Jane Forxworthy

by Paul Kelly

  “Yes . . Yes, of course, we have a Christmas tree,” Evie answered as she stared at the sky and grinned. It was becoming overcast and a dark gray mist had appeared on the horizon. “You are a little prisoner here . . aren’t you, my Love? Never mind . . I’ll think of something. Here . . Take these.”

  Evie pulled off her gloves and handed them to the little girl. They felt warm as she touched them and Danny shook her head but Evie insisted, pulling the gloves over the child’s cold fingers and up over her hands.

  “Oooh! WARM . .” Danny mouthed audibly . . and with total accuracy.

  “Yes,” said Evie with her fingers as she smiled. “And that’s how it should be . . If you get a chance to come to the house, you know you’ll be welcome at any time. I’ll go now in case Grandpa comes back. I don’t think he likes me and I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”

  Danny looked sadly into Evie’s face.

  “It’s his way,” her fingers said, “I shall come when I can . . Thank you.”

  The two looked at each other at arms length for a moment before Danny threw herself forward and hugged Evie as she kissed her cheek. Evie walked towards the car, keeping her eyes on Danny as she went and forgetting her rule, not to mark the snow afresh nor to count her steps.

  She waved . . and in a flash, Danny had disappeared as fast as she had come, from behind the holly bush. The leaves rustled and the berries sang. . . Well, Evie could have sworn they did . . .

  and she drove home with a happy heart and with the feeling of joy of what Christmas might bring. “Old McPherson could have come too, if only he’d behave himself . . .” she muttered and giggled at her thought as she could see the merry twinkle in Danny’s eyes at such a possibility and a picture of the old man’s face, waiting hopefully under the mistletoe, sprang to mind to make her realize the futility of her wishful thinking.

  She decided she would take the road home, via the bridge. It would be quicker and she was anxious to tell Wills all her news, but as she was nearing the village, she thought she could see Angus McPherson’s old van. She looked closely as it was a peculiar van that she would hardly be able to miss . . It was a hand painted, quaint old vehicle in a brownish-purple colour and Evie imagined it was some old cheap paint he had found somewhere, which suited his eccentric purpose. She was about to pass the van when he suddenly appeared from a nearby phone box . . the old one that was embellished with hearts and other romantic slogans, as she remembered from the one occasion when she had to use it herself when she had broken down about eight weeks before and had to call the garage to rescue her. She wondered if Angus had broken down . . otherwise why would he be using a telephone in the village when he had one at home in his cottage? In her curiosity, she decided to drive on a little farther and park at the end of the lane, where she could see Angus McPherson’s movements very clearly. He had a hat on . . a sort of trilby thing, but it was fast becoming dark and the way she knew him more surely was by his walk. There was no mistaking that. Angus had a gait with a slight limp of the left leg. She waited for a few seconds, studying his movements in her driving mirror, knowing that he could not possibly see her as he went back to his van. Would he wait for the garage to come and help him . . if indeed it was an emergency call he had made? or was it some other mysterious call which he knew would be better made from an outside telephone box, rather than his own at home? Evie was getting more curious by the second, but she did not have to wait long, before old McPherson banged the door of his van after he had climbed in and drove off. She glanced at her wrist watch and saw that it was nearly four thirty. Wills would be home by now, she thought as she revved up and moved on, but the words of Jane Foxworthy would not leave her mind . . . .’He could mimic anyone’s voice in the village . . much to the annoyance of many . . .’

  At four fifty three to be precise, she arrived at ‘Brigadoon’ panting with excitement as she raced up to the front door, believing that she had unravelled one of the great mysteries of their lives, since they arrived at Glenfarach . .

  “Wills . . Wills, are you there Darling?”

  Wills came from the lounge with his reading glasses perched high on his forehead, almost touching his hair line of crinkly, black, tight curls.

  “Whatever’s the matter Evie?” he asked as he took her hand in his own. “My . . You are cold. Didn’t you have your gloves with you?”

  “Never mind that now, Wills. I’m fine, but tell me . . tell me quickly,” She stopped to take a deep breath. “Did you have a phone call about twenty minutes ago?”

  Wills rubbed his forehead and his spectacles fell down onto the bridge of his nose.

  “About four thirty?” she went on excitedly.

  “Why yes, I did as a matter of fact . . why?”

  “Who was it Wills? Who was it?”

  Wills hesitated and bit his lip.

  “It was Mark, Darling. He just phoned to say thanks for a wonderful evening and he’s taking us to dinner and a show next Saturday . . You will come, won’t you?”

  Evie’s lips trembled and she closed her eyes.

  “Was that the only call?” she asked impatiently, ignoring the invitation to dinner.

  “Yes . . Only Mark, Darling, but why are you so excited?” Evie slipped her coat from her shoulders and threw it across a chair. “You look so pale, Sweetheart. Whatever is the matter? Tell me?”

  She sat down heavily, sinking into an armchair with a deep sigh.

  “Nothing my Darling. I was just imagining things . . What did you say about Mark?”

  “He wants to take us to dinner and a show on Saturday.”

  Evie pushed her hair back from her forehead.

  “Oh! That will be nice . . Yes, it will be nice to spend the evening with Mark. I’ll get dinner on now. You’re not going out again this evening, are you Wills?”

  He took her hand and walked with her into the kitchen.

  “No Darling. I thought we might have an evening in together. I’ve done enough gallivanting in the last few months. Look! I’ve put some logs on the fire . . It’s much more cosy and interesting than the central heating . . and more romantic . . .don’t you think? There’s a good play on that old wireless set we found in the spare room. . Agatha Christie, I think . .We could sit in the dark, by the fireglow and listen . . . Better than television, eh? I wish you’d taken your gloves with you Darling. Your hands are like ice.”

  Evie smiled, but somewhat sadly in the cosy atmosphere of her snug ‘Brigadoon’ home, as she knew that her gloves had found a new home where she hoped they would take the warmth that she felt in her heart at that moment, to ten tiny fingers that had so short a time ago, told her that they loved her . . As only they could . . . .

  Chapter Twenty-One

  JANE FOXWORTHY had completed her Christmas card list and had set the colourful array of cards out on her mahogany bureau. It was Sunday and she was relaxed . .content in her warm lounge, without fear of interruption in the Season that she regarded as hypocritical and sanctimonious . . a necessary evil. A time of fantasy for children and an added labour and expense to adults. . . She hated Christmas and it’s sick, nauseating sentimentality. What had all this colour and tinsel got to do with a poor child who was born in Bethlehem, so long ago? . she asked herself time and time again, as each year passed. Oh! Yes, she loved the gaiety and the joyful spirit that it seemed to create, but there were too many contradictions . . far too many for her to comprehend. The log fire in a cosy room against the windy blizzards that were so common without, especially in Scotland. Lots and lots of snow . . the ideal white Christmas . . a joy to behold, but Oh! God . . how her chilblains ached. The Christ-King born in a stable . . peace on earth and goodwill to all men an’ all that, except for the Third World being massacred in malnutrition and disease. Mince pies and brandy snaps . . Chestnuts roasting on an open fire . Bloody icicles hanging from her front
porch . . . and she shivered. Miss Foxworthy was full of extremes. She wanted to do so much for people but her abilities were so restrained and this gave her great unhappiness, causing her moods to swing drastically between euphoria and deep depression. She wanted to be kind and benevolent, especially at this time of good will, but her deep sense of logic and justice would not allow her too much levity, unless she allowed for her greatest weakness and opened the bottle of Holy Water . .

  No need to hide under that guise when she was alone at home. It was only when Cynthia was around that she took care not to expose any signs of the hard stuff. . . Yes, she liked a drink, did Jane Foxworthy . . It was not ladylike and she knew it, but she enjoyed it none the less, as she took a cut crystal glass from her showcase unit and polished it carefully with a pure linen napkin, breathing warmth and love into her chalice, with every breath as she polished it time and time again. Her brandy too, had to be at the right temperature . . no need to rush things . . well, not at least at the beginning of her drinking session. It didn’t matter that much when she progressed to the sixth or seventh . . well, who the hell counted after that ? She never touched beer and considered cider to be the refreshment of the peasants and farmers. Wines, of whatever colour, though pleasant enough to the taste, only gave her indigestion and made her emit wind from her anus . . (she never would use the word Fart . .) whereas spirits and only spirits ensured results and it was for this reason that Jane Foxworthy always kept a good stock of the best brand of whiskeys and cognacs in her wine cellar . . a small area under the stairs . .

  Her eyes twinkled and she wet her lips in private anticipation of the joy that would soon be hers as she poured the amber liquid carefully into her glass and studied the delicate crystal tub in her hand, swishing the contents around and sucking in her lips as she closed her eyes to savour the expectancy to the full.

  She heard a noise which seemed to come from nearby, but outside and she at first dismissed the incident . . thinking it to be the wind, for she did not expect any visitors and young Cyn. was at the Church Youth Dance. Jane always kept a diary of weekday events, the entries of which could be counted on the fingers of one hand, but she felt it was right and proper to keep a diary, as any lady should . . and therefore, she did. She hummed a familiar tune in a low tone and was about to take another sip from her glass when the noise came again. She sat bolt upright in her armchair and the noise came closer to her ears, before a warm hand clamped itself over her left shoulder . . and she jumped where she sat, tipping most of her precious fluid over her ample bosom and her mouth fell open with fear.

  “Hello Auntie . . .at it again, I see.”

  Cynthia stood behind her aunt with a sarcastic sneer on her face and Miss Foxworthy closed her eyes and touched her heart as she replaced her glass to a nearby table, dabbing her breast with her emerald and scarlet handkerchief to wipe the spills.

  “I didn’t expect you back so early, Dear. I thought you were goin’ to a meetin’ at Church . . a dance or somethin’. .” Cynthia moved around Jane Foxworthy’s chair and stood in front of her with her legs apart and her hands on her hips. She removed the gloves she was wearing and tossed them casually onto the settee. Miss Foxworthy was surprised at the sudden confidence and self-assurance shown by her niece, since normally she would not have stood so defiantly brazen and instinctively she knew something must have happened to make Cynthia act as she was doing. She was bewildered nevertheless and bit her lip in apprehension of what was to come. The room was darkening with the lateness of the afternoon and only the fire glow sent flickering shadows across the walls and ceiling, giving an eerie light to the scene.

  “Dull ole place that church,” Cynthia muttered, “The minister’s a borin’ ole fart . . Does nothin’ but talk awe the time . . non-stop he does. I got bored.”

  Miss Foxworthy discreetly, so she thought, popped a peppermint into her mouth and smiled.

  “No need to dae that . . I know you’ve been at the bottle . . I can smell it from here.”

  Cynthia snarled as she studied her finger nails.

  “But I thought you were going to a dance for the younger people this evenin’ . . in the church hall? Didn’t you want to stay for that?”

  Cynthia ignored her aunt for the moment as she continued to study her nails, which were badly bitten but she had applied a bright red lacquer to them, which made them appear gorgeous . . in her eyes.

  “The young yins bore me as well, I’m no’ a bairn any longer and people should realize that,” she said as she held her fingers, outstretched in the air, for her aunt to see.

  “What have you done to your hands, girl? Let me see.”

  Jane Foxworthy reached out to grab her niece’s hand but Cynthia pulled away quickly, throwing her head back and grinning with a strange look in her eye.

  “I’m sixteen the noo, ye ken. I’ve growd up an’ I can do what I like wi’ my own body, can’t I?”

  Miss Foxworthy drew back, remembering Cynthia’s recent birthday, but her niece continued to tantalize her, flashing her fingers and making peculiar drooling noises as she puckered her lips and pouted.

  “There . . Look! Nice aren’t they?” she shouted and Jane closed her eyes quickly as if the noise had deafened her. She opened them again to look at the painted digits with disinterest and wanted to laugh at the ridiculous sight before her, but she was strangely afraid. Afraid of the danger she may incur, with even the faintest of smiles.

  “Nice,” she said by way of a compromise which she knew was wasted on Cynthia, “But I would have thought a slightly different colour would have been more you, Dear.”

  Cynthia looked again at her artistry and her mouth feel open.

  “Different colour? What different colour? They’re bright red aren’t they?”

  “Well yes, of course they are red, Darlin’, but I would have thought a clearer . . or lighter colour would have suited you better. To begin with I mean . . “

  Cynthia cut Jane Foxworthy short.

  “Well ye thought wrong then, didn’t ye . . Interferin’ as usual . . “ she barked and cocked her head to one side, where her lank hair fell down across her face. “No’ worth polishin’ them at awe, less ye dae it properly . . Is it?” She walked towards the door as she spoke and even the way she moved was strangely different and somewhat disconcerting to her aunt, whose eyes followed her closely. Cynthia switched on the light.

  “It’s like a tomb in here,” she complained, We could dae wi’ some mair light.”

  The defiance and arrogance of her niece made Jane afraid and her face paled as she screwed up her eyes with the sudden blinding effect of the brightness in the room. Cynthia strolled back to where her aunt was sitting and stretched out her hands again.

  “See them better noo,” she retorted scornfully and Miss Foxworthy stared at her, her eyes wild with rage and indignation. She did not have to put up with this new found nonsense and she would not put up with it. The light in the room had shown more than the girl’s nails when Miss Foxworthy’e eyes had become accustomed to it. Her lips were also painted to a bright, but different tone of red and she had a thick layer of orange make-up on her face. She wore stud earrings and her eyes were accentuated with mascara making her look like a circus clown. Miss Foxworthy laughed. She could control it no longer . . She laughed until the tears filled her eyes and she caught them in her handkerchief.

  “My God . . What has happened to your face, Child?” she managed to say through her laughter, but Cynthia saw nothing funny in her appearance as her eyes narrowed and her lips curled.

  “I’ve grow’d up . . That’s what’s happened to me. I’m fed up bein’ treated like a bairn. Do this Cyn.. . . Do that Cyn . . but don’t dare grow up Cyn. For God’s sake . . . don’t never do that . .”

  Miss Foxworthy was angry but her sorrow was greater.

  “Go and wash it off Dear and we’ll say
no more about it,” she said and returned to her glass, no longer concerned what her niece might think about her action, but Cynthia turned on her in rage.

  “I’ll wash it off when I’m good an’ ready . . an’ that’s that,”

  Jane teased her whisky with nervous fingers around her glass and her left eye twitched.

  “Want a drink?” she asked softly, “Now that you’ve grown up,”

  Cynthia’s mouth fell open again.

  “A drink?” she enquired in surprise at her aunt’s change of attitude. “D’ye mean, whusky?”

  “Why not . . “

  The girl’s face softened and a weak smile crept across it as she reached out for the glass Miss Foxworthy was holding in her hand.

  “Aye . . I’d like that fine,” she said and as quick as a flash, Jane Foxworthy threw the contents of her glass over Cynthia’s face . . her eyes wide with anger.

  “Take it then, you idiot. Now go and wash that muck off your bloody face and let’s be done with all this nonsense.”

  Cynthia screamed and ran from the room clutching her head and slamming the lounge door behind her as she sped upstairs. Jane could hear the water running from the tap in the bathroom and sat back complacently to replenish her empty glass.

  “Pity to have to waste such good stuff on such a silly little bitch,” she said under her breath, sipping her medicine with gratifying relief, but she had hardly poured herself the balm when the room door suddenly burst open again and Cynthia reappeared. Her face had been freshly made up and she stood defiantly with her legs apart and her hands on her hips in front of the drinker by the fireside. Miss Foxworthy stared at her in silence, her fingers warm and light against her glass as her niece swayed where she stood and her face was hard . . her movements like those of a cobra about to strike.

  “Ye might as well know, ya old cow, that I’m no’ takin’ any more ole shit from you . . D’ya hear?”