Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  Pushing open the front gate I went in underneath the roses and, ignoring the front door, followed the flag-stoned path that led to the rear. At the back of the house a green lawn, framed by flower borders, swept up towards what looked to be an orchard. The air was full of the scent of growing things.

  The second key I tried fitted the lock of the back door, and I went in,—very quietly—almost consciously so—as if afraid of disturbing occupants.

  I found myself in the kitchen. Everything very neat. Someone had done a very thorough job of tidying up.

  The next room, about the same size, was green-carpeted—the dining-room; and from there I went into the hall, from which a staircase rose to the upper landing. I went up the stairs and looked around the three bedrooms and the bathroom—the house was deceptively large.

  In the bedroom that was obviously theirs I saw photographs ranged on a bedside shelf—all of Colin,—but no, the last one, I realised, was of me. There I was, grinning, looking around at the camera, cigarette in hand; a picture that She­lagh had taken just over a year ago. I’d had longer hair then.

  Around the walls were oil-paintings, and in the lower right-hand corner of each one I read R. Helen Cartwright. The pictures were good—so they seemed to me; not the result of some Sunday-painter’s flair, but the result of talent, real talent. There were two near the bed that particularly impressed me. One was a study of the back garden; I recognised the shape of the lawn, and by the orchard the whitewashed wall with the rose-trees against it, all the flowers in tight bud. I recognised, too, the shrubs, and the silver birch that cast its purple shadow on the side of the home.

  In the next picture there were two figures,—young, laughing people standing in a garden; but an unidentified garden, this one, shown only by splashes of green, and the blues and pinks of unspecified flowers. The figures might be Helen and Colin I thought—idealised versions, perhaps, but there was something very much of Colin in the man’s thick black hair and slim pose. Helen’s style of brushwork was loose, her images formed by quick touches of colour, so that the detail was only gathered from a little distance and from the overall effect. I could clearly see, though, the bluebird (was Helen such a romantic?) that hov­ered in the air above their heads.

  The other paintings were nearly all figurative, and the back­ground in each of them was urban—relics from her art-school days, I imagined. I saw a child standing in the snow; a woman lying in a park; silhouettes of people standing out sharp and clear against the grey of city bricks and mortar. I stood before the pictures for a long time, admiring her composition and vibrant colours. If these works reflected Helen’s personality, I thought, then I knew I would like her.

  On the top of a bureau were several pieces of pottery, dec­orated with studies of flowers, exquisitely drawn. A patchwork counterpane covered the bed; hundreds of tiny pieces—striped, chequered, polka-dotted, flowered hexagonals, all sewn together with infinite care and patience. Helen’s mark was everywhere.

  Just before I went out I turned in the doorway and looked back. My glance took in the books, the paintings, the photo­graphs. Just for a second a little needle of disturbance nagged somewhere at the back of my mind—and then was gone. I went back downstairs.

  In the hall I turned right and found myself in the living-room. A large room, the width of the house, and softly carpeted in a deep, warm grey. A small piano stood against one wall, while the opposite was lined, on each side of the chimney breast, with books. I let my eyes range over the titles—art books, novels, histories, biology, famous trials and famous criminals.

  At the side of the sofa, beneath a heavy antique sword fixed to the wall, a small table stood, bearing a vase of roses. There were more flowers in a vase at the front window. All fresh.

  I went over by the window, leaned down and put my face to the roses. Soft, creamy white with the most delicate perfume. I closed my eyes while the scent lingered under my nostrils. Somehow the situation seemed so unreal. I felt I shouldn’t be there. It was their house—Colin and Helen’s. And it should be hers now as it had been hers before. But, my father had told me, she didn’t need it, and I recalled the expression in his eyes as he had spoken.

  I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was an intruder. And yet, at the same time, strangely, I felt in no way alien. There was a gentleness about the house’s atmosphere that was positive in its warmth, its acceptance of me. I felt welcome.

  The scent of the roses seemed to fill the air around me. Gently I touched the soft milky petals. They were not completely white, I could see when looking more closely. Around the edge of each petal was the palest blush of pink, only just barely discernible. Had Helen put the flowers here? She must have. And very re­cently. Then where was she now? If she was no longer staying in the house, where was she staying? Somewhere nearby in the village? I had a sudden picture of her letting herself into the cottage, carrying armfuls of flowers from the garden, arranging them in the vases . . .

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  The words came so suddenly into the stillness that I started. I turned quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to make you jump.” Her voice was soft, shy, coloured by the West Country, words delivered slowly. She stood in the doorway, face in shadow, her body a dark slim silhouette against the light that came through the window beyond. I could see the darkness of her hair, long, past her shoulders. I smiled.

  “I was wondering where you were,” I said.

  4

  “Hello, Mr. Warwick.”

  She came forward into the light as she spoke and I saw at once that she was not Helen.

  “I’m Jean Timpson,” she said. She put her head slightly on one side, gave me a shy smile. “Don’t worry about me being here. I come in every day to make sure everything’s all right.”

  “. . . I see.” I nodded, smiling back at her. I didn’t see at all.

  “I gave you a bit of a shock, didn’t I?” Her eyes flicked over my face without settling, nervous. “It wasn’t a shock for me, though—seeing you. For some people I suppose it would be—you being so like him. But he said you’d be coming here one day.” She seemed to find it impossible to look into my eyes. Her glance, on meeting mine, fell quickly away to focus somewhere in the region of my left shoulder.

  She had a warm, earthy look about her. Her teeth were very white against her suntanned skin; her nose was dotted with freck­les, as were her bare arms. Her hair, much too long for a woman of her age—she had to be somewhere in her late thirties, I reckoned—was slightly frizzy and kept back from her face by a pale-blue ribbon that matched the colour of her blouse. The ribbon, tied on top of her head, seemed somehow at variance with the rest of her appearance, giving her almost the look of an overgrown child. I smiled again. “I’m very happy to meet you, Miss Timpson,” I said.

  “Jean. They always call me Jean.”

  Silence fell between us and I was aware suddenly that the clocks had been kept wound.

  “Are you going to be staying here from now on?” she asked.

  “Perhaps—for a few days. I’ve only just arrived.”

  She nodded. “From America. I know. Your—your brother often talked about you.” She paused. “I used to come in every day. I did some cooking, cleaning, tidying up . . .” More silence, then she said: “Would you like a cup of tea? I expect you would.”

  “Thank you. I’d love some.”

  Pleased, she turned away, and I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table. When the tea was made she handed me a cup and took one for herself. She drank standing near the window, her profile very dark against the flowers and the grass outside. She said to me suddenly: “You know, you’re exactly like him; just the same voice, the same brown eyes and black hair.” Then she lowered her eyes. “I shouldn’t talk like that. Remind­ing you . . .”

  “It’s all right,” I said. I finished my tea, got up and took my empty cup over to the sink. She began: “There’s more if
you—” and then stopped. I saw that she was looking at my feet, my limp. Her eyes came up, caught mine and looked hastily, guiltily away.

  “You see,” I said, “I’m not exactly like him.”

  I felt sorry for her, for her inability to cope. I looked away from her embarrassment, gazing out onto the garden. She said, after a moment, “I . . . I expect you’re hungry too . . .”

  I hadn’t eaten in what seemed ages, but the thought of food hadn’t occurred to me.

  “Yes, I am, rather.”

  “I’ll go on home and get you something.” She picked up her basket.

  “No, please,” I protested, “I can find something in the village.”

  “It’s no trouble at all for me. We only live at the bottom of the hill. Won’t take but a few minutes.” She was already moving towards the door. Quickly I took a step towards her.

  “My brother . . . Can you tell me where he’s—buried . . . ?” The last word stuck in my throat.

  “. . . The cemetery’s on the other side of the village.” She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words. “You go down the hill, turn right and follow the main road. Over the bridge, through the village square and straight on.” She had opened the door, was standing on the step. “Are you going there now?”

  “I thought I might.”

  “It’s not marked—the grave. Not really. I mean—no name, or anything.” She moved back past me, tore a piece of paper from a small notepad and wrote on it with a pencil attached to a string. “Here . . .” she passed me the note. “The grave is just on the other side of the wall. You can’t miss it. It’s the newest one there. A few yards from the path, on the left of the gates.”

  I looked at the paper, at the figures written in her childlike hand. I wasn’t used to death. “Is that all you get?” I said. “Just a number?”

  She looked briefly at me then moved back to the door. “I won’t be long. But you take your time. Your dinner’ll be ready when you want it.”

  “Tell me something,” I said.

  “. . . Yes?”

  “Is Helen—Mrs. Warwick, in Hillingham?”

  “Well, yes . . . of course . . .”

  “My father said that she . . .” I stopped, started again. “This place is mine. My brother left it to me . . .”

  She only nodded. Obviously I wasn’t making sense.

  “Well, I don’t understand it,” I said. “It was hers. And you said she’s still here—in Hillingham . . .”

  “Yes . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but I meant . . . in the cemetery.”

  I was still in the kitchen when she came back about fifteen minutes later.

  “I thought you’d be gone,” she said.

  “I feel a bit tired,” I mumbled. “I’ll go in the morning.” It wasn’t my tiredness, although it was very real. I just didn’t want to go, not when it came to it.

  She began to unload the contents of her shopping basket, stacking things in the refrigerator. I could hear from the dining-room the delicate sound of the clock as it struck seven. I checked the time with my watch. In New York it would only be two o’clock in the afternoon. I hadn’t called She­lagh.

  “The phone’s still not working, is it?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s forever going out of order. It’s a nuisance.” She nodded in the direction of the village. “There’s a phone box down by the bridge and a couple more by the post-office . . .”

  “I’ll wait till tomorrow.”

  Quietly, expertly, she was preparing vegetables. The brilliance of the day was dying, slowly dying. I felt lost, suspended; I’d have let a blind man lead me.

  “How did the cottage get its name?” I asked, making conver­sation. “From the hill, I suppose.”

  “No, the hill was named after the man who built the cottage—Gerrard.” She pointed to the wall and I saw there, left uncovered by the surrounding plaster, a brick with markings on it. I went closer and saw what was written: A.G., then a heart with an arrow through it, then A.G. again, and beneath it, the year 1796.

  “Pretty old . . .”

  “The main part. The extensions were added by his son, a few years later.”

  I said, looking at the first A: “Arthur? Alan?”

  “Adam. The other initials are his wife’s—Ann. He was a black­smith. And according to your brother, a tall man.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “He said because the ceilings and doors are very high for a place this old. And Gerrard built it to fit hisself.” She shrugged. “Anyway, that’s what your brother said. I don’t know much about it.”

  “Do you come from these parts?”

  “Yes. I haven’t lived here all the time, though.” She concen­trated on the contents of a saucepan. “I moved away when I was younger. To Marshton Ridge. Then I came back a few years ago . . . to stay with Dad again.”

  I nodded. “Did you know my brother’s wife well? I never met her.”

  “She came to Hillingham while I was away. When I came back she asked me if I’d come up and—you know—lend a hand around the place.”

  “And you’ve been lending a hand ever since . . .”

  “Well . . . at the beginning I didn’t do it for long because . . .” Her voice faltered, then she went on: “But I came back later—when your brother came here. He was nice. They both were. It was only after she got married that I really got to know her.” She sighed. “She was—a lovely person.”

  What a change, I thought, from my father’s comments on Helen. Remembering his words, I thought of the man—Helen’s “fancy man” as my father had called him—who had been living here with her. Now, after a moment’s hesitation, I asked:

  “Did you know the man who lived here—stayed here—before? Before my brother came?”

  I thought for a moment she wasn’t going to answer, then she said, avoiding my glance:

  “Alan De Freyne. Oh, yes, I knew him.” She added shortly, “But he didn’t last long once your brother was here.”

  “Who was he—De Freyne?”

  “A friend—or relative of hers, I think . . .” She wanted off the subject, I could tell. I made an effort to move the conversation in another direction.

  “I never heard of Marshton Ridge,” I said.

  “No, well, you wouldn’t. It’s a quiet little place. Pretty much like this. Everybody knows everybody else. And what goes on. And what they don’t know they make up.”

  Her last words had taken on a slightly bitter tone. I wondered at it. I looked at her but her face was averted.

  “Why did you come back?” I asked. “Did you get tired of the place?”

  “Something like that.” She paused, then said suddenly, with a quick smile, “Why don’t you go and rest a bit? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  I got up from my chair. “I’m asking too many questions.”

  “Oh, no, no,” she said, but I knew it was so, and I didn’t want to add to her discomfort. I moved to the door.

  “If you want a drink,” she said, “there’s various bottles of this and that . . .”

  “That’s a good idea.” I poured myself a scotch-and-water, added plenty of ice, and carried it into the living-room. There I sat back in a comfortable armchair and put my feet up on the footstool. I needed the rest and the drink.

  The steak, potatoes and salad were delicious. After I had eaten—and after Jean Timpson had gone, with a promise to return the next day—I turned off the lights and went upstairs. There in the bedroom I found my suitcases open and partly unpacked, and my pyjamas neatly laid out on the turned-down bed.

  I took a soothing bath, put on my towelling robe and walked, tip-toe-on-my-left-foot, back to the soft-carpeted bedroom. In spite of the coffee I’d drunk I felt so sleepy that I debated for a moment whether or not I’d need a sleeping-pill. But I took one; I’d been caught out before. I walked over to the open window and stood there in the darkness, the bedside lamp
switched off behind me. I looked down towards the village where the win­dows winked their yellow lights in the summer night. I yawned, closed the curtains, went to my bed and climbed in. I whispered, “Oh, Colin . . .” into the dark, and fell asleep.

  I awoke with the sunlight streaming in through the crack between the curtains. I hadn’t set the alarm-clock at my bedside and I’d also forgotten to wind my watch. I dressed in a pair of faded blue denims and went downstairs. The clock in the dining-room told me it was just after eight. I made myself a cup of in­stant coffee and carried it out into the garden. The morning sun was so bright, the air so warm and clear—no hint of the New York humidity I had never grown accustomed to. I wandered over to a wooden seat on the rolling lawn and sat there sipping from my cup. Later on, I told myself, I would go to the village, to the cemetery. And I must phone She­lagh, too. But there was plenty of time for that—in New York it was still the middle of the night. For the moment I could take in the morning, feel the soft grass under my bare feet and enjoy my new sense of freedom.

  Over in a little round flower bed I saw some small rose-trees bearing the creamy-white flowers I had seen in the house. I went over, leaned down, taking in the almost-familiar fragrance. As I straightened up I heard Jean Timpson’s voice behind me.

  “Good morning . . .”

  I turned, smiled at her. She half lifted the basket she held in her hands.

  “I brought you some nice fresh eggs for your breakfast.”

  “You’ll spoil me,” I said.

  And I said the same thing to her half-an-hour later as I sat at the dining-table with scrambled eggs and toast before me. And it was a real possibility—the food was so good. When I had fin­ished I got ready to leave for the cemetery. As I opened the front gate I heard her calling after me. I stopped, waited while she came round the side of the house carrying scissors and paper.