by Joan Boswell
Alison, bride of Matthew’s only nephew, Tim, swept into the study. “There you are.”
No knocking on doors for her, thought Matthew, caught halfway back to his chair. With her fair hair and blue eyes, Tim called her his English rose. He had yet to feel her thorns.
“Oh, heavens. Just look at you, covered in cat fur. And, are those crumbs? What have you been eating?” Alison bustled towards him. He knew she would try to brush the crumbs off, and Matthew found himself backing away like a wayward child. He stopped when he felt the bookcase behind him, gathered his dignity and fended her off.
“Bread and cheese. I know you left soup for me, but I’ve been enjoying bread and cheese for most of my life without ill effect.” He didn’t tell her the lentil and bean soups she insisted he eat had given him stomach pains and a nasty case of the runs. “Tim will tell you I’m an old stick-in-the-mud.” He looked over to the door, relieved to see the grinning face of his nephew watching him. “Isn’t that right, Tim?”
“It’s no good, Uncle Matthew, if Alison decides on something, there’s no changing her mind, and she’s decided to take care of you.”
The doting smile Tim bestowed upon his wife sickened Matthew. The sooner they were out of his house, the better. “Did you have any luck with the house hunting today?”
Tim came into the study. “Yep, I think we did. It’s the old stone one in Portsmouth Village. It needs a lot of work, but it looks sound, has the requisite number and size of rooms and is in a great location. You liked it, didn’t you, honey?”
Both men turned to Alison. She frowned. “Well, I think it has potential. But we would have to look into a lot of things before committing ourselves. Tim, darling, come and help me in the kitchen. I’ll bring you a cup of ginger tea after we’ve had lunch, Professor. That should help you digest the cheese.”
“I don’t need help...” Matthew began, but Alison had whirled from the room, dragging Tim behind her. Matthew limped to the French doors as quickly as he could. Outside he made his way through the shrubs, pushed aside the tangled honeysuckle and lowered himself onto the bench which stood, almost hidden, beneath the straggling vine. He’d learned a lot whilst resting on this bench.
“...and it really worries me.” Alison’s clear English voice carried through the window.
“But he’s lived here by himself for as long as I can remember. He bought it when he and his wife first moved to Kingston,” Tim said.
“His wife? You never told me he’d been married.”
“It was before my time. He was already married when Gran and Grandpa emigrated from the UK. Mom’s younger, and she came with them, but Matthew came much later, and his wife hated it here. Mom said she suffered from an inferiority complex because she grew up in foster homes and left: school at sixteen. She felt out of place in a university town and kept nagging Matthew to go back. When he wouldn’t, she left him.” Matthew could picture Tim shaking his head as he told the tale. “Hope you’re not going to do the same to me, darling Alison.”
“As if I would, you silly. But where did she go?”
“Back to England, and he never remarried. I spent a lot of school holidays with him when Mom and Dad were abroad, and he is really quite competent.”
The clatter of plates had Matthew straining to hear Alison’s response.
“...should say is ‘he was competent’. He’s eighty-three now. A big difference from when you were a schoolboy. Do you really think he takes care of himself? The place was filthy when we arrived. His clothes...well, I wouldn’t want you looking like that when you get to his age. He doesn’t seem to have any social life, and he talks to that disgusting animal as if it were human. And what sort of a name is ‘Ori’, anyway?”
“Short for Orion. Hunter in the sky. Matthew is totally absorbed in astronomy. He took it up when he retired from teaching. He must have every book there is on the subject.”
“Books! There’s enough dust in that study to give a person allergies, and the floor, well it’s positively lethal. The things he has strewn around, piles of books, an old iron boot scraper, even an umbrella. It’s a huge room and would make a gorgeous sitting room, but he won’t let me move anything.”
“The umbrella’s there because he likes to go out into his courtyard when it’s raining. He says it’s to remind him of why he left England.” Tim laughed. “And he hasn’t tripped over anything yet.”
“Yet. But I keep picturing him falling over the brolly, banging his head on the iron thing and lying there all night. It haunts me. And we’d feel so guilty. Oh, Tim darling, not so much butter, it’s really bad for you.”
Matthew willed Tim to tell her he’d eat as much butter as he wanted, but Tim said nothing and Alison ranted on.
“And what about the courtyard? There’s another hazard. The paving stones are uneven, and it’s full of tangled bushes. It could be lovely. Take the view from the kitchen window here, for instance. We could have a neat row of hollyhocks growing along the wall over there instead of that untidy bluebeard.”
Matthew looked across at the blue flowers glowing against the grey stone. True, they were unruly, but the butterflies didn’t care.
“Properly landscaped, this area would make a perfect sun trap. but he won’t even let me walk in there. Mind you, I have had a little look”
“How did you get in?”
Alison giggled. “I’m not completely decrepit, darling, and this is a large window. I’ll show you. He can’t see from the study.”
Oh, Lord. Matthew looked around for somewhere to hide.
“No, you don’t, Alison. Remember, we’re just guests.”
“But if he saw it already done, I know he would be pleased and...well I’ve been thinking, Tim, wouldn’t it be better for him if we stayed here and looked after him?”
There. She’d said it. Matthew had known all along that Alison coveted his house. It was why she’d turned her nose up at all the places they’d looked at. Not while he lived. He’d suffered enough years with Janet without having his final years ruined by another difficult female. The kettle began its high pitched whistle, and he missed part of Tim’s reply.
“...his house.”
“Not legally. You told me he’d signed it over to you to avoid inheritance taxes.”
“But with a binding agreement that it was to be his home for as long as he was alive.”
“He’d have a much better chance of surviving longer if we stayed and cared for him. Think about it. Oh, look. That filthy cat’s been on the counter again.”
Matthew wended his way back to the study, stepping carefully over the cracked paving stones. He had to get them to leave before Tim started his new job, or he’d be alone with Alison all day. But with Tim utterly infatuated, she had the upper hand. He might employ some of her tactics. A word dropped here and there. Cause Tim to think a bit. He sank into his chair seconds before the door swung open and Alison appeared with the tea. Tim hovered in the doorway, an anxious frown on his face.
“Why, thank you, my dear.” Matthew smiled at her, ready with his first shot. “Now I’m going to make a request, and I don’t want you to be offended.”
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t be.” She looked at him, head on one side.
“When my door is closed, would you mind knocking before bursting in? I do enjoy an afternoon siesta.” He watched the colour rise on her face. “And while it is kind of you to bring me a cup of tea in the morning, seven a.m. is too early. I spend a good deal of the night with my telescope, and I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s important for the elderly to get enough sleep.” Matthew sipped his tea and watched Alison’s face. Her lips tightened. He thought she’d like nothing more than to flounce from the room, but she restrained herself and fired back.
“You should have said something before.” The sweetness of her voice belied the look in her eyes. “I wouldn’t upset you for the world, would I, Tim?”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Tim walked over and put his arm around her
waist. “Now, Uncle Matthew, you must tell us if we’re interfering.”
“I’m sure you mean well, but we all have our own little ways. That’s why children leave home when they grow up.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes.
Tim looked down at Alison. “We must be off. We’ve lots of things to discuss.” He patted Matthew on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to tell us if we’re crossing the boundaries.”
“Will do, my boy. Thank you for the tea, Alison. I am enjoying it.”
“But,” he muttered, to himself, as soon as the door closed behind them, “the ivy will enjoy it more.” He poured the bitter brew into the plant pot and limped over to the roll-top desk. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the desk. How ridiculous to have to lock things up in his own house. However, he had no intention of letting Alison know he took the occasional drink. She would not approve. He took out the bottle of Glenlivet and measured two tots into a glass. “Ginger tea,” he snorted.
He sat by the desk, looking out into the courtyard. It was the reason they’d bought the house in the first place. This secret square around which the house was built. The windows of the kitchen and his bedroom opened on to it, but it was only really accessible from this room. And Alison was right. He had neglected it for too long. The buddleia had gone mad, with fronds of white flowers sagging over a stunted hydrangea. He should have pruned it in the spring, well, each spring, he thought, breathing in the fumes of the scotch, relishing the warmth as it slid down his throat. The bush had grown leggy and weak, and the hydrangeas ought to have been removed years ago. They’d never done well here. He liked the lilac, but if you didn’t keep on top of it, it pushed suckers up everywhere. That was part of the problem with the paving stones; lilac roots.
A cramp in his gut interrupted his thoughts. It was time to head for the bathroom again. After the third trip to the bathroom that afternoon, an astonishing thought crept into Matthew’s mind.
Was Alison poisoning him?
He’d not had any digestive problems before they moved in three months ago. In fact, he had been fine until Alison insisted on doing the cooking. So far, he’d put his problems down to the change in diet, but could it be more sinister? And if so, what could he do about it?
He grappled with the problem until dinnertime. That was another bone of contention. Matthew normally sat down to eat between eight and nine in the evening, but Alison thought eating late gave one nightmares and served dinner at six.
Perhaps, mused Matthew, sitting down at the head of the table, he could use the early hour as an excuse not to join them.
The dining room fronted King Street, with a view across the park to Lake Ontario. “Lots of wind surfers out this evening.” He watched the bright triangles skimming the waves. “I’d like to have tried that. Have you ever done it, Tim?”
“Not yet. But I mean to have a go as soon as we’re settled.”
“Oh, do you think you should, darling?” Alison came in with two plates. “It looks awfully dangerous.” She put a plate down before each of the men and returned to the kitchen for her own.
Matthew stared at his dinner. Mashed potatoes, ground meat and peas. He glanced over at Tim’s. Pork chop, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts. “Tim, does Alison not realize I have my own teeth? I’m fed up with eating mush.” He pushed back his chair. “I’m going to call for an Indian take-out.”
“What’s the matter?” Alison stood in the doorway, her plate in her hand, a bewildered expression on her face.
“Nothing’s the matter, honey. Sit down, Uncle Matthew.” Tim removed Matthew’s plate and replaced it with his own. “We’re switching dinners.”
“But that’s much too rich for your uncle, Tim. I have been trained, remember? I worked in the geriatric department for a year.” Alison turned to Matthew. “You’re not going to do yourself any good eating this. At your age, you need a bland diet and one that’s easily digested. That’s why I take the trouble to do yours specially.”
Matthew cut into the chop. “I’d rather you didn’t, thank you. This will do me nicely.”
Alison frowned. “Luckily, I’ve done extra chops.” She went out with the “special” dinner and came back with a chop for Tim. Matthew felt he ought to get a sample of the meal she’d made for him. He wondered how one went about having things tested for poison.
He declined the jello and took his coffee to the study. Time to make a plan. The first move must be to retrieve part of the dinner Alison had prepared for him. He could do that after they retired for the night, then he would take it to the Faculty Club and talk to some old colleagues. But more urgently, how could he avoid eating things that might be contaminated?
Ori scratched at the glass doors, and Matthew heaved himself out of the chair to let the cat in. A waft of perfume from the buddleia invaded the room as Matthew opened the door, and he stood there for a moment, taking in the softly scented evening air. “Life is too good not to fight for, Ori,” Matthew said and went over to the table for his coffee. He swallowed a mouthful before he could stop himself. It tasted awful. But she couldn’t have poisoned it, because he’d watched her pouring the three cups from the same pot. But what in God’s name was it?
He stomped out to the kitchen and found Tim, bent over the sink scrubbing the grill pan. “Where’s Alison?”
“She’s gone upstairs to watch Coronation Street. She hates to miss an episode. What’s up?”
Matthew held out his cup. “What in tarnation is this muck she calls coffee?”
Tim threw back his head and laughed. “Chicory. Awful, isn’t it? But Alison is into healthy eating. She’s done a lot of research into it, and it’s been proven, caffeine is bad for you.”
“I’m eighty-three, Tim. I plan to enjoy my last few years of life. I can’t get around as much as I used to, but I still get a great deal of pleasure from food and drink. I think it’s time to start making my own meals again.” He could see Tim was about to protest and went on quickly. “No, I mean it. Eating at the hours you do doesn’t suit my constitution, nor does the diet you follow. Tell Alison not to cater for me any more.”
Back in the study he chuckled. “That went rather well, Ori, I...” he stopped. The cat was retching violently. With a final heave it deposited a pile of ground meat on the carpet and fled into the garden.
“Tim.” Matthew shouted, “Tim.”
Tim rushed into the study. “What is it?”
“She fed it to Ori.” Matthew noticed his hand shaking as he pointed at the heap on the rug. “She’s trying to poison him.”
“Now, now. Come and sit down,” Tim soothed. “Ori will be fine. He probably ate it too fast.” He steered Matthew into his chair, patting him gently. “You rest there for a minute while I clear this up.”
Matthew huddled in the chair, his breath coming in short gasps. It had been meant for him. It wouldn’t have killed him, but it would likely have made him really sick. Given her more ammunition for persuading Tim they should stay. He passed a hand over his eyes. But what of Ori? Where had he fled to? He eased forward in the chair ready to get up and look for the cat, but before he’d got his knees under him Ori stalked in from the courtyard. He followed his normal pattern, sliding his body against the door frame, caressing the bookcase then jumping onto the desk, where he always paused for a second to see if there was anything worth eating or if there was something he could knock onto the floor.
Relief welled up in Matthew as he watched the cat stop to lick a paw before springing across to the back of the sofa. There was nothing the matter with him. He’d rid himself of the poison. So, too, had Alison, since Tim had apparently flushed the evidence down the toilet.
“See. I told you he’d be okay.” Tim thrust a mug of tea into Matthew’s hand. “Drink this and don’t argue.”
Much later that night Matthew sat, with his telescope, at the front of the house. Instead of concentrating on the night sky, he was listening to the conversation being held on the balcony above him.
“T
hat’s how it starts.”
“What?”
“Alzheimer’s, dementia, whatever you like to call it. One of the symptoms is paranoia.”
“And you think Uncle Matthew is paranoid?”
“Well, Tim, I wouldn’t know what else to call it. He told you I’d poisoned the cat. He knows I fed it his mince, therefore he must think I’m trying to poison him. That’s why he wants to make his own meals and doesn’t want me to bring him tea.”
“I don’t know, Ally...”
“Don’t call me ‘Ally’, it sounds so common.”
“Sorry, honey. But I’m not convinced that his mind is going. He’s real fond of that old cat, and you’ve made it clear you detest it. I think in the panic of the moment he accused you.”
Matthew silently cheered for Tim. Stand up to her, boy. He heard a disbelieving snort come from Alison.
“That’s what you think, Alison, but remember I grew up with him, and he isn’t that different now. He’s independent, likes to do his own thing, and we’ve kind of taken over and changed his life. That’s tough at any age.”
“You may be right, darling, but I still think we should hold off making an offer on the house for a few days while we observe him. I have had rather more experience than you with geriatric patients.”
“If we don’t put one in, we may lose it. It’s a good house in a great location and a few minutes bike ride from here. I say we go ahead. I’m sure Sara next door will keep an eye on him. She used to pop in every day before we came, and I can check on him all the time, too.”
“Well, he’s your uncle. And if you’re comfortable leaving him, that’s up to you. Personally it would be on my conscience all the time. Brrr, that’s a cool breeze.”
“You’re shivering, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say you were cold? Hey, I know how to warm you up.”
Oh, Tim, how long before you realize you can never warm her? For Matthew, the discovery had taken too long. His enthusiasm and joy in teaching English literature had absorbed him in the early years of marriage. He’d expected support from his wife while he forged a career for himself. He’d received nothing but antipathy and continual whining. He had not neglected her, he’d been working for their future, but she refused to see it that way. Life without Janet had been much easier.
