by A. B. King
“My husband always liked everything neat and tidy,” she explained. “He was a stickler for order and routine; he couldn't abide sloppiness in anything.”
“Well, there's a lot to be said for having a methodical approach to life,” I responded, thinking of my own completely hap-hazard way of attending to matters domestic.
“I'll just switch the kettle on,” she said, operating the switch of a gleaming ultra-modern jug-kettle. Having done that, she swiftly extracted some bone china from one cupboard, along with various other odds and ends including a plate of fancy biscuits, some small iced fancies and even some lace table napkins.
“I will just have time to show you the garden before the kettle boils,” she said, and without waiting for a reply she led me to the rear door which led out onto a patio replete with sparkling white garden furniture, and thence into a garden that was laid out equally as pristine as the front one. She stepped down the neatly swept path, pointing out various neatly tended shrubs and flowers, reciting their names and never giving me chance to pass comment before moving on to the next. It was almost as if she was anxious to impress me whilst she still had the chance. She even apologised profusely when she spotted a small twig that must have dropped from a nearby tree lying directly in the path in front of her. It struck me that she must be a very lonely person indeed to worry about such trivia. We returned into the kitchen as the kettle boiled, and she swiftly made tea in a small bone-china teapot, and having placed it upon an ornate stand she covered it with an elegant cosy.
“We will leave it to draw for a few minutes,” she said. “That leaves just time for me to show you the rest of the place.”
She led me from the kitchen across the hall way, where I dutifully inspected a brilliant white bathroom, a separate toilet, then on to the dining room, and finally to a smaller room, which she assured me had been her husband's study. She opened the door of this room almost as if it was a shrine, and in a way I suspected that this was how she looked upon it. Through the open door I saw a small, neat room with bookshelves on the wall containing a number of volumes dealing mainly with religious matters, a small, highly polished desk and a leather-bound chair. There was an ornate crucifix on one wall, and religious prints on the others. What struck me as most curious was the sight of an old fashioned school cane residing in an equally old fashioned umbrella stand by the side of the desk. For the life of me I couldn't figure out what her late husband would do with such a thing, but I forbore to ask.
“I keep this room exactly as it was when he was alive,” she explained in hushed tones as if frightened of disturbing the atmosphere of her late husband's sanctum. “I come in here sometimes to meditate.”
I muttered something about it being very impressive, or something equally inane, and we withdrew and moved on to what she called the guest room, and finally into her bedroom. For some unaccountable reason I felt mildly embarrassed at been shown such an essentially feminine and private place. With the inspection complete we returned to the kitchen where she picked up the tray and suggested that we 'take tea' on the terrace! Once we were settled she poured after enquiring how I preferred it, and after passing mine over to me, insisted that I accept a biscuit to go with it.
“How is Danny these days,” she asked as she took a brief sip of her own tea and delicately replaced the cup once again in the saucer. “I have often wondered how she made out in life. Is she married?”
“Not that I am aware of,” I answered truthfully. I didn't really think that she was, only where Danny was concerned I was rapidly learning not to take anything for granted!
“Oh, I would have thought that she would be by now?”
“I think she is more of a career woman,” I said, “although naturally I know nothing of her private life. She seems to be a highly motivated person, and very much inclined to call a spade a spade.”
“And yet, as a child, she was completely the opposite; it was Dian that had all the go. She was the live wire, into everything and always getting into scrapes. She was the one that took up rugby, swimming, athletics and such like. She never seemed to be in the least bit concerned about how other people would react to what she did or said, but Danny, well, she wouldn't say boo to anyone. You wouldn't think that twins that looked so much alike could be so different in nature.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“And then, after that tragedy, she changed completely. It was astonishing.”
“As you say, quite amazing; in fact I've mentioned one or two instances in the book where lightning-strike survivors have changed their personalities. I don't really know why this should be, yet it is a medically attested fact.”
“And she still doesn't remember anything at all about that terrible day?”
“She tells me that all she knows is what her parents and you have told her; the first fourteen years of her life are completely missing.”
“How very sad,” she sighed
“Yes, the whole business is tragic,” I agreed.
“Still, from what you say, she has been able to move on; I only wish I could.”
“There is one thing I would like to get clear in my mind,” I said after a few moments silence. “It will probably sound stupid to you, but you knew the girls, whereas I have only seen the surviving twin; just how completely physically alike were they?”
“Oh, they were absolutely identical to look at,” Julia assured me, breaking out of her temporary bout of introspection. “I think even their mother became confused sometimes, and they caused no end of mayhem in school at times by swapping identities!”
“How did you ever manage to tell them apart?”
“Oh, that was easy; Dian was always the dynamic up-and-at-em one, whilst Danny was always shy and withdrawn, particularly when they were together. Mind you, she was no more stupid than her twin, and if you got her upset she could be a real firebrand, believe you me, but that never happened very often.”
“I see, and when you found Danny lying on the ground after the lightning strike, how did you know it was her, and not Dian? I mean, if she was unconscious, you couldn't have told by her behaviour?”
“Oh, yes, I see your point. Well, I suppose I was acting on the instinctive recognition of something I always knew about them. Danny always had a thing about jewellery, whereas Dian regarded such things as 'sissy', well, you know what young teenage girls are like?”
Frankly, I didn't, never having been a girl, although I was naturally reluctant to admit my total ignorance of the subject. “Oh yes,” I lied happily.
“Well, I told them when we were getting ready for camp that jewellery was not allowed; when we got there I noticed that Danny was wearing a dress ring with a 'D' design in place of a stone. Dian had one at home, yet I hardly ever saw her wear it. I suppose I should have insisted that Danny remove it, but as it was only a ring I decided to let the matter ride. I guess it was lucky I did because, when I saw one of the girls lying there, it was the ring on her hand I noticed. As matters turned out it was just as well; when she eventually recovered consciousness in hospital she didn't even know who she was. She eventually half-recognised her parents, but at the time of the accident, and during her long convalescence nothing else emerged from her mind, and from what you have told me, nothing has come back since.”
“As you say, a stroke of luck,” I said, as I finished my cup of tea.
“I really tried ever so hard while she was in the hospital to get her to remember things,” she said almost apologetically, “but it was impossible.”
“And when she went home, the relationship sort of faded away I suppose?”
Julia looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, if you want the truth, I always felt so horribly guilty when I was with Danny's parents. They were very good about things, but I could see it in their eyes. The girls had been in my charge, and one of them had died. They were absolutely devastated, yet they never once actually accused me of anything. Maybe they didn’t, yet I could tell what was in their hearts. In a way
that was much worse than if they had accused me of allowing their daughter to die instead of just accepting that it wasn't my fault. In the end I just stopped going to see her, and even after she had recovered, she never once came to see me. Probably for the best I think, because I doubt I could face her even after all these years.”
“I expect you are right,” I agreed, “and I now really have taken up far too much of your time. Thank you so much for your help, and for the tea; I really must be going.”
“I have enjoyed talking with you, Mr Hammond, I do hope the little I recalled will help?”
“I'm sure it will.”
“Then I wish you every success with the book. Perhaps you will let me have a copy once it is published?”
“I'll do that.”
It was a promise easily made when the book itself was nothing but a figment of my imagination. In spite of my suspicions, I felt sorry for her because, even after the passage of fourteen years, she still seemed to be genuinely upset by the whole business, much of what she had said was almost certainly valid, yet instinctively I knew she wasn't being strictly truthful about the details that mattered. What the omissions and contradictions added up to was another question entirely. I eventually managed to extricate myself from her presence, and I noted that she was still watching me from the door as I drove away. It was only then that it dawned on me that the widow seemed to have taken a bit of a shine to me! Maybe I was fooling myself, but she seemed extraordinarily reluctant to allow me to leave. I should have been flattered I suppose; generally most woman prefer to ignore my existence, and to actually have one look at me in that way, (excluding 'Gloria Divine' of course!) even if only in my imagination, was quite a boost to my somewhat limited ego. If I had never set eyes on Danny, and if I had met Julia in other circumstances I might well have been tempted to further the acquaintanceship, but that, as pundits have so often said, is another story. A quick glance at my watch showed me that it was coming up towards five o'clock, and I pulled into a lay-by just off the main road and sat there to await the anticipated phone call from Danny.
Dead on the stroke of five my mobile rang. Feeling a bit like a schoolboy anticipating his first date I picked it up and answered.
“Hi, it's me,” came Danny's bright and breezy voice. “Where are you?”
“Hi Danny,” I responded, trying to sound casual, and failing abysmally. “I've just this minute pulled into the lay-by on the Farrington Road.”
“I bet you've been loafing around there most of the afternoon!”
“On the contrary, I have been having tea with a very unusual and remarkably attractive lady,” I replied in a slightly supercilious tone. “How have you made out?”
“Possibly not as well as you have with the fair Julia by the sound of it! Anyway, I haven't time to chat now; can you make it to the 'Manor House' at Alrington by about eight?”
The Manor House was a somewhat up-market pub about fifteen miles out of town. I'd been there once, and thought that it was rather a pretentious sort of establishment. I noticed that the beer was over-priced and the staff more than a shade on the snooty side. In my view it was the sort of place that catered for the tastes of people who perhaps possessed more money than sense; or perhaps even more money so that they didn’t care. I didn't much like the approach to the car park either, the access was quite steep, and visibility along the road when one finally emerged wasn't good, and definitely not best attempted in icy conditions or if one had had a few too many! Still, if that is where she wanted to go, who was I to offer objections?
“I should be able to make it all right,” I agreed. “Just a drink, or are we eating?”
“Dinner's on me,” she said promptly. “To make up for the one you so churlishly turned down last night.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed, trying not to sound embarrassed as I thought of how I had acted the fool and walked out on her, “and we can swap information as we go.”
“Exactly,” she said. “By the way; how's young Tania making out?”
“I think there's more to that young lady than meets the eye,” I responded, thinking of Pete's comments earlier, “she has been very helpful.”
“Well, I seldom pick a 'wrong-un'!” she countered, “see you at about eight. Bye.”
I sat there in the car for a few minutes wondering if there was more to that last remark of hers than it sounded. Finally I decided it didn't matter; indeed, I was a little flattered that I might even be worth spying on! I started up the engine and drove away.
Chapter Fourteen.
I drew up outside the Manor House a couple of minutes early, and after locking the car (it may have been an old heap, but I was quite attached to it) I sauntered inside. The bar was half empty, and there was no sign of Danny. I ordered a half of extremely expensive lager from a barman who obviously thought I was definitely not the sort of class of customer he was used to. I strolled across and took a seat at a table that afforded me a good view of the door, and there I waited. I rather imagined that I would be in for quite a period of doing little beyond sipping my rather tasteless glass of alcoholic solace whilst Danny made full use of the woman's customary right of being either late, or excessively late, or perhaps not even bothering to show up at all. In the event I was wrong on all counts because I had scarcely settled down for what I feared might prove to be an extended vigil when she came in through the door and spotted me immediately.
I rose to greet her as she walked over, and I couldn't help but admire the way she was turned out in a figure-hugging white trouser suit and a small matching shoulder bag.
“Hello,” I greeted her. “May I get you a drink?”
“Hello yourself,” she responded cheerfully as she came up to me. “Thank you; I'll have a glass of sweet white wine please.”
She sat in the chair opposite the one I had just vacated, and I went across to the bar to order the wine. I couldn't help noticing that several of the men gathered in various parts of the bar area were already casting covetous glances in her direction, and in a funny sort of way it gave me a feeling of satisfaction that it was me she was with, and not somebody else.
“May I say how stunning you look tonight?” I asked as I returned and placed the glass in front of her. It was a corny chat-up line yet at the same time it was true, at least as far as I was concerned.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she responded, not in the least abashed at my words, “and in return, may I say that you look quite presentable yourself; for a rather seedy, down at heel, and somewhat fly-blown private eye, that is!” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she said it, and I took it as an example of her own brand of waspish humour.
“Good, that's disposed of the compliments; so, are you going to tell me what sort of day you've had?” I asked, as I settled in the chair opposite her, and trying not to undress her too obviously with my eyes.
She looked at me archly for a moment. “I'll tell you what,” she said at last, “let's not talk shop until we get to the coffee. I expect you've had a busy day, and I've certainly had one, and I'm quite hungry even if you are not.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed, for I was feeling quite hungry at that point, but not necessarily for food. “So, what would you like to talk about?”
“You.”
“Me?” I exclaimed in surprise. “What on earth for?”
“You intrigue me.”
“Well, if it comes to that, you fascinate me!”
“I know that,” she retorted without the slightest degree of embarrassment. “We will talk about you first, and then you can ask me anything you like about myself; agreed?”
Like I may have said more than once, Danny never ceased to surprise me. “Very well,” I conceded, “if that's what you want?”
“Good, so now give me a potted history of one Neil Hammond.”
I obligingly launched myself into a somewhat abridged and slightly sanitised autobiography of the remarkably uneventful life of 'one Neil Hammond'. During the course of this I swi
ftly abandoned the tempting idea of trying to accentuate the few positive points in my existence, and likewise the natural tendency to gloss over the many bad ones, although possibly not quite as successfully as I would have liked. I had the feeling that Danny was more than averagely shrewd and would soon spot what I was doing, and it left me with the feeling that I had only succeeded in widening the gulf I already knew existed between us rather than narrowing it. Viewed in retrospect, it wasn't actually an account capable of firing the imagination of my audience, and no doubt my pathetic attempts at portraying myself as some sort of frustrated lady's man sounded pretty much to her as they did to me; pathetic!
“And that pretty well brings things up to date,” I concluded in a vain attempt to inject a lighter note to my sorry tale, “and then, like a burst of golden sunshine, you suddenly materialised into my life.”
