Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  So restless, I got up, left my glass on the coffee-table and went out into the garden where I ambled, slowly, without direction or purpose. I crossed over the lawn into the orchard, leisurely strolled its perimeter and ended up back at the gate. To my left I saw the remains of the old sundial, broken by the tree on the day of the storm. Poor Bronwen, I reflected, she must have thought the world was coming to an end—what with the storm, then Handyman attacking her and going off. And for her, of course, the world did come to an end; that day, the day of the storm, had marked the beginning of that end; three days later she was dead . . .

  Pressing aside the weeds, grass and briars with my feet (my hands too; a few more scratches wouldn’t make any difference), I managed to get a grip on the heavy stone face of the dial. I tried to lift it back to its original place on top of the pedestal but it was too heavy, and even so I could see that with the column so badly shattered it wouldn’t have stayed in place anyway. Perhaps in time I might be able to get it repaired . . . it was a pleasant thought.

  As I straightened up my eye was caught by something lying half-buried deep down in amongst the tangle of the briar’s woody stems. Carefully I reached down and drew out a flattish piece of metal, quite black, round, about an inch-and-a-half in diameter.

  “What have you found?”

  Reese’s voice, coming so suddenly out of the stillness into my concentration, made me jump.

  “My God, don’t do that,” I said, smiling. “You’re a doctor; you should know better.”

  “True, true.” He laughed. Then he said, “I just dropped in to see how you are. Bill Carmichael told me what had happened.”

  I nodded. “She­lagh’s going to be all right, thank God.”

  “Good.” He paused. “And how about you? Bill said you were pretty shaken yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m okay now, thanks. But I appreciate your concern.” I began to walk back towards the house. He fell into step beside me. “Have you got time for a drink?” I asked.

  “Maybe. A small one.”

  Inside the house I poured him a scotch and topped up my own glass. He sat in the chair opposite my own. “You’re quite sure,” he said, “that you’re right . . .”

  “Quite sure.” I hesitated and then burst out: “Why didn’t you tell me about Jean Timpson? Why didn’t you warn me?”

  He stared at me in surprise. “Warn you? What about?”

  “About her—state. The way she is. She—she tried to kill Shelagh.”

  He said nothing, just kept staring at me in disbelief.

  “You think I’m making it up,” I said, my voice rising, “but I’m not! She’s so—jealous. She wanted She­lagh gone—so desperately. And I realise, today, now, that there’s nothing she wouldn’t do to get rid of her. What happened this afternoon—that wasn’t her first attempt to—to hurt her. She’s tried before!”

  He continued to look at me quite steadily, still with that rather bemused expression on his face, his brows raised slightly. I avoided his gaze. I saw that the knuckles of my fists were white.

  “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” he said softly, at last. “You’re over-reacting a bit, aren’t you? You’ve had a bad shock and——”

  I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I slammed my glass down so violently that the scotch slopped over the rim. “Don’t use your unctuous bedside manner on me,” I said through clenched lips. “Save it for those who need it. I’m not a child! I know what’s been happening here. That woman—she even put glass in She­lagh’s food!”

  He got up then. “Jean? You can’t be serious . . .”

  I snorted my disdain. “I thought she might be a bit odd. But even I didn’t guess how odd.” I looked at him, waiting for my words to sink in. “Don’t you understand?—she made She­lagh’s horse bolt.”

  “I think perhaps you need a sedative,” he said, so gently, so reasonably that I wanted to hit him.

  “Please go,” I said shortly. “I’m sure you’re doing your best—what you think is best, but it’s not helping me in the least.” He still stood there. “Please,” I said, “go.”

  He took up his bag, opened his mouth to speak—probably more words of comfort—and then stopped, his glance moving past my shoulder, beyond the window.

  “Here she is now.”

  I turned, just in time to see Jean Timpson go by on her way round to the back of the house. I stood for some seconds, gripping the back of the chair, feeling my anger growing inside me, then, when her knock came on the kitchen door I almost ran from the room.

  Flinging open the back door I confronted her. She looked up at me and seemed almost visibly to shrink from my stony-silent glare. The fingers of one hand moved nervously to her cheek, fluttered down again. Her other hand held a bunch of pink roses.

  “I—I just wanted to ask how Miss—Miss She­lagh is . . .” she faltered, her voice almost fading away. “I—I heard about her . . . her fall . . .”

  I still said nothing, just stood there, feeling my mouth working; not even attempting to control the rage that welled higher and higher in me. She would offer me her flowers any second.

  She licked her lower lip. Her glance flicked away and came back to rest on my shoulder. “I just wanted to say,” she whispered, “that if there’s anything I can do . . .” Her words tailed off. Then, with an obvious effort, bathed as she was in my granite stare, she mumbled:

  “When you see her next would you . . . would you . . . give her these, please . . .”

  And then the little bunch of pink roses was lifted up to me. And I snatched them from her hand and hurled them down onto the step.

  “You’ve done enough!” I said. “Haven’t you? Haven’t you done enough?”

  She flinched, stepped backwards, and I lashed out, kicking the flowers off the step.

  “Keep your roses! Keep them! She doesn’t want them!”

  Her hands were at her mouth. Her eyes, wide with horror and shock, glanced down at the flowers that lay between us, then, frowning, as if comprehending nothing, she looked up into my eyes, reading the relentless fury there. I advanced on her, feeling the rose-stems beneath my sandal, my hands clenching and unclenching as I raised them.

  “Get out of here.” I ground the words out. “Get out of my sight. I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again. I don’t want to hear your voice or even your name.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh . . .” and the sound was like the frightened bewildered voice of a child. The shadow of a small, grotesque smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, as if her only defence, her only hope for sanity lay in the belief that it was all some monstrous joke. And then, suddenly, the smile was gone and she was pleading, “Oh, please . . . no, no, please . . .” backing up from the path onto the edge of the lawn, her heel catching, so that her body jerked ungracefully as she recovered her balance. Behind me I heard the sound of a step and then Reese’s voice telling me to calm down and stop being a fool. I ignored him. All I could think of was She­lagh: I saw her there astride the horse, so happy; saw Jean Timpson reaching up, saw She­lagh’s terrified face as the horse raced by me, saw She­lagh lying in the road, still as death.

  Now I shook off Reese’s restraining hand, and Jean Timpson edged further back onto the grass.

  “You tried to kill She­lagh,” I said to her, and then, unstoppable, added: “You’re evil. You’re insane.”

  Still retreating, she shook her head mechanically from side to side. “Oh, God,” she breathed. “Oh, God . . .” And I saw the tears almost springing from her eyes. She gave a little animal whimper and with a last stricken look at my face, awkwardly turned and ran off across the grass. I stood there, shaking, watching without pity the indignity of her flight.

  She ran through the orchard gate. Reese grabbed my arm again and said:

  “Are you satisfied?”

  I didn’t answer. I shook his hand away.

  “Go after her,” he said.

  No. I would have every ounce of my po
und of flesh.

  “Go after her yourself,” I said.

  I saw distaste in the curl of his lip. I felt the tide of my anger turning, ebbing away. Then Reese was gone from my side, running over the grass. I waited a couple of seconds and hurried in pursuit.

  There was no sign of her in the orchard and Reese, up ahead of me, was hovering distractedly, not knowing which way to go. When I realised all of a sudden where she must be heading I ran faster, making for the gap in the hedge. “This way!” I shouted.

  Scrambling through the gap ahead of him I dashed through the thicket, running in a straight line down the steep open track towards the edge of the pond.

  There was no sign of her in the water, but I knew she was there.

  20

  I paused only long enough to rip off my sandals, then, running down the steep, slippery bank I took a deep breath and plunged in.

  One place where my limp had never hampered me was in the water. I was a strong swimmer; and now I would need all the strength I could muster.

  My shallow dive—shallow for my own safety’s sake—brought no results, and I surfaced as fast as I could and dived again, kicking hard, diving deep. I could hardly see anything; the water was cloudy and becoming cloudier all the time; mud was being stirred up—and not by me, so I knew she was down there somewhere, and not too far away. Holding my breath till I felt as if my lungs were bursting, I forced myself deeper still, my hands searching desperately about me, trying to make contact.

  And they did. I didn’t see anything, but I touched some hard, resisting object and then, as my fingers left it they brushed, just briefly, the softness of clothing, the softness of her arm.

  So I knew where she was. Kicking with all my power I reached up, soaring to the surface, then, taking a great gasping lungful of air I dived down again.

  I found her at once this time—but only by touch; the mud had been stirred up so much it was impossible for me even to keep my eyes open. Getting my hands under her arms I tried to drag her up with me, but although she didn’t forcibly resist me I couldn’t move her. I let go her arms and pushed deeper, frantically groping about to find just how she was caught.

  It was by her foot—trapped between what felt to be the spokes of some old half-buried wheel. I took hold of her ankle; a slight twist, a slight push, and then she was free. And in almost a continuation of the same movement I reached higher, grasped her firmly by her upper arms and kicked upwards.

  As we broke the surface Reese was right there just a yard or so away. Without a word his hands came out towards us, fingers gripping, holding tight. Together, with Jean Timpson held securely between us, we struck out for the bank.

  We laid her down in the soft grass at the water’s edge. She didn’t fight at all, or struggle. I watched as Reese knelt over her, his hands rhythmically working—pushing, pressing, on and on, and with every second my panic grew and grew. I could do nothing but crouch there, watching and praying . . .

  And then the water was coming out of her mouth; with each push down he was forcing the water from her body. Yet still she didn’t move.

  I watched as he turned her roughly over onto her back, pinched her nostrils between his finger and thumb, took a deep, deep gulp of air and closed his mouth over hers. He was pushing the air into her now. Again. Again. Again. It’s useless, I wanted to say, it’s useless, she’s dead. But he kept on.

  And then suddenly she gave a shudder, her hands jerking at her sides, reaching up and out. He released her and her head moved, writhing in the grass; her mouth opened and she gasped, sucking in air.

  When he looked across at me his face showed strain—but even stronger was his look of relief. He gave the slightest nod and said softly:

  “She’ll be all right now.”

  After a while he rose and lifted her up in his arms. Through the sound of her dry sobbing I heard her little murmurs of protest.

  “Hush, hush,” Reese said, soothing, gentle. “It’s over now. There’s nothing to worry about now . . .” To me he said after a moment’s thought: “Let’s get dry and then I’ll drive her back to my place. I don’t think she’d better go home today.” He looked into Jean Timpson’s face. “Do you think so?” he asked her. She didn’t answer, but he said, “No,” as if she had.

  In the cottage she stood dumbly while I gave her towels, and some of Helen’s clothes to change into. In her dull eyes pain and fear lingered like a bruise. I couldn’t look at her; I had to turn away.

  I gave Reese a shirt and a pair of Colin’s­ trousers, then went upstairs and pulled off my own wet things. Afterwards, in dry gear once more, I went back down to the kitchen where Reese sat. When Jean Timpson was ready we drove to his house.

  In his front room I waited while he and his wife put her to bed. When he came to me some minutes later I saw that he’d got into his own clothes. He handed me my shirt and Colin’s­ trousers.

  “Is she all right?” I asked him.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “And fretting in case her father finds out. But that’s a good sign—hopeful. I’ve told her there’s no need to worry. I shall take her back home tomorrow—if she’s all right. I’ll tell her father something—then he needn’t know anything about it. No point in making it worse.”

  “Will she—try to do it again, do you think?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  He moved back towards the door. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll drive you back.”

  “I can walk.”

  He gave me a look that said this was no time for me to be over-sensitive, then said, “I’ve got to call in and see her dad anyway. Come on. Carol will stay with her.”

  “Oh, God . . .” I shook my head. “When I think what might have happened . . . I’m so glad you were there.”

  “Yes,” he said, “so am I.”

  I made my way slowly up the hill towards the cottage, leaving behind me Reese going on his way to see Mr. Timpson.

  “What will you say to him?” I had asked.

  “I’ll say that Carol and I have unexpectedly been called out—that we need a baby-sitter.”

  “Will he believe that?”

  “Why not? He’ll be glad to believe it.”

  “Because he’ll think she’s being entrusted with the care of children . . .”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Bill Carmichael. He told me something of her story.” I added, “Albeit reluctantly.”

  “Hm,” he said, “well, I hope it was the right story.”

  “Her father talked to me as well,” I said. “It’s certainly a sad story, anyway.”

  He nodded. “It is—hers. It must have been hell—to live with the thought that people can believe you to be capable of something so—awful.”

  “You mean the boy—drowning.”

  “Yes. And as if she hadn’t gone through enough before that. With her own baby, and with De Freyne.”

  “De Freyne . . . he keeps cropping up.”

  “He was in Hillingham long before your sister-in-law was here. That’s how she got to know about the place, I believe, because of him. They were related, weren’t they?—cousins or something?”

  “I don’t know. In fact the longer I stay here the more I realise how very little I know of Helen.”

  “. . . Anyway, he was here first of all—working at the stables. That’s where he got to know Jean.”

  Silence. Then I said, suddenly realising:

  “He was the father of her child.”

  “Yes. There was hell to pay when Timpson found out.”

  “With Jean?”

  “No, with De Freyne. Well, Timpson knew that De Freyne had only been leading her on. He had, too. I think she thought he might marry her, but he didn’t have any such ideas. He just wanted a good time. He was younger then.”

  “He doesn’t sound a very pleasant character.”

  “Well, that didn’t make him very popular, or what happened afterwards with her father.”
/>   “What happened? He kicked up a fuss?—Timpson?”

  “I’ll say. I was called up to the stables one afternoon. It appeared that Mr. Timpson, when he found out, had gone up there to see De Freyne. There was a bit of a scene and poor old Timpson ended up getting knocked flat. That’s why they sent for me. He was in a pretty bad state, but there—you wouldn’t expect much else, would you? I mean, Timpson was getting on and De Freyne was young and strong.”

  “De Freyne seemed to make a habit of getting into fights,” I said. “How did it happen that time? Who started it?”

  “According to what I was told later, Timpson started berating De Freyne for leading Jean up the garden path, with promises of marriage and so on. Then, apparently, De Freyne said a bit too much in return, and Timpson went for him.”

  “Good for him.”

  “I persuaded him to let me drive him home. But, my God, he was in a rage. He was white with anger. He’s always been so protective where Jean is concerned. Just couldn’t bear the thought that somebody had made such a fool of her. Even then, just before he got into my car I had to pacify him or he’d have gone for De Freyne again. And the threats he called out to him—what he wasn’t going to do to him if he stayed around.” He made a wry face. “Funny, really, to see Timpson making dire threats to someone much younger and so much bigger.”

  “Was that the end of it?”

  “Yes. De Freyne went. He left the next week or so.”

  “But later came back.”

  “Years later, yes. After your sister-in-law had bought the cottage. I think she must have visited him while he was staying here before, and liked the place. So when your cottage came on the market she stepped in and bought it. You know how you discover things . . . places . . . Anyway, as I say, he came back. I had quite a surprise to see him riding through the square one day as large as life.”