by Annie Murray
‘Silly bloody woman,’ he grumbled, manhandling a heartbroken Monty into the house. Once the door was closed, the dog tipped his head back, baying in frustration. ‘What the hell did she bring them for, eh?’ George felt along his ribcage, wondering if anything was broken. He decided to assume not. ‘To torment you, old boy.’
But he realized, with some gratitude, that Pat had brought the dogs as cover, so that they would not have to talk, which he did not want to do any more than she did. Pat Nesbitt was a good sort really. Beneath all the neighing, she was kindly and down to earth.
‘So,’ he muttered, leaving Monty in a despairing posture on the front doormat. ‘Who’ll be next, I wonder?’
3.
He had to wonder only until Sunday afternoon, when the last of them appeared. Perhaps the Cronies had calculated – rightly – that this was a day when things would be difficult for him.
George had a snooze by the fire in the sitting room after lunch. Then he busied himself, with a newspaper spread over the card table, gluing together the parts of a Meissen plate. During Win’s illness he had begun to get used to the house being so quiet. Now though, as he pieced together the delicate coloured fragments, enjoying the smell of Araldite, the clock seemed to tick so loudly that he almost wanted to move it to another room. He tried to keep his attention on the work before him.
He had the kettle on and was letting Monty out at the front when a gaunt figure walked into the drive wearing a calf-length navy coat and matching brimless hat. His first impulse was to act as if he hadn’t seen her, to slam the door shut and pretend to be out. These options being blatantly out of the question, he went to restrain Monty’s friendly indignation in the face of another visitor.
‘Yes, yes that’s right – you keep guard,’ the woman said in her deep, cultured voice as Monty rushed at her legs. She stooped to pat him. Within seconds the dog was silent as a monk and casting adoring looks at her.
‘Sorry, Miss MacLean,’ George said, glad that at least this time he could remember the name. Eunice MacLean lived in one of the narrow Tudor terraces just along the road.
‘Oh we’re old friends, Monty and I,’ she said, straightening up. She was carrying a cloth bag which looked as if it contained an enormous jar of jam.
‘Do come in,’ he invited, discovering in himself for once an enthusiasm for company.
‘I don’t wish to disturb.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Do come along. I was making tea.’
He led the tall rod of a woman into the hall. Under the coat, which he took to hang up for her, was a straight, grey dress with an edge of lace at the neck.
‘A cup of tea?’
‘How nice. Though I should prefer coffee.’
The door of the showroom was open and she lingered, looking in. George eyed her from the back. She had steel-grey hair, cut in a severe pageboy and wore black shoes with a strap and button. In her way, he realized, she was rather chic. She reminded him of a period piece from the 1920s and her old-world manners only increased this impression.
‘What a beautiful room this is, Mr Baxter.’ She spoke in a slow, measured way. ‘Such an artistic arrangement. And this – exquisite.’ Moving to look at a lady’s rosewood desk, she smiled wistfully. ‘So pretty and well proportioned. If only one had the funds.’
‘Nice piece, isn’t it?’ he agreed. The woman had a good eye. ‘I’ll, er, make that coffee.’
She turned. ‘Oh, please don’t go to any trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ he said, already halfway to the kitchen. How else were tea and coffee to be made? he wondered wearily. The fact that he had lost his wife made people seem to think he was incapable of lifting a kettle.
Sitting opposite Eunice MacLean once he had directed her and a tray into the sitting room, he was struck, once again, by the look of her. As well as being stylish in an old-world sort of way, she moved with grace. Looking at her now, her strong, almost manly features, blue eyes and arched, slender brows, he realized she may once have been rather a stunner, if perhaps an intimidating one. Now, though, she was so far from anything that was attractive to George in a female that he found himself feeling quite relaxed with her, as if she was another man, or perhaps a Chippendale chair.
‘It is difficult to know quite when to call on someone,’ she said in her precise English. She followed this by taking a ladylike sip of coffee. George saw the clench of her gristly throat. ‘But it is not good to be left completely alone when one has suffered a great loss.’
George swallowed his mouthful of tea, surprised by the rich sympathy in her voice. ‘No, I suppose not,’ he said. He held out the little tea plate. ‘Bourbon?’
Eunice declined with a disdainful flick of a hand. She was sitting very straight on the chair, feet together like a prim schoolmistress. While she seemed to George an alien creature, there was nevertheless something fascinating about her.
He took another gulp of tea and fingered his pipe in his pocket, at a loss. He had never been alone with any of these women while Win was alive. They passed frequently in and out of his house, and Win in and out of theirs. He scarcely knew them at all, other than in transit and from the remarks Win had made about them now and then. He tried to remember anything she had said about Eunice. There was a connection with France. Some tragedy. He didn’t think Win knew the details.
‘I have brought something to show you,’ Eunice said, reaching down for the bag and the pot of jam. The jam, which required both hands for her to manage its weight, turned out to be a clock. She stood it on the table, turned it towards him and he was faced with an outburst of beauty.
‘I say!’ He sat straighter with genuine pleasure. ‘What a marvellous piece. Those decorations – Sèvres, would you say?’
He could see that the clock was French, a rich assembly of gold, red, white and a vivid royal blue. It was constructed like a portico, the clock face hanging as if in a gateway, suspended from the golden roof with a decorated column on each side. The lower edge of the clock was joined, by a gold strip, to a round, ornate picture of a nymph. Down each column and across the top it was inlaid with the rich, glowing colours.
‘They are Sèvres in style, I believe,’ Eunice said. She gave a smile of pleasure which decreased the ruminant character of her face. Her eyes, he saw, were extraordinarily full of life and feeling. ‘It was made, I’m told, sometime mid-way through the last century.’
‘Eighteenth century in style, though.’
‘Yes.’ She seemed pleased. ‘Papa – my father – gave it to me.’
‘Your father was French?’
‘Oh no, it was my mother who was French. Father was Scottish. Presbyterian.’
Of course. MacLean. George waited to see if she would say more but she did not. He didn’t like to pry. If there was some tragedy, he was clearly not going to discover what it was. He cleared his throat. ‘Were you hoping for a valuation?’
‘No, no,’ she said, tetchily. ‘I have no intention of selling it. I thought it might be of interest, that’s all.’
‘Oh it is.’ He smiled now, without reservation. ‘Marvellous. So much better than jam.’
‘Jam?’ Her brow wrinkled.
‘Yes, er . . .’ This insight was impossible to explain and fortunately Eunice let it go. She was sliding the clock back into the bag.
‘I know others will have asked,’ she said, holding the bag on her lap. ‘But after a death there is a lot to do. I would be happy to help, if you need any assistance.’
‘Thank you, Miss MacLean,’ he said sincerely, feeling that if he had to resort to accepting any of these offers, he might in fact prefer hers. ‘It’s very good of you. We men on our own—’ He gave a laugh. ‘Not the most practical. But I think Vera will be able to help when necessary.’
‘You know . . .’ She looked up from the bag with the clock, held on her lap. ‘I don’t wish to pry, Mr Baxter . . .’
Heavens, George thought. Now what was coming? He assumed a neutral, interested expr
ession.
‘Win was a marvellous person in her way,’ she began. ‘Full of practical kindness.’ George nodded. Yes of course, of course. A kindness from which he had benefited every day – her cooking, her care of him. With a sudden pang, he longed for her to walk into the room. It had been good, so much of it, had it not, day to day? Getting by together – was that not the very heart of marriage? Images of her arrayed themselves in his mind: Win in the garden, hanging clothes; walking the beach in Wales, dark hair blown to one side; their wedding day, the look she had given him at the altar, those trusting eyes. A good woman. And thinking back to the young man he had been when he married her, would he not do it all over again?
‘But . . .’ Miss MacLean looked at him with such disconcerting directness that George found it hard to hold her gaze, especially with tears threatening to rise in his eyes. But she seemed to think better of whatever she had been about to say. She paused. ‘I’m sure you have a lot of life to live yet,’ was all she said, with a gentle smile.
‘Yes. Let’s hope so.’ He tried to smile back, blinking away his emotion.
When they had finished their drinks, chatting a little more, he saw her to the door. After stepping outside, she turned, placed her feet precisely together and said, ‘I wonder, Mr Baxter, if you would like to come to the cinema with me one evening?’
George was so taken by surprise that he stood with his mouth open for several seconds while his lulled brain cranked into action. Was this . . . ? Had he read the situation all wrong? An image of the rather disturbing Swiss roll brought by Rosemary Abbott elbowed its way into his mind. Was that . . . ? Did it mean . . . ? Oh dear God.
‘The Regal in Wallingford often has a good picture showing,’ Eunice said, unperturbed.
He was absolutely stumped for anything to say.
‘It’s all right, Mr Baxter,’ Eunice said. He was sure he did not imagine her withering tone. ‘I was simply asking if you would like to go to the pictures, since we both now live alone. I was not making any other sort of suggestion. I am almost fifty-three years old – quite ancient enough, I think you would agree, to be past flightiness. A trip to the cinema is, for me, simply a trip to the cinema.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to utter. ‘Truly sorry. Bit of an odd state at the moment. Peculiar time. Yes – thank you . . . I mean, perhaps . . .’
She held a hand up. ‘No need to decide anything. It was just a passing thought. Thank you for the coffee, Mr Baxter.’
‘No, thank you,’ he gushed, idiotically. ‘And for the jam – clock, I mean!’ He watched her walk off into the darkening afternoon, shamed by her solitary dignity.
‘You clumsy fool,’ he ranted at himself. Shooing Monty inside and closing the front door, he sagged, leaning his back against it. ‘Women,’ he groaned. But there were those words she had laid before him, like a gift. I’m sure you have a lot of life to live yet. And all he could feel was gratitude. Her words sparked in him – they were an affirmation. As if she had in some way granted him permission for life.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then rallied. ‘Right, Monty – what about some of those sausages?’
Opening the refrigerator, he let out a yelp. ‘Oh no – oh Lord!’ How had he missed seeing it when he came to fetch the milk? And how . . . ? When . . . ? Vera must have popped in some time this morning. Gracing the top shelf, with beautifully crenellated edges and tell-tale pink oozings, was another very large pie.
March
Five
1.
George sat at his desk in the office at the front of the house. It was a Saturday morning, the wind buffeting outside. Through the window he could see daffodils leaning first one way, then another, like old biddies nosing out of a window.
The small room was crowded with his desk, shelves and filing cabinet, the worn remnant of deep red Persian rug concealing the only remaining patch of floor. It, in turn, was mostly covered by Monty, sprawled in a pose of exaggerated relaxation and giving off doggy pongs. Although this was normal, George was starting to wonder if this was what was contributing to the swimmy, not-quite-right feeling he had today. He pushed the window open a crack.
The ceiling-high shelves to his left were mostly filled with old ledgers, interspersed with other things. At his eye level were two photographs, the first of his and Win’s wedding day, he standing tall, bluff and, he thought, pretty ridiculous-looking. Win, small and neat beside him in a long white dress and veil, had been captured wearing her reserved smile. The other was a studio portrait of Win, taken ten or so years ago, with the same curled hair, that modest yet closed smile, as if she was longing to look anywhere but at the camera.
High up was the open-jawed skull of a Bengal tiger, which had arrived with an assortment of items from a house auction. From another sale he had bought the reproduction of Canaletto’s Grand Canal in Venice, which hung to his right. He had passed through Venice in 1945 as they made their way up Italy, and the place had filled him with amazement.
A ledger lay open on the desk in front of him, but concentration was nigh on impossible. Vera was dealing with a couple of newly-weds – or was it about-to-be-weds? – in the showroom across the hall. The young woman’s operatic laugh kept intruding on him through the closed door, further jangling his nerves. He was definitely not right today. His legs felt peculiar and his temples were throbbing. He stared at the sheet of accounts. Business was not bad, though he needed to get out and stock up. Things were picking up. But he did feel thick-headed and slow. Had there been something dodgy about his homebrew last night, or was he in fact sickening for something? He couldn’t be sure.
Vera was talking. She sounded quite commanding, he thought with admiration. Gazing out at the lurching daffodils – all life felt as if it was rocking about this morning – it occurred to him that there was something different about Vera these days. He spent a few seconds trying to work out quite what it was, before giving up. He was in no state to think.
All the same, things with Vera were going rather well. They had come to an arrangement about her duties: there would be a certain amount of cleaning, but increasingly she would take on responsibilities in the shop. In fact Vera had startled him by mentioning that if the shop started to occupy a great deal of her time and he needed a char, then perhaps the best thing would be to take on someone else?
Above all, George had pledged that he would learn to cook. So far his repertoire had expanded from bacon and eggs and beans on toast, to include:
Sausage and mash
Chops, pork or lamb with potatoes and cabbage
Kippers (though they didn’t half send a smother through the house and Vera advised against – ‘we don’t want to put the customers off’)
Mushroom omelettes
‘What you need,’ Vera suggested, ‘is to cook a joint. Then you’ll have something to last you through the week. And there’s always macaroni cheese. Nice with a dab of mustard.’
The supply of pies had abated. To his relief she had been alternating with fruit crumbles.
Another arpeggio of laughter floated through the door, followed by some cooing observation. He expected the woman to break into an aria at any moment. They were just by the door of his office now. Vera seemed to be ushering them outside. Resting his aching head on one hand he heard the ‘ting!’ of the front doorbell and Vera saying, ‘Yes – in the barn, look. There’s plenty more to see – do go on over. We’ll be with you in just a moment.’ He heard their footsteps on the thin gravel outside.
The office door opened.
‘Mr Baxter?’
Hearing the strained tone of Vera’s voice, he turned immediately. She whipped into the room, shut the door and leaned against it, her face working.
‘I think, if you don’t mind . . .’ she began. George was filled with alarm. Heavens, was Vera about to burst into tears? ‘You’d better . . .’
Crumpling, Vera pressed her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking, and a small squeal escaped from her. She removed
her hands again, flapping them about in front of her as if this would somehow enable her to speak. Which it didn’t. Her face was puce, tears of long-suppressed mirth welling in her eyes. Soon, at the sight of someone so perilously tickled, George was laughing as well.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Vera managed to squeak, as little channels of mascara trickled down her cheeks. ‘Oh I can’t – you’ll have to deal with them . . . Just can’t! Oh – talk about Love’s Young Dream.’ More laughter surged in her and in this vaporous condition she pointed towards the barn. ‘Gone – over there . . .’
‘All right,’ George said good-naturedly. ‘I’ll go.’
He found the young couple standing side by side in the barn, apparently overcome by the sight of a mahogany sideboard which he had bought from a dealer in Henley a couple of weeks earlier. It was a beautifully proportioned, serpentine-fronted thing to which Alan had added repairs and Vera elbow grease to perfect its elegance, fit for a graceful and spacious home. The backs of the two people he could see, their hips just touching, suggested to him a couple of schoolchildren. The girl’s blonde hair hung almost to her waist and she had on something that appeared to be a navy gymslip. His nibs was in a brown suit, a flick of fair hair just visible at the side of his head. His arm rested round the girl’s waist.
‘Nice little piece, that,’ George ventured, not wanting to appear impressed that someone apparently just out of short trousers could contemplate affording such a thing.
The pair swung round to face him. George found himself facing a wide-eyed English rose with a radiantly soppy expression and beside her the strangely limp-looking young man with very large teeth and a blood-orange-coloured cravat tucked into the neck of his shirt.
