A Lovely Day to Die

by Celia Fremlin

  No such luck for Edith and Lorna. They found themselves, instead, at a table with three other women as elderly as themselves, and an even more elderly man whose proud owner, conscious of her good fortune, beamed indefatigably under the non-stop snubs and put-downs to which he treated her throughout the meal.

  Still, it turned out in the end to be quite a good evening. The food, as always on these cruises, was delicious, though there was far too much of it. And afterwards, bundled into their warmest woollies and tweeds atop their sleeveless dinner gowns, the two friends went up on deck, braving the wind whipping in out of the darkness, in order to watch the lights of Newcastle grow faint and yet fainter across the black racing sea.

  “This is the best part, I sometimes think,” mused Edith, leaning heavily on the starboard rail (for it had been a tiring day), “seeing England disappearing in the distance, and knowing that you are away! Away into the open sea—off into the unknown—the feeling that just anything may be going to happen …”

  She stopped. No point in putting Lorna on her guard against unexpected happenings. Quickly she changed the subject: “Have you seen the midnight sun ever? Of course, it’s too late in the year this time, but …”

  Another mistake. Because—wouldn’t you know it?—Lorna had seen the midnight sun, but in the company of poor Darling Harold … their very last trip together, actually, before … before …

  Her tears fell fast, but dried almost as swiftly in the black icy wind against her cheeks. Somewhere, deep in the heart of the ship, dance music had started up, a faint, insistent throbbing against the noise of the sea. Time was—and not so very long ago, either—when the sound would have drawn Edith like a magnet, out of the windy darkness into the lighted ballroom. She had been a beautiful dancer once. Five years ago—even four—she would have been on the floor with the best of them, and even now it was only this wretched arthritis in her knee that held her back. It had been worsening gradually for some time now, and she’d had to recognize that her dancing days were over. Pride, and the memory of her one-time prowess, would not allow her to go limping gamely round the floor, as so many of the oldsters seemed happy to do.

  The lights of Newcastle had quite vanished.

  They were alone with the sea, and the dark curve of the earth. Her ears were beginning to ache with the cold.

  “Let’s go in,” she said, with a little shiver. “I’m beginning to feel chilly. Let’s have an early night.”

  Lorna didn’t immediately answer. She seemed to be half mesmerized by the dark heaving water beneath them, and the white flecks of foam spinning endlessly past her field of vision and away into the night. When at last she raised her head, her small worried profile, silhouetted against the swaying sky, seemed to be wobbling a little, as if she might be about to cry all over again.

  “If only I had the courage!” she muttered, though carefully loud enough for Edith to hear. “If only I had the guts. Just one moment of steeling myself—and then to sink, to vanish, to be one with all that black water, whirling, whirling away into nothingness—nothing to worry about ever again …”

  In a way, nothing could have suited Edith’s plans better, but since it wasn’t going to happen there was no point in thinking about it. For Lorna was right—she hadn’t got the courage. None of them ever had, though goodness knows how many of them had stood, just like this, by the rail, mouthing this sort of self-pitying drivel.

  There is only one sort of role for the bosom friend to play in this situation, and reluctantly Edith played it. First a restraining hand on the silly woman’s shoulder, for all the world as if she really might be going to jump, then all the right bracing exhortations.

  Don’t be ridiculous, you just mustn’t talk like that! Think of all you have to live for! Think of Rosemary, and … and (God, what was the fellow’s name!) … and … your son! Think how awful they’d feel! How guilty, how grief-stricken! and those darling popeyed grandchildren (only of course Edith didn’t actually say popeyed, her self-control on these occasions was absolute). You mustn’t dream of anything so wicked! And so foolish, too, just think of all the happy years that may be ahead for you! You should be so lucky, you silly cow; only of course Edith didn’t say this, either, it would have wrecked everything.

  With the almost indecent haste of most of these pseudo-suicides, Lorna allowed herself to be persuaded away from the rail and down the companionway, out of sight of the wild windblown sea.

  Back in the cabin, they talked far into the night about Life and Death and Loneliness, and Rosemary’s way of cooking cauliflower which took all the nutrition out of it.

  And Edith, already in bed in the top bunk, kept murmuring, “Yes,” and “No,” and “I should think not, indeed!” while watching Lorna’s long and elaborate preparations for the night, including where exactly she stored her anti-wrinkle cream. You never knew what might turn out to be important.

  *

  The next day dawned bright and calm, perfect cruising weather. The sun shone, the vast circle of the sea stretched blue and sparkling in every direction, and in company with the other old ladies, Edith and Lorna joined the Yoga Class up on the Sports Deck. Neither of them could have been said to shine at Yoga, but on the other hand they weren’t the worst at it either—this would have been an achievement indeed. And it did serve to fill up the time before lunch, always a problem on these shipboard holidays.

  And after lunch, while the sun still shone and shone, reflected back like diamonds from the icy Northern sea, the two of them found deckchairs in the lee of the wind, and talked, desultorily, while they knitted, about daily helps and the ingratitude of grown-up children. This occupied them until teatime, and by the time tea was over, the sharp dazzle of the sun had begun to fade. Already, only one day out, you were aware of the shortening hours of daylight; already there was an unfamiliar bite in the air, straight from the Arctic, and indescribably alien.

  With rugs round their knees, and pulling their cardigans closer about them, Edith and Lorna sat a little longer, watching the huge ball of the sun go down over the restless water, turning it blood-red as they watched, while to the north and east the blue-grey beginnings of darkness were already gathering.

  “Another fine day tomorrow,” prophesied Edith, out of the depth of her experience, and as so often happened, she was absolutely right.

  *

  The weather on this trip was incredibly good, everyone said so. And at this time of year, too, you wouldn’t credit it. It put everybody in a fine mood. The beauty of the islands, of the fjords, of the Icelandic coast, was duly gasped at; and those who went on the shore trips came back with the usual tales of fantastic bargains, of comic natives and of knowing the Norwegian/Icelandic/Finnish for “How much?”

  The shore trips didn’t interest Edith—she’d done it all before; but Lorna seemed infected by the general enthusiasm and went nearly everywhere, coming back laden with purchases, and apparently well-pleased with herself. There was no more talk of suicide, nor of depression either; and so when, on the very last night, after the Celebration Dinner and the Fancy Dress Ball and the farewell drinking parties, when, after all this exhausting revelry, Lorna announced her intention of going up on deck for “a breath of fresh air,” Edith hardly gave it a thought. Or, rather, she only thought of it insofar as it facilitated her own plans here in the cabin. Not that she had any intention of stealing any of Lorna’s possessions here and now: that must wait till the morning, lest Lorna should take it into her head to check the contents of her jewel box last thing before packing it.

  All the same there were one or two things that could usefully be prepared in advance, and here was the opportunity, with Lorna safely out of the cabin. For instance, it would be wise to try out the jewel-box key now while she had the chance, so that when the time came she wouldn’t waste valuable seconds turning it the wrong way, or something.

  Hell! The wretched woman had taken her handbag with her! Complete, of course, with the key in that inner pocket! Blast
her! What in God’s name did she want a handbag for, up on the bleak, black deck, with the wind whistling in off the sea? Tissues to wipe her eyes over Darling Harold? Serve her right if she dropped the bag overboard! Silly, tiresome cow!

  Oh, well, she’d just have a look at the lock anyway, get some sort of idea of the kind of lock it was. Briskly she opened Lorna’s underwear drawer and reached under the vests and knickers.

  It was gone! The jewel box was gone, vanished! On this last night, of all nights. Wildly, Edith searched Lorna’s other drawers—her locker—her suitcase; but it was nowhere.

  At the thought that some other thief might have got in ahead of her, Edith felt rising in her a slow, incredulous rage, a sense of injustice so intense that it almost choked her. After all the work she’d put into it—all the boring tête-à-têtes, the yoga classes, the knitting patterns—after all this, for a total stranger to come along at the last moment and scoop the pool—it was monstrous!

  And where was Lorna, anyway? Why couldn’t she look after her stuff? She’d been gone for almost an hour—what on earth could she be doing up there on the heaving, deserted decks at this God forsaken hour—nearly two in the morning?

  *

  It was a moonless night, and Edith, making her way from deck to deck, back and forth along the narrow, rocking gangways, felt herself to be moving almost in a dream. The whole ship seemed completely deserted. The Sports Deck, normally so crowded and jolly, was silent and empty, and still littered with rubbish from the evening’s revels—soft-drink bottles, beer cans, coloured streamers all grey together under these dimmed lights.

  Edith shivered, partly from cold, partly from the desolation of the scene before her. The wind whipped against her face, while somewhere out of sight the black sea churned and boiled.

  Somewhere, amid all this desolation, Lorna was wandering; and suddenly, with dreadful vividness, Edith was reminded of that first night on deck, and Lorna’s wild threats of suicide. At the time Edith had taken them to be a piece of play-acting, typical of these neurotic, depressed women—but could she be sure? Might it be that tonight, emboldened by the few unaccustomed drinks that the festivities had more or less forced on her—might it be that the wretched woman had found at last the courage of which she had declared herself in need?

  But what about the missing jewels, and the handbag? Too much of a coincidence that at the exact moment when Lorna had decided to do herself in, a jewel thief should decide to raid the cabin. Even as she posed the problem to herself, Edith found an answer, flashing across her brain with a kind of intuitive certainty.

  Of course! Poor Darling Harold! What more likely than that the silly sentimental fool should decide to take with her to her watery grave all those “lovely presents” he had given her!

  That many thousands of pounds should go to the bottom of the sea for the sake of beastly old long-dead Darling Harold was intolerable.

  Her failing strength renewed by a sense of total outrage, Edith resumed her search with a driving, terrible sense of urgency.

  It was on the lowest deck of all that she finally came upon her quarry, and apparently only just in time, for Lorna was leaning far over the rail, staring out across the black whirling water with just that same half-mesmerized air that she had displayed on that first evening. Her handbag was hooked over one arm, and—yes—clutched to her breast was a dark object that must surely be the jewel box.

  With her eyes, Edith measured the distance; measured, too, the angle at which the woman was leaning over the rail, and the precise position of the precious box. Edith would have taken account, too, of her own arthritic knee, except that suddenly and mysteriously it had completely stopped hurting.

  *

  You couldn’t call it murder, not really. The woman had just simply overbalanced when Edith pounced on her so suddenly from behind and grabbed the jewel box from her. It wasn’t anyone’s fault; it was just an accident.

  Mercifully there had been no witnesses, though Edith had experienced one nasty moment when, barely a minute later, a small boat had appeared out of the darkness, quite dangerously near. For an awful second Edith thought it must be the start of a rescue operation, but when nothing further happened—no commotion, no cries of “Man overboard!”—she realized, thankfully, that she must have been mistaken. Some stray fishing-boat perhaps which had gone off course; they were hugging the shore closely at this stage of the trip.

  *

  Really, everything had gone off marvellously well. Back in the cabin, Edith tore the box free from the tightly closed plastic sack to which Lorna had apparently seen fit to consign it, ready for its burial at sea; and for a while she sat there, stroking the smooth contours lovingly, gloating over her triumph.

  Nothing could go wrong now. No one would notice Lorna Carruthers’ absence until quite late in the morning, when Edith, and all the other passengers, would be safely on shore. Then, and not before, they would come and clear the cabins, and would be mystified to find Lorna’s belongings still there; but by then Edith would be far away, and besides, there would be no reason to connect her with her cabin mate’s inexplicable departure without her luggage.

  The only remaining hazard was the Customs, and this, really, was hardly a hazard at all. Even if they did insist on prising the box open (the key, of course, had vanished into the sea together with the handbag), they could have no possible reason for suspecting that the jewels were not Edith’s own; and if they somehow worked it that she had to pay duty on some of the contents—well, who cared? The profits would still be enormous.

  *

  They didn’t ask her to pay duty, but they did ask her to step into the office of the Harbour Police, when they found the packets of heroin tucked carefully beneath the few remaining jewels—the rest having gone to pay the agents during those oh-so-innocent shore trips.

  Edith was stunned; but less by the awfulness of her predicament than by a searing sense of grief and loss.

  What a friend Lorna Carruthers might have become, if only they’d known what each other was up to! What fun they could have had, leaning together over the rail last night, watching for Lorna’s accomplices to draw alongside in their small boat! And then to hurl the treasure, buoyant and waterproof in its plastic sack, out into the darkness, and to watch some shadowy, lithe figure dive to its rescue with infinite grace and skill!

  What a spectacle! What an experience! And at last, a friend to share it with!

  What a future they could have shared, too—companions in crime, working the routes together, each plying her own specialty, and giggling together like schoolgirls over their respective triumphs! What soulmates they would have been, exploiting together that secret bonus of being old and unwanted—the ability, at last, to get away with anything!

  Hardened criminal though she was, Edith felt the tears welling up in her old eyes as she set herself to talk her way out of this one.

  A CASE OF MAXIMUM NEED

  “NO, NO TELEPHONE, thank you. It’s too dangerous,” said Miss Emmeline Fosdyke decisively; and the young welfare worker, only recently qualified, and working for the first time in this Sheltered Housing Unit for the Elderly, blinked up from the form she was filling in.

  “No telephone? But, Miss Fosdyke, in your—I mean, with your—well your arthritis, and not being able to get about and everything … You’re on our House-Bound list, you know that, don’t you? As a House-Bound Pensioner, you’re entitled—well, I mean, it’s a necessity, isn’t it, a telephone? It’s your link with the outside world!”

  This last sentence, a verbatim quote from her just-completed Geriatric Course, made Valerie Coombe feel a little more confident. She went on, “You must have a telephone, Miss Fosdyke! It’s your right! And if it’s the cost you’re worrying about, then do please set your mind at rest. Our Department—anyone over sixty-five and in need—”

  “I’m not in need,” asserted Miss Fosdyke woodenly. “Not of a telephone, anyway.”

  There had been nothing in the Geriatr
ic Course to prepare Valerie for this. She glanced round the pin-new Sheltered Housing flatlet for inspiration, but she saw none. Its bland, purpose-built contours were as empty of ideas as was the incomplete form in front of her. “Telephone Allowance. In Cases of Maximum Need …”

  It was a case of maximum need, all right. Valerie took another quick look at the papers in her file.

  Fosdyke, Emmeline J. Retired dressmaker, unmarried. No relatives. One hundred per cent disability: arthritis, diabetes, cardiovascular degeneration, motor-neuron dysfunction.

  The case notes made it all so clear. Valerie glanced up from the precise, streamlined data and was once again confronted with a person—an actual, quirky, incomprehensible person, a creature whose eyes, sunk in helpless folds of withered skin, yet glittered with some impenetrable secret defiance.

  Why couldn’t old sick people just be old and sick? the poor girl wondered despairingly. Why did they have to be so many other things as well, things for which there was no space allotted on the form, and which just didn’t fit in anywhere?

  “But suppose you were ill, Miss Fosdyke?” Valerie hazarded, her eyes fixed on all that list of incapacitating disabilities. “Suppose—?”

  “Well, of course I’m ill!” snapped back Miss Fosdyke. “I’ve been ill for years, and I’ll get iller. Old people do. Why do I have to have a telephone as well?”

  Valerie’s brain raked desperately through the course notes of only a few months ago. Dangers to Watch Out For in Geriatric Practice. Isolation. Mental Confusion. Hypothermia. Lying dead for days until the milkman happens to notice the half-dozen unclaimed bottles …

  An easy job, they’d told her back in the office—an easy job for Valerie’s first solo assignment. Simply going from door to door in the Sheltered Housing block, and arranging for a free telephone for those who qualified, either by age or disability or both. She’d pictured to herself the gratitude in the watery old eyes as she broke the good news, imagined the mumbling but effusive expressions of gratitude.