Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  “Oh, we’re used to different accents now, but years ago, well—it was something to talk about. Like when Bill Gerrard went off and come back with a Welsh girl for a wife. That was quite an event.”

  “He was the gardening one,” I said.

  He grinned. “You’ve been studying your history.”

  “Mr. Timpson—he gave me a quick lesson.”

  “Oh?” The old man looked at me quizzically. “And what did he have to say?”

  “Not a great deal. He said you were the expert.”

  He just looked at me for a moment, as if trying to see behind my words. Then he said: “She, Bill Gerrard’s wife, brought with her a beautiful Welsh dresser—a real craftsman’s bit of work.”

  “I think it’s still there.” I recalled my brief exploration of the cellar.

  “Ah, it is.” He nodded. “I know it is. Yes, she brought it all the way from Wales along with her trunks and stuff.”

  She­lagh said: “That would be Bronwen?”

  “No, no, she—Bronwen was their daughter.”

  “Who married Handyman Temple,” I said.

  “Right, old Handyman.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I say old. He wasn’t old.”

  “He was the one who skipped off to the States, right?” Shelagh asked.

  “Yes.”

  “With a dairymaid.”

  “Yes.” For all his former loquaciousness he didn’t appear very eager to take up the subject, this subject.

  “All told,” I said, “he didn’t make out too badly for a guy with only one hand, did he?”

  “Oh, no, he did all right. He was clever enough.” He shifted the cream pitcher on the paper, began to wrap it. “Imagine—bringing her Welsh dresser all the way from Wales.” He grinned. “There’s no doubt about it—your cottage has seen a rare collection of females in its time.”

  Did he, I wondered, include Helen in that collection? “How well,” I asked—too quickly—“did you know my sister-in-law?”—and saw She­lagh give me a pained look that clearly asked could I never let the matter drop.

  “I knew her,” he said thoughtfully, “about as well as most people did, I suppose. But it seemed to me that nobody really knew her that well . . . She called into the shop a few times; she was very pleasant; we chatted. And a couple of times I saw her there at the cottage. Mind you, I knew your brother better, although he wasn’t here nearly as long. I asked them if they’d sell me that Welsh dresser. He said they would. He’d had it moved down to the cellar, out of the way, but then, before we actually settled the deal she—she had her accident.” He gave a sad little shake of his head. “Terrible shame . . . terrible shame . . . I didn’t see your brother after that happened. But before then he came into the shop many, many times. And we’d always get talking about the cottage—the folks who’d lived there, this and that—you know how it is. I suppose it was natural he’d be interested . . . as anyone would be . . .”

  There was an unspoken “but” at the end of his sentence. I said, after a moment:

  “. . . But . . . ?”

  “Well . . .” he shrugged, “he seemed just—fascinated by it. I got to thinking that he came here just for that—to talk.”

  Was he saying that Colin had become obsessed by the house? I recalled again Reese telling me how he had urged Colin to get away from it—away from all its sad associations . . . Had Reese made the same implication?

  “He’d ask me,” Pitkin said, “the same questions over and over. I think probably the place was getting on his nerves. It could do, too, if you’re of an imaginative turn of mind . . . at all highly-strung.”

  Highly-strung? Did that describe Colin? I watched as the old man resumed the wrapping of the cream pitcher. She­lagh had moved over to the sampler. I turned and read over her shoulder the words that were embroidered there.

  My true love hath my heart and I have his,

  By just exchange one for another given;

  I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,

  There never was a better bargain driven.

  “That’s by Sir Philip Sidney,” She­lagh said airily, turning back to me. “Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. But one thing I’ll say for it—it’s more cheerful than her other one.”

  “She was obviously happy when she made this one. She wasn’t always sad.”

  I looked at the date on it, stitched in blue: “December, 1903 . . . It wasn’t that long before, either.”

  “Oh, we must have it, Dave,” she said. “It belongs at the cottage, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. “If you say so.”

  Pitkin quoted a price to her—a very low one—and she did her conversion job again and told him happily that it was a deal. While she picked over coins and notes in her bag the old man carefully wrapped the framed sampler in paper. When it was done I thanked him, said goodbye and led the way to the door. He followed us. As we said goodbye again I heard the sound of horse’s hooves and, looking out, saw a woman go by on the street leading a large chestnut mare. She­lagh said rapturously, “Oh—!” and hurried out past me, in pursuit. From the doorway I watched as she caught up with the woman about twenty-five yards along. They fell into conversation together. As I watched, the old man, at my side, said:

  “I hope I didn’t say anything—to upset you just now.”

  “Not at all.” The sampler was coming unwrapped in my hands and I pulled it into shape again. “I don’t know why she wants this,” I said for something to say. “The place is chock-full of mementos already.”

  “And Margaret Lane is hardly the happiest person to want reminders of.”

  “Yes . . .”

  We were silent then. Both of us. We were back to death again and, although their names were not mentioned, back to Colin and Helen. I said, forcing a grin, putting an end to the conversation—and, hopefully, its associations: “She’ll moon over that horse all day if allowed to . . .” and stepped away. Quickly he said:

  “Oh . . . that Welsh dresser . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I would still like to buy it. If you’d consider selling it . . .”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t even looked at it properly.” I shrugged. “I’d have to think about it.”

  “I’d be glad if you would . . . think about it. Then perhaps I could drop in and—well, have a chat about it . . .”

  “Any time.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  He didn’t let the grass grow under his feet. “Fine,” I said. We shook hands and I stepped away from him for the second time.

  “Oh,” he said, “just one other thing . . .”

  I could tell what was coming by the expression on his face. “What’s that?”

  “If you don’t mind me askin’ . . . Your leg . . . How’d you get like that? . . . Do you mind me askin’?”

  Usually I did mind. Not with him though.

  “I was born like it,” I said.

  “Ah . . .” Briefly his eyes closed as he gave a little nod of understanding. I wanted to ask “How about you?”—but for some reason I didn’t have the courage. For a second I thought how rather strange the situation was—both standing there considering one another’s limp. Quite ludicrous, really. Then he said, patting his thigh:

  “Me—I had an accident. It never set properly. Ah, well . . .” His expression said it was no longer important. “It doesn’t bother me. If it happens when you’re young you have a good long time to get used to it, don’t you? It doesn’t matter so much, does it?”

  I agreed, no, no, it didn’t matter that much. Though inwardly I didn’t agree at all. It did matter. It did.

  Up ahead I saw the woman and the horse continuing on their way and She­lagh walking back towards me. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to the old man and, with a final nod of goodbye, went to meet her.

  As we headed across the square she linked her arm in mine. “God, what a lovely animal,” she said, still thinking about the h
orse. “Mrs. Stoner—that woman—she’s got several horses. She says I can take one out any time I like. Isn’t that marvellous? I’m going to take her up on her offer.” She was silent for a few seconds then she said:

  “Why did you ask that old guy those questions?—like how well did he know Helen? You’re still pursuing it, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m just—naturally curious—to meet anyone who knew them—anyone who can fill in the gaps.” I smiled at her. “I don’t intend—going any further than that.”

  I led the way towards the garage tucked in one corner of the square. A sign there told us that there were taxis and cars for hire (the same firm that had supplied the taxi to take me into Reading. Maybe the same firm whose driver had found Colin’s­ body . . . ? But don’t think about that.) One thing was certain—if we were going to stay on for a while, then a car was an absolute necessity.

  The man who came out to us as we reached the pumps was the dark, swarthy one who had driven me from the bus on that first day. I told him what we wanted and he said doubtfully, clicking his tongue, that all he had available was an old Vauxhall. Though it was, he added, very reliable. I told him it would do and, while She­lagh took off for the ladies’ room, followed him round to the back yard where every inch of space seemed to be filled with various bits of cars of every make and description.

  His name, the man told me, was Bill Carmichael. He obviously knew mine. We chatted, walking side by side across the yard, and suddenly I came to a dead halt. The next moment I had moved away from him. Some yards over to one side I stopped and stood staring down at what was left of my brother’s MG.

  It bore no relation to the smart shining machine in the photographs Colin had sent me. It lay there now a twisted, snarled up wreck, the bonnet concertinaed, one side almost completely ripped away, just hanging by the merest slender strip of jagged metal. I saw at once that anyone who had been in that driver’s seat could not possibly have survived.

  I remembered how proud Colin had been of his MG. I remembered the picture of him sitting at its wheel, the happy smile on his face, the warm sun reflecting in the brilliant red paintwork. I had to look away. I felt almost sick. I could imagine for the first time just how violently, how sickeningly he must have died. I felt sudden tears well up in my eyes—those tears I had thought were a thing of the past. I couldn’t help it. They were not for his passing, though—they were for the manner of his passing. I stood still while the tears coursed down my cheeks, trying to get my breath without making a complete idiot of myself, my face turned away so the man, Carmichael, shouldn’t see. When at last I’d got control, after a fashion, I went over to him. He was studiously examining the oil level of the old Vauxhall. He looked round at the sound of my approach but—out of deference to my emotions, I know—avoided my eyes.

  “Were you . . . the one who . . . who found him?” I managed to say, at last.

  “That’s right, sir . . .”

  I looked back in the direction of the wreckage. The tears stung my eyes all over again.

  “I never dreamed,” I said, “it would be like that.”

  There was a note lying on the kitchen table when we got back. I read it then said to She­lagh: “From Jean. She says she’ll be back later. She’s done the shopping, she says, and there’s ice-cream for you in the fridge.”

  She­lagh smiled. “Isn’t that nice of her. She remembered my sweet tooth.”

  After finding a good place to hang Sad Margaret’s sampler we changed our clothes (shorts for me; shorts and bikini-top for She­lagh) and set about preparing lunch. We made sandwiches and iced tea and, while She­lagh fed Girlie I carried the loaded tray out onto the lawn and set it down next to the rug I’d spread out there. As we ate, Girlie came to us across the grass and, smelling of cat-food, nuzzled around us for a while before being distracted by the flight of a passing butterfly. She dashed off in mad, scampering pursuit, leaping up, missing the red admiral by a hair’s breadth, while we laughed at her insane antics. Then, suddenly exhausted, she came back to us and lay down, sides heaving, in the shade of She­lagh’s body.

  Later, when the sandwiches were finished She­lagh got some of Jean Timpson’s ice-cream from the fridge. I lounged back as she ate. “I don’t know how you can touch all that sickly stuff.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.” She grinned at me and took another spoonful. “That really was so thoughtful of her . . .”

  I drained my glass of the last drop of tea and lay down, prone, my head on my forearms. I closed my eyes.

  It was She­lagh’s short cry of pain that snatched me back from the edge of sleep. Quickly I sat up. She was holding her hand to her mouth, spitting out melted ice-cream that ran, tinged with red, between her fingers. I knelt before her. Tears shone in her eyes. Pain and fright. When she took her hand away from her mouth I could see that her lips were smudged with blood.

  And in the hand she held out to me was a long sliver of glass.

  15

  When Jean Timpson arrived I asked her where she’d bought the ice-cream.

  “The big shop in the square . . .” She smiled. “Was it all right? I thought Miss She­lagh would like it.”

  I held out to her the sliver of glass. “This was in it.”

  She stared at it, face set. “. . . Was she . . . ?”

  “She cut her gum and the inside of her lip. Not too badly, but painful for all that.”

  “You give that to me . . .” she held out her hand, “and I’ll take it and show them.”

  “No, I’ll do it. First thing Monday.” I studied the glass. It was about three-quarters of an inch long, very thin at one end with a point as sharp as a needle. If She­lagh had swallowed it . . . well, I dreaded to think what might have been the result.

  “Is she in there now?” Jean Timpson asked. Yes, she was, I said, and she went past me towards the living-room. I followed.

  She­lagh was sitting on the floor sorting through records. Girlie was in her lap. Jean Timpson stopped just inside the doorway.

  “Oh, Miss She­lagh . . . I’m so sorry.” She paused. “I just don’t know what to say . . .”

  All concern, She­lagh got up and moved towards her. “It’s not your fault. And I’m perfectly okay.”

  “They ought to be more careful. I’m sorry, I really am.” Jean Timpson’s hands were working, writhing nervously.

  “Please . . .” I said as I dropped the piece of glass into a small dish on the mantelpiece, “you mustn’t get yourself into a state about it. As She­lagh said, it was no fault of yours.”

  When she had gone, back to the kitchen, She­lagh said, “Poor thing—she feels worse about it than I do.”

  With the house to ourselves again after dinner we talked, listened to Neil Diamond and Simon and Garfunkel and then, on television, watched Judy Garland make it from rags to riches in A Star is Born. Before bedtime came I went upstairs and checked our room. No rose there.

  The room was very warm. I opened the windows and felt the welcome cooling night air drift in through the lace curtains. Later, when I followed She­lagh there from the bathroom I found her in bed with the sheet pulled up around her chin and one of the windows closed again.

  “I thought I’d freeze to death,” she said.

  “You,” I told her, “are a spoilt American brat. All that air-­conditioning and central-heating—and faced with the real elements they’re too much for you.”

  “Balls.”

  “You think you’ve got an answer for everything with your university education.”

  I put out the light, got in beside her and held her. But when I began to caress her she stayed my hand. “I’m sorry, darling,” she murmured, “but I don’t feel all that good, really.”

  “Your mouth—where you were cut?”

  “No, not that. Just . . . generally. I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

  “Sure you will.” I smoothed her hand in mine. “Poor baby . . .”

  I slept soon after. T
he next thing I was aware of was surfacing, only half with it, to the sound of her voice as she cried out beside me. She was trying, with difficulty, to sit up. One of her thrashing arms, catching me a blow on the shoulder, brought me fully awake. I sat up beside her and put my arms around her, but she shook my touch away, moving, twisting wildly, fighting me off.

  “It’s all right . . . it’s all right . . .” I held her again. “You’ve had a bad dream. You’re safe now . . .”

  She turned slow, puzzled eyes to me. Reality was getting through to her; you could see it dawning, settling. She lifted a hand, touched my cheek, so gently, as if reassuring herself of my presence: safety. I never loved her more than I did in that moment.

  “. . . Just a dream,” I said softly. “It’s all right now . . .”

  She nodded, wordless, then lay down again and closed her eyes.

  This time I stayed fully awake until she was asleep.

  She was still sleeping when I crept out of bed the next morning and went downstairs. At the kitchen table I drank coffee and orange juice and smoked a first cigarette while the sound of church bells drifted up from the village and birds and butterflies flew about their work in the garden. Another very warm day. I made fresh coffee, poured more juice and took it upstairs. Shelagh was awake now. “How do you feel?” I asked her. “Better?”