The Thin Woman

by Dorothy Cannell

  I began work on the master bedroom, unoccupied since Merlin’s death. Stripping off the old wallpaper was a tedious business, but I refused Dorcas’s offer of help knowing how anxious she was to spend as many hours as possible in the herb garden. I called Jonas into service and surprisingly he submitted to his indoor assignment with good grace. No sooner would I send him downstairs in search of a tape measure or a bottle of liquid soap than he would reappear. My nerves were not in the best state those days and once I almost fell off my ladder when he popped up behind me like genie from a bottle.

  “Work agrees with the man” was Dorcas’s explanation. “Got more spring in his step than when I first came. Colour healthier, too, lost the wax look he used to have. Madame Tussaud’s wouldn’t take him now, ha-ha!”

  “He does seem more fit,” I agreed. “For a man his age he can certainly move and he’s doing a wonderful job with the garden. Uncle Merlin must not have brought out the best in him. I can’t believe the improvement in the grounds this year.”

  “More than one change made at Merlin’s Court, Ellie. I’m happier than I’ve been in donkey’s years, and your Aunt Sybil is coming out of the sulks. Always a bit condescending with me but I take no notice. Asked her if she wanted those ancient newspapers left stacked in her old room for her papier-mâché heads. If not they could go on Jonas’s bonfire. Had to laugh myself when I went through them. Not one copy of The Times or Guardian. Scandal sheets every one! Still, mustn’t criticize. An hour on the tennis court would have left her too winded for such nonsense. But never too late. Glad she’s taken up swimming, except, told me she sees no reason to waste water on her weekly bath now. Ah well, if she’s in good spirits! Wanted to know how you were progressing with the toils of Hercules.”

  “You didn’t tell her about the cookery book, did you?”

  “Not a whisper. Mum’s the word. Old girl might blab and we don’t need another sabotage attempt. Can’t see they’d have much luck with Ben tucking it under his mattress at night and keeping it with him at all times during the day, but better safe than sorry. Admire you for wanting that book to succeed even if the final requirement of the will is never fulfilled.” She went out of the door murmuring, “Love is kind, love is not selfish, love is …”

  Didn’t the woman realize that I now had no feelings for Bentley Haskell other than a certain respect for his skill at the cooker? Stamping up and down on a ladder in a fit of impotent rage can be perilous to one’s health, particularly when the phone startles one in the middle of a bounce. Fortunately I managed to catch hold of the picture rail as I swung out into mid-air, but my breath was still a bit quivery when I reached the hall and picked up the receiver, something I had not done without a pang of fear since my obscene call. But this time there was nothing to worry about. This was Rowland Foxworth telling me in the pleasant voice that warmed my ear, that he had enjoyed his visit to Israel but had missed his friends. And he had something for me of greater interest. He had found several boxes containing old sermons and other papers dating back to the vicar of St. Anselm’s during Abigail’s day. He would look through them and get back in touch with me.

  “How about dinner next Thursday?” I suggested.

  He told me he would be delighted and that 7:30 would be perfect. Some men were so easy to please. Social success went to my head.

  Aunt Sybil appeared at the door several minutes later to ask if she might borrow The Merchant of Venice from the study and I could not resist boasting of my social engagement. A mistake. Before I could bite off my tongue I had asked her to join us; but what else could I have done when her eyes misted as she told me that she would like to entertain Mr. Foxworth but for a single woman to entertain a man was bound to lead to gossip? Oh, horse feathers! I would have to wait until Aunt Sybil went home before talking with Rowland about Abigail. But it would be a chance for the old pet to dress up in her black silk.

  Before she left, Aunt Sybil asked me if I had been having any problems with the family. Did she suspect something or was she making polite conversation? Probably the latter because when I asked her what she meant she went all vague and said, “You know—difficulties, thank you for the book. You don’t read Shakespeare I gather, no spots or creases on any of the pages, that’s television for you!” We didn’t have television.

  Over lunch that day Ben took a sarcastic enjoyment out of belittling my small dinner party when I advised him and Dorcas of the approaching event. “If this is to be a white tie affair,” he scoffed, “I must regretfully decline your kind invite. My wardrobe does not extend to formal do’s. But don’t cancel your evening with the vicar on my account. I can always take a tray up to my room, unless you would like me to masquerade as the butler. Having done my stint as a waiter I am quite adept at balancing a silver tray on the tips of my fingers.”

  “Rubbish!” Dorcas held up a hand for order. “As housekeeper I will serve dinner. Don’t possess one of those skittish parlour maid outfits but do own a black dress and can always run up a white apron on the old treadle machine in the sewing room.”

  A babble of refusal met her offer. Ben, feeling quite rightly that he had opened a can of worms by reminding Dorcas with his talk of butlers that she was officially an employee of the household, admitted he had been joking. He had every intention of sitting down with us to dinner, but only on the condition that she promised to do the same, thus sparing him an interminable evening endeavouring to entertain a man of the doth without a friend’s moral support.

  Thanks a lot!

  Before I could pick up cudgels in Rowland’s defence, Jonas lay down his fork with a clatter that drew everyone’s attention. Glaring at the pack of us from under his shaggy brows, he proclaimed that he was the one who should properly perform the task of serving dinner.

  “Jonas,” I demurred, “this whole discussion is ridiculous. No one need serve. This is not Buckingham Palace. Admittedly the dining room is rather inconveniently placed, but I see no reason why I cannot …”

  The gardener silenced me. “Madam,” he roared, “your place is with your guests. Be about your business and leave me to tend to mine. Ain’t now’t shaming to a man in carrying a tray of soup plates. Always had a fancy to try my hand at it. Me old grandpa used to say ‘a change is as good as a rest,’ and at my time of life variety don’t often come aknocking.”

  Having said his piece he picked up his fork and ploughed it back into his plate of stew as though digging up a bed of turnips, pausing only to suck the juice off the ends of his moustache. Ben grinned acidly. “Sounds as though we’re in for a swell do. Perhaps you would prefer to have the food catered in, Ellie, or will my beef Wellington with an asparagus mousse for a starter be classy enough for his honour the vicar?”

  Stoically I forebore to answer, but Dorcas piped in with the information that she was very partial to a cheese soufflé and if Ben thought … He didn’t, saying that if the vicar were delayed by his errands of mercy and arrived late, the soufflé would be a cheese omelette and a rubbery one at that.

  “Soufflés,” I said flippantly, “like the tide wait for no man. Even you, Ben, with all your savvy can’t alter that.”

  It seemed Ben and I couldn’t be in the same room together for five minutes without friction. But neither he nor any other thorn was going to spoil my pleasure in my small dinner party. When the day dawned I had matters so well in hand that early in the afternoon I drove into town with Dorcas and both of us had our hair done. I wasn’t quite sure about my friend’s bouffant, having previously only seen her red locks resolutely thrust behind her ears. It certainly made her look taller. As for me, the girl drew my hair to one side and plaited it into a single, gleaming braid. “Stunning,” she said, “in its simplicity.”

  Holding up the mirror so I could admire her handiwork, she asked, “Well, miss?”

  “Fantastic!” But I wasn’t sure. Who was that stranger behind the glass? What did she have in common with the real me—the fat girl of the shapeless clothes and servicea
ble shoes?

  Ben did not see me until he passed me in the hall on his way upstairs to dress, and the only indication that he noticed any change in my appearance was a curt admonishment not to let my hair trail in the soup he had spent hours preparing. Pleasure in my appearance ebbed. The foxglove dress which clung to my new figure with petal-like softness seemed gaudy now. But pride in the house remained. As the grandfather clock struck seven I went down into the hall. Tonight the electric lights had been turned down by a dimmer switch. Candlelight flickered golden over the rich dark sheen of the wainscotted walls and the graceful curve of the bannister rail. A deep Turkish red rug warmed the stone floor. The two suits of armour blinked silver-bright—a testimonial to Jonas’s skill with the polishing cloth. The carved trestle table, which until recently had been a dumping ground for overcoats and Wellington boots, stood empty except for the telephone and a blue Devonshire pottery bowl filled with autumn flowers and leaves.

  Opening the dining room door, I stood admiring Abigail’s overmantel above the fireplace, the deep bay window, its ledge bright with my birthday geraniums, and the ancient black oak table reflecting in its brightly polished surface, the Indian tree dinner service, old silver, and sparkling crystal. My tour led me next to the kitchen, where Ben’s copper saucepans simmered on the Aga top. Pots of herbs hung from the ceiling to form a curtain at the small window. In an alcove away from the draught sat a wicker basket stuffed with a plump cushion where Tobias could curl up on cold nights—when he was home, that is. He had taken to visiting Jonas quite a lot of an evening. The room was the way I had imagined it could be on that first night when I had come down here to forage for something to eat: the navy blue Aga, the quarry-tiled floor, the wallpaper’s neutral cream … a room that spoke of warmth and cleanliness.

  The clock in the hall struck again—7:15. Slowly I retraced my steps. I savoured the thought of going into Abigail’s drawing room, where a fire had been lit in the hearth and the flare from its coals bathed the silk-papered walls in a dancing rosy light. For a moment I thought I saw her, but it was only Dorcas with her puffy hairdo holding Tobias on her lap. A knock at the door startled me, intruding on the stillness. In came Jonas looking rather formidable with his grizzled hair flattened down, sporting a shiny black suit. True, the mouldering gardening boots sneaking out from under his trouser turn-ups did rather lessen the effect of all this grandeur, but I was impressed by his obvious efforts. He carried something in both hands, and before I could speak he handed Abigail’s portrait to me and switched on the light.

  I was almost afraid to look. I had never been very keen on letting the old man tamper with the canvas. It had changed subtly; the colours softened, it offered the same unreal, luminous quality of the room seen through firelight. Jonas, in addition to filling in the details necessary to complete the portrait, had brushed the entire canvas with a translucent glaze. The haunting effect was of Abigail glimpsed through an ocean mist or behind a frosted pane of glass—always out of reach.

  “Jonas,” I said somberly, “you are a genius.” “Now’t to brag on’t,” grumped the old man. “Not enough to have Mr. Botticelli turning in’t grave, any road.”

  I was standing on a chair tapping a picture hook into position above the fireplace when the door opened once again and Ben ushered in Rowland Foxworth. Dorcas and I had been so busy arguing whether or not I was off centre that we had failed to hear the doorbell.

  “Don’t get down,” expostulated the vicar, smiling up at me while patting his pockets as if to make sure he still had his pipe and tobacco safe and sound. “You look absolutely charming.”

  “Permission to dismount?” I asked, smiling into his eyes. “I don’t think I’m the type to remain on a pedestal too long without toppling off.”

  “I would be more than happy to catch you,” replied the vicar gallantly and, reaching for my hand, he helped me down. For a fraction of a second our eyes held, then he released me, turning to speak some pleasantry to Dorcas, who blushed fierily while making an abortive attempt at running her fingers through her starched hairdo.

  “Tell me how he does it,” whispered Ben under cover of helping me put away the hammer in the bureau drawer. Batting his eyelids, he bared his teeth in a hideous impersonation of an ingratiating smile. “If our Dorcas is susceptible to the cleric’s charms no woman is safe.”

  With patience at an end, I kicked my persecutor sharply in the shin. “Ah, the doorbell,” I cried, drowning out his moan of pain. “That must be Aunt Sybil.”

  Dinner was superb. The asparagus mousse melted in the mouth, the soup was steaming hot and redolent of fresh herbs and garden veg. The beef Welly was done to perfection—the meat pink and juicy, the golden crust flaking at the touch of a fork. Jonas moved around the table with commendable loftiness, missing his footing only once, whereupon he neatly retrieved the two or three spilt brussels sprouts which had landed on Aunt Sybil’s shelflike chest. Without batting an eye he proceeded royally on his way. But everyone else was at his worst. Ben acted as though he had swallowed arsenic. Dorcas, whom I had always believed to be above such distractions as men, turned salmon pink and coy each time the vicar spoke to her. In a different way Aunt Sybil seemed equally in awe of this kindly gentleman. Where Dorcas was tongue-tied, she twittered on about nothing, in the most embarrassingly trite way.

  “Whatever you say, my dear vicar,” she replied to some statement he had made and to which I had not been paying attention. “Far be it from me to argue with a man. We women must accept the truth that we are not the intellectual equals of your …” Aunt Sybil lowered her eyes and coughed discreetly, “sex.”

  Dorcas promptly rediscovered her voice. “Pig swill, never heard such a piece of outmoded piffle in years. Most repressive attitude—not at all healthy.”

  “Why don’t we return to the drawing room,” I suggested, rising hastily. Ben was ignoring my frantic mime that he help maintain the peace. At that moment the doorbell chimed again and the atmosphere became charged with something extra—anticipation that bordered foolishly on disquiet. We were expecting no one else.

  “Who the devil?” Ben wondered out loud as we went to find out.

  Freddy! He stood surrounded by a nimbus of light from the outdoor lantern. His hair and beard, lifted by the wind, made him look more roguish and disreputable than ever. “Greetings, folks. How about a night’s free lodging?” he leered. Ben and I, united in spirit for the first time in weeks, eyed each other. What aid this arrival forbode? If anything?

  Dropping his knapsack by the stairs, Freddy, never one to mince words, asked if I had bequeathed one-half of my body to science and if he was in time for dinner. The only person noticeably touched by these words was Aunt Sybil, who murmured, “Poor boy, I worry about you sometimes, if you get enough rest. Shall I make you a sandwich?”

  My initial impulse on witnessing Freddy’s barely repressed shudder was to let him wallow in this horrible fate in hopes he would decide not to extend his visit. But curses! Charity prevailed, and I asked Jonas, who had been standing at a discreet distance, to bring some beef Wellington and whatever else he could salvage into the drawing room.

  “Where did you pick up the feudal retainer?” Freddy slipped his arm through mine with cousinly good will and we led the small procession back to the fire. “He looks like a ghoul dressed up to go to a birthday party.” His voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “And who is that astringent female with the plaster of Paris hairdo?”

  “Freddy,” I responded, after angrily checking to see if Dorcas had overheard him, “if you want us to feed and house you for the night, you must make a supreme effort to speak nicely of your fellow human beings.”

  “Is that what they are?” he asked in feigned wonderment. “Sorry!” He stood taking inventory. “I see you have been dipping into the family purse revamping the joint.”

  His eyes continued to rove about until they reached the portrait above the fireplace. “And who is that, the ghoul’s mother?”

 
; “That’s Abigail Grantham,” I answered coldly. “Uncle Merlin’s mother.”

  “Not much to look at, was she?” Freddy swung round to include all of us in his observation. The door clicked inward and in shuffled Jonas carrying a loaded tray. I was about to take it from him when Aunt Sybil spoke, and I thought it rude to cross in front of her. “A very plain woman,” she agreed, reaching up to pat down her badly permed hair. “Oh, I know we can’t all have the looks, and that you will say, dear vicar, that handsome is as handsome does, but I have always thought that when a woman employs time to snare a husband she should employ some more to show appreciation and respect. Man did not put the word obey in the marriage service for woman to take it out. And Abigail, although I will admit her apple charlotte was second to none, did give poor Uncle Arthur a lot of headaches. Far too familiar with the help, for one thing, and look at the effect that had on poor impressionable Merlin. I tried everything to discourage his unfortunate, unprofessional relationship with that coarse, disreputable gardener.…”

  Rowland coughed and cleared his throat, but whether he would have spoken into the volcanic silence we were not destined to discover. A harsh, gravelly voice, rasping with fury, severed the air like a rusty guillotine. My shock was so profound I had difficulty believing this was Jonas speaking.

  “Madam!” He ground out the word, eyebrows meeting like a pair of furious furry caterpillars. “What do you know about a woman who was wife and mother—a dried-up, man-hungry spinster like you?”

  Aunt Sybil’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple, seeping as quickly out to deathbed white. “How dare you!” She clutched a hand to her heaving silk chest. “Merlin”—she took a deep breath and stammered, “Merlin would never have permitted you to talk to me so.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” The tray rattled in Jonas’s blue-veined hands. “And nor would he have allowed an old frump like you to speak ill of his mother.” With these words he banged the tray down on the coffee table, bowed to the astonished company, and thundered from the room.