The Importance of Being Ernestine

by Dorothy Cannell

“And do you?” I asked. Unfortunately I had made the mistake of sitting next to Mrs. Malloy on the sofa. She accompanied a derisive chortle by an elbow in my side.

  “What a question! Why, it’s obvious from looking at her that Jan here couldn’t have been more than a toddler herself at the time.”

  “Why that is kind of you to say,” came the smiling response. “But I’d have been twelve or thirteen. Yes, that would be right.” Mrs. Joritiz was counting off on her fingers. “I’m fifty-two now…”

  “Who would have thought it! Why you don’t look a day older than Mrs. H. here, and she claims to be in her early thirties.” Mrs. Malloy was really overdoing things. It took all my restraint as a grown-up and a phony private detective not to poke her with my elbow. Mrs. Joritz might be rather too trusting, but I sensed she was no fool. Had she not been caught up in the excitement of our visit, she would surely have found Mrs. Malloy’s flattery highly suspicious.

  I breathed easier when she picked up her knitting and began clicking away, and immediately I sensed something else: Mrs. Joritz didn’t want to rush things. Here was an event to be savored and later dwelt upon and talked about at length. She wouldn’t enlarge upon the part she had played. She didn’t strike me as a self-centered woman; it would be more like re-watching a favorite television program. It wouldn’t be the beginning or ending that mattered half so much as the middle.

  “I don’t think much about how I look. It’s never been all that important to me. It’s how you feel on the inside that counts, or so I tell myself, and having my granchildren helps keep me feeling young these days. This little cardigan I’m knitting is for my eldest granddaughter, Julie. She’s seven and does she ever think she’s grown up! Her mother, my daughter Susan, let her get her ears pierced. My husband didn’t think it was right, but I told him no one thinks twice about it these days, anymore than they do when someone has a baby without being married. It’s all different. And just as well if you ask me, when you think back to what girls like the one that died upstairs went through, cast off by their families and left to fend all on their own when the bloke that got them in trouble washed his hands of his responsibilities.”

  “Sometimes these situations can be complicated.” I was thinking about Ernest who had wanted to marry Flossie and then remembered Sir Horace who couldn’t or wouldn’t accept responsibility for the child.

  “Such a pretty girl, she was too. It was still there even when she took ill.” Mrs. Joritz laid down her knitting. “I suppose thinking back that’s what made me realize looks aren’t everything. That poor lass should have had the world at her feet.”

  Mrs. M. had reached out her hand to some grapes in a bowl before realizing they weren’t real. “But a nice decorative touch,” she proffered kindly, “cheerful but classy you might say, which gets me to wondering if that would describe Flossie Jones?”

  “I didn’t get to know her well enough to say. I just passed her coming in and out the door, that sort of thing. She wasn’t unfriendly, but you couldn’t expect her to go out of her way for a twelve-year-old girl. And it was clear she was hard up. She’d be weeks late with the rent; my parents were always a pair of softies when it came to putting anyone out. I remember when the baby was born the doctor coming in the middle of the night. That made for a lot of excitement. And then of course Mum and Dad talked about her being ill. That part happened very quick, the way it does with pneumonia. It was the same doctor that came then. A Doctor Green, he was, and it was him that arranged things for the adoption.”

  “He did?” Mrs. Malloy and I bolted forward on the sofa in unison.

  “There was this couple, patients of his, that couldn’t have children; it’s often the case, isn’t it? Those that want them can’t have them and those that don’t find themselves in a pickle.” A sharp crack, as if from a ball hitting a window, cut Mrs. Joritz short and caused Mrs. Malloy’s hat to slide from her head to mine. I had a suspicion that it did nothing for me, but before I could request an opinion Mrs. Joritz began chatting away in a nervous voice about how she had enjoyed her daughters’ growing-up years. Some five minutes later the door opened and an athletically built, dapper gentleman entered the room, nonchalantly swinging a golf club.

  “Oh, Dad! You didn’t!” Mrs. Joritz addressed him in a softly rebuking voice.

  “That’s your father, sweetheart! Another hole in one!”

  “Through next door’s dining room window?”

  “The exact same spot as last time.”

  Mrs. Joritz pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Tell me you didn’t smash any more of Mr. Warren’s Royal Doulton character mugs? You know that man lives and breathes for his collection. He’s finally got all of Henry VIII’s six wives.”

  “And a few moments ago one of them’s had her head chopped off for the second time. Now don’t go upsetting yourself.” Her father grinned. It was a very attractive boyish grin and knowing Mrs. Malloy’s tendency to become distracted under certain conditions, I replaced her hat, pulling the brim down over her eyes. “It’s alright, Jan. Mrs. Warren wasn’t the least put out. She not only downright refused to let me pay for the window, she invited me to start practicing on her lawn, which does have the advantage of that little pond and the children’s sandbox to make me feel more like I’m playing at the club. The woman hates those mugs. She says they’re always leering at her. And she has nightmares about being up on the mantelpiece with them. But what will these two ladies be thinking of me, chewing on about my game.” He propped his club against a table and extended his hand, first to me then to Mrs. Malloy. “We haven’t met previously, have we?”

  “No, but isn’t it nice that there’s a first time for everything?” It was clear to me from Mrs. Malloy’s limpid gaze that the image of Watkins, the butler, had been wiped from the horizon of her memory. She introduced herself with the bashfulness of a schoolgirl while making adjustments to the hat. Knowing she was desperate to get at her lipstick, I shifted her handbag out of reach.

  “I’m Bob Songer.” He sat down, hitched up his crisply ironed trouser legs to display an inch of robin’s egg blue sock and leaned toward us, eyes twinkling. “You must be new friends of Jan’s, or we’d have met before. She’s always been great about including her Mum and me when she has people in, never making us old folk feel underfoot, the way you hear of some people doing to their parents.”

  “Dad”-Mrs. Joritz returned his twinkle-“you’re forgetting it’s your house.”

  “That wouldn’t stop some.” Mr. Songer’s grin faded. “Mrs. Warren was telling me this morning how she’d read in the local paper about some ninety-year-old man that died from falling down a well.”

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. M. avoided my eye.

  “A nasty accident from the way it was written, but as Mrs. Warren pointed out, accidents can be made to happen. ‘Mark my words,’ she said, ‘that old codger was in the way, getting on someone’s nerves, always harping on about the old days. Probably couldn’t remember if he’d had breakfast, but could describe down to the last button on his overall what the grocer’s delivery boy looked like.” Mr. Songer’s grin had a rueful curve to it this time. “There is no denying the tendency to live in the past as we age.”

  “But not you, Mr. Songer!” Mrs. Malloy dipped her eyelashes.

  “That’s where having Jan and her husband here is such a blessing.” His face glowed. “There’s always something going on with their family. She’ll have told you about her daughters and how well they’ve done for themselves? Both of them with university degrees and married to successful and very nice men. Susan’s husband is a barrister, and they have seven-year-old Julie who, though I suppose I shouldn’t say it, is as bright as a penny. She’s in a class with children two years older than her, and has no trouble keeping up. None at all. In fact she came top last term, isn’t that right Jan?”

  “Oh, Dad!” Mrs. Joritz blushed. “You really shouldn’t boast. I’m sure to other people our Julie’s just a nice ordinary little girl.”
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  “Not too many children can speak Spanish.”

  “Dad she can count to ten; that doesn’t make her fluent.” Mrs. Joritz picked up her knitting. “Of course she can do it backward as well as forward. And her teacher did say her accent is exceptional.”

  “She also dances like a little fairy.” Mr. Songer’s wide boyish smile displayed an excellent set of teeth for a man of any age. But Mrs. Malloy no longer eyed him with quite so much enthusiasm. Indeed, when he continued to tout little Julie’s accomplishments I got the impression she was wondering what she had seen in him at the beginning of their now ten-minute-old relationship.

  “Did Jan mention that the child is musical?”

  “Not that I remember.” Mrs. Malloy’s eyes were beginning to glaze.

  “She plays the triangle.”

  “How splendid,” I responded with genuine feeling. Hadn’t I been overwhelmed with pride when Tam blew what sounded like two or three notes of “Ba Ba Black Sheep” on a comb wrapped in toilet paper?

  “The only child to perform solo in the school concert.”

  “Fancy!” Mrs. Malloy glanced around as if hoping to spy a well that she could tip him into.

  “Gifted, I heard someone say.”

  “Dad, that was her father.” Mrs. Joritz smiled fondly at him over her knitting.

  “There’s nothing like listening to stories about other people’s kiddies.” Mrs. Malloy rallied to add, “Bless their little hearts. But me and Mrs. H. here don’t want to go taking up your whole afternoon.”

  “The boot’s on the other foot!” Our hostess dropped the knitting and now looked acutely embarrassed. “Dad, I should have explained at once! These ladies are private detectives. They’re wanting to locate Flossie Jones’s baby. The one that was born here and given up for adoption all those years ago. I was just telling them, before you came in, about Dr. Green’s involvement.”

  “A good man,” replied Mr. Songer. “He told me he urged the young mother when she was dying to let him get in touch with the baby’s father. He felt the man was entitled to be made aware of the situation-to take the child and raise it if that was his wish-but she refused to name him. And so the doctor talked to this couple who had been hoping to adopt for some time.”

  “Do you know if Dr. Green is still alive?” My heart was thumping hard.

  “I wouldn’t think it likely. He was close to sixty at that time.”

  “Never mind.” I tried not to sound as disappointed as I felt. “That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?”

  “So it would.” Mrs. Malloy got to her feet. “But fortunately my partner and I have the experience to turn a dead end into,” she valiantly lifted her chin, “into a shortcut.” As this made no sense I began voicing my thanks to Mrs. Joritz and Mr. Songer for the information they had given us, only to be interrupted by that nice woman.

  “But we haven’t told you the name of the couple who adopted the baby. It was Merryweather. They managed to track our family down through a blanket I’d knitted for the baby that went with her when she was taken from here. I’d done several of the same pattern for the church bazaar.”

  “Jan was a whiz with her knitting even at twelve years old,” enthused her father.

  “Well, it’s not to be expected you’ve kept in touch with the Merryweathers all these years,” said Mrs. Malloy somewhat ungratefully.

  “Isn’t it?” Mr. Songer’s boyish grin was back in place as he turned to his daughter. “Jan, where does your mother keep the address book?”

  Eighteen

  Mrs. Malloy was in a major snit when I dropped her off at her house in Herring Street. She thought me derelict in my professional duties in refusing to go rushing off to the address we had been given. Time, she reminded me sententiously, was of the essence, a point on which I agreed with her. At close on 4:00 in the afternoon it was time for me to get home to my family. Tomorrow would be soon enough to attempt making contact with Ernestine’s adoptive parents, to which statement she responded darkly that she hoped I wouldn’t live to regret them words.

  It was already dusk when I parked the car in the stables and entered the house by the garden door, feeling foolishly like a child who had stayed playing outside beyond the time I had been allowed. Freddy was alone in the kitchen. And I have to say I was shocked. Usually in such a situation I would find him lolling back in a chair with his feet up on the table and a bulging sandwich in each hand. Not the case this time. He was standing with his back to me chopping onions. It has never pierced my soul to see a man slaving away in a kitchen, especially when it is my kitchen. But there was something about my cousin’s lackluster ponytail and the dejected sway of his skull-and-crossbones earring that temporarily wiped all thoughts of Ernestine and the motley goings-on at Moultty Towers out of my head.

  “You’re worried about your Mum, aren’t you?” I said as I hung my raincoat on one of the pegs in the alcove. “Any word?”

  “Not a peep.”

  “Oh, Freddy! I am sorry.”

  “It’s been seven days now, and Dad’s contemplating having her declared legally dead.”

  “That’s Uncle Maurice. Always the stiff upper lip.” I stowed my handbag on the Welsh dresser and went and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But surely there’s no reason to think something terrible has happened to her. Hasn’t she done this sort of thing before? Gone off on one of her shopping expeditions and…” My voice petered out.

  “Lost track of time?” Freddy laid down the knife and turned to face me.

  “Or met someone-an old friend from boarding school-and gone to stay with them for a few days, quite forgetting in the excitement of getting caught up on all the gossip to phone home. Let’s face it, she can be a little feckless, in the sweetest possible way of course.”

  “Yes.” Freddy lounged over to a chair and sat head bent, hands lolling to the floor, “Mum has done a bunk before, usually when Dad’s been narking on at her to cut down on her shoplifting, if she’s going to come home with the same hat three days running.”

  “While’s he’s needing a new cardigan.” I put the kettle on and reached into the cupboard for cups and saucers. “I suppose some people would say he had a point.”

  “In certain ways, Ellie, theirs is one of those old school marriages, with Dad laying down the law and Mum every so often deciding she’s had enough.”

  “There you are then.” I handed him a cup of tea and a biscuit. “This is just another of those times. She’s setting out to teach him a lesson and when she thinks he’s had time to get the idea she’ll come home.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself, coz.” Freddy sipped at his tea but set the biscuit down on the table-not a good sign, given his usual willingness to eat anything that didn’t run for cover before he got within a yard of it. “But I’ve got a bad feeling this time. I suppose it’s Dad telling me about her being down at that pub, The Wayfarers, or whatever it was called. Mum just isn’t a pubby sort of person. She thinks they’re places for amateurs, getting their start by pocketing those cardboard coasters. The Red Lion and such just aren’t her scene.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I sat down across from him and stirred sugar into my tea. “You were worried this morning, but not to the point where you are now.”

  “This is going to sound stupid.” He brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

  “Tell me.”

  “Okay, it’s like this: Mum has always sent me a card on the anniversary of the date when I cut my first tooth.”

  “I think that’s dear.”

  “Don’t go all sloppy on me, Ellie. She doesn’t remember my birthday, but this is different. She never missed until this time.”

  “When should you have received the card?”

  “The day before yesterday. But you know how the post can be. Sometimes you get a letter before it’s been sent and other times you’d think someone was hanging on to it hoping the value of the stamp would go up.”

  “So
why panic?”

  Freddy got up and strolled back to his onions. “Mum always sent the card off early to be on the safe side. And when it didn’t show up today,” he resumed chopping, “I’ve got to tell you, Ellie, my blood ran cold.”

  “Have you talked to your father?”

  “I got him on the phone just before you came in. He had nothing to report, other than he was having to make do with poached eggs on toast for the third night in a row. And that there was nothing but tinned peaches for afters. What really got him splattering was that they were an off brand. And his blaming that on Mum just didn’t wash. She never thinks price when she goes to the supermarket. She always takes the very best. Says it’s more economical in the long run.”

  “Less seasoning to add,” I concurred. “Freddy, what are you doing with those onions? And where”-I hadn’t wanted to bring the subject up before-“where are Ben and the children?”

  “He took them out somewhere about half an hour ago. To the library I think. And since I’d invited myself to dinner I thought I’d get a meal started. I’m making spaghetti bolonaise.”

  “That’s really thoughtful.” I was now standing refilling my teacup. “But you know Ben always has containers of pasta sauce in the freezer. Why not just relax?”

  “Thanks, but I need something to do.”

  “Then would you help me lay the table? Or, better yet, fix a salad?”

  “All right.” Freddy set down the knife before wandering over to the fridge and returning with a head of lettuce in one hand and a couple of tomatoes in the other. “What do you think, coz, about my calling in a private detective to help find Mum? What about that bloke Mrs. Malloy works for?”

  “He’s still on holiday and impossible to reach. Remember? I told you that Mrs. Malloy and I have been filling in for him on that case. We had quite a chat about it this morning.”

  “Missing my mother does not mean I’m losing my mind. Or maybe it does.” He tossed aside the knife and leaned morosely against the sink. “Most sons would have disinherited her, shown her the door, told her to get lost years ago, done all the things that outraged parents do when their offspring don’t turn out well. It’s no joke, although I know I make it sound like one, having a mother who’d rob the Pope of his little skullcap while asking for a papal blessing. But I can’t send her back and ask for a new Mum, can I?” Freddy stood with his eyes closed plucking at his scroungy beard. “I’ve looked and I can’t find the box she came in.”