Before facing the Duffys again, I went to the post office to send a telegram to Hugh. I might have telephoned of course, but not wanting to enter into negotiations, certainly not wanting to bring on a command to come home, I thought a telegram would be more fitting.
The girl behind the desk was weeping.
‘Poor, poor soul,’ she said, shaking her head and letting large tears fall on to the blotter. I bit my lip and nodded. Then she sniffed and composed herself a little, looking expectantly at me through the grille with her pen at the ready.
‘I have no idea what to say,’ I said. I had never read one of these telegrams, thank heavens, and had no idea how they were usually couched.
‘Who is it for, madam?’ asked the girl, professionalism beginning to reassert.
‘Oh, no one,’ I said. ‘I mean, my husband. But no one close. To them, I mean. I just need to say that I’m staying to be with Mrs Duffy and why.’
She had got my measure.
‘“Dreadful fire at Reiver’s Rest,”’ she intoned with relish. ‘“Poor” – it’s Cara, isn’t it, madam? – “Poor Cara tragically lost. Staying in Gatehouse to comfort poor mother.”’ And so on. It became clear that the telegram was not her natural genre, but I managed in the end to remove most of the adverbs and settle on ‘perished’ as an acceptable midway point between her eulogies and my apparently shocking bluntness.
‘Fire at Duffys’ cott. Cara perished. Self unharmed. At Murray Arms Inn, Gatehouse with Mrs D. until further notice.’ She read back to me. ‘Love?’ she asked, pen quivering.
‘Love,’ I agreed, for a quiet life.
There was no sign of the Duffys in the parlour when I returned. The tea-things were gone and the table covered in what must be its usual garb of a dusty chenille cloth and a bowl of wax fruit. I crept along to the bar but, my nerve failing me at the door, decided to search out someone in the kitchen quarters.
‘There now,’ said the landlady, suddenly coming round a corner and almost bumping into me. ‘I wondered where you had got yourself to, madam. The doctor wants to see you.’ She surveyed me briefly and then pronounced her verdict. ‘You’re done in. What say you come and sit in my kitchen and wait for him there? That parlour’s a gloomy spot at the best of times.’ She steered me along the passageway and into the kitchen where the fresh smell of linen sheets drying off on a rack before the fire fought with the aroma of tonight’s stew beginning to bubble, the whole making a welcome oasis of comfort. She tucked me into a Windsor chair and set about tea.
‘I’m that glad you’re back,’ she said. ‘They just went to pieces. After you and the young man left. Jim Cairns left them for two minutes to come and speak to me and when he went back they had gone straight to pieces. Couldn’t say which was worse. The poor mother roaring and crying and the young one shaking all over like nothing on earth. And so he goes for you, Jim Cairns, and I sends the lad for the doctor to see can he give them something and gets them off upstairs to lie down and as soon as these sheets are aired they’ll be in their beds where they should be and maybe get some rest, eh?’
She sounded as relieved as I felt that the ladies had finally begun to behave as they ought, and she looked hopefully at me to see if I was about to break down too.
‘I don’t really know them all that well,’ I said, in my defence. ‘I just happened to be coming down on a visit.’
‘And a very good thing, madam,’ she said, putting a thick cup of dark tea down before me on the table. ‘Now, I’ll just need to get on if that’s all right.’ She sat down opposite me with a bowl of carrots and spread a newspaper for the scrapings. Soon a light spray of carrot juice reached me as she set about them and since my tweeds were flecked with orange and it was rather refreshing, I let it.
After a while we heard the stairs over our heads creak with a heavy step descending and presently a large man, in the rather collapsed tweeds so universally associated with the country doctor that one suspects there must be an outfitter somewhere supplying them, let himself into the kitchen.
‘Mrs Gilver?’ he asked, putting out his hand and taking mine. ‘Dr Milne.’ He sat heavily and shook his head a few times before speaking again. ‘I’ve settled them and left them something. A hot bath and a good night’s rest, Mrs McCall. You’ll can do more for the poor ladies than I can tonight.’ Mrs McCall abandoned her carrots without another word and, wiping her hands on her apron, she gathered up the sheets and left.
‘And you’ll stay, won’t you?’ he asked, once she had gone.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But you know, I’m not a close friend. I wonder if perhaps we should send for someone else.’
‘Mrs Duffy asked for you,’ he said. ‘More than once, she asked if Mrs Gilver was still here.’ This was curious.
‘What is going to happen?’ I asked. ‘And what did happen? Does anyone know?’
‘Well, there will be an inquiry,’ said Dr Milne. ‘But we’ll never know exactly. These wooden houses, you know. I never could understand why houses by the sea are so often made of wood. They dry out like kindling in the sea breeze.’
‘Is Mrs Duffy able to tell you anything?’ I said. ‘Or Clemence?’
‘Not a thing. They weren’t there. They had gone for a walk on the shore and the young lady stayed at home. Writing letters, they said. By the time they came back round the headland, the place was alight and the men were already there with their buckets. Futile. Futile. These wooden houses.’
‘Awful,’ I said. ‘One can’t imagine. And now an inquiry.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said the doctor. ‘Our Fiscal is a good man. A very gentle way with him. There’s a hard road ahead of the whole family, to be sure, but there will be no unpleasantness at the inquiry to make it worse.’
‘It was a curious thing,’ I ventured, ‘but when Mr Osborne and I arrived, they were so very calm I thought for a minute they didn’t know. And I’m afraid I must have confused them.’
‘Aye, I heard,’ he said. ‘Jim Cairns told me. I shouldn’t worry, though, madam. Shock is a funny one. Why, I saw things in the war you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I said, and sipped my tea in silence, uncertain whether the thought which had just struck me was my imagination or not. Did he too think that something was not right? There was a watchful and repressive air about him. Was he warning me that ‘the Fiscal’ would never dream of rocking a boatful of such distinguished ladies? That I should be careful not to either? Or was he right about shock, and Alec quite wrong? I was suddenly convinced that this was the case, and I flushed with shame at the thought of our muckraking. Wicked, repulsive. Poor Mrs Duffy and poor Clemence too; bewildered, so hurt and shocked that they had retreated into a kind of a stupor and all we could do in the meantime was point our fingers and suspect them of something we did not even have the courage to put a name to. Everyone in this village was weeping in sorrow along with them except for their so-called friends. At least Alec had an excuse: he was in shock too, however much he protested. But me? My behaviour? My suspicions? It was too disgusting, and I would have no further part in any of it. The silly misunderstanding about the diamonds – I had forgotten about the diamonds, to be honest – could all be resolved by Daisy without my help.
Chapter Six
The days which followed, while we waited for the inquiry, passed not quickly exactly – there was no rush or bustle about them, nothing at all to do in fact – but rather they passed elsewhere, as though I were asleep and only dreaming the meals and baths and walks and the endless overheard conversations of the townspeople about the shocking thing which had happened in their midst.
‘Obliterated,’ I heard an apronned housewife say to her neighbour as they met at the kerb, pouring out used buckets of floor-water.
‘Pulverized,’ was one word that rose out of the chorus of voices of the schoolchildren dawdling home across the bridge.
‘All away to ash,’ the waitress was saying to a customer as I opened th
e tea-shop door and entered.
Mr Duffy arrived from Edinburgh but, although he spent considerable time closeted with Alec, he took his meals upstairs in Lena’s rooms with her and Clemence and so I hardly saw him.
I was still too shame-faced to want to spend much time with Alec, who in any case was lodging at the Angel around the corner, the Duffys and I having almost exhausted the accommodations of the Murray Arms.
Clemence kept to her room apart from venturing down to the parlour to read once or twice, sitting with Emma held up right in front of her face. Perfectly reserved, she managed to rebuff any comfort offered, not only my rather awkward advances, but also the doughty cluckings of the landlady, Mrs McCall, who was far too good a woman to let it show, but who I am sure was puzzled by Clemence almost to the point of irritation. Poor Clemence, to be so very unbeguiling to all, and for no reason that one could ever put one’s finger on.
Mrs Duffy, so Mrs McCall told me, did not rise from her bed again and Dr Milne became worried about her, we thought, descending the stairs shaking his head and puffing upwards into his moustache. Strangely, despite my hardly setting eyes on either of the ladies, Dr Milne insisted I stay, continuing to report that Mrs Duffy wanted me there, and this puzzled me. I am not used to thinking of myself as such a tower of strength and comfort that my very presence in the same building can be such a help.
One immediately noticeable effect of Cara’s death that should be reported is that it quashed the nasty feeling of dread I had been suffering. Wretched as I was – and I did suffer to think of her smiling mouth and soft eyes never to be seen again – I was nevertheless at peace. Besides, as the sergeant had predicted, matters moved on apace; not even the fact of the body’s total destruction stood in the way of officialdom and the inquiry was fixed for Friday.
When that day came, Dr Milne sought me out in the parlour after his morning call on Mrs Duffy. I rang for an extra coffee cup and he sat opposite, sipping meditatively and watching me.
‘She wants to talk to you,’ he said at last. ‘And I must say that’s a relief, for I was beginning to worry that she might withdraw altogether, and then there’s no saying how long it would take.’
‘Certainly,’ I said, quailing inside but not showing it. ‘I shall go to her directly.’ As much as I dreaded an interview with Lena, it at least made me feel a bit less foolish and useless.
‘But you must prepare yourself for rather a shock,’ Dr Milne said. ‘She is very distressed, and ill with it. As soon as this is over, I’m ordering her away for a good long rest. I should have said the seaside, normally, but as it is . . . the Lakes, I think. And if we’re very, very lucky we might avoid a complete breakdown and keep her out of hospital.’
I was startled, not only at the news of what a state Lena was in, but at the calm way the doctor spoke of it, as though breakdowns and hospitals were the daily currency of life. What of Clemence? And Mr Duffy?
‘Her father is deeply saddened, to be sure,’ said the doctor. ‘But he’s a strong man and then of course, he didn’t have the distress of . . .’ He broke off and seemed to glare at me, summing me up. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘I promised I wouldn’t but I will, and in turn you must promise me not to tell anyone else.’
That again! Passing on a secret he had promised to keep and absolving himself by passing on the request to keep it too. Cara had said how she abhorred the habit, and it struck me that here was a sign of her goodness quite at odds with the ideas we had about her conduct. I tried to signal my unwillingness to Dr Milne, while at the same time trying not to make my disapproval obvious. No one likes a prig.
‘Mrs Duffy was already in a very distressed state, even before this tragedy,’ he said, ignoring or failing to notice my attempts to stop him. ‘A rather unpleasant thing happened recently and I was surprised, to own the truth, at how well she took it. Now, of course, I can see that she was holding fast under great strain, and had no reserves to call on to help her through all of this when it came.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I shall bear that in mind, Dr Milne. I don’t need to know any more.’ But he shifted around on his seat, bursting with it, and I saw there was no escape.
‘A matter of only a week or two ago, Mrs Gilver,’ he said at last, ‘only days before the fire, a servant of Mrs Duffy’s died, and in the most upsetting circumstances. She kept it from the girls, as any mother would. Said the creature had gone off home without warning, but it must have been preying on her, and it certainly weakened her nerves.’
I felt immediately chastened. This was something we, Alec and I, knew nothing about and something we could not even have guessed at. How dare we, in all our ignorance, find Lena’s behaviour wanting and pronounce upon it? I caught myself plunging into these ruminations and felt if anything even more chastened. Why must my first thought always be what light some new piece of information threw on my own actions? Listen to what the man was saying, I told myself. Poor Lena.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Dr Milne gathered up a sigh as from the pit of his being. ‘An all too common affair, my dear. The girl had got herself into trouble and tried to get herself out of it again. Mrs Duffy found her and sent for me, but by the time I got there it was far too late.’
‘Good Lord,’ I said. ‘Good God in heaven. So, is this the second inquiry that poor Lena has had to go through? It’s very odd, you know, because no one in the town has said anything and one would have thought, human nature being what it is . . .’
I fell silent, perplexed by the way Dr Milne was fidgeting and by the flood of colour turning his always ruddy face an even deeper shade.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘There was no need for that, thankfully. We, that is I, I managed to avoid any question of that. She wasn’t a local girl, you know. Came down with the ladies from Edinburgh.’ He busied himself draining the last of his coffee even though it must surely have got quite cold. ‘Anyway, it was all – as I’m sure you can imagine, Mrs Gilver – it was all most upsetting for her. The more so for not being able to speak of it, being alone with the girls. I fear the delayed reaction to that has coincided with the shock and distress of the fire, not to mention the grief, and really laid her low. So,’ he started to gather himself ready to leave, ‘just be warned. She is not herself and must not be worried or bothered in any way.’ With all this talk he apparently managed to regain some of his composure and bowing curtly – and rather awkwardly I thought, a bow hardly being his usual method of leave-taking – he departed.
For a while, I was unable to move. Or no, that is far too melodramatic, but I was disinclined to stir myself. I felt a sturdy reluctance to finish my little cake, dab my lips and stand up, as though that would constitute an acceptance of the ways of the world and my place in it. I was, quite simply, furious. No inquiry, no investigation, no questions asked, for this poor creature. Then less than a fortnight later, the full might of the Law grinding into high gear for Cara. And to top it all, the placid assumption that I should share the common view and hold my tongue. I would, of course, but I was glad the good doctor was rattled. No wonder he had felt the need to unburden himself. The poor creature – what an end! And yet, what had been her alternatives? I remembered a nursery nurse of my own, fatter and fatter and then suddenly gone and not to be spoken of in front of the grown-ups ever again. Helpless, I took the last bite of my little cake, dabbed my lips and stood up.
Despite knowing that Lena’s indisposition was emotional rather than physical, I feared the smell of a sickroom, and I had to pause outside her door to ensure no sign of my distaste for the visit showed on my face. Thankfully, though, the room had no hint of the invalid about it. The shades were drawn up to let in the light and the bottom sashes were open a few inches letting the soft morning air flutter Mrs McCall’s muslin curtains in the most cheerful way. Mrs Duffy was propped up cosily in bed, her breakfast tray pushed away, looking more like herself than I could have hoped for, only rather pale and without her accustomed dignity, owing c
hiefly to her hair lying over her shoulder in a thin plait. I went to sit on a little armchair, but she stretched out her hand to beckon me towards her and so, having removed the tray, I sat on the edge of her bed and let her take her hands in mine.
Close to, she looked rather less composed. Her mouth quivered as she tried to speak and her eyes, which she kept lowered, were pink-rimmed and puffy. I could hear Mr Duffy moving around in the adjoining room and I spoke very softly, asking her how I might help.
‘Alec,’ she said. For a fleeting moment I panicked, but thankfully before I could tell her gently that I was not Alec, she went on: ‘Dandy, please speak to Alec for me, for Cara’s father and me. I know she sent a silly letter and I know the dear boy will want to tell them all about it, with no thought for himself, but would you please tell him from both of us, that we will quite understand if he says nothing.’
It had not occurred to me that the inquiry would delve so far into such personal aspects of Cara’s life, but I agreed instantly that it would be intolerable. Alec should not expose himself to the ridicule and pity of the townspeople in the role of a jilted lover.
‘I’ll tell him,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it will be a great relief not to have to read out the letters.’ At that moment, I felt Mrs Duffy’s fingers contract in a spasm just as the door to Mr Duffy’s room opened and he walked in. Seeing me, he stopped short, and swept from his head the tall silk hat which completed the suit of old-fashioned mourning clothes he wore. Mrs Duffy’s hand grew slick with sweat and I thought in passing how right of Dr Milne to fear for her health. She might look calm and be eating her meals but the woman was a bag of nerves.
‘Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Duffy, grave and polite, as I jumped up from his wife’s bedside with a few words of incoherent greeting and apology.
After the Armistice Ball Page 9
