6 - Superfluous Death

by Hazel Holt

  ‘No, I’m sure he can’t,’ I said soothingly. ‘Look, can I take the letter to show Michael? Since his firm drew up the lease for you I’m sure they’ll be able to advise you.’

  ‘Oh, would you, dear? That would be good of you. I’m so bad at explaining things, but I know you’ll be able to make them understand that I simply couldn’t bear the upheaval of moving somewhere else, not to mention leaving this flat. Now I can’t get out so easily, it means so much to me to have all this to look out at; apart from t a apart fhe lovely view there’s always something going on, something interesting. You do understand, don’t you, Sheila? I’m not making a fuss about nothing, am I?’

  ‘Certainly you’re not,’ I replied warmly. ‘Of course it means a lot to you, and, as you say, it is your home. We’ll sort something out, don’t you worry. Now, shall I make us both a nice cup of tea? And do let me know what you think of these little fairy cakes.’

  At supper that evening I showed Michael Dr Cowley’s letter.

  ‘The miserable old sod!’ Michael said, and although I deplored his language I certainly agreed with the sentiment. ‘Well now,’ he continued, ‘I don’t think that legally he has a leg to stand on. Of course we’ll have to have a proper look at the lease, but I’m sure Edward will have made sure it’s watertight. Who else lives in the building?’

  ‘The top flat’s been empty since old Mrs Lindsay died,’ I replied. ‘She was another of his patients. I should think it would need quite a bit doing to it to make it habitable. I mean, Mrs Lindsay was ninety-two and I don’t think it had been decorated, even, for twenty years! Anyway, I imagine he purposely didn’t let it again if he had all this in mind. Then, the middle flat is where Mrs Wheatley lives and we’ve seen how he’s managed to get round her! Can you finish off those veg?’

  Michael spooned cauliflower abstractedly on to his plate, dribbling cheese sauce on to the tablecloth in the process.

  ‘So all that stands between Dr Cowley and his grand schemes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘is poor old Miss Graham.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, dabbing ineffectually at the mark with my table napkin. ‘When you put it like that it does sound rather sinister.’

  ‘Well, a landlord can make life quite difficult for a tenant, if he wants to.’

  ‘You mean ferocious Alsatian dogs and loud music and things?’ I said. ‘Surely not here in Taviscombe!’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that exactly, but didn’t you say he’s her doctor? That could be awkward.’

  ‘Oh, she could go to another doctor, that would be no problem. I’m sure Dr Macdonald would take her.’

  ‘Yes, well, there are other things: repairs, outside decorations, stuff like that.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said sadly. ‘If he’s going to make things miserable for her then she might not want to stay, even if she’s legally entitled. It really isn’t fair!t /span><’

  ‘Well, we’ll take it a step at a time,’ Michael replied. ‘A letter saying she’s taking legal advice to kick off with, that might hold him for a while. Then, if we have to, the full legal bit.’

  ‘Can you be an angel and draft something for her to send?’

  Michael is a good-hearted boy and, like his father, anxious to make sure that the meek don’t get pushed around too much while they’re waiting to inherit the earth.

  ‘OK. I’ll do it after supper. What’s for pudding?’

  I took the letter round to Miss Graham the next morning.

  ‘Oh, my dear, that is kind! Please thank him so much from me. Now just let me find my glasses.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you hear from Dr Cowley, won’t you?’ I said. ‘Then we’ll see where we go from there. I can’t promise that it will work out, because although I’m sure you have a legal right to stay on here he might be able to make life quite disagreeable for you.’

  Miss Graham set her mouth in a firm line. ‘We’ll see about that!’ she said. ‘He needn’t think he can frighten me, even if he is a doctor!’

  Slightly confused by this non-sequitur I nevertheless felt that Miss Graham had the right spirit.

  ‘My mother was a suffragette, you know,’ she continued. ‘She went to a lot of the rallies in London, and she was almost trampled by a police horse in Trafalgar Square, her hat was knocked to the ground, but she never let things like that put her off!’

  Expressing admiration for the resolution of the late Mrs Graham, I put the signed letter in its envelope and sealed it.

  ‘Right, then, I’ll just pop this in the post for you,’ I said.

  As I was putting the letter in the box at the end of the Promenade I happened to see Dr Cowley getting out of his car and going into one of the retirement homes on the sea front. He had his bag with him so I assumed he was going to visit a patient, looking every inch the old-fashioned doctor, I thought, in his well-cut tweed suit. He was a tall man, stooping slightly now, but still brisk in his movements.

  His thatch of grey hair was hidden under a tweed hat and his ra sit and hther red complexion was heightened by the strong breeze that was blowing in from the sea. As he approached the door of Harbour Court an old lady came out and he stopped and spoke to her for a moment, bowing and raising his hat as he moved on. Although I’m the first person to deplore the decline in manners nowadays, something about the way he performed this civil action irritated me. Irrational, I know, but I somehow felt, as I always do with him, that he was consciously playing a part and expecting audience approval.

  I said as much to Michael that evening.

  ‘Well,’ he said, fending off the dogs, who always greet him when he comes home from work with as much enthusiasm as if he’s been to Siberia and back, ‘you’re always banging on about how nobody knows how to behave any more. I’d have thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘But it’s sort of false with him,’ I replied. ‘Not natural good manners at all. Rosemary says the same, she says he gives her a creepy feeling. You’d better go and change before Tessa covers that good suit with hairs! Supper won’t be long.’

  Michael, now clad in a disreputable pair of jeans and a T shirt emblazoned with the words ‘The Law is an Ass’, reverted to the subject of Dr Cowley as we had supper.

  ‘I checked Miss Graham’s lease today,’ he said. ‘At least, I got Jenny to check it for me, and she says it’s absolutely watertight. So, as long as the poor old soul can manage to hold out against Cowley’s harassment, there’s no reason at all why she shouldn’t stay put.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, though I do hope she’s tough enough to stand up to him. She’s got a weak heart and nobody is more aware of that than he is!’ I cut myself a piece of bread. ‘Who’s Jenny?’ I enquired casually.

  ‘Our new legal exec.’

  ‘How long has she been with you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, about a month, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Oh, tallish, fairish, just a girl!’

  I suppose I should be used to this sort of unsatisfactory interchange by now. Inquisitive mothers of grown-up sons should not complain of such treatment, I suppose; it is no more than we deserve. I must admit to more than my fair share of curiosity and Michael is very patient with me, but he has developed over the years this only-name-rank-and-number school of information to cope with the aggravation. I have discussed this technique wids technwith some of my friends and they all agree that boys (as opposed to girls) favour the ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Out.’ ‘What did you do?’ ‘Nothing.’ approach. Mind you, I can still remember, from my own youth, how it often seemed just too much trouble to attempt any communication with the older generation.

  As I said to Rosemary the other day, it’s not that I’m a match-making mother (heaven forbid), and anyway, he’s far too young to settle down, but I naturally take an interest in any female friends he makes. Rosemary said, ‘Yes, dear,’ in that sardonic way that she has and we both laughed. I realize I’m very lucky that Michael is so good-natured and allows me to fuss ov
er him as much as he does.

  Actually, I was able to see this new girl for myself a few days later. Michael rang to say he’d left a file at home and asked me to bring it in for him when I was shopping. I always feel a little strange nowadays going into what used to be Peter’s offices. Edward is a dear soul and I know Peter was glad when he took over the practice, and he was very good during that last year when Peter was so ill, but still ... I was so pleased when Edward took Michael on as an articled clerk and I think there’ll be a future for him there, which would have made Peter very happy. I had a little chat with Josie, the receptionist, who was there in Peter’s time, and I was just giving her the file when another girl cane into the outer office.

  ‘Oh, here’s Miss Drummond, our new legal exec. She’ll take it through.’ Jennifer Drummond was indeed tall and fair, as Michael had said. What he hadn’t mentioned was that she was extremely good looking. Not conventionally pretty, she was too tall for that, but with handsome features, a perfect complexion and a bell of thick tawny hair. Josie introduced us and we made a little polite conversation about how long she had been in Taviscombe (three months) and how she liked it here (very much, especially after Wolverhampton). She had a pleasant manner and a delightful smile that lit up her face and I liked her at once.

  ‘You didn’t tell me that your Jenny Drummond was pure Pre-Raphaelite,’ I said to Michael that evening.

  ‘Oh, you saw her, did you?’ he replied. ‘I suppose she is a bit.’

  ‘That short upper lip and the heavy mass of hair, just like a Rossetti!’

  lex>

  ‘Don’t get carried away, Ma, she’s a perfectly ordinary girl.’

  ‘What does she do out of office hours?’ I enquired casually.

  ‘I see her at the badminton club sometimes, but I think she’s got a boyfriend because she doesn’t turn up every week.” He grinned. ‘So, no, she wouldn’t “do” for me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Well,’ I replied defensively, ‘she seemed rather a nice girl and I thought she might be lonely, not knowing anyone here...’

  ‘I know just what you thought,’ Michael said.

  ‘I’m not trying to interfere,’ I said. ‘Well, not exactly—it’s just that—oh, you know how I am!’

  ‘Indeed I do. And aren’t you lucky I’m such a nice patient son who’s prepared to put up with it? Besides, dearest Mama,’ he continued, patting me on the head as he went by, ‘you are a source of continuous entertainment and I can’t imagine what I would do without you!’

  Chapter Three

  A few weeks later I was on my way to call on Miss Graham when I ran into Mrs Wheatley coming out of the gate of Kimberley Lodge. She was as usual smartly dressed, in a cream linen suit with a pink chiffon blouse, high-heeled sandals and a small pink hat perched on what was obviously newly set hair. I wondered if all this elegance was just for shopping in the town or if she was meeting someone—Dr Cowley, for instance.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Wheatley,’ I greeted her, forcing her to stop and talk, though she had been prepared simply to acknowledge me and pass on. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day? And don’t you look summery in those colours!’

  She smiled faintly and said, ‘How kind.’

  ‘I’m just going to see Miss Graham,’ I went on. ‘She’s very worried about a letter she’s had from Dr Cowley about having to move. Have you had one too?’

  She looked flustered and spoke disjointedly. ‘Well, yes, in a way—only nothing’s definite, I believe—there’s some complication—so I don’t feel Miss Graham shouldy"> be worried—I’m sure that is the last thing that Dr Cowley would wish ...’

  I let her flounder and her voice trailed away. I allowed a silence to fall and then I said, ‘Well, she is very upset. Still, she has good friends who won’t let her be harassed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s the last thing ...’ she repeated.

  We stood in silence again and then Mrs Wheatley said, ‘Do forgive me if I run now. I have an appointment.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I mustn’t keep you. By the way,’ I asked, intending to leave the conversation on a lighter note, ‘how’s your little dog?’

  ‘Oh, poor little Mitzi. I had to have her put to sleep, I’m afraid. Her bowels’—she dropped her voice on the word—‘were not reliable. I couldn’t cope with the mess, it was becoming rather a nuisance; you know how it is.’

  ‘Indeed we do know how it is!’ Rosemary said when I told her of this conversation. ‘For heaven’s sake! What a dreadful woman!’

  Rosemary, like me, has nursed old, blind, deaf and incontinent dogs and cats with love and devotion over the years. It would never occur to either of us to have them put down while there was even a flicker of enjoyment left in their lives.

  ‘A nuisance! I suppose she thought clearing up a few messes would spoil her nail varnish,’ she said with infinite scorn.

  ‘I must say I was surprised,’ I said. ‘I thought she was fond of the poor little thing.’

  ‘I expect she’s one of those women who regard dogs—poodles, especially, don’t you think?—as sort of fashion accessories,’ Rosemary continued.

  ‘She always seemed quite nice,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s Dr Cowley’s dire influence.’

  ‘What do we know about her anyway?’ Rosemary demanded. ‘What about Mr Wheatley?’

  ‘I’m sure someone said she’s divorced—she looks divorced somehow, don’t you think?—and then there was all that business about her being a kept woman and the man who visits her sometimes.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Rosemary considered this. ‘Does Miss Graham know anything about her? I mean, if this Wheatley woman is in league with Dr Cowley and is actually living in the same house—well!’

  ‘Well what?’ I asked.

  ‘Well—she might be his spy or she might try to persuade Miss Graham to give in to his terms. Anything!’

  ‘Miss Graham’s never said very much,’ I said, ‘beyond being pleased to have such a quiet and pleasant neighbour. I don’t think they’re particularly friendly. I mean, I don’t imagine Mrs Wheatley drops in for coffee or anything; I don’t see her as a dropper-in, anyway. No, the subject hasn’t really cropped up. What Miss Graham likes most is to talk about Taviscombe in the Old Days, and that’s liable to be a bit repetitive.

  ‘Oh, Lord, don’t I know! Mother drives me mad sometimes! And her memory! Down to the last second cousin twice removed of every man, woman and child in the town!’

  ‘You must admit,’ I said, laughing, ‘she does have an intelligence network second to none. I really don’t know how she does it, especially now she doesn’t go out so much.’

  ‘Ah, but she goes to all the relevant things: the Conservative Ladies’ Lunch, the Arts Society meetings, the WI and carefully selected coffee mornings. And, of course, all her old cronies come to her—thanks to Elsie’s cooking—little lunch parties and teas, of course, and each one brings some little scrap of gossip; they know what they’ve been invited for!’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘do see if any of them can shed some light on Mrs Wheatley’s past.’

  One of my least favourite things is turning out the kitchen cupboards. I’m a dreadful impulse shopper where tinned food is concerned and supermarkets (especially those shelves devoted to exotica) are my downfall: lychees, artichoke hearts, black-eyed beans, all magically find their way into my trolley, not to mention jars of special satay sauce, lemon grass and ginger marinades and Mexican chili so hot I’d never dare even to open the jar. These purchases get pushed to the back of the cupboard by the more mundane tins of baked beans, sweetcorn and pineapple chunks that form a greater part of our everyday living and sit there sulking and unused for months (even years) until I finally face the fact that I’m never going to make that exciting Thai curry or stuff a taco shell, and nerve myself to throw them away. I wiped the sticky reminder of a tube of tomato puree from one of the shelves and resolutely threw into the bin an unlabelled jar of unidentifiable dried herbs, then crouched down
on the floor to tackle the worst of the tins. Several of them appeared to have been leaking because a repulsive damp brown stain, quite impossible to wipe away, disfigured the shelf, probably for all time, and when I lifted up one of the tins (green figs in syrup) it came away with an ominous sucking sound. I was just rinsing the brown goo from my hands when the phone rang. It was Rosemary.

  ‘It’s started,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Jilly’s in the hospital and Roger’s having to stay at home with Delia until I get there, so I’ve got to go at once. Do you think you could possibly fetch Jack’s dinner jacket from the cleaners for me—I’m sure Sandra will let you have it without the ticket—only he’s in Bridgwater most of today and he’ll need it for the Rotary do tomorrow. I’ll leave a message for him to pick it up from you. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied. ‘And, look, tell Jack to come and have supper with us this evening, why don’t you. We’d love to see him.’

  ‘Oh, bless you, that would be a help. I was going to make him get fish and chips or something, but he’s so helpless, he never knows what to ask for and ends up with a hundredweight of chips and raging indigestion!’

  I’ve known Jack all my life; he and Rosemary and I went to the County school together and he’s a dear and faithful friend. He is, however, a person of very strong views on both people and situations, which he is liable to express with great vehemence. Fortunately both Michael and I are used to his ferocious manner and are fully aware that under his fiery exterior he’s a perfect lamb.

  Jack is one of our local councillors, something that Rosemary is always complaining about. ‘Honestly, it really is too bad! As ifgoi> bad! he hadn’t enough to do working all the hours God sends so that I hardly ever see him, and then having to waste hours on this wretched council—a dreadful lot of pompous idiots or people who’re just there to help their businesses along—you know who I mean! Always putting up grandiose schemes to increase their own self-importance, and poor old Jack, who’s only there from a sense of duty, is always the one who has to bring them down to earth, and, as you can imagine, he never gets thanked for it! I tell him, you’d be much better off staying at home watching Coronation Street.’