Chain Reaction

by Gillian White

  He decides to be blunt, to be cruel to be kind. ‘Jamie is not suffering. Jamie has sensibly accepted the situation. He has sent me to see you today in order to tell you so.’

  ‘I refuse to listen to you any more.’

  Sir Hugh struggles on. ‘But you don’t want to bring shame and disgrace upon your family…’

  Arabella sniffs, no longer quite so daintily. ‘Shame and disgrace?’

  ‘You are unmarried, and soon to become a mother. A single parent giving birth to a fatherless child.’

  Now it’s her turn to fiddle with the vase. Her hand is sticky and wet with her tears. ‘Only because you are making me! How can you be so horrid?’

  ‘It will get a lot worse than this, Arabella, if you continue with this futile resistance, and it is not I, dear child, whom you should blame. It is the whole unfortunate situation. You must try to be adult about this. You must acknowledge the fact that you are nothing but an embarrassment to Jamie and if, as you say, you truly love him, you should be prepared to release him and even, in time, forgive him.’

  To Sir Hugh’s horror, Arabella bursts into a fresh flood of tears, attracting the attention of several customers and the watching management.

  ‘Is this man upsetting you?’

  A giant of a woman, dressed all in black and with arms like ham-bones, stamps across to their table causing the fragile crockery to rattle. This must be Dougal’s aunt or Dougal’s aunt’s friend.

  ‘It’s all right,’ cries Arabella, cowering, blushing brightly.

  ‘Well, it certainly doesn’t seem all right to we!’ The Gorgon in black turns violently upon Sir Hugh, her moustached lip quivering with anger. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, a man your age!’

  Sir Hugh leaps up boldly. ‘I say…’

  ‘I think an apology is in order.’

  ‘No, no, it’s all right, really,’ sobs Arabella.

  ‘I will not put up with this sort of behaviour on my premises. My friend and I have a reputation to keep up here and it’s just not in order.’ Like a fishwife she shouts at Sir Hugh, arms akimbo. In a straight fight he would stand no chance.

  ‘Madam,’ says Sir Hugh, getting a grip on himself and rising to his true imposing height. ‘I apologise for causing a disturbance, quite unintentional I assure you, but I absolutely insist that this young lady and I have no relationship other than a formal acquaintance.’

  The woman remains steadfast. ‘Then why is she sitting there crying her heart out? You tell me that!’

  ‘Because, I’m afraid, I am the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘You look as if you are,’ shouts the overweight harridan. ‘Coming in here and carrying on with your airs and graces. I’d rather you’d picked some other place to break it.’

  ‘So do I,’ agrees Sir Hugh, picking up his copy of the Telegraph and whatever shreds of pride he can muster while trying to coax an hysterical Arabella towards the tea-room door. All eyes are now turned in their direction. This is a dreadful scene, the worst scenario the discreet Sir Hugh could possibly have imagined. He should never have agreed to Dougal’s suggestion. He should never have come here at all…

  ‘Well?’ enquires Dougal, turning down the car radio. ‘How was it?’

  Sir Hugh gets in, still bristling with shame. ‘Not good.’

  ‘You failed to convince her?’

  ‘I failed. Just leave it at that. I failed. We are going to have to come up with some other strategy. There is no way of getting through. I am beginning to feel that the only person who will convince Miss Brightly-Smythe is James himself, much as that prospect distresses me.’

  ‘But the engagement…’

  ‘I know, Dougal, I realise that.’

  ‘Did you mention the engagement to Frances?’

  Sir Hugh slumps further down in the car, squeaking the soft leather passenger seat. He clears his throat. ‘No. I am afraid I did not.’

  ‘So she still doesn’t know! Why didn’t you mention it? I thought that was one of the main purposes of the meeting.’

  ‘No need to go on, Dougal, there didn’t seem an appropriate moment, that’s all. I was about to bring the subject up when all hell was let loose, and to tell you the truth, I am lucky to get out of that establishment with my life.’ He turns to Dougal enquiring, ‘Which one is your aunt?’

  ‘My aunt?’

  ‘I met a lady…’

  ‘My aunt’s no lady.’

  ‘Then it must have been her.’

  ‘Nobody’s ever been entirely certain of her sex, but if she was dressed all in black…’

  ‘She was. I think I upset her.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Dougal, driving speedily out of town, heading for the motorway. ‘Perhaps I should have warned you. She’s a darling when you get to know her, but she’s got a temper. So what are we going to do next?’

  ‘We are going to stop at the next public house and order me a double gin and tonic while we consider our options,’ says Sir Hugh, washed out, grey and exhausted.

  SIXTEEN

  Flat 1, Albany Buildings, Swallowbridge, Devon

  EMILY BENSON IS A woman of her word. She did not need telling that it would be courting disaster to bring Mrs Peacock back to Albany Buildings after their pleasant day out. An offer has been accepted on number one and it is felt by all concerned that the wisest course is to steer Mrs Peacock well away from that sensitive area, for her own peace of mind.

  But Mrs Peacock would not be denied what she called, ‘my very last chance to see my last home.’

  ‘There is no question of you going inside,’ said Miss Benson, concerned at the force behind Mrs Peacock’s request. ‘If we went to Albany Buildings we would go and have tea in my flat. Apart from your daughter’s very firm instructions, you have no key to number one.’

  It has been arranged that Frankie Rendell will take her mother back to her flat in order to sort out her belongings nearer the completion date.

  Until this little argument started, the two women had spent a most enjoyable day at one of the popular attractions close by, the Shire Horse Centre. In spite of the crowds they had managed to find a shaded outdoor table for lunch, and ate a pasty (cheese and onion for the vegetarian Miss Benson), washed down by a lethally-named local cider. They went round the grounds on a wagon ride, ignoring the noisy children, bought ice creams and Mrs Peacock purchased small packets of fudge for a couple of the Greylands’ residents. Miss Benson bought a hand-painted slate of the largest shire horse in the land, Dapple, to hang on her lounge wall under the mirror. The sun shone in a Wedgwood sky, the birds chirped and the smell of horse and manure and fresh hay exhilarated the primitive senses in the same way that woodsmoke does. ‘Reminds me of the good old days,’ said Mrs Peacock dreamily, blowing up the nostrils of a giant beast with hooves the size of dinner plates. ‘They love that,’ she said as the horse tossed its great mane and snorted, dangerously in Miss Benson’s eyes. ‘It comforts them. I wish there was such an easy equivalent in the human world.’

  But they did not dwell on unpleasant issues, they were not here for that and it had all gone so well that Miss Benson had already decided to make these outings a regular treat if Mrs Peacock’s daughter, Frankie, would agree. Give her something to look forward to. Mrs Peacock was fascinated by the fine display of ancient rustic implements. ‘I remember most of them being used,’ she said, ‘and then they were lying around for two-a-penny in grass verges all over the place. I bet they’re worth a fortune now, done-up and painted all shiny like that.’

  She looked so much better today. The outside air and all the excitement had put a colour wash in her papery cheeks. Someone had done her hair and it was tidily hidden under the net, and her dress was a faded blue sprinkled with daisies. They went slowly. They didn’t walk very far, of course, and the old lady leaned heavily on her stick at times to watch the fowls and water-birds on the pond, to rest and get her breath back. She carried around a little pillow to sit on. A favourite granny, Miss Benson mused fondly, with
those alert blue eyes, now frowning at some private thought or recollection. What a pity she wasn’t.

  Miss Benson took care to avoid mentioning home or family, subjects which were likely to cause Mrs Peacock serious distress. This was a complete U-turn from the proud and benevolent attitude Irene had shown when first she arrived at Albany Buildings two years ago. In those days she never had a bad word to say about any of her family. No, at that time Mrs Peacock was far more worried about living on her own and being burgled—an attitude Mrs Rendell treated far too lightly, in her opinion. Many times the old lady asked her daughter to send a man round. ‘I am shredding under the stress,’ she complained, ‘and being on the ground floor I can’t sleep at night, waiting for a hand to come groping through my window. I lie and listen to passing footsteps.’ She grew very nervous. Nothing happened and nothing happened. ‘Well, Frankie is a busy person, teaching all day and marking most of the night, looking after those two children as well,’ said Miss Benson comfortingly. ‘I am sure she’ll get round to it when she has the time.’ Now she looks back, she senses that it was this small blot which first started Mrs Peacock feeling she was not being cared about sufficiently.

  When Miss Benson finally screwed up her courage and mentioned the matter to Frankie, the younger woman had been understandably indignant at being taken to task by a neighbour, and was sharper-faced than ever.

  It was like being late. Frankie Rendell and her children would do better not to give a time at all if they couldn’t keep to it. Once Mrs Peacock was expecting them, she stood at the window as if magnetised to it, looking out with one eye on the clock and one on the boiling kettle, unable to relax until they arrived and by then she was so tensed up she gave them an earful. It had been the same with Miss Benson’s mother. These elderly people with their reinforced attitudes, she became a stickler for punctuality too.

  And, oh dear, what a fuss if Irene was invited to her daughter’s house! It became an ordeal in the end—for both parties, Miss Benson is sure. These outings never lived up to their promises. ‘Angus’s birthday and I don’t remember seeing him more than once!’ moaned Mrs Peacock when she got home. ‘They stayed upstairs with their loud music and when they came down I only saw the backs of their heads, playing some silly computer game with bleeps and flashes and irritating music. He only just managed to thank me for my five-pound note.’

  ‘I know,’ said Miss Benson, not knowing at all. ‘It’s their age.’

  ‘You can go on saying that about people all their lives,’ snapped Mrs Peacock grudgingly. ‘Or “it’s a phase”, that’s another cliché to make rude behaviour sound more acceptable. I wouldn’t have it if I was Frankie. I’d never have accepted that sort of behaviour from her. And Frankie wore herself out doing all that food, and the lovely party decorations. I don’t think those lads even noticed, let alone appreciated it.’

  Oh dear oh dear. She was so hurt. It sounded like such a dismal time.

  ‘And what young Poppy looks like these days I don’t know.’

  ‘They think they look nice,’ humoured Miss Benson, ‘following the fashion.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure you did it in your day.’

  ‘There wasn’t such a thing as fashion in my day and we didn’t have the money to throw around like they do now.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Miss Benson mildly.

  The trick was to listen and sympathise.

  ‘Those two children are so spoilt. They never volunteer to help round the house. They seem to feel that food is going to appear magically when they feel hungry and that it is quite acceptable to throw dirty clothes all over the floors. I feel as if everyone is dissolving around me,’ said Mrs Peacock. ‘Everyone and everything. Do you think I am going mad, my dear?’

  But she wasn’t, not then. That came later.

  Invitations home became fewer and fewer.

  As their happy day wore on Mrs Peacock became more fractious, like a boarding-school child not wanting to be returned after a day of precious freedom. She started dragging her feet. There was nothing more to do, they had exhausted the Shire Horse Centre’s attractions and it wasn’t four o’clock yet.

  ‘You can’t get tea out like you get it at home,’ said Mrs Peacock pointedly. ‘Or cake. Not nice and tasting home-made.’ She was referring to Miss Benson’s Marks & Spencer angel cake, a firm favourite of hers. ‘And I thought we were going to have a meal in a pub. You did mention…’

  ‘But we had a nice lunch here, Mrs Peacock.’

  ‘I know we had a nice lunch here, but what about an evening meal? Where are we going to have that?’

  Miss Benson was embarrassed. ‘I can’t keep you out too late, not the first time. We don’t want to upset Miss Blennerhasset, do we?’

  But the older woman continued to push for a way out. ‘Why don’t we go back to your flat now, watch Coronation Street together like we used to and then go round the corner to the Monk’s Retreat? They do a lovely steak and kidney pie there, or they did the last time Frankie took me there. You could have the mushroom pasta. That,’ said Mrs Peacock with a manipulative sigh, ‘would finish the day off perfectly.’

  Emily could see from the firm set of her face that Mrs Peacock was prepared to be difficult. Fearing this, and taking the necessary precautions, Miss Benson had purchased a large bottle of Booths gin as a pacifier to be given on the point of departure, but sadly she now realised the gin was not an appropriate substitute. If Mrs Peacock did not get her way they were heading for a scene and when all’s said and done, what harm could there possibly be in allowing an elderly lady a perfectly harmless visit to a friend’s flat for a piece of cake and a half hour in front of the telly?

  After her uncomfortable sojourn at Greylands she probably longed to spend some time in an ordinary private home, and who is the timid Miss Benson to deprive her of that?

  So here they are.

  Mrs Peacock expresses an unusual interest in Miss Benson’s flat, wandering round looking at things while Miss Benson is preparing the tea, staring restlessly out of the windows and she spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom ‘freshening up’.

  ‘You always keep it so nice in here.’

  ‘Your flat was cosy, too, Mrs Peacock.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees, ‘it was. Dunno what it’s like down there now though, all those nosy parkers prodding and poking about.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter really, does it? Nothing but bricks and mortar when you boil it down. Home is where the heart is, after all, so they say. You can make your home anywhere if you are determined enough.’

  ‘You might be able to do that, Miss Benson. I can’t.’

  ‘No. Of course. Everyone’s different.’

  There is a pause as Mrs Peacock fidgets and looks about her. ‘I might go and have a wander round in a minute.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted to watch Coronation Street!’

  ‘Not particularly. I feel that I need to stretch my legs. Cramp, you know. At my age always a hazard. You wouldn’t know.’

  ‘After the day we’ve had? You must be joking! I, for one, am exhausted.’ Miss Benson feels a buzz of alarm. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Oh, just to the stationer’s and back.’

  ‘They’ll be closed.’

  ‘Do stop quizzing me, Miss Benson. May I remind you that you are not my keeper.’

  Now Miss Benson is genuinely worried. What if Mrs Peacock does another of her runners? She might harm herself or get knocked over or end up in the canal. She comes hurrying from the kitchen, shrugging off her spotted apron. ‘Wait! I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Miss Benson! For the last time, I am warning you. Don’t you dare start treating me like some mutinous child! Others might feel it necessary to do that, but I would have expected better from you.’

  ‘But where are you going?’

  ‘I am going, Miss Benson, into my flat!’

  Emily Benson is wringing her hands. ‘But you can’t, Mrs Peacock. It’s against the rules.’


  ‘Whose rules, I’d like to know?’

  ‘And you haven’t got a key.’

  With a look of extraordinary cunning Mrs Peacock delves into her plastic holdall and brings out a key, holding it aloft triumphantly. ‘Hah! They never took my key away,’ she snorts. ‘Naturally, nobody asked how many there were. And so, Miss Benson, I am going to let myself into my flat, quite legally, as the sale is not yet completed, and I will sit and watch Coronation Street there with my own bits and pieces about me. After that I will accompany you down the road to the Monk’s Retreat for a tasty slice of steak and kidney.’

  And with that Mrs Peacock turns her back on her friend, opens the door to Miss Benson’s flat and marches off firmly down the cold concrete staircase. ‘Come and ring when you’re ready,’ she calls back over her shoulder like an echo. ‘I’ll have my hat and coat on waiting.’

  At last! At dear last! She is so glad to be home although the flat feels unlived in, and the dust is finally settling in the empty rooms.

  She sits back in her chair for a while; her ankles are quite badly swollen after such an active day. To carry out her plan successfully she is going to have to persuade Miss Benson to help her. The art of persuading Miss Benson is to make her feel so overwhelmed with pity that she’ll do anything to come to the rescue—look how she had behaved over those poor little veal calves. There was no stopping her then, you’d never believe you were dealing with such a timid, inoffensive little person. She’d strutted about with banners, she had laid herself selflessly down in front of lorries. Irene had watched her on the local news, marvelling at her tenacity. Yes, Irene is going to have to bring those ready tears to Miss Benson’s soft brown eyes.

  But how? How to induce such missionary zeal? The dream of one spectacular deed?

  Pity, she reminds herself. Pity and anger—a heady cocktail.

  Irene must play the victim. Good Lord, it’s not hard, when you think about her predicament.

  Irene’s only got half an hour. Best not waste any more time.