The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  Never had I missed my dear friends more than that long Thursday evening. How much more could I take of Poppa not talking to Ben (except with his eyes), Poppa and Magdalene not talking to each other, Ben not talking to me, and me… doing all the talking. With fond nostalgia I thought of the Aunts Astrid and Lulu, dear Uncle Maurice… stopping short only at Vanessa. But mostly I thought of closing the kitchen door on chaos and sinking into a deep, deep sleep. But to reach this utopia I would have to get into bed with Ben, who had summarily rejected the cup of tea I offered to fetch him; his mother was bringing him hot milk.

  To sleep on the chaise lounge now that he was better would make me look silly. To retire to a separate bedroom would be wrong. Magdalene would know. Turning off the bedside light, I slid planklike between the sheets. I had worked off just a little of my remorse.

  “Forget something, darling?” Ben’s voice broke into the darkness.

  I wasn’t too tired to smile. “What?” I edged a millimeter closer to his warmth. Statistically, what were the chances of the bedroom door flying open?

  “Your duster. Oh, and Ellie…”

  “Yes?”

  “I promise not to wake you if I die in the night. I know you need your beauty sleep.”

  I felt him fold a pyjama’d arm over his face and close his eyes. Cruel! Cruel! How could I sleep? What if he died in the night and I were not awake to revive him? Dr. Melrose had assured me that all that was needed now for complete recovery was a few days of bed rest and medication. But I knew Ben when he was intent on making a point.

  Tomorrow is another day, I thought, ripe with promise. The promise of continued hostilities, Roxie giving me hell on account of the kitchen, and Sweetie, the dog with the yap that went right through you, scratching her toenails as she hurtled across parquet and stone floors, wetting every time someone laid down a newspaper. Why didn’t I remember meeting the little dear on my visit to Tottenham?

  Sweetie, so Poppa informed me the next morning, was new. Secondhand new, that is. He had purchased her from a man boarding the same London train yesterday, who, after much fumbling in his pockets, discovered he did not have the money for her fare.

  “Is she a present for your wife?” I attempted a smile at Sweetie, but had to snatch it back.

  “Maggie hates all dogs.”

  Sweetie must not have heard him. When Magdalene entered the kitchen at eight o’clock and Poppa went out into the hall, the dog skittered toward her, whimpering and darting looks over her ratty shoulder at me.

  “Poor neglected mite.” Magdalene squinted as though unsure precisely what the mite was, but ten seconds later the wee brute was halfway up her leg and into her heart.

  And to give the devil her due, Sweetie did get Magdalene to set foot out of the house. My mother-in-law set the fuzzy scrap down, took one look at the dishes rising like the Tower of Babel, and pressed her lips firmly together. She was not going to say a word of criticism. She donned her coat and the damson beret, attached Sweetie to a length of string, and with a squaring of her birdlike shoulders, informed me that she refused to be a victim any longer to her nerves.

  “I don’t expect you to understand, Giselle, but I’ve been hiding from shadows.”

  “Have you, Magdalene?” I felt a surge of closeness, all tied up with the Raincoat Man and the hamburgers that chased by night. I wanted to ask what her shadows looked like, but Sweetie was standing cross-legged by the garden door. Out they went and in came Roxie. Half an hour early. Blast! I could have hidden the mess and the kitchen itself, given time.

  I put on two aprons-one for the front, one for the back-and started tying strings. “Feel free to develop a crippling headache, Roxie, and go home.”

  She smacked her red butterfly lips together and, without removing the velvet hat with its sequined brooch, tossed both ends of her feather boa over her shoulders and rolled up her coat sleeves.

  “I hate to think what the health inspector would say if he was to pop in. A good thing Roxie Malloy can keep her mouth shut.” Her record for that feat was 1.024 seconds.

  I flushed water into the sink and said I would naturally pay her extra.

  “I wouldn’t dream!” She fluttered purple lids. “What with the day you had yesterday, the Historical Society all over the house, falling into dungeons! Couldn’t hear the numbers at bingo for all the talk about it. Course, if you should choose, Mrs. H., to slip a little something extra into me hand when I’m not looking, there’s not much I can do to stop you, short of giving offense. And with your mother-in-law visiting you too, I gather-”

  “Did someone mention me?” Magdalene came through the garden doorway, nose reddened by the wind, beret pulled over the ears, Sweetie trying to outrun the lead so she could gnaw my legs.

  “I thought I heard the kettle whistle, Giselle, and I always have a cup of tea about this time. Oh, it’s not even on-never mind, I’ll manage without. What I have to tell you is I’ve changed my mind about tonight.”

  “That’s nice. Magdalene, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Malloy.”

  “Very pleased,” said Magdalene. “Perhaps you won’t need to come in as many hours now I’m here.” She blinked a smile at Roxie. “Yes, Giselle, as I sat on a bench looking at God’s lovely trees and thinking how they needed pruning, I came to know my duty. I must be at this party to see that my only son’s restaurant gets off to a decent start.”

  I am ashamed to say I didn’t like Ben’s mother excessively, but I couldn’t fault her courage.

  “Pleased to meet you, madam,” Roxie huffed at Magdalene. “Now if you’ll scoot sideways, I’ll mop around you. I hope Mrs. H. informed you that I don’t clean up after dogs.” The words were barely out of her mouth when Sweetie went into a squat. That animal had to be two-thirds water.

  4:28 P.M . I wriggled around inside my black dress, trying to get the shoulders to sit right. I had found my pearl earrings, but I still had to locate my flat shoes with room for swelling. Knowing they were in my bag would make my feet hurt less. I dreaded going upstairs to say good-bye to the men. On my last excursion into the bedroom, Ben accused me of being in collusion with Dr. Melrose. My husband’s hollow laughter still rang in my ears: “I will not be kept away from the most important event of my life!” So much for our wedding.

  4:34 P.M . Up the stairs, one slow foot at a time. I opened the bedroom door. Within, all appeared tranquil. Poppa was seated in the Lloyd Loom chair by the window, carving the wooden icing for my cake. He had not taken kindly to my suggestion that cardboard would do. The atmosphere was like Delacorte Antiques: too idyllic. I got the nasty feeling that the moment the car disappeared in a fog of exhaust fumes, Ben would be out of bed and phoning for a taxi to take him to Abigail’s. And in such a crisis, Poppa would be useless. Even to cry, “Halt!” would be a violation of his principles.

  I crept across the floor, turned the key in the lock of Ben’s wardrobe, then slipped it into my bag. Eli glanced up; I waved at him, kissed the air inches above my husband’s face and tiptoed out.

  4:45 P.M . It was raining as I crossed the courtyard to the car. Magdalene was in the front passenger seat holding the silver punch bowl, wrapped in newspaper, on her lap. The smile she gave me as I yanked the door closed was a little frayed at the edges. She kept fingering the bowl. I was sure second thoughts had been attacking her since the sky began to darken. Would she have stayed at home if she hadn’t overheard Poppa telling me to keep my eye on her at all times because she wasn’t used to rich food and alcoholic beverages?

  Roxie was in the back seat with the chicken tarts. She had kept finding things to keep her busy until she missed the bus and required a lift into the village, but she wouldn’t hear a word about my running her on home. Why was she so determined to work this evening, unless it was all the behind-the-scenes booze?

  Magdalene made little whispering noises beside me. I started a prayer of my own. “Please God, let Heinz have benefitted from his latest treatment at the garage. Grant that we may make this
journey without doors or wheels flying off.” I turned the ignition key. Noises-harsh, grinding noises. Magdalene clutched the punch bowl. I grasped the wheel, pressed down hard on the accelerator and blew on the windshield to defrost it. My best hope was to outrace whatever was about to succumb to gravity.

  Waves of Attar of Roses as Roxie leaned forward to tap Magdalene on the shoulder. “Want to know what put me off the Catholic Church for life? Well, I’ll tell you irregardless. It was all that talk about coming together and then Rome knocks off St. Christopher, the only one of the lot that nonbelievers like me thought did his job.”

  5:00 P.M . Two waiters, impeccable down to their smiles, greeted us at the door of Abigail’s. Each took a tray of chicken tarts, but Magdalene was adamant about retaining control of the punch bowl. They preceded us up the Persian carpeted stairs to the second floor hallway. Facing us a few feet to the right was the alcove leading into the reception room. Standing within was a sight to make my blood boil. Freddy!

  To my revulsion, he dropped to his knees and groveled forward to clutch at the hem of my dress. The waiters exchanged a significant look.

  “Ellie, forgive! I have come to my senses. I want to work. Or at least get paid.”

  “Stop it!” I tried to shake him off, but he was like static cling. Magdalene gave a little yelp. Pressing down on the newspaper covering the punch bowl, she exclaimed, “I’ll put this where it’s supposed to go.” With a bobbing flit, she headed down the hall like a sparrow trying for lift-off. The waiters, smiles back in place, followed. Roxie didn’t budge. Freddy gave her a wink.

  “Ellie, I know I’ve made you wretched. You look a hundred years old, but maybe it’s the dress; not telling its age, is it?”

  This gorgeous original (only two others on the rack) bought for the honeymoon I never attended! I eyed my watch. Was there time to dash home and change? Absolutely not. Not even time to push Freddy down the stairs.

  6:15 P.M . I stepped through the alcove into the reception room and savoured a moment alone. All was magnificence. The tables flanking the walls were covered with white damask cloths and laden with the sort of spread commonly glimpsed only on the pages of magazines where the meals coordinate with the decor. Wall sconces added their brilliance to the gloss of panelling, the sparkle of silver and crystal. There were flowers everywhere; the air was scented like a springtime country garden. Raindrops spattered the tall latticed windows overlooking Market Street. Pretty, but would the room be warmer looking if I drew the Jacobean print curtains? My hand brushed the fabric. From here, the cars and buses below looked like they were playing tag, sending up sprays of slush. People scurried along, umbrellas and raincoat collars up. A shiver decided me. But before I could pull the curtains, one of the waiters came in to speak to me about the positioning of the punch bowl.

  6:25 P.M . Five minutes to go. Was Ben lying awake and tense, listening for the striking of the hall clock? Should I phone home? Yes. I rushed into the office, two doors to the right of the reception room. Since there was no phone in our bedroom, I would only get to speak to Poppa. My fingers stumbled as they dialed. Surely he would write down my message and hand it to Ben. What shall it be? A triumph is in sight, or simply, I love you. The phone rang at least twenty times; my panic escalated with each brrp, brrp, until I remembered that Poppa must have had his earphones on. I quickly hung up before Ben decided to crawl out of bed to silence the phone.

  6:30 P.M . The waiters were stationed at the foot of the stairs. Magdalene and I positioned ourselves at the top like characters in a Jane Austen novel. I fully expected to hear the words, The Dowager Duchess of Plooth and Her Daughter Esmerelda, floating up to us. I unhooked and rehooked my belt. Magdalene straightened her black lace mantilla. Like me, she was wearing a black dress. We should have discussed our ensembles, I thought.

  Mr. Howard from the bank and his wife Cynthia, their coats darkened with rain, headed toward us. “So pleased you could both come. I would like you to meet my mother-in-law Magdalene Haskell. Unfortunately my husband

  They passed on by, as did the Wilsons and the Peckworths. I kept eyeing Magdalene to see if she was enjoying herself. Her expression was intent, but she addressed Mr. Bremmer as Mr. Barking. Now came someone whose name provided august emanations-Lady Theodora Peerless in a check raincoat. Her peach lipstick emphasised her protruding teeth. I liked the effect; it made her look warmer. What was she like before life turned her into a brown paper parcel, giving little hint what was inside?

  “I’m sure, Ellie, you will do fine. Your husband, and your mother-in-law”-a nod-“will be proud of you.” There was a hint of something winning under her smile; perhaps underneath she might be as colourful as her history.

  My eyes strayed after her-how did she come to be in that photo with Mr. Digby and his daughter, Wren? Mrs. Melrose introduced herself, reminding me in a voice as strident as her mustard and plum tweeds that this was the doctor’s night at the hospital.

  “Good to hear, Mrs. Haskell, that your man is on the mend. Mine needs his sleep, you know.”

  Behind her came Charles and Ann Delacorte. She was the picture of World War II elegance in the emerald green dress she wore for my wedding; he was as glacial as ever. I turned to introduce Magdalene, but she was gone. Probably to the loo. Ann and Charles moved through the alcove and I saw two people I had not anticipated would come when I added their names to the guest list: Jenny Spender and Dr. Simon Bordeaux. Black cashmere coat hanging capelike from his shoulders, a white silk scarf streaming down the front of his dinner jacket, the doctor looked as though he ate only caviar for breakfast on his toasty wheats. A patron to be cultivated. Jenny’s hair wasn’t in plaits tonight. It was held back by a satin band that matched her turquoise dress. Why didn’t someone encourage her to dress like a teenager? I thought of the invalid mother and the old-world nanny. Would it be thought interfering if I offered to take Jenny shopping?

  “It is good of you both to come.”

  Dr. Bordeaux’s deep-set eyes flickered across my face. He ignored my outstretched hand. “There is nothing like a hint of infamy to push one to the top of the social ladder, Mrs. Haskell.”

  What an arrogant man to think I had invited him because he was suspected of callously murdering old ladies!

  Jenny glanced up at him, smiled, and touched the white plastic raincoat folded over her arm.

  “We can’t stay long because Nonna tends to doze off in the evening. It was kind of you, Mrs. Haskell, to include Mummy’s name on the invitation card, but you do understand, she doesn’t go to parties-or anywhere.”

  Dr. Bordeaux interpreted the question in my eyes. “Except once a year when Jenny and I take Mrs. Spender to a nightclub in London for her birthday celebration. For a few hours we watch her come alive again.”

  What a pathetic situation. Did I detect repressed passion in his voice? Was the invalid Mrs. Spender once his lover? Was he still ensnared by the memory of what they had shared? I dragged my eyes away from him and Jenny. Surprise! Magdalene was back.

  Another couple moved to the top of the stairs. And another. Would anyone notice if I kicked off my shoes? “So pleased you could come… Yes, there is a room for coats at the end of the hall…”

  My voice just went down the wrong way. Coming toward us was Vanessa, her mink-clad body entwined around Rowland Foxworth’s arm. He surely was horribly embarrassed. What man wouldn’t be? Family decency had decreed I invite my relations, but only she had taken the embossed white card literally.

  “Darling Ellie!” She closed in, her eyelashes brushing my face. “You look ravishing. I could count every one of your ribs from downstairs. Can you believe the change, Rowland?”

  Instantly I gained a stone. A good thing I was not bothered about what Rowland thought of my feminine appeal. A married-happily married-woman doesn’t need that kind of reassurance; besides, I had more important things on my mind. Magdalene was gone again.

  Rowland patted his pockets for his pipe, dislodging (unintentiona
lly?) Vanessa’s hold on him.

  He turned to her. “Ellie never changes in my eyes.”

  An intake of breath. Was it mine or Vanessa’s?

  “How’s Ben?” Absently Rowland touched a hand to his silver hair. Vanessa studied her fingernails. Magdalene’s face wavered at my left. I introduced her to Rowland. Those grey eyes of his, that beautiful mellow voice, touched me physically. I experienced, to my eternal shame, a thrill of adulterous pleasure, in addition to the lesser sin of cousinly conquest.

  “Quite a pretty girl.” Magdalene squinted for a better look as Vanessa and Rowland passed down the hallway. “A bit like Angelica Brady. This one’s your cousin, you say? Did Ben meet her before or after you and he had settled things?”

  7:15 P.M . The party was a smashing success. Cigarette smoke beclouded the air, as here and there someone emphasised the point in a witty monologue with a fiery tip. Freddy kept popping into the room to take little bows. With his hair up and under his chef’s hat, he looked borderline respectable. From all sectors of the room came accolades about the food.

  Freddy was doing a backbend to hear what Gladys Thorn was saying to Millicent Parsnip about the flaming cheese. Would someone please mention Ben’s name! I was miserable that he wasn’t the focal force here this evening, wretched about the rift between us, guilty that things had gone well without him, angry that I should feel guilty when I already had enough on my plate, and-this is the bad part-fully aware that the aforementioned guilt was an emotional blanket caused by the knowledge that I had looked upon the Reverend Rowland Foxworth with lust aforethought. That the experience lasted a scant fifty seconds was no consolation. I had eternally dishonoured my wedding vows.