“Come on, Tom, you know what I’m talking about!” snapped Betty.
Puzzlement faded; light dawned. “You mean the vicar, Mr. Hardcastle, bringing a retired clergyman over for Sunday tea tomorrow? Something about the old chap having visited Crag-stone as a boy and wanting the see the place again before he cops it. And here we are with Mrs. Cake off her feet and no possibility of putting on a decent spread.” Apparently satisfied that he’d answered well enough to avoid being sent to his room, Tom applied himself in an absent manner to the quiche on his plate.
“That’s not it.” Betty set down her water glass with a bang that would do little for its longevity. An hour earlier I would have dismissed this as outraged Barbie behavior. Our brief talk, however, had brought her into better focus. I wasn’t sure whether or not I liked her, but she was no longer a plastic doll. For better or worse she was flesh and blood. There was a spot on the lapel of her blue suit and several chips in her nail polish.
“Then if it’s not the tea party…?” Mrs. Malloy was well on her way to being admitted into the CPC (clean plates club), an honor unequal to that of being a lifelong member of the CFCWA (Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association) but nonetheless nice to have on one’s resume.
“It’s the big swank that’s set for Thursday afternoon,” said Ariel, her mouth full.
Betty ignored the curled lip. “The Milton Moor annual garden party. As I told Ellie, hosting it here has been a tradition. Reverend Hardcastle’s predecessor suggested it to the Gallaghers as a treat for the village children. It was arranged that it be held on the Thursday closest to the middle of July, children to be accompanied by at least one parent. Over the years the event expanded to include any of the local people who wished to attend. We weren’t here for any of the previous ones. But there are games for the children, three-legged and egg-and-spoon races, that sort of thing. Lady Fiona asked if we’d keep the tradition going after we moved in. She made quite a point of saying how much her husband had enjoyed it.”
Rather sweet of her, one would think, fondly sentimental, and yet Betty somehow succeeded in making her ladyship’s request sound sinister. An opportunity to enjoy the delightful sight of laughing, squealing children and thumping adults dancing on her husband’s grave?
“They didn’t entertain much otherwise.” Tom, having finished his quiche, made this contribution without prompting. “Very likely they couldn’t afford to splash about with the fizzy drinks. Apparently they’ve been short of funds for some time now.”
“Think that’s why Mr. Gallagher performed his disappearing act?” Ben raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“She was the one with the money and the house when they married.” Betty’s expression made its point: Lady Fiona, having discovered that her husband had squandered her inheritance, had lost her temper, slapped him with a shovel, and popped him in the wheelbarrow for future planting. “But to get back to the garden party. A couple of hundred people usually show up. Tents and chairs have to be set out, but that can be managed. The huge problem is the food. The Gallaghers, despite any financial difficulties, always put on quite a spread: catered of course, by an exclusive firm. She gave me the name, so that’s who I phoned, weeks ago. But late yesterday afternoon, when I rang to check that they had everything down pat, this nasty male voice ‘reminded’ me”-Betty clenched her hands-“that I’d phoned a couple of days ago to cancel.”
“Did you?” Ariel displayed wide-eyed interest.
“Of course not!”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Malloy looked suitably shocked.
“I said there’d been a mistake, some sort of mix-up, but there was no getting through to that wretched voice. He kept going like a recording, saying it was too late to set things back up; another job had been accepted for that date. And when I really got exasperated and may even have yelled a bit, he said in a horridly haughty manner that I was wasting my breath and his time.”
I sat puzzling over the matter. If there hadn’t been a mix-up-as in the caterer having confused one client with another-who had made that cancellation phone call and why? Was there any reason to look further than the thirteen-year-old girl now neatly arranging her knife and fork on her empty plate?
“Did you ask him if the voice sounded like yours?” Mrs. Malloy was teetering around the table on her high heels, pouring coffee from a silver pot into fluted rimmed cups, a paragon of helpfulness in her nylon and lace pinny.
“I didn’t think. I was too shocked.”
“Darling Betty!” Ariel sympathized. “You must have been ready to chew glass.”
“And then to find out you’d run off!”
“Upsetting,” agreed Tom.
“Think of the talk-lottery winners too stingy to put on a decent spread! I was on the phone all morning before you arrived.” Betty’s gaze circled the table and fixed on Ben. “First one catering firm, then the next, but no luck. Every one of them was booked solid for this coming Thursday. But now you’re here, and you are Tom’s cousin, and”-her laugh was giddily nervous-“as the saying goes, family is family.”
“Blood’s thicker than water,” Ariel chanted.
“I think what Betty is trying to say”-Tom twiddled with his coffee spoon, set it down, then picked it up again-“well, to put it in a nutshell, Ben, it’s like this. If you and Ellie would consider staying on here for a few days-that’s if you can spare the time and don’t need to rush back home-we’d be no end appreciative of your help in getting us out of this fix.”
Ben’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I think we can manage that, don’t you, Ellie? It’ll be like the old days at Uncle Sol’s. Those were some good times.”
“I suppose they were.” Tom looked awkward. “Working that old-fashioned cash register. Perhaps I didn’t get as much out of it as I should.” This not sounding quite right, his fair skin reddened. “What I mean to say is, I don’t think I was cut out to be behind the till.”
“We should have stayed in touch,” said Ben.
“It’s been a lot of years.”
“Tom! Do stop twiddling!” Betty scolded.
“Sorry.” Tom dropped his coffee spoon with a silvery clatter into his saucer.
Betty turned to me. “You said Ben would agree. Some women do know their husbands. Can you persuade him to also work his magic for tomorrow’s afternoon tea?”
“A mini trial run, what could be better? But I’ll need my support team.” His smile took in Tom and Ariel but lingered on Mrs. Malloy, who was looking seriously put out.
“Well, I don’t know as I can say what’ll I’ll be doing or where I’ll be tomorrow afternoon, Mr. H,” she responded huffily. “It could be my sister will beg me to stay with her. Then again, maybe she won’t and I’ll find meself a nice hotel with one of them services offering back massages and facials.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” cried Betty in alarm. “I meant for you to stay on here as well; I assumed that would be understood. We want you to feel like one of the family, just as you do at Merlin’s Court.”
“I’ll need time away to see me sister,” Mrs. Malloy said firmly.
“Her employer, Mr. Scrimshank, is invited to tomorrow’s tea.” Betty inspected chipped nail polish. “It seemed a good idea, considering his friendship with Lady Fiona.”
“In that case it’s good I’ll be here to meet him.”
“Lady Fiona is also invited. Mr. Scrimshank claims to have received a phone call from Mr. Gallagher after his disappearance. It was then the police decided there was no further need to investigate.”
“Yes, do stay, Mrs. Malloy! You’re such fun!” Ariel’s eyes sparkled, and again I noticed some pink in her cheeks. Perhaps she would turn into a pretty young woman. But would she be a nice one? That was the question. Was there any point in asking her if it was she who had canceled the caterer?
“Fun? Not when I’m working, I’m not. Can’t be any frolicking about when there’s important jobs to be done. That’s spelled out in the charter of the CFCWA.”
“A local business organization of which Mrs. Malloy is a founding member and two-time chairwoman,” I explained, for the benefit of Tom and Betty’s blank looks.
“The Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association.” Mrs. M’s posture merited her royal purple ensemble. The turn of her head suggested the necessity of keeping a crown on straight. As chairwoman she wore one when presiding at annual meetings, and doubtless the memory lingered. “We have strict rules, Mrs. Hopkins, about honing in on another professional’s territory. I wouldn’t want to go upsetting Mrs. Cake by taking over her sink and cupboards like they was me own. She seemed a nice person. Sad to see her sitting with her foot up on a cushion while we was getting lunch. Had to make her feel out of things. Spoke to me very nice, she did. Told me where to find the washing-up liquid.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Cake will appreciate your pitching in for a few days.” Ben attempted to speed things along, and Tom agreed.
“Well, I wouldn’t want her forced back on her feet before she’s ready.” Mrs. Malloy adjusted her crown. “And I could be a big help getting some of the regular meals, along with keeping things straight while Mr. H is hard at it.”
“Then that’s settled!” Having done battle, Betty sat back.
“Not so fast. There’s the woman that comes in to do the cleaning: Mavis, I think you said her name was. I can’t be treading on her toes neither. It wouldn’t be right. And you’d be in a worse pickle, Mrs. Hopkins, if she was to take umbrage and walk out.”
“She’ll probably do that anyway. I had a set-to with her yesterday afternoon. It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t show up for work on Monday, let alone come in for a couple of hours to help with the tea tomorrow. Like she’d agreed to do.”
“I heard you going at her from three rooms away.” Tom showed emotion beyond his general awkwardness. He looked seriously upset. “It was embarrassing, especially with Val there. She’d just come in with a wallpaper book you had asked her to bring. Needless to say, there was no lingering; she got out the door fast.”
“People will say lottery winners forget how to treat the unfortunates of this world.” Ariel dropped her face in her hands, peeping through her fingers at me.
“Stop talking like you’re the conscience of the nation!” Betty looked ready to explode. “I had every reason to be furious. Mavis was nowhere to be found when I went looking for her. Probably outside smoking a cigarette or however she chooses to kill time. Then she had the nerve to ask me yet again if she could bring her little boy to work with her, because she can’t find anyone to watch him during the school holidays. When I repeated what I’ve said previously, that other women manage, especially ones with husbands sitting at home because they’re too lazy to work, it was Mavis who went off on me, saying she wouldn’t have brought the matter up if Mrs. Cake hadn’t told her she should. And then she flung a dirty dishcloth. She claimed she was aiming for the sink, but it got me smack in the face.”
Ariel giggled through her pried-apart fingers.
“I don’t see why she shouldn’t bring the little boy with her,” Tom said.
“And have him tear up the house!”
“Somebody for me to play with,” Ariel sobered sufficiently to suggest.
“He’s seven! And an absolute brat, from everything I’ve heard.”
“Lady Fiona let him come.” Tom leaned back in his chair, looking tired.
“Oh, that woman’s so vague.” Betty waved a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t have noticed if he’d brought the place down around her. Or that’s the impression she gives. Besides, she didn’t have much left of value sitting around to get smashed. Most of it had gone to the sale room, remember?”
“It does become clear that I am needed here.” Mrs. Malloy assumed the burden with the graciousness befitting a monarch. “And”-her crown slipping just a bit-“it would be interesting to meet Mr. Scrimshank tomorrow afternoon in a social setting. Size him up, so to speak, on me sister’s behalf; see if he’s the gentleman she says he is. Melody don’t understand men, never did. And I wouldn’t want him taking advantage of her, on account of having misread the signals. Like I used to tell her, the way she types, pouring all her repressed passion into pounding them keys, could give any man the idea she’d be all fire and fury if he could get her to stop and take off her glasses and look at him. The London Philharmonic never sounded so good.”
“Prelude on the piano in C minor for the typewriter.” Ben’s amusement wrapped itself around me, drawing me close even though we were seated apart from each other. “Sounds like heady stuff.”
“They’ve worked together for a long time,” I pointed out.
“In every man’s life there is one of those moments when his life flashes before him and he realizes what he has been missing.” Was he remembering the day, the hour, the minute when we met? “Should we all rush over and rescue Mr. Scrimshank before he is swept away on a torrent of thundering chords and forgets he’s a gentleman and an accountant?”
“It’s Saturday. His office will be closed.” Suddenly struck by this realization, I looked at Mrs. Malloy. “This means you’ll have to go to your sister’s home and hope to catch her in.”
“I don’t have the address; she always listed the business one. But it’s no problem; Melody will be working today. It’s Fridays they take off. She’ll be there till five-thirty. She always makes mention of it in her Christmas cards, to fill in the space, I suppose, there not being a lot else for her to say. Not much going on in her private life is my guess.”
“Making it all the nicer she gets to play the typewriter keyboard at work. Maybe she can make a recording sometime.” Ben laughed.
“I hope she has a sense of humor and would be amused by these quips at her expense. Don’t you think you should be setting off, Mrs. Malloy?” I looked at my watch. “It’s after three now.”
“You said you’d come with me.” She got to her feet to a chorus of scraping chairs. “I’ll be needing a lift.”
“There’s a bus you can catch just along the road,” said Betty. “You can see the stop clearly from the bottom of the drive. Old Nanny Pierce still takes the number ninety-four into the village every Wednesday. She says she doesn’t like to put Val to the trouble of taking her, but I expect she likes having her weekly outing to herself and not being tied to a time for getting back.”
“Or I could drive you,” Tom offered.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Malloy inclined her royal head and adjusted her robes. “But if it’s all the same with everyone we’ll leave things as planned. Suit you, Mrs. H?”
I told her I was ready when she was, to which she replied that first she needed to find her handbag. When this turned up alongside her chair, after being stepped on and subsequently picked up by Tom, she whispered in my ear that she could do with going to the lav before setting off. In fact, it would be a real treat. Betty, who obviously had good ears, encouraged her to go and freshen up. There were two powder rooms off the hall, she told us.
Lovely as these were likely to be, we were not destined to use them at that time. Ariel insisted on escorting us to our assigned bedrooms, each of which had its adjoining bathroom. Betty disappeared to have a word with Mrs. Cake. Ben and Tom went companionably outside to bring in the luggage from the Land Rover. And Ariel led Mrs. Malloy and me up the lovely curve of staircase, in the manner of a tour guide in the employment of the National Trust.
Looking at her prim self-important back, I took in the magnitude of what had happened to her. The sudden wealth, the move to splendid surroundings: yes, it all sounded wonderfully exciting in theory. But to suddenly find herself a rich kid without having been brought up to it, her former life swept away as if rolled up in newspaper and put out in the dustbin, people treating her differently… it had to be overwhelming and possibly frightening.
We’ve all heard of people whose lives have been ruined by too much money and insufficient guidance to keep them anchored to reality. Then again, might their problems als
o be blamed on personality flaws? Was there something fundamentally malicious about Ariel’s peeking glances and frequently voiced dislike of Betty? Should I feel sorry for her or be warily on my guard against her schemes? Both, I determined, thinking about my own children and how I always needed to keep one step ahead of them, however dear their little faces and sweet their voices.
We were now walking down a long gallery with the banister railing to our left overlooking the great chandelier-lit pool of the hall below. There were doors to our right, interspersed with portraits and gilded electric lamps on the wall. At a word from Ariel, Mrs. Malloy scuttled into the room that was to be hers, heading directly for the lav, tossing the information over her shoulder that she would wait for me at the top of the stairs, but I wasn’t to rush because she planned on enjoying the moment.
Sincerely hoping she would find the lav provided a throne worthy of her, I followed Ariel past two more doors until she came to one she opened for me. But we didn’t go inside immediately. I had halted before a portrait. Given the subject’s hairstyle, it would appear to have been painted some thirty or forty years previously. It was of a lovely young woman, seated at a small table, looking out a window. Winsome, I thought; that was the word for her: fine-boned, shadowy-eyed, and graceful, even captured as she was in immobility. The turn of her head, the pensive gaze, conveyed a quiet sorrow.
“She looks like she’s watching for someone, hoping he’ll come.” Ariel’s voice made me jump. “Well, it has to be the boyfriend, doesn’t it?”
“You think so?”
“She wouldn’t have that dippy look on her face if it was the milkman or just any old person, would she? I suppose you’ve guessed who she is.”
“Lady Fiona?”
“She asked if she could leave the portrait here until she finds somewhere permanent to live. I must say she’s not bad-looking even now. Her hair’s still fair, not much gray at all really. Betty thinks she’s too skinny for her height and age, but she would; she wants everybody to be fatter than she is. That’s why she’s always trying to get me to stuff myself with food. Especially things I hate, like tapioca and rice puddings.”
Withering Heights Page 8
