by Rachel Malik
Much later, she took him his lunch. He was still mumbling to himself and there was a trail of feathers across the floor, feathers and sugar. Elsie felt sick as she cleaned it up; she knew she should tell Rene, but when it came to it she couldn’t.
No thanks, I can manage.
* * *
‘We’ll end up living in the shed,’ Rene said once. ‘And I’m sure we could make it very comfortable.’ Both of them started laughing, but in a nervy, skittish kind of way. It was early Sunday evening and they’d just finished bathing Ernest. They had left him in the kitchen while they dragged the bath out into the back garden and tipped its grey and suspect contents on to a patch of weedy ground. Elsie had once hoped that his dirty bathwater would kill the weeds, but if anything they were flourishing more strongly than ever – as if they recognized and relished common cause.
While Ernest fumbled with a stringy towel and an old nightdress in the kitchen, they kept outside, braving the cold to be clear of him. Rene was perched on a rickety old stool, with her mug of tea, smoking; Elsie stood next to her, leaning against the wall. She’d left her cup in the kitchen but she didn’t want to go and get it.
It was the first time they had laughed in weeks, Rene thought, and that was something. But there should be other things to laugh about, other things to do. She glanced up at Elsie by her side: her face had gone quite blank – the brittle gladness of a moment ago disappeared.
‘Oh Elsie. I meant it as a joke.’
‘Oh, I know and it wasn’t such a bad one,’ she said, smiling bravely.
But Rene could see she was upset.
‘It won’t be for ever,’ she said, trying to be consoling.
‘Won’t it?’
She sounded sharp, and Rene leant forward to squeeze her hand. Elsie nodded briskly, reassuring, but her hand stayed dumb in Rene’s hand. They shouldn’t spend their scant time alone like this, nearly arguing, about Ernest of all things. And Elsie clearly felt the same.
‘Perhaps we should get a tent,’ Elsie said, and the dark moment passed.
And when they went inside a few minutes later they were cheerful enough. He wasn’t in the kitchen, and Rene hoped he might have gone upstairs.
‘Uncle?’
But he hadn’t gone upstairs; he had gone into the sitting room and she found him at the window, trying to paint out the glass – Lord knows where he’d got the paint. She called Elsie and they managed to stop him before he could do much damage, but Rene was troubled. ‘What were you doing, Uncle?’ she asked when she’d finished cleaning up. ‘What’s the matter?’ He didn’t say anything then, but later in the evening he looked up from his pint pot and pointed at the window.
‘Blackout,’ he said. ‘Blackout.’
11.
Trouble
‘Uncle?’
Tentatively, but without fear, Rene touched his forehead: cold, but barely colder than usual.
She held the candle closer to his face. His eyes, thank God, were shut, but one of his hands was clenched against his cheek and the chilblains on his fingers were still shiny. He had the special stillness of the dead, but the event was recent, she felt sure. At least he was in his bed, she thought, even if he didn’t look exactly peaceful. The room was growing lighter in the dawn; she looked down at his face again and noticed the odd little bow in his lower lip, how thick his eyebrows were.
The mirror she had in her hand was blotched and murky. She put the candle down on the little stool beside the bed and blew on the mirror’s surface, rubbed it clean, trying to shine it up before holding it to his mouth. Her breath felt like the only warm thing in the room. She remembered Dad all those years ago: her mother’s hands shaking, the tears dripping on to the little compact.
Her own hands were shaking; she reached down and held the mirror close to his mouth, waited. It was an old mirror with a metal surround and a smooth, curved handle – small and heavy – she couldn’t remember where it came from. She looked down at Ernest again, holding the mirror as still as she could, then she counted slowly to ten, and then to ten again. How long could she hold her breath? She and Lily swimming through the tide of people in the foyer at the Palace with their mouths clamped shut, Lily going red in the face, she about to explode into giggles; Vicky guiding her to their seats at the Imperial, the fizzing, popping purple drink in her hand – ahead of them on the screen was the man who swam to and fro, to and fro, across the Channel, endlessly it seemed, for ever.
‘Bert?’
She turned to see Elsie watching her cautiously from the doorway of their bedroom. She was very pale. Rene counted to ten again quickly, retrieved the mirror, examined it; her hand had stopped shaking. She was quite calm now.
She turned and nodded to Elsie.
‘He’s gone.’
‘Bert, are you sure? He went still that time before, in the kitchen, do you remember? It must have been an hour before we got him awake. It could be that, couldn’t it, it could be …’ She babbled on nervously, still standing in the doorway of their bedroom.
‘Elsie, he’s gone. The mirror’s clear and he’s cold – properly cold. Why don’t you come in and have a look? He doesn’t look so bad.’
But Elsie stood where she was and shook her head.
The morning light was coming in more strongly now, showing up the mottled wall and the ugly stain left by the leaking roof. Smoke still hung heavy in the room; Rene manoeuvred herself round the bed to open the window, struggling slightly with the catch. A gust of cold, damp air brushed past her. She thought of pulling back the curtains, but it didn’t seem right somehow. From where she stood at the window, he looked more peaceful, his clenched hand barely visible; she could see the mug on the stool that did for his bedside table and the plaid-patterned slippers they’d given him at Christmas, nearly as good as new.
Elsie was still watching her; she had stepped forward a fraction but seemed unwilling to come closer.
‘Let’s go down,’ Rene said.
Elsie nodded but she didn’t move. Downstairs Jugger was scratching on the kitchen door, but she didn’t seem to hear.
‘Elsie, what’s the matter?’
No reply.
‘Elsie, what is it?’
‘You’re going out.’ It was half a question.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But where? Where are you going?’
‘Elsie, it’s Wednesday, remember, I’m going to Margaret’s.’
‘Margaret? But surely you don’t have to go. Not today. Couldn’t you telephone her, tell her about him? Please don’t go. I don’t want to be on my own here, not with him.’ Elsie looked towards the bed unwillingly.
‘Elsie dear, it’s Wednesday. I always go and help Margaret on Wednesdays, you know that – she’s expecting me.’ Rene paused, nodded encouragingly. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I won’t be long. Why don’t you come downstairs? I’ll make the tea. I don’t need to go just yet, we can sit awhile.’ Rene smiled, trying to take Elsie along. ‘I’ll take Jugger, or I could leave him with you? Whatever you prefer. You could go for a walk, a nice long one, get some fresh air, if you don’t want to stay here. And I won’t be long, I promise.’
Rene inched her way out of the room and on to the landing and briefly touched Elsie’s arm. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Will you come down?’
‘I’ll get dressed,’ Elsie said.
Elsie closed the bedroom door behind her as if Ernest might still be watching. Then she went over to the window, pulled back the curtain and opened the window as wide as it would go. Across the lane in front of the cottage, the field was churned with mud – it had been grazed long into the wet, late summer and there was some trouble with the drainage. On the far side, over by the ditch, she could just make out the orange gleam of a pheasant as it paraded beside the hedge. In the next field the ponies were standing altogether in their favourite place – under a sweeping horse chestnut. She drank in the cold, clean air. Everything looked so fresh, no mist today. She longe
d to go outside – Rene was right, a walk was the best idea, a long one. But first she would have to go downstairs.
After she had dressed, she lingered at the door, unwilling to open it, unwilling to face the landing and what lay beyond. Downstairs she could hear Rene talking to Jugger. She listened, trying to make out what she was saying, her hand hovering on the little round handle. She could still feel the cold air, in her lungs, on her shoulders, Ernest was always complaining about the cold.
‘Elsie?’
Rene was calling her.
‘Coming.’
She steeled herself, opened the bedroom door and went out on to the tiny landing. His door was open – oh, why hadn’t Rene closed the door? The staircase was ahead, just a step away, but her feet would go no further. She took a deep breath. Count to five, she said to herself and then. One, two, three, four, five. Her feet didn’t listen, but her eyes were pulled into his room, like a magnet, towards his bed. He was lying there as he so often did, propped on his pillows, except that he was quiet; no mumbling, what a mercy. The curtain was still drawn, but a fine stream of light rippled on the wall above his bed. She looked at his face more carefully, and all of a sudden something moved close to his face. She froze again and her heart started banging in her ears.
She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. Rene had checked and she trusted Rene. Rene had put her hand to his forehead and the mirror to his mouth. Elsie shivered and took another deep breath. She looked at him again, properly, steadily, she wouldn’t let herself be caught out. On the stool by the bed lay the mirror – Rene must have left it there – and somehow it drew the morning light across his face, gleaming and watery. It was a trick, an illusion, he really had gone. Elsie grasped the doorknob to balance; it was sticky, she was sure she could feel the sugar. She retrieved her hand, wiped it on the wall, closed the door and went downstairs.
They sat for a little, drinking tea, eating toast and a plum jam that had somehow eluded Ernest. Rene was still wearing her mac – a sign of her resolve, perhaps. Once they’d finished eating, she got up straight away to take the plates to the sink; Elsie went out to feed the chickens and the rabbits. There were three eggs, one from Tessy, who was usually a poor layer. It was a good sign, she thought.
When she came back into the cottage, she could hear Rene talking on the telephone. She had her special phone voice on, and it echoed down the passage from the sitting room.
‘Thank you. Yes. It’s Miss Rene Hargreaves, Wheal Rock, Camborne 2165. You will pass on my message? Thank you. Goodbye.’
‘Who were you speaking to?’
‘The doctor. Dr Evans is out on a call at the minute. He will have to come here and see Ernest later, after his morning surgery.’
Elsie was looking upset again.
‘Why does Dr Evans have to come here to see Ernest?’
She had never liked Dr Evans.
Rene was buttoning her coat. It was time for her to go but she didn’t want to rush Elsie.
‘You understand, Elsie, don’t you? Dr Evans needs to come here and then he’ll arrange for the body to be taken away.’
‘I can’t speak to the doctor,’ Elsie said.
‘You won’t have to, love. Don’t worry. I’ll be back long before he gets here. But I thought it better to ring now. You need to report a death.’
‘You’re sure you’ll be back before he comes?’
‘Of course. I promise.’
Rene took her favourite peaked hat from the hook and pulled it down as far as she could, half covering her ears.
‘I must go now.’
‘I know.’
Rene opened the door, and Jugger, who had been standing quivering and hopeful in his basket, yelped with delight and bounded outside.
‘Here, Jugger, come back. Here, boy,’ Rene called after him half-heartedly, and the dog paused by the gate and barked again. She went after him.
‘Bert. Before you go …’
Rene turned back; Elsie was pale again and shaky-looking.
‘What’s the matter? What is it?’
‘There’s a key, for his room, do you remember?’ Elsie spoke very quietly, her voice hardly more than a whisper. ‘It’s on the kitchen windowsill. Please go and lock his door. Please.’
If Rene was shocked, she didn’t show it. She got the key, then went upstairs to lock the door of Ernest’s room.
‘Take the key with you. Take it with you, Rene. I don’t want to go in and I might and I don’t want to.’
So Rene left the cottage with the key to Ernest’s locked door in the long, loose pocket of her mac. Jugger was jumping about in front of her, but she didn’t try to stop him – he could come if he liked. She climbed over the gate carefully and plodded through the squelching mud, keeping close to the fence. Jugger barked excitedly, then disappeared into the ditch. She heard the heavy splat, splat of his paws; he knew where she was going. By the time she’d reached the wobbly plank that bridged the ditch, he was waiting for her. She hopped over the stile and finally she was on solid ground; she strode out, sure-footed and brisk and preternaturally alert, her fingers tapping in her loose pockets. She liked this walk. The field finished in a narrow lane that led straight to the backyard of the post-office shop. She leashed Jugger, tied him up and told him to sit. He ignored her of course and barked cheerfully as he tried to shake out his muddy fur.
She went through to the shop, past the store and the cool-room, taking off her mac as she went; Margaret was already waiting. The delivery van arrived just a few minutes later, so she didn’t get a chance to tell Margaret about Ernest – they were too busy helping with the unloading, carrying crates and boxes into the storeroom.
Rene didn’t stay long after Mr Lyons left. She would have liked to stop for tea, but she didn’t like to think of Elsie there on her own, working herself up. Margaret didn’t seem at all surprised to hear about Ernest, after the first little cluck of shock. Rene left with all manner of messages for Elsie and kind promises of help – such a good friend.
As Jugger bounded across the field and she put his leash back in her pocket, her hand touched the key to Ernest’s room. She hoped the doctor wouldn’t keep them waiting too long. She couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry.
Dr Evans didn’t get to Wheal Rock till three o’clock that afternoon and then he was accompanied by a young colleague, who was staying with him – a Dr Carter. Dr Evans drove a smart grey Austin and popped in for some tobacco at Mrs Cuff’s shop on his way. At the cottage, Evans waived the offer of tea and the two men went straight upstairs. Evans – who was heavily built and above average height – made the examination with some difficulty, talking all the while to Carter, who had inched himself round to the window but could get no closer than the end of the bed. Evans asked Carter to feel Mr Massey’s feet and legs to gauge the rigor mortis and suggest a time of death. Carter winced as his hands moved over the old man’s bony feet and ankles, but Evans said nothing – in their own homes the dead took some getting used to. He turned to look at Massey’s face again, a little yellower than might be expected, perhaps. A pity his hand was clenched in that way – it must have made a rather upsetting sight for Miss Hargreaves.
Carter pulled the blanket back down over Mr Massey’s feet: the time of death was probably about twelve hours before; Evans nodded his agreement. He had a last look round and then the two men squeezed out of the room and inched down the stairs. Dr Evans asked Miss Hargreaves if he could use the phone.
There was quite a gap of time before the ambulance came, and the two doctors sat together on the uncomfortable sofa in the sitting room. Miss Hargreaves made them some tea. When the ambulance arrived, the men had to prise the skinny, set body out of the tiny room and down the narrow stairs – no easy task, and Carter and Evans had to help; the operation left poor Carter looking rather green. The two ladies, rather sensibly, remained in the kitchen.
The doctors followed the ambulance in the Austin. Mrs Cuff saw the little procession as she walked
over to see her friend Mrs Marrack.
* * *
After the strange day they had had, the two women spent a quiet evening. Neither of them had much appetite, most of the stew went back in the pot. After supper, Rene conjured a quarter bottle of brandy and they sat on the uncomfortable sofa in the sitting room, sipping a little too quickly and watching the fire. Things seemed too easy and quiet, not enough to do. Both of them were uncomfortably aware of Ernest’s chair. It was the best chair in the house, but it seemed unlikely it would have any further purpose. There was a nice play on, but neither of them had the attention. Nib had stretched herself out on Elsie’s lap and Jugger lay deep asleep on the peacock rug. In recent months, neither animal would come into the room if Ernest was there.
‘I can’t feel sorry,’ Elsie said.
‘What?’
‘I can’t feel sorry about Ernest.’
‘Nor can I. Nor do I. It’s strange, that’s all. But you shouldn’t have to feel sorry. There’s no need.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Imagine, four whole days ahead, just us together. I’m so glad I phoned the farm, Catherine was very kind about it.’
‘So you’ll go back on Monday?’
‘Yes. That’ll be all right, won’t it?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘You’ll want to be rid of me by then, won’t you?’
The brandy was starting to do its work; Elsie smiled and stretched out her legs, a tiny mew of protest from Nib.
‘What’ll we do? Let’s make a plan for tomorrow. If it’s not cold we could go out on the scooter. You’d like it and I wouldn’t go too fast, I promise.’
Elsie had so far refused to get on the scooter. She worried enough about Rene on it.
