icing sugar. Damp finger testing was unhygienic as well as sticky and time-consuming.

  Just then Magdalene came in and assembled the scattered cosies into stacks and started to load up a tea tray.

  “Well, Giselle, I saw Sidney off the premises and… Don’t think me interfering, but wouldn’t you find it easier if you measured everything out into little bowls before you start mixing up?”

  10:45 A.M . I rushed upstairs to let Ben know I was still on the premises, but I couldn’t go beyond the doorway because I realised I had white splotches on my cardigan. So near and yet so far. His black hair and convict stubble emphasised the pallor of his face and the hollows under his eyes. I thought about asking Magdalene to give Ben and me a few moments alone. Instead, I embarked on a time-consuming lie about how I was dusting the drawing room and wouldn’t be up for awhile. Ben pretended to be asleep and Magdalene looked ready for a good forty winks. But when I suggested she go to her room and take a nap, she acted as though I had suggested putting her out on the ice floe for the polar bears.