by Rosie Harris
It had been lucky for her that there had been a spare set of car keys hanging in the hall otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to use the BMW, she mused.
‘Your passport is up to date?’ The girl’s voice was edged with impatience.
Margaret shrugged helplessly. ‘I … I don’t really know. It’s quite some time since I used it.’
She felt uneasy and all hot and bothered. She ran her hand over her forehead pushing back the strands of hair that had fallen over her face.
‘I think I’d better find it and make sure it’s in order before I book.’
The girl didn’t answer, but her manner as she swept her papers together spoke volumes. Her voice was hostile as she snapped, ‘Good morning,’ and moved away to attend to someone else.
Tears of defeat misting her eyes, Margaret made her way back to the car park, and began looking for the BMW. She was sure she had been on Ground Floor A, but although she walked down every aisle she couldn’t see it.
I can’t have lost it. It’s bigger that most other cars and such a distinctive colour I should be able to spot it, she told herself. I must be on the wrong floor.
The lift wasn’t working so she walked up the concrete steps to the next floor. This time she stood at the end of each row and let her eyes do the work of searching for her. The BMW wasn’t there.
There were five levels. She knew it hadn’t been the top level because that was open to the sky. Starting at the level below that she worked her way down, checking each row methodically.
Her feet were aching and her nerves ragged, by the time she located it. The annoying thing was that it had been on Ground Floor A all the time. She couldn’t understand how she had missed it the first time.
The ticket machine registered four hours. Four hours, and she had achieved nothing, nothing except frustration.
Nine
‘Your mother phoned about ten minutes ago. Apparently she just missed you at the office,’ Helen called out from the kitchen as her husband walked into the house.
Charles groaned. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
He dropped his monogrammed, black leather briefcase on to a chair in the hall in a gesture of despair. He’d had a hard day, and to be greeted by that piece of news the moment he came through the front door was just too much. Helen could have waited until he’d had a drink, he thought irritably.
‘It was something to do with her passport. I couldn’t quite follow. She said you had the keys to your father’s bureau, and so she couldn’t open it and she thinks that her passport is in there. She asked me to make sure you rang her the minute you got in. You’d better do it; she seemed to be in a bit of a state.’
‘It can wait until I’ve had a drink, surely!’
‘That’s up to you, darling. If you’re pouring one then I’ll have a gin and tonic. Could you bring it through into the kitchen?’
‘Will do. I’ll just get changed first, though.’
‘Do I take it you didn’t go round to see Mother, today?’ Charles asked ten minutes later, as he placed Helen’s drink down on the work surface.
He had changed out of his navy pinstripe suit into sludge-coloured cords and a tan and navy sweater over a tan polo shirt. He looked relaxed as he hoisted himself up on one of the tall kitchen stools and sipped his whisky and soda.
Helen tasted her drink and pulled a face. ‘More tonic than gin in this, isn’t there?’ she commented sharply.
‘Did you go and see Mother?’ Charles repeated ignoring her comment about the drink.
‘Of course! I went round there just as you asked.’
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t in.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Ten … half past … I don’t know! What does it matter? She was out.’
‘Did you notice if she’d gone out in Dad’s car?’
‘I couldn’t help but do so. The garage doors were wide open. Anyone could have walked up the drive, and helped themselves to the lawnmower, or any of the gardening tools in there. Your father would have had a fit. You know how particular he always was about the garage doors being kept locked.’
‘Half past ten this morning. You’re sure about that?’
‘About then. Why?’
‘Well, I had a phone call from Simon Wood, the manager of Bridge Garage, just before lunch. Apparently, Mother was in their showroom trying to swap Dad’s BMW for a Mercedes coupe.’
‘She was doing what?’ Helen’s green eyes hardened like diamonds. ‘You’ve got to stop her.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s impossible for her to do it because the car was registered in Dad’s name and—’
‘It wasn’t his to leave to her anyway, was it?’ Helen interrupted.
‘No, not really. For tax reasons it was a company car the same as mine is. Even though he’d retired he still had a holding in the firm so that meant he could keep his car and his membership of BUPA and so on. Simon Wood guessed this was the case because he’d dealt with the paperwork when Dad changed his car about a year before he retired.’
‘Did he tell your Mother that?’
‘Well, no. He rang me instead. He knew about Dad dying last week and … well … he didn’t say so in as many words, but he thought Mother seemed a little odd. Distressed, you know. He assumed it was because of what had happened and told her he’d reserve the Mercedes she wanted to buy but there were certain details that had to be sorted out before he could release it. As soon as she left he phoned me.’
‘Well, that wasn’t what she was phoning you about.’
Charles took another mouthful of his drink and looked at his wife quizzically. ‘How do you know?’
‘I told you only, as usual, you weren’t listening.’
‘Told me what?’
‘It’s something to do with her passport. She said your father kept it locked up in his bureau and that she didn’t have a key.’
‘So what does she expect me to do about it … break the lock?’
‘She seems to think you have his keys. He kept them at the office or something.’
‘Not that I know of.’ He picked up Helen’s empty glass. ‘Want another?’
‘No. Not at the moment. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes. I’ve put a bottle of Chablis in the fridge to have with it.’
‘Good!’ He drained his whisky and put the glass down on the draining board. ‘I’d better go and phone Mother then before we start eating, or she’ll be ringing up in the middle of our meal.’
Helen frowned. ‘She’ll probably insist that you go over and see her.’
‘If she does she will have to wait until tomorrow.’
‘I’ve been to Margaret’s place twice today, and she’s still not in,’ grumbled Hilda Smart as she poured her husband a cup of tea.
‘I wonder where she’s been. Gadding off and enjoying herself, I suppose?’ Jack said with a smile as he cut into the meat pie on the plate in front of him.
‘She probably can’t bear being in the house on her own,’ he went on. ‘It gets people like that, you know, after they’ve lost someone close to them. They can’t stand the sound of silence. It seems to close in on them. Frightening thought, really.’
‘I wouldn’t know, I never get the chance to be on my own for more than half an hour,’ Hilda replied tartly.
‘Think yourself lucky, then. I bet that’s why Margaret was out, because she couldn’t cope with being in the house on her own.’
‘Well, you may be right. The point is, though, I didn’t get a chance to ask her about Reginald’s golf clubs.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’ll let me have them, if she’s still got them when next I see her. Like I said, though, she’s probably got rid of them by now.’
‘Or had them stolen.’
‘Stolen?’ Jack spread his pie liberally with home-made chutney. ‘What do you mean, whatever makes you say a thing like that?’
‘If she’s as careless with them as she is with
the rest of her things then it’s more than likely,’ Hilda told him primly. ‘Do you know, she’d gone out and left the garage doors wide open. All those expensive gardening tools hanging there and that new electric lawnmower that Reginald bought only last year, and—’
‘Left the garage doors open? Are you saying she’d gone out in his BMW?’
‘Well it wasn’t in the garage and as I keep telling you, she wasn’t there either.’
‘I can’t believe she’d do that! Reginald wouldn’t even consider letting her drive it. He always said it was much too powerful for a woman to control.’
‘Typical! He would say a thing like that.’
‘He was probably right! He usually was about such matters. She’ll have an accident if she tries to drive it. It’s much too high-powered for her to handle.’
‘Well, it wasn’t in the garage and as I said, the doors had been left wide open. Anyone could have walked in and taken whatever they’d wanted.’
Jack speared up the last bit of pie. ‘She shouldn’t be living there on her own, not at a time like this. She needs company, someone to keep an eye on her.’
‘It’s not your problem, so don’t start thinking it is,’ warned Hilda. ‘She’s got two sons as well as a daughter to take care of her.’
‘True, but they’ve got families of their own to keep them busy.’
‘So have you! And don’t you start calling round there to see if there’s any odd jobs she wants doing. She’ll put on you. She’ll have you climbing up ladders, or lifting things and the next thing you’ll be laid up and I’ll have all the trouble of looking after you.’
‘Margaret wouldn’t put on anybody. That’s the trouble with her, she’s too independent!’
‘Huh!’ Hilda exploded in anger. ‘I’ve never noticed it.’
‘It’s a pity she doesn’t go and stay with her sister, Vivienne,’ Jack went on, ignoring his wife’s look of incredulity. ‘Or have Vivienne to live with her. They’re both widows now so they’d be company for each other. Save money, too, having only one house to run between them.’
‘You’re talking through your hat, Jack Smart! Margaret can’t stand her sister and Vivienne Peterson can’t bear to be in the same room as Margaret for more than ten minutes, and well you know it.’
‘What an utter load of twaddle!’
‘Then why was Vivienne one of the first to leave after Reginald’s funeral? Answer me that? You can’t. Well I’ll tell you. It’s because she doesn’t hit it off with Margaret, and never has done.’
‘Rubbish, woman!’
‘It’s not rubbish. They’re as different as chalk and cheese. You’ve only got to look at them to see that.’
Jack laughed. ‘You mean that Vivienne’s like a little grey mouse and Margaret’s more of a bird of paradise.’
‘I mean that Vivienne is crippled with arthritis. It would cramp Margaret’s style if they were living together and she had her to look after.’
‘Yes, I suppose Margaret deserves the chance to enjoy herself. She’s certainly had a dull sort of life since Reginald had his heart attack,’ reflected Jack.
‘That’s what happens when you marry a man who’s nearly old enough to be your father. Married for money, didn’t she? I can remember when our Reginald first brought her home. Made up to the nines and dressed to kill she was, with her stiletto heels and nipped-in waist. Made me feel like a real dumpling.’
‘She’s still as slim now as she was when I first met her,’ mused Jack.
‘Slim? I’d call it scrawny. Bit of fat helps to pad out your cheeks, and keeps the wrinkles at bay.’
‘I never noticed that Margaret had any wrinkles.’
‘How would you or anyone else know, for that matter? The amount of make-up she piles on camouflages what’s underneath.’
‘Make-up! Margaret? She doesn’t bother with any of that sort of stuff!’
‘Of course she does! You surely don’t think for one moment that her skin would look that soft and creamy without any help, do you? Even the colour in her cheeks comes out of a pot!’
‘She uses it very discreetly then. I’d not noticed.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ his wife told him scornfully. ‘You’ve always had a soft spot for her.’
‘She’s a lovely person. Quietly spoken, kind, always looks nice, never wears anything too outrageous …’
‘She certainly hasn’t done so since Reginald retired,’ sneered Hilda. ‘I was only thinking the other day how dowdy she looked. Probably see quite a change in her now,’ she added with a prophetic gleam in her beady brown eyes.
‘I forgot to tell you, I saw your Margaret today,’ Hetty Chapman remarked as she placed the paperback she’d been reading face down on her bedside table, and switched off the reading lamp on her side of the bed.
‘So you did manage to find time to pop round to see her then.’ Joseph’s arm went round his wife’s plump body, drawing it closer to his own in the big double bed. ‘How was she?’
‘I didn’t manage to speak to her. I saw her when I was delivering some plants to Bladon’s. She was driving along Cookham High Street.’
‘Driving?’
‘Yes. She was in Reginald’s BMW.’
‘Are you sure about that? She always said he wouldn’t let her drive it.’
Hetty chuckled. ‘Well, he’s not around any longer to stop her, is he!’
‘Well, well, you do surprise me. Did Margaret see you?’
‘No. At least, I shouldn’t think so.’ Hetty yawned loudly. ‘She was concentrating on the traffic. You know how congested it always is in the High Street. I’ll pop over and see her tomorrow if I can fit it in.’
For a long time after Joseph had settled down to sleep with a steady, rhythmic snore, Hetty lay awake thinking about her sister-in-law.
It had been Reginald’s car alright. She had a good memory for number plates. Anyway, who could forget it? RW 1000. He’d had that registration for as long as she could remember. He always transferred it from one car to the next. She wasn’t sure whether he did so because he felt that it made him appear important, or whether he did it so that no one knew when he bought a new one.
It was well after ten o’clock when Steven Wright parked his dark blue Rover outside his house, and let himself in with his latchkey. There was a thin sliver of light, and the sound of a TV sitcom, with its loud spurts of canned laughter, coming from the sitting room, but the rest of the house was in darkness.
He found Sandra curled up on the settee, her eyes glued to the screen, a vodka and tonic on the small table beside her, She was wearing a white towelling dressing gown over black silk pyjamas and as he bent to kiss her he caught a whiff of the heady smell of the exotic bath oil he’d given her at Christmas.
‘Your meal’s in the microwave and I’ll have a coffee if you’re making one,’ she told him as she freed herself from his embrace.
On his way to the kitchen, Steven shed his jacket, and hung it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. He set the microwave to four minutes, checked the kettle had some water in it and switched it on. Then he found a tray, put a knife, fork and salt on it, spooned Nescafé into two mugs and placed them on a tray as well and then waited for the microwave to ping and the kettle to boil.
The kettle was first so he poured water over the granules and topped both mugs up with milk from the fridge. By the time he had done that his meal was warmed through so he piled the plate and mugs of coffee on to the tray and took the whole lot through to the sitting room.
Sandra was still watching television. The late news had already started. He handed her a mug of coffee and balancing the tray on his knees settled down in an armchair to watch.
‘You’re going to spill that coffee,’ warned Sandra, flicking her straight blonde hair back from her face.
Silently he removed it from the tray and put it on the floor beside his chair.
Sandra sipped at her cup of coffee. ‘Did you phone your mother?’ she asked, look
ing across at him.
‘No. I didn’t get a chance. Did you go and see her?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t think there was much point.’
‘Why not?’ He looked across the room in surprise, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth.
‘She wasn’t in.’
‘How do you know she wasn’t if you didn’t go to see her?’
‘I was going to call and see her on the way home from collecting Matthew from school, since it’s the kids she likes to see not me …’
‘Well?’ Steven used the remote control to kill the sound on the television.
‘Don’t switch off, I’m watching that,’ Sandra wailed petulantly.
‘The news?’ Steven’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Come off it, you never watch the news. Not unless you think there might be something special on.’
‘Do you mind!’ She glowered at him furiously. ‘Put it back on. I want to see the programme that’s coming on next.’
‘I’ll switch it back on for that. Now, tell me what happened when you went to see Mum.’
‘I’ve already told you, I didn’t go round to see her. One of the women waiting at school said she’d seen her in Maidenhead, so there wasn’t any point in me driving to Willow House.’
‘I wonder what she was doing in Maidenhead?’ mused Steven.
‘Oh, I know what she was doing!’ Sandra smiled smugly, waiting for Steven to stop eating and look up. When she had his complete attention she said, ‘She was booking a holiday to Cyprus.’
‘She was doing what?’
‘You heard what I said. She was in the travel agents, booking a holiday to Cyprus.’
Steven stared at his wife utterly bemused. ‘How do you know that?’
‘This woman had called in to pick up some theatre tickets, and she overheard all that was being said. They booked her into a hotel in Limassol!’
‘She’s going to Cyprus on her own?’
Sandra shrugged. ‘It looks like it. She was only booking one seat. Hardly the grieving widow.’
‘Sandra!’ Steven frowned with annoyance. He knew his wife didn’t particularly like his mother, but there was no need to make snide comments like that, he thought angrily.
