by Ruth Rendell
Maureen, someone told him, couldn’t face the crematorium, and who could blame her? Instead they all made their way up York Hill to Carisbrooke. Michael found himself walking with Lewis Newman.
“Two old widowers, that’s us,” said Lewis in a cheerful tone. “We’re quite a rare breed, you know. I can’t remember the statistics, but usually we chaps die first.”
Michael remembered Lewis had been a GP. “Yes. People tell me I’m lucky.”
“Depends how you look at it. They say we’re very sought after by the preponderance of widows, but I can’t say I’ve noticed.”
“Nor me.” Michael decided that he quite liked Lewis after all.
Some relative left behind at the house had organised a huge spread. Noticing the sherry bottles of every variety, Michael felt greatly touched. Poor old George, he would have enjoyed this. The tears came into his eyes but stayed there as Stanley, retrieving Spot from the laundry room, where he had been shut up during the service, slapped Michael on the back and asked him what he thought of the “lovebirds—Alan and Daphne, I mean.”
Michael thought gossip the prerogative of women, though Vivien had never gossiped as far as he knew. “They seem very happy.” Refusing to expand, he said he expected Rosemary might have been at the funeral.
“We did ask her. Apparently she goes nowhere. Just stays at home brooding. He’ll come back, you know. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I wonder.”
Michael had a glass of Manzanilla and ate a stuffed vine leaf. Here in George’s house, Michael’s conscience troubled him about Clara Moss. It had begun to seem to him that every minute he spent in Loughton without seeing her was letting George down. He had promised George—well, he hadn’t promised, but he had said he would go. After he had tried to talk to Eliane Batchelor and unwisely attempted the French he had acquired from a fortnight in Dijon forty years before, only to be asked in perfect English why he couldn’t speak that language, he began to make his escape. Lewis Newman asked him to share the taxi to Loughton he had ordered, and when Michael mentioned Clara Moss, Lewis said the taxi would drop him off. Taking in Forest Road on the way to the station meant a detour along the edge of the forest and passing their old primary school in Staples Road.
“It’s a good many years since I’ve been along here,” said Lewis. “My mother insisted on bringing me and fetching me home even after I was far too old for it. The kids next door to us went to Staples Road and they would have brought me, but she wasn’t having any.”
No one brought me or fetched me. I walked up there on my own when I was five. Michael didn’t say it aloud as it would have sounded like self-pity. It was self-pity. For something to say, “Let’s not lose touch,” he said, and gave Lewis his card. That meant the other man might make the first move. If they had been women, he thought, they would have kissed. It’s awkward shaking hands in a taxi, so they did nothing but muttered something about its being good to see each other.
Clara’s house was the least well-kept on the outside of any in the row. The black paint was peeling from the front door, but the brass knocker and letterbox shone as brightly as gold. A young woman with an enormous mass of bright ginger hair, in jeans and a sleeveless, low-cut top, answered his knock.
“Yes?”
“I’ve come to see Mrs. Moss. My name is Winwood, Michael Winwood.”
“She never has visitors. Does she know you?”
“She did once.” Unusually assertive, he walked over the threshold so that the young woman was obliged to step back.
“Wait a minute. I’ll have to ask her. She can’t walk very far.”
He was tired of waiting. He followed her into a tiny room with a single bed in it where a little old woman, a very old woman, sat strapped into a wheelchair. His conductor, seeing him close behind her, shrugged and shook her head as if washing her hands of the whole business. Clara Moss was staring at Michael, and in those dark eyes, half buried in gatherings of wrinkles, he could see she was perfectly intelligent and fitted the lawyer’s description “of sound mind.”
“I know you,” said Clara. “Since I was a girl and you was a little boy. Wait a minute.” It was more than sixty years ago. He knew from photographs and looking in the mirror when he shaved that he was unimaginably changed. Who wouldn’t be? “I think you’re Michael. You couldn’t be no one else.”
His tendency to weep in times of emotion had affected him earlier when remembering George, and now it was back again. This time a tear fell, and then another.
“Well, I’m off,” said the young woman. “See you on Friday, Clara. You owe me twelve pounds forty-nine, but I can pick it up when I come.”
Clara said, “Thank you, Sam. You’re a good girl.”
The front door closed and Clara smiled at Michael. “She don’t like being called a girl but I always forget. It’s not PC, whatever that may mean.”
“Politically correct. Mrs. Moss, it’s very good to see you. Would you like to come out of that chair?”
“I would, but then I can’t get to my kitchen or the WC.”
He hadn’t heard it called that since he was very young. “Water closet,” the letters stood for. It was toilet to everyone now. “I could make us a cup of tea. Shall I?”
“In a minute,” she said. “You tell me what you’ve been doing all these years.”
So he did, but he made the tea first in a spotless kitchen where everything was so neatly and properly arranged that no one could fail to find what they were looking for. He rearranged the wheelchair for her, propping her with pillows from the bed and a big cushion. She had, she told him, a “bit of a dicky heart,” and a thrombosis in her right leg had left her what the nurse who came in called “incapacitated.” “A cripple, she means, but she’s a good girl. Kindness itself.”
He told her about Zoe and his law degree, becoming a solicitor and marrying Babette, then his happy life with Vivien and their children. Hardly knowing why he did, he said, “My father is still alive. He’s nearly a hundred now.”
“Lives with you, does he?”
“I’ve only seen him once since I was a boy.”
Her face sank into even deeper lines, her forehead corrugated. “They say the good die young. Him and me must have been very wicked, then.”
“Not you, Mrs. Moss.”
“No one calls me that no more. The young don’t know the meaning of Mrs. D’you remember your mum? She was a lovely woman—to look at, I mean. Red hair, really red, I mean, not like that Sam. Hers comes out of a packet. That friend of your mum’s that used to come round—I’m not saying there was anything wrong, mind—he had red hair. No one took any notice of it then, it was just ginger hair, but now it’s supposed to be okay on a girl but ugly on a man. Funny the way things change.”
“It is.” Michael thought about what she had just said. “Mrs. Moss, I have to go. May I come back and see you soon? I’ve enjoyed our talk. It’s been wonderful to see you.”
The tears came then and streamed down his cheeks. It was too much for him, Clara Moss herself and his mother and maybe the red hair. He wept, scrubbing at his face with a tissue while she watched him with wide eyes. “Come here,” she said, and as he bent over to kiss her, she reached up and put her arms round his neck. “Poor little boy,” he thought she said, but her voice was too muffled for him to be sure.
IT WASN’T TOMORROW, as he had told the woman at Urban Grange it would be, but the day after. He had thought of little in the intervening time but of Clara Moss and her reminiscences. Was it true that redheaded men were thought ugly? Certainly red hair must be considered beautiful on a woman or so many with perfectly pretty hair wouldn’t dye it chestnut or crimson or copper or burgundy or russet or, as people used to say, carrots. Anita’s hair was naturally chestnut and her eyes were almost navy blue. He could remember that well. Lewis Newman had red hair, or had once when they were at school.
Most of it was gone now and what remained was a pale gingery grey. He couldn’t remember Lewis’s father’s hair. Darkish, he supposed, a sort of dull brown like most people’s. He would be long dead now, like everyone else’s father except his. He picked up the handset, walked about a bit carrying it, repeating the number to himself, then dialling it.
Posh-voice answered. “Oh, yes, Mr. Winwood. You wanted to know if you should visit your father. I’d say yes, of course. He’s perfectly well—well, he’s very old, of course, so little ailments are to be expected, but he’s really remarkable for his age.”
“When should I come?”
“I think we told you when you last spoke to us that we have had a most unfortunate mishap at Urban Grange. One of our inquilines had an accident and we thought we were going to lose her. But thanks to the truly wonderful medical attention our medical staff give, it looks as if all will be well.”
“When shall I come?”
“Shall we say next week? Any day that suits you. Shall we say in the afternoon, perhaps the late afternoon for tea?”
16
THE PILLS THE doctor prescribed gave her a night’s sleep. You couldn’t call it a “good” night’s sleep, but it was eight hours of unconsciousness. Rosemary’s trouble, among others, was that since her wedding night she had hardly ever slept alone. There had been the three nights when Alan stayed at his mother’s when his father died, and the times when the children were born, but that was all. Now she thought she would never sleep again without pills. Although the pills worked, she would wake up, at first to reach for Alan, then, and soon, realise that he wasn’t there, that he had left her and she was alone.
Her children and her grandchildren were good to her. All of them took her side unreservedly. All of them thought she had been cruelly treated, and even Owen and the husbands said Alan must have succumbed to senility. This was the onset of Alzheimer’s. She was getting tired of that word. This woman, this Daphne whatever she was called, must have seduced him when he was bewildered, unable to understand his sudden loss of memory and his confusion. Owen went to call on him and Daphne, all set to compel his father to pack his bags and leave with him, but instead found himself accepting a glass of wine and only with reluctance refusing to stay for supper. He told Rosemary the pair of them had been recalcitrant, a word he had to define to his puzzled mother, which rather took the force out of it. Fenella was more to be reckoned with and treated Alan and Daphne to a long diatribe on her grandmother’s sufferings and told them what they knew already, that Freya was pregnant. Alan’s absence would take away all the joy Rosemary would feel in the birth of this new great-grandchild.
Alan settled things for the time being by dismissing her: “Oh, go away, Fenella. You’ve said your piece and it’s not your business anyway.”
“Isn’t it?” Daphne asked when Fenella had gone.
“No, I don’t think it is. It’s my children’s certainly, but not my grandchildren’s. That’s too far removed.”
Fenella walked up the road to Freya’s flat. “I’ve seen Granddad. It’s a funny thing to say at his age, but he’s grown. I mean in strength. It’s not long since he never stood up for himself. He really couldn’t stand having Callum and Sybilla around, you know. I could tell, I’m not a psychologist for nothing, but he never said, he just put up with it. He wouldn’t now. He’s grown strong. Must be her doing. I shan’t tell Grandma, of course. She’s in a bad enough way as it is.”
“Did you tell him about the baby?”
“Well, I did, Frey, but I can’t say it made much impression. Sorry but he hardly seemed to notice.”
“That’s the Alzheimer’s,” said Freya.
It would be a good idea, Judith said to Rosemary, to come and stay with her for a week or two. For longer, if she wanted to. She shouldn’t be alone. Rosemary refused. She had to be in the Traps Hill flat, she said, in case Alan came back.
She had done no dressmaking since he went. She cooked nothing unless it was a scrambled egg or to heat up some ready meal in the microwave. The long walks she had taken with Alan were a thing of the past; she missed her weekly visits to the hairdresser and gave up the bridge club. In the old days, as she saw her long marriage, she wouldn’t have thought twice about writing a condolence letter to Maureen Batchelor, but no letter had been written and no visit to Carisbrooke had been paid. She stayed at home, deeply miserable. Alan occasionally phoned, mostly to ask if she was all right. Was there anything she needed? Was she all right for money? He seemed to understand that as she had never paid a bill since her marriage or filled in a form or questionnaire from the council, she might need help. She said Owen or Judith saw to all that, and then, invariably, she began to cry.
“You can’t go on like this,” said Judith. “You’ll be ill.”
“If I’m ill, I might die and that would all be for the best.”
“I would never have advised this,” said Judith, who could be pompous, “but I think it might be a good idea if you were to go there and see him. Talk to him. I’ll come with you if you like. I know exactly where it is. We could have lunch with Freya and walk down to Hamilton Terrace.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rosemary snapped, jolted out of her despair and unusually sarcastic. “Make a party of it, why don’t you, and invite the neighbours. This is my life, Judith. This is my life, and your father has wrecked it.”
“Shall we go then?”
“Yes, all right, why not? Things can’t be worse than they are.”
Unlike her daughter and her brother, Judith announced her projected visit in advance. She wrote her father a letter, which arrived on a Saturday morning along with flyers, communications from the City of Westminster, mail-order catalogues, and pleas for charitable donations. When the post came, Alan and Daphne were sitting up in bed eating the breakfast Alan had just prepared and brought upstairs. They had passed the muesli stage and were beginning on the egg-and-bacon course when the bell rang. Alan went down again in his dressing gown. It was the postman, hoping to deliver a package from a friend for Daphne’s birthday. Recognising his daughter’s handwriting on an envelope, Alan wanted to ignore it but knew he would have to open it sometime. He took it and the package upstairs, where his egg was getting cold. Daphne took the package from him and began opening it.
“Look, a very pretty scarf. Isn’t that kind? Alan, what’s wrong? You’re wearing a bad-news look.”
“Rosemary wants to come here next Tuesday or Wednesday. Up to us. Judith will bring her.”
ON HER WAY HOME from visiting Freya, an even more frequent happening since her daughter’s pregnancy was known, Judith drove down the road and round the corner into Hamilton Terrace. If anyone came out of the house or just looked out of the window, they wouldn’t recognise her car. Her father might know the make and the colour, but silver was the most popular shade for a Prius and thousands of them were about. Nice house, she thought, must be worth a fortune. Had it occurred to her mother that her father might have left her because Daphne was a wealthy woman? That he might prefer to live here than in a suburban flat? Judith dismissed the thought, though it would certainly be pleasant sharing such a palace, with its covered way leading up to the front porch, its front garden with its pair of lawns and tubs that overflowed with trailing Thalia fuchsias.
Driving across London was not pleasant. Roadworks clogged the streets, and bad-tempered motorists swore and screamed. Her nerves were shattered by the time she was back in Chiswick. If they kept to the plan she had made, they would go on the tube. Rosemary said Judith would have to organise it as she hadn’t the faintest idea how to get to St. John’s Wood. She had only once been there and that was “ages ago” when the children were small and they went to the zoo. Alan had been told on the phone to expect them at about three.
Not the kind of woman who bakes cakes or even serves tea as a meal and not as a cup of the stuff, Daphne walked up to the High Street
, where she bought a box of meringues and another of petits fours. It seemed ridiculous, as she told herself, but not as ridiculous as dressing up in a special dress and special shoes would be. She put the cakes on two plates and some milk in a jug.
“I can do that,” said Alan.
“Okay.” She was not usually so laconic.
Upstairs, at two thirty, she looked at herself in the mirror, in one of her everyday garments of black skirt, light beige jumper, and string of black beads. She took off the beads and put on a leather jacket she had bought years ago but never worn. With its embossed and panelled front, its studs, it was too young for her. It was, she decided, vulgar, common was the word no longer used but somehow appropriate. Shock waves would be aroused in Alan’s wife and daughter. As for him, he wouldn’t even notice. He had laid the table with what she always called “the worst china.” No fuss must be made. If Judith and Rosemary liked to think he and Daphne ate tea like this every day, let them.
“If Rosemary tries to persuade you to go back to her, will you be persuaded?”
“I will not,” he said like someone taking a serious vow.
“I won’t speak about it. I mean not about us, unless she asks me, and then I’ll have to. I can talk about cakes and clothes and this house but not about us.”
He took her in his arms, and to his surprise she clung to him in a way she had never quite done before, while the stiff and shiny leather jacket made an unwelcome barrier between them. “Do you realise that you and I are together because of those hands? We met again because of those hands in a biscuit box?”
“I do now. I never thought I’d be glad of something like that.”
