New To You.
It’s melancholy packing up the house, and my dreams with it. And there was that moment when the auction van removed the marital bed … Very symbolic.
Not that I ever liked it.
Angie has been ringing continually, offering to help, but that’s just nosiness. And Greg is back, but he hasn’t got in, even though he phoned first to make sure I was here. That should have got the message through.
Soon he’ll be flying off again – they both will – and I need never see them or any of Matt’s other friends ever again, so there’s at least one good side of divorce.
Skint Old Fashion Victim: Part One
Criteria for buying second-hand clothes:
1. It fits you
2. It has no noticeable holes or stains
3. You can (just) afford it
4. It doesn’t say ‘dry clean only’ on the label
5. The colour doesn’t make you look like a dead Martian
6. It conceals/reveals all bulging bits in a socially acceptable manner.
Phoned Anne’s London flat, and for once found her home. Her normal manner of answering the phone is so indistinguishable from the answerphone that I’d started to leave a message when she broke in.
‘Anne, this is Charlie—’
‘And you think I can’t recognise your voice after all these years?’
‘Oh, you’re there! Good. Is Red there, too?’
‘No. Bosnia.’
‘I didn’t think anything much was happening there at the moment.’
‘It isn’t; he’s coming back.’
‘Has Em told you I’m getting divorced?’
‘Yes. Bloody good idea.’
‘It wasn’t mine, but I’m getting quite used to it. I’ve discovered that although I’m deeply shocked and upset, I’m not heartbroken. Mostly I’m annoyed that I stayed faithful all these years when I needn’t have bothered.’
‘Em says you’re selling the house and going home.’
‘Yes – I won’t have much money, so I’ll have to live at home for a bit, until I can rent a place of my own. But to do that I’ll need to either sell more paintings or get a job of some kind.’
‘The mistress has got in the house.’
‘She’s not only in the house, she’s in my room. If Em doesn’t get rid of her soon I’ll have to stay in the Summer Cottage.’
‘You might like it. Home but sort of independent. Eat in, live out.’
‘Yes … Oh, I saw you on the news a few days ago. Nice waistcoat – khaki suits you.’
‘Just as well; never wear anything else. Like you, with your black.’
‘I might have a change.’
‘Em’s thinking of having a change, too: turning to the Black Arts, or maybe greyish. The darker side of Wicca, anyway,’ Anne said non-committally.
‘Yes, but is it a good idea?’
‘Who knows? No one can stop Em doing anything she’s made her mind up to do.’
‘That’s true. I expect she’s got the measure of the mistress by now, too. Do you think you might be visiting Upvale soon?’
‘Might do, in a few weeks. Depends.’
She rang off after a few bracing words about getting a solicitor and a better settlement, but I don’t think Matt’s got very much to settle, so it would be pointless and tiring.
* * *
Came back from the supermarket with a whole lot more boxes, and had to kick the front door closed behind me.
Flossie was still snoring in the kitchen, lying just as she was when I went out: on her back in her furry igloo, with her head hanging out of the opening and her ears on the floor. She didn’t wake up even when I started clattering unwanted cooking-ware in the boxes.
It was as I was standing on tiptoe on the very top of the high kitchen steps, unhooking the cast-iron frying pan from the ceiling rack (so convenient for Matt, who never cooked, so inconvenient for me, who did), that I was seized extremely familiarly from behind.
‘All alone at last?’ gloated a horribly familiar voice. ‘You can’t know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on these!’ And he squeezed painfully, like an over enthusiastic fruit tester.
These were, I fear, the last words ever spoken by Angie’s husband Greg. Had he known, perhaps he’d have thought of something a little less trite: but then, everything he uttered was straight out of a Victorian melodrama, so perhaps not.
Startled and off-balance, I couldn’t stop the weight and momentum of the pan I’d just grasped from swinging down and connecting with his head.
What an odd, strangely meaty, but hollow noise it made against his skull! A sort of watermelon-hit-by-a-cricket-bat sound which I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live.
It was only the smaller frying pan, but unluckily he turned out to have a very thin skull. Mind you, even with a two-handed swing I would probably have dropped rather than swung the bigger pan. Bad luck all round.
As I stepped carefully down, Greg twitched like a dying insect at my feet, then lay still.
Not dead yet? Not dead?
Someone let out their breath in a long exhalation, and when I looked up, Miss Grinch was standing in the doorway, her bony fingers to her choppy lips, as Shakespeare has it. An empty milk jug hung from the lax fingers of her other hand.
‘I mustn’t have locked the door,’ I said inconsequentially. ‘I’m always careful, especially when I know Greg’s home – but it was awkward with all those boxes.’
Naturally Miss Grinch would have been so consumed with curiosity she’d followed Greg in. Probably tiptoed up the hall right behind him.
‘Is he dead?’ she enquired, stepping into the room just as I dropped the pan from nerveless fingers. (It landed on Greg’s foot with a crunch, but he was beyond caring by then.)
‘Did he fall, or was he pushed?’ I quavered.
‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it, behaving in such a disgusting way to a defenceless woman,’ she said severely. ‘Find a mirror and hold it to his lips.’
I began to giggle helplessly: ‘A mirror? Why would he want to see himself at a time like this?’
‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she snapped. ‘A mirror will mist up if he’s breathing. Here, I’ll do it.’
She unhooked the small pine square from the wall under the clock. ‘You phone 999.’
I managed that, even though my fingers felt even deader than Greg looked.
‘Ambulance – accident – emergency!’ I babbled. “There’s no mist on the mirror!’
‘Where are you speaking from, please?’
‘This is Miss Grinch,’ that lady said, taking the receiver from my hand. ‘I don’t think there’s any rush. He’s dead.’
She gave my name and address to the operator, then added: ‘We just need the ambulance, no police. This is such a nice neighbourhood, and none of the Grinches have ever been mixed up with police.’
‘Except the one who stole Christmas,’ I said helpfully.
* * *
Of course, we did get the police, much to her indignation, but never did I think I would be so glad to have a nosy neighbour!
Were it not for Miss Grinch I’m sure I’d be facing a murder charge right now. But she described how she’d followed Greg right into the house and had seen the whole thing, which was an unfortunate accident.
If Greg hadn’t suddenly assaulted me just as I was reaching down the pan, with no idea that I was not alone, it would not have occurred.
The frying pan was impounded, but I wasn’t, although I felt so guilty at having taken a life I’d have gone without a struggle.
Flossie finally awoke at one point during the noisy and exhaustive debacle, took one look out of her igloo and retired back in, until everyone was gone except Miss Grinch and me. She’s easily confused by loud voices and big feet.
Later, Miss Grinch gave me a small glass of colourless fluid and insisted that I drink it. I’m positive she said it was gin and laudanum, but surely that can’t be ri
ght?
Whatever it was, it put me out like a light.
Chapter 4
Sheared Off
Late last night Angie came to the door and beat on it, screaming hysterically: ‘Bitch! Whore! Murderess!’
The last was the only one I felt truly applied.
Fortunately I was sitting in the upstairs bay window, sleep now being something I’ve lost the hang of, and my legs had gone too numb to go down, otherwise sheer guilt would probably have made me go and let her in.
After a while lights went on in several neighbouring houses, including Miss Grinch’s, and shortly after that a police car coasted quietly up and removed Angie.
There was a faint, receding cry of ‘Pigs! Pigs! Arrest the murderess!’ and then the street slowly sunk back into dark silence.
* * *
I’d been wondering how I could break the news of the accident to Matt, but in the end I didn’t have to, because Angie’d done it for me.
He phoned today just to tersely inform me that henceforth all communication would be through the solicitor, and put the phone down.
I suppose murdering his best friend is a pretty irreconcilable marital difference?
* * *
Miss Grinch continues to be my comfort and guide throughout this nightmare. I don’t know what I would do without her, which is a far cry from the way I felt about her before she became the star witness for the defence.
She is now my bestest friend. Not so much a mother figure, as an acidulated spinster figure – everyone should have one, but they are a dying breed.
Em would have come to stay for a few days, but Father’s latest mistress is still infesting the house.
The housekeeping is, and always has been, Em’s preserve, and she won’t stand interference, let alone a takeover bid. Outright war has been declared.
Normally this would have all interested me extremely, especially since one of the combatants was occupying the hallowed ground of my bedroom, but now I moved through the days like an automaton. I signed everything the solicitor sent me; Matt, true to his word, having ceased personal contact.
I’ll be lucky if I even get the duck now.
Miss Grinch, like Anne, urged me to get my own solicitor and a better deal, but so far as I could see there wasn’t anything but debts and an absent husband, and I don’t want half of either of those.
Anyway, I don’t feel I deserve anything any more now.
All I can think of is that ghastly thud as the pan connected with Greg’s head, and I’m tortured with wondering whether I could have prevented it: I mean, when I hit him, I wanted to hit him – so was it really an accident? Was there a moment when I could have diverted the fatal downward swing?
I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. And I feel like a murderess – I have killed someone.
Miss Grinch doesn’t understand that. She says God will look into my heart and judge me, but I’m afraid He already has. He just hasn’t told me the outcome.
* * *
We have had several people round to view the house, though how many are motivated by the thrill of blood I don’t know. Miss Grinch has been conducting the sightseeing tours with a brisk efficiency reminiscent of Anne and Em. Perhaps that’s why I like her so much?
She has also helped me pack most of the house contents up, and everything except a few necessities has now gone to auction. I didn’t keep a lot – I feel a certain revulsion at the things that remind me of Matt (and through him, Greg), which most things do. Anything unsaleable has gone to the nearest charity shop or in the bin.
I sent a small van of things to Em to store for me: the driver was cheap, but he certainly wasn’t willing, especially when it came to my plants. He said he had hay fever and wouldn’t take any of them, so I will just have to fit as many of them as I can into my 2CV when I move, with the roof open, even though it is pretty cold to be transporting tropical foliage. I gave a lot of the smaller ones to Miss Grinch, who was delighted, so at least they’ve gone to a good home.
Eventually there was just me, Flossie, and a few vital odds and ends left. Like the survivors of a shipwreck, we were marooned until after the inquest.
Angie has made banshee late-night appearances twice more on my doorstep, but been removed much faster than the first time.
I have been buying head-sized melons.
Skint Old Gardening tips: 1
Always keep margarine tubs of compost on your window sills, and whenever you eat fruit, push the pips or stones in. Water daily, and eventually something will come up. The novelty of this method is that you won’t have the faintest idea what it is.
Even in my current numb state – which now seems part of me, like permafrost – I found the inquest appalling, although but for Miss Grinch it might have been a murder trial, which would have been very much worse.
The kindly coroner treated me like a frail little flower, and Miss Grinch with respect, but was firm about having Angie removed from the room when she became hysterical and demanded the death penalty: my death, that is.
She was still screaming: ‘Murderess! Murderess!’ as she was escorted out.
I knew in my heart of hearts she was right, even though the coroner assured me it was not my fault at all, and urged me to put it behind me. It was brought in as accidental death.
The coroner added a little speech to the effect that people who succumbed to the current craze for heavy cast-iron pans would do better not to hang them from the ceiling, and I’d have to second that one.
By the time I got out of the hearing the reporters from the local paper were encouraging Angie to stage the scene of her life.
She spotted me. ‘Murderess!’ she screamed with a certain monotony, tossing her black veil over her shoulders and then lunging at me with blood-red talons like a deranged harpy. ‘Murdering harlot!’
Well, that was different – but why harlot? Surely it was because I had resisted her lechering husband that he was dead today? And she knew what he was like.
One or two people were holding her back, fortunately, since I was transfixed to the spot by all the avid stares.
‘I’ll never let this rest until my poor Greg has justice!’ she howled. ‘Wherever you go I’ll find you, and make sure people know the sort of woman you are!’
I wish I knew what sort of woman I am.
‘You’ll never be able to forget it.’
Well, that was certainly true.
‘Wherever you go, I’ll follow you,’ she added, sounding suddenly exhausted, and dangling limply from the hands that a moment before had been restraining her. ‘You’ll never escape.’
Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide …
‘Why, Angie?’ I asked. ‘You must realise by now I didn’t mean to kill him. Don’t you think I feel badly enough about it already?’
‘No, but I’ll make sure you know what it’s like to suffer – to be friendless and alone … like me.’ She drew a dramatic hand across her eyes and gave a broken sob.
‘But Angie, Greg walked into my house uninvited and indecently assaulted me! And you must have known he was serially unfaithful?’
‘Yes, but none of them ever killed him!’
Well, there was that. And the more I protest, the guiltier I feel. Could I really not have diverted that fatal downward swing?
‘Besides, whatever his faults, he loved me,’ declaimed Angie, looking tragic.
‘Maybe he did, but he slept with anyone he could get,’ I pointed out.
‘They weren’t important.’
The voices of the listeners now rose in a babble of questions, but Miss Grinch popped up suddenly at my side, seized her chance, and hurried me through a gap to the waiting taxi.
‘How tall?’ I whispered as we climbed in. ‘Did you find out?’
‘Five feet, ten inches, dear,’ she replied.
Looking back, I could see Angie still holding forth on the steps like Lady Macbeth.
‘I wish I was dead,’ I said dully. ‘There doesn’t seem an
y point to living any more.’
‘Clearly God still has a use for you,’ Miss Grinch said placidly.
‘Compost?’ I suggested.
‘We are all God’s compost, if you like,’ she said. ‘Interesting – I’ve never thought of it like that before. However, I am sure he has something in mind for you before that. He moves in mysterious ways.’
‘Like the frying pan,’ I agreed, and we were silent until we reached the house.
* * *
Miss Grinch bought the local papers, and thankfully I hadn’t merited the front page. Even with Angie’s theatrics I suppose they can only get so much story from a domestic accident without insinuating anything libellous.
I was described throughout as Mrs Charlotte Fry (although I’ve always called myself by my maiden name), and there were several photographs of me looking very small and weird, like a glaze-eyed rabbit cowering under the menacing overhang of Angie’s bust.
My hair was now a clear white for about an inch at the roots.
‘I always wondered about that very dense blue-black shade,’ Miss Grinch said, scrutinising a particularly hideous photo.
‘It was my natural colour.’
‘Believe me, it is a mistake, once a woman reaches forty, to dye her hair a dark colour. Your skin has lost the fresh bloom of youth and the contrast is too severe.’
‘I know, but Matt wanted me to keep it black. He liked this sort of Goth look with the long hair and the dark eye make-up because he thought it made me look young. He was so much older, so I was a sort of a Trophy Wife, you know?’
‘You can do what you like now, dear.’
‘I don’t think I care.’
‘I’ll have my hairdresser come round and do something with it – have it made as God intended.’
‘God intended my hair to turn silver at thirty, like my mother’s, but my eyebrows and eyelashes to stay dark.’
Mother is Lally Tooke; when I see her on the jacket of one of her radical feminist books, or on TV, she looks a bit like she’s wearing a powdered wig, but she looks good. We have the same big dark eyes, the purplish colour of black grapes.
Matt was always impressed by Father’s fame (or notoriety), dragging his name into conversations like a dog with some malodorous and grisly find. ‘My father-in-law, Ranulf Rhymer.’
Every Woman for Herself Page 3
