by Rosie Harris
As she made her tour, the house seemed vast. Five bedrooms, three rooms downstairs as well as the kitchen and utility room. It did seem rather a crazy idea to go on living there on her own. Even before Reginald had died she had thought it was much too big for them but now, on her own, it was ludicrous.
Yet she didn’t want to leave Willow House. Her roots were here, it was where she’d raised her children. For that reason alone it was special and at the moment she felt that it was the only stable thing in her life.
She went into the kitchen, made herself a coffee and took it back up to bed with her. Propped up against the pillows she sipped it and contemplated her life. She felt so vulnerable that, for the first time in her life, she wished she could pray. She went to church for weddings and funerals like everyone else, but she wasn’t a believer. She understood now, though, how people could derive comfort from prayers and she envied them.
It must be very reassuring to be able to turn to an all-powerful, all-wise presence when you were lonely or beset by problems; to be able to pour out your innermost thoughts and feelings to an invisible presence who wouldn’t condemn or censure you, either by look or word.
Instead of bottling up your fears, guilt or desires you made them known to this unseen deity. It was a kind of psychotherapy, an act of self-indulgence that exonerated your mind and your conscience. The relief must be enormous. And once you’d voiced your peccadilloes and faced up to your imperfections, it was more than likely that you could see a solution to what was troubling you.
Did praying to an unseen God also help to combat loneliness, Margaret wondered. Was that why people flocked to church on Sundays, because it was a meeting place for those who felt lonely and bereft?
It might be the answer for some people, but she was sure it wasn’t right for her. She wasn’t the type who joined clubs. Anyway, she wasn’t looking for new friends – family and friends surrounded her, so it was her own fault if she was alone. Heaven knows she’d had enough invites.
She smiled to herself, remembering Helen’s parting remark. She wondered what Helen’s reaction would be if she rang her right now, at half past two in the morning and said she had changed her mind and wanted to stay at their house, and would one of them drive over and collect her.
She’d better settle down and try to sleep or she really would be talking to herself, she thought wryly, as she drained her cup and put it down on the bedside table.
Before she switched off the light, she turned on the radio. She’d always longed to lie in bed and listen to music, but had never been able to do so for fear of disturbing Reginald. His bedtime routine never varied. He always read for ten minutes precisely and then put out his bedside light and expected her to do the same. After so many years it became a habit.
She found the music soothing. She snuggled down beneath the duvet and it lulled her into a floating dreamlike state. Her body felt so feather-light that she ran the tips of her fingers over her arms and breasts just to reassure herself that she was still there.
In response her body trembled, shivers meandered across her shoulders. With quick little butterfly touches Margaret stroked herself again. Her breath became ragged. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensations that swept through her. Her mind went blank. It was as if an unseen force, over which she had no control, had taken possession of her pulsating body. The tension mounted until, suddenly, she felt a cascading release.
The lilting strains of a string orchestra drifted from the radio. She knew she ought to turn it off, but she felt so utterly drained that she couldn’t make the effort to do so.
It didn’t matter anyway. There was no one to grumble about the noise and she quite liked the idea of waking up in the morning to the sound of music.
Five
Charles Wright folded up his Times newspaper and pushed his chair back from the breakfast table with the smooth, confident gesture of a man with a purpose in life.
He straightened his light blue silk tie, flicked crumbs from the front of the well-cut jacket of his navy pinstripe suit and ran a neatly manicured hand over his receding dark hair.
‘Five minutes,’ he announced to no one in particular.
‘I’m ready.’ Petra uncurled her skinny, black-clad legs from around the rungs of her chair and stood up, smoothing down her pleated skirt and slipping her arms into the royal blue blazer draped on the back of her chair.
‘Good! How about you, Amanda?’
Amanda sniffled loudly. ‘I want my hair in a plait.’
‘Come here.’ Helen put down her cup, swivelled round in her chair, pulled Amanda towards her and deftly began to plait the mousy brown hair.
‘Can we phone Grandma before we go to school?’
Helen looked across at Charles.
Charles glanced at his watch, impatiently. ‘Not now! We’re late as it is.’
‘We really ought to phone to see if she is all right,’ pleaded Petra.
‘Of course she’s all right. You only saw her yesterday.’
‘Oh Mummy, can we phone Grandma?’ Amanda wailed.
‘I’ll phone her later on … not now in case she’s having a lie-in,’ Helen promised.
‘Good! That’s settled.’ Charles gave his wife an approving look. She was wearing a crisp white blouse tucked into a blue denim skirt and looked as efficient as a hospital matron and her tone was as authoritative.
‘You won’t forget, Mum, will you?’ Petra persisted anxiously.
‘Of course not. I might even take you both over to see her after you come out of school.’
‘Splendid!’ Charles smiled his approval. ‘See if you can persuade her to come and stay with us for a few days,’ he added as he kissed his wife’s cheek.
Conscience cleared, Charles strode out into the hall and picked up his briefcase and his umbrella. ‘Come along then, girls, or you’ll be late for school and I have a very busy day ahead, so don’t waste time.’
Flanked by Petra on one side and Amanda on the other, Charles Wright hurried out to where his maroon Jaguar was parked on the gravel driveway in front of the house.
‘Are you going over to see your mother this morning?’ asked Mark Shepherd as he bent to kiss his wife goodbye before setting out for the surgery.
‘Probably. I thought of going over there some time today to help her sort out Dad’s belongings. The sooner she gets rid of them the better.’
Mark frowned. ‘Don’t rush her too much. She needs a period of mourning, you know. It’s an essential part of the mental healing process, remember.’
‘I thought she was doing very well. She wasn’t at all weepy yesterday.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. She should have been in tears. Especially at the crematorium.’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a shock … Dad dying, I mean. She’s been expecting it for years, ever since he had that heart attack, hasn’t she.’
‘Death is always a tremendous shock for those close to the person who has died,’ responded Mark in clipped professional tones.
‘You’re assuming that my mother is one of your normal medical cases. She’s not.’
‘They’d been married for over forty years, for heaven’s sake, so it was bound to come as a shock!’
‘You won’t have to remind her of that,’ Alison snapped. ‘In fact, if you want my opinion I think she’s feeling relieved that Dad’s dead.’
Mark shook his head in disbelief. ‘You really are a heartless bitch at times,’ he told her disparagingly.
‘No, I’m not. I’m just stating the truth. Would you have liked to live with him?’
‘That’s not the point, is it?’
‘Well, come on; be honest.’ Alison’s grey eyes were challenging.
Before Mark could answer, Christopher breezed into the room. He was dressed ready for school in black trousers and maroon blazer, a black haversack style satchel over one shoulder. He looked from his father to his mother impatiently.
‘Which one of you is takin
g me to school this morning?’
‘Your mother will …’
‘Your father …’
They spoke simultaneously.
‘I’m not dressed yet,’ protested Alison, clutching her blue quilted dressing gown more tightly round her.
‘I’ll come with you then, Dad. Are you ready yet? I hate being late.’
‘Coming.’
Mark paused in the doorway to look back at his wife. ‘Take it easy with your mother, Alison. Don’t … don’t bully her.’
Joseph and Hetty Chapman walked into the farmhouse-style kitchen of their house together. It was ten o’clock, time for their morning break. They had both been hard at work since seven o’clock that morning and were looking forward to the chance to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee and some digestive biscuits and compare notes.
For Hetty it was the best part of the day. She loved the crisp freshness of the early morning especially when the sun rose in a dazzling blaze in the east, glinting across the span of glasshouses that made up their market garden complex.
The air was as fresh and invigorating as a glass of spring water. It was the time of day she felt full of enthusiasm for their enterprise and bursting with new ideas.
She liked to be able to tour the glasshouses before any of the staff arrived, to take stock of what was for sale and note down any changes or improvements in their display or layout that she felt needed to be made.
Joseph carried out much the same routine, only for him it was more practical; new bedding, pricking out seedlings, potting up and irrigation work.
Then, when she and Joseph met up for coffee, they would air their opinions about what they had seen and make decisions. They’d discuss the marketing strategy for the day, what work needed to be carried out and deal with any staff problems that may have arisen.
They worked as a team; they always had. It was the secret, not only of their business success, but also of the long-lasting camaraderie between them. They even dressed alike: blue denim jeans, Arran sweaters, peaked denim caps and green Wellingtons. Often, because they were the same height and of similar build, it was difficult to tell them apart when they were working.
Their mid-morning break was also the time of day when they aired any personal problems that might have arisen. Today they both shared the same thoughts, their concern over Joseph’s sister, Margaret Wright.
‘I must say, our Margaret stood up to things very well yesterday,’ murmured Joseph, dunking a digestive biscuit into his coffee.
‘Mm! She looked to me as though she was in a daze,’ Hetty commented.
‘Well, stands to sense she is. Not been easy for her since Reginald retired now has it,’ Joseph defended.
‘I’d say that it completely changed her lifestyle,’ Hetty mused, shaking her grey head from side to side.
‘She used to be so independent at one time, nipping about here, there and everywhere in her car.’
‘Reginald getting rid of her car put a stop to all that.’
‘That’s true. It certainly put an end to her popping over to see us.’
‘A shame, really; she got so much pleasure out of looking round the nursery, didn’t she?’
‘Well, she’ll be able to fill her house with plants and flowers now he’s gone,’ Joseph sighed noisily. ‘Him and his hay fever; I reckon a lot of that was put on, you know.’
‘Of course it was. He was showing his authority.’
‘I never understood why she put up with it.’
‘She wanted a quiet life, that’s why. You know how domineering he could be when he was roused.’
‘Mm! Arrogant old bugger.’ Joseph’s weather-beaten face creased into a grin. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are having an easy-going chap like me for a husband, do you?’
They smiled in unison, happy and at ease with each other knowing they felt the same on this matter as they did on most topics.
Joseph emptied his mug and put it down on the table. ‘Do you think I ought to pop over some time today and see if she’s all right?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I’ll go after lunch, if you like. You’ve got the soil analyst coming this afternoon.’
‘So I have. I’d forgotten about him for a minute. You go then. Why don’t you take a pot plant along with you? That would cheer her up no end.’
‘I thought I’d go over and see my sister-in-law today, what do you think?’
Jack Smart stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked at his wife in surprise. ‘You only saw her yesterday.’
Hilda Smart patted her tightly curled grey hair, nervously. ‘I know but I didn’t get a chance to really talk to her.’
He looked puzzled. ‘What on earth do you want to talk to her about?’
‘Well, things … you know … Reginald’s things.’
‘Do you mean his clothes and such like?’
‘That’s right. She’s bound to throw them all out.’ Her mouth set in a disapproving line.
‘They wouldn’t fit me! Reginald was twice my size and he had a great paunch on him.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of his clothes,’ persisted Hilda, ‘but you do take the same size in shoes.’
‘I don’t want any of his belongings!’ Jack rejected the idea firmly, shaking his grey head to emphasize the point.
‘What about his golf clubs?’
‘I wouldn’t mind those if no one else wants them. Always bought the best did Reginald.’
‘I’ll ask her about them then.’
‘I suppose Margaret will be getting rid of them. That’s if she hasn’t done so already,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Reginald hasn’t played golf since he had his heart attack.’
‘I’ll find out, shall I?’
‘It might be an idea but not today. Makes us look like vultures so soon after the funeral.’
‘If we leave it then someone else will probably jump in and have them.’
‘That’s a chance we’ll have to take. I don’t want to upset Margaret just for the sake of a set of old golf clubs.’
‘I don’t think it would upset her. She didn’t look very upset at the funeral, or afterwards. Smiling and chatting with people as if it was a birthday party, certainly not a wake.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a wake as you call it. Your family’s not Irish nor are they Roman Catholic. It was just a gathering of Reginald’s friends. A farewell.’
‘Call it what you like, Margaret certainly seemed to be enjoying herself,’ Hilda retorted sharply. ‘Even our Gillian commented on it when we came home.’
Jack shrugged his scrawny shoulders and fastened his raincoat. ‘I’m going to be late. See you tonight.’
‘If I’m back from seeing Margaret by the time you get home.’
‘You mean you are going there today?’
‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’
‘I thought it was your Women’s Institute meeting this afternoon?’
‘It is but it won’t hurt to give it a miss for once. You’ve got to get your priorities right, haven’t you?’
Dr Gerry Cook made a note on the pad on his desk to phone Margaret Wright the moment his surgery was over.
He’d known the Wrights and their family both socially and as their doctor for over twenty years and he was more than a little bemused by Margaret’s manner at the funeral.
Come to think of it, he told himself, she had been a little strange when Reginald had collapsed the previous Saturday afternoon.
Of course Reginald had known ever since his heart attack that he had a heart condition and presumably Margaret had prepared herself for something like this happening. Even so, she had been remarkably self-controlled when she’d called him out. No trace of distress or panic at all.
He had expected her to show signs of grief at the funeral service, certainly so at the crematorium. Very few close relatives could hold back their tears when the coffin containing the body of their loved one was being carried down the aisle. Those final moments before the coffin rolled
away out of sight were the most traumatic of all, yet she had remained dry-eyed and calm even then.
He’d been called away before the end of the gathering at Willow House but, from what he had seen even then surrounded by family and old friends, she had seemed to be in complete control of her emotions.
He hoped it didn’t mean there was going to be trouble in the future. Holding back grief, trying to brave it out, so often resulted in a breakdown later on. He’d give her a ring as soon as he’d finished surgery and, if necessary, call in and see her when he went on his rounds.
Six
Steven Wright shrugged himself into the jacket of his smart grey suit. ‘Will you drop in and see Mother some time today or shall I?’ he asked, jingling his car keys impatiently.
Sandra looked up from the newspaper she was reading, a piece of toast poised halfway to her mouth. ‘She’s your mother,’ she protested.
‘I know that but I have a heavy day. I have to be in Warwick by ten for an area meeting and I’m not sure what time I will be able to get home.’
‘You can speak to her on your car phone as you’re travelling, can’t you?’
His mouth tightened. ‘Yes, OK. I’ll try to do that if you think you are going to be too busy to see her.’
Sandra pursed her thin lips. ‘I might manage to get around to see her after I’ve picked Matthew up from school.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ shouted Matthew. ‘Let’s do that, Mum. I like going to see Gran. She gives me coke and choccy bickies.’
‘Bickies, bickies, choccy bickies.’ His sister Hannah, younger than him by eighteen months, banged noisily on the tray of her high chair.
‘Quiet, Hannah!’ Sandra pressed a hand to her forehead.
‘Well, are you going to see Mother or not?’
‘Oh all right, I’ll do it.’ Sandra slammed the newspaper down on to the breakfast table angrily. ‘I don’t suppose I have any choice, do I!’
‘Just say one way or the other, that’s all I’m asking.’
‘I’ve said I’ll go and see her when I pick Matthew up. What more do you want me to say?’
‘Fine.’ He bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘See you tonight. Don’t wait for me for dinner, I might be late.’
