The Lifeline

by Margaret Mayhew

  Miss Butler was looking rather shocked. ‘I’m sure you don’t really mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Still, I’ll try to make an exception for Ruth.’

  They were approaching the gates of the Manor and the driveway that led up to the beautiful old stone house. The wisteria that clambered across its front was in full bloom, bearing heavy bunches of pale mauve flowers. The door had been left open and they went from the bright sunlight into the cool dimness of the oak-panelled hall. The late Lady Swynford’s black poodle was there to greet them but without the shrill yaps and pogo stick bouncing that the Colonel remembered from his very first committee meeting. Ruth had re-trained and transformed the creature. Gone was the ridiculous topknot and pom poms clipped like topiary over the shorn body; gone, too, was the brightly jewelled collar. Shoo-Shoo had become a normal dog with a normal coat and normal behaviour. Not the breed of dog that the Colonel would personally have chosen, but perfectly reasonable.

  As they entered the large drawing room, where most of the committee members were already assembled, he also remembered how he had felt on that first occasion – rather like a new boy at school. He had been an object of curiosity. Apart from Naomi Grimshaw, Miss Butler and Major Cuthbertson – dumper of the treasurer’s job – the rest of them had been strangers to him. Mrs Cuthbertson, the Major’s wife, was revealed as Madam Chairman, Mrs Bentley and Mrs Thompson ran the all-important Cake Stall, Mrs Warner was in charge of Bric-a-Brac, Mrs Latimer had Books, Mr Townsend was Hoop-la, Mrs Fox did the teas and Phillipa Rankin, with her weather-beaten cheeks, jodhpurs and jumper stuck about with stray pieces of stable straw, provided the pony rides from her riding school. Now he knew them all.

  Ruth had come into the room but without the baby, which would be a disappointment for Miss Butler. He saw how well motherhood suited her and how happy she was looking. Marriage to Tom, the increasing success of her plant-selling business at the Manor and the arrival of young Alan had changed her life. He was very glad for her.

  She came over to him. ‘Ready for the fray, Hugh?’

  He smiled down at her. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  The committee members were sitting on chairs arranged in a circle round the room and Marjorie Cuthbertson had taken up Madam Chairman’s place in front of a small table. She was tapping her pencil sharply to call the meeting to order. Miss Butler cleared her throat and began to read out the minutes of the last meeting.

  Surprisingly, there were no quibbles or corrections and they were duly signed. The vicar’s fulsome note, apologizing for his unavoidable absence on parish duties, was mentioned but nobody seemed unduly concerned. Tony Morris was a nice and well-meaning young man who had come to Frog End with his guitar and a number of enthusiastic and novel ideas, such as substituting the old wooden church pews for tubular steel stackable chairs to provide space for community activities, and for replacing the ancient flagstones with a new, trip-free, disability-friendly surface. The proposals had fallen on barren village ground, along with his doomed attempt to advance from the old and familiar common prayers to the modern series alternative. The Colonel, a non-believer since his wife’s suffering and death, had remained neutral. Attending church was something he still did out of habit and because he enjoyed singing the hymns.

  The committee meeting proceeded and the Colonel listened to the inevitable fight over the trestle table allocations, with Mrs Bentley of Cakes insisting that she and Mrs Thompson couldn’t possibly manage with less than three and Major Cuthbertson of Bottles objecting to his miserly one.

  ‘Just as popular as your cakes, you know.’

  ‘I think not, Major. Cakes are always the biggest draw by far. And, personally, I don’t think we should be encouraging the sale of alcohol at all.’

  ‘We’re not selling it. It’s a tombola.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, but it amounts to the same thing.’

  The Major went on muttering under his breath, while they moved on to other things. The silver band had been booked, as usual, and could be relied on to work its wavering way through all the old favourites throughout the afternoon: ‘Born Free’, ‘The Dam Busters March’, ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and, if necessary, ‘Singin’ in the Rain’. Teacups for the teas, or rather the lack of them, were discussed. Mrs Fox took offence.

  ‘Well, it’s not my fault. We replaced any missing or broken ones last year. Not with the same pattern, unfortunately. It’s no longer available. Mixing china looks slapdash, in my view. Still, people don’t seem to care about things like that these days.’

  Mrs Warner of Bric-a-Brac spoke up. ‘The ice creams were very popular last year. We sold an awful lot of them.’

  ‘Huh! That’s easy enough. All you have to do is scoop the stuff out of tubs. My teas are prepared by hand and all the sandwiches and cakes are homemade.’

  Mr Townsend intervened quickly. ‘Well, I hope we’re going to have a duck race again, Madam Chairman. It was a great success, don’t you think?’

  ‘It would have been a great deal better if there had been a clear winner. Chaotic is the word that springs to mind.’

  ‘How about a dog show, then? They’re always popular, I believe. The most obedient dog, the one most like its owner … that sort of thing.’

  ‘I doubt if Mrs Harvey would care to have her gardens invaded by a pack of strange dogs.’

  But Ruth didn’t mind at all and said so at once.

  What a contrast to her late mother, the Colonel thought, remembering Lady Swynford’s flat refusal to allow a children’s small pet show to be held in a corner of the gardens. Guinea pigs, tortoises, hamsters, goldfish and the like would apparently escape and do untold damage.

  After more discussion, the dog show was eventually agreed upon but with the democratic proviso that expensive pedigree breeds were to be excluded.

  Mrs Latimer of Books had another idea. ‘If I may suggest, Madam Chairman, we could hold a photographic competition. Say, the best photo taken in and around Frog End during the past twelve months. Unframed, four by six inches. Entry one pound and prizes for three different age groups.’

  Madam Chairman demurred. ‘It would need to be under cover – in case of rain.’

  Which led them inevitably on to the wet weather contingency plans. Always a grim subject, though far less so now that Ruth made the house available as an emergency retreat.

  The meeting eventually finished with sherry and the Colonel helped Ruth to pass round the glasses.

  ‘Will you stay on for a bit, Hugh? There’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Major was still muttering about his one trestle table. ‘Damn fool nonsense. That woman and her bloody cakes! It’s the same every year and I’m left with nowhere to put my bottles. Serve them right if I resigned.’

  The Colonel looked sympathetic. ‘I’ll change with you, if you like. You could have your job back, as treasurer.’

  ‘No, no, no! Couldn’t possibly, old chap. Duty calls and all that.’

  So did Madam Chairman, beckoning him imperiously with her pencil. The Major hurried obediently to his wife’s side.

  As requested, the Colonel waited until the committee members had finished their sherry and gone.

  Ruth came straight to the point. ‘It’s another favour, I’m afraid, Hugh.’

  ‘I’d be glad to help, if I can.’

  ‘Tom and I would like you to be Alan’s godfather. Do you think you could bear it?’

  He was as taken aback as he had been when he, a relative newcomer to the village, had been asked to give her away at her wedding.

  He said slowly, ‘It would be a very great honour, Ruth. But I’m afraid I’d be quite the wrong person.’

  ‘We think you’d be exactly right.’

  ‘The problem is that I don’t believe in God.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you know all the ground rules, don’t you? And you play by them. That’s the important part.’


  ‘I’m also too old.’

  ‘Not so. You’ll be around for years yet. Old soldiers never die.’

  ‘But they fade away.’

  ‘Only very slowly. Please say that you will.’

  He had taken on two godchildren in the past, reasonably successfully. He knew the general drill. Christmas and birthday presents, useful cheques and cash handouts, visits whenever possible, keeping up with their progress, taking an interest. He also seemed to remember that he had made some serious declarations and promises at both baptisms about their religious education – when he had had some belief of some kind – but which he had failed dismally to keep. It was true, though, that he still followed the general basic rules, or tried to. After all, Jesus of Nazareth had outlined them himself and he was nobody’s fool.

  He said, ‘I really think you should ask someone else.’

  ‘We already have. He needs two godfathers, as well as a godmother. An old friend of Tom’s is going to be the other one. We want you to be like an honorary godfather and grandfather combined – if that makes sense. Tom’s father and mine are both dead, so you’d be helping us out.’

  Tom had got him through the early days at Frog End when he had doubted if life was worth living – dispensing common sense rather than drugs. As for Ruth, she was rated very highly in his book.

  He smiled. ‘Put like that, it’s hard to refuse.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled.’ She put her arm through his. ‘So, come and meet your godson.’

  He was asleep upstairs in the Manor nursery – a proper old-fashioned one with a gas fire and a brass-railed guard, an oilcloth-covered table, glass-fronted bookcases, big toy cupboards, and a dappled rocking horse with a flowing mane and tail prancing in the shadows. The Colonel laid a hand on its ears as he passed and it creaked quietly to and fro. He looked down into the cot.

  It was many years since his own children, Marcus and Alison, had been born, and he had forgotten how very small new babies were. How vulnerable. Laura had done most of the handling and the hard work. In those days, fathers had played a lesser role, whereas nowadays they seemed to do everything – bathing, nappy changing, pram pushing, bottle feeding, winding. He had seen Marcus in action with his own children, Eric and Edith, taking over from Susan whenever necessary.

  When Eric had been born, the Colonel had been guiltily aware of a lack of enthusiasm on his part for his grandson who had inherited his mother’s looks – her pale face, gooseberry coloured eyes and wispy hair. It was no help that Susan had encouraged the idea that Eric was a highly-strung and very sensitive child. An expensive consultant psychologist had said so and it was, apparently, important to make all kinds of allowances for temper tantrums, whingeing and whining. The Colonel’s fingers had sometimes itched to administer a sound corrective slap.

  Aged four, Eric had been sent to stay with him at Pond Cottage while Susan had been in hospital expecting Edith. The Colonel had taken his grandson on a brisk and soldierly tour of the Military Tank Museum at Bovington nearby where Eric had tackled an assault course without hesitation and they had fired guns at targets and generally made a lot of noise. In the museum canteen, and afterwards at the cottage, he had allowed Eric all kinds of hitherto forbidden and unhealthy things to eat – chicken nuggets, beef burgers, chips, frozen peas, tomato ketchup, ice cream, coloured fizzy drinks, bags of popcorn and crisps. He had also let Eric watch Susan-banned TV programmes. A firm male bond had been formed between them, as well as an unspoken pact of silence.

  He looked now at this new young person in his life, fast asleep in his cot, and hoped that he could also somehow be of use to him.

  On the way down the stairs, Ruth said, ‘Actually, there’s someone else I’d like you to meet, Hugh. If you could spare the time.’

  He braced himself.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s a patient of Tom’s. His name’s Lawrence Deacon. He and his wife bought one of the flats at the Hall a while ago.’

  The Hall had been Naomi’s former childhood home in Frog End – a huge, ramshackle, old place that she and her sister had inherited and later sold when it had become impossible for them to maintain. A property developer had bought it for a song and turned it into what he had called deluxe apartments. The Colonel was familiar with them because he had done door-to-door charity collections at the Hall and it had been when he had been rattling a tin for the Save the Donkeys fund that he had discovered the body of a well-known actress in her flat. As Naomi had once tartly observed, he seemed to have developed an unfortunate habit of getting mixed up with dead bodies. Five, all told, counting the two when he had been away from Frog End. It was becoming positively careless.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met them.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have done. They used to live in Dorchester before he retired. The poor man had a stroke soon after they’d moved into the Hall. He was in hospital for a long time until they finally sent him home. Tom’s been keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘He’s in good hands.’

  ‘Yes, I know. The trouble is recovery is very slow and he’s stuck on his own all day long in the flat. Nobody to talk to. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Very depressing.’

  ‘It must be. But what about his wife?’

  ‘She works every day in Dorchester. She runs a rather upmarket gift shop there. Her husband needs her, but so does the shop. He’s very much at a loose end – if you see what I mean.’

  He did. Finding himself alone after a lifetime spent in the company of others had been very hard to get used to. Family, school friends, fellow officers and men, Laura and the children – there had always been someone there, always something happening, always something needing to be done. The terrible silence left had been oppressive, almost audible.

  Music had helped, especially playing his old Gilbert and Sullivan records. So did the ritual six o’clock drinks with Naomi. And the various worthy village causes. And, of course, there was always Thursday. But the old stray who had deigned to share Pond Cottage with him wasn’t quite the same as a human being, although sometimes he came quite close to it.

  ‘I’m not sure what I could do.’

  ‘Nor am I exactly. Tom’s been worried about him. Apparently, he can’t see much point to life any longer.’

  He knew all about that too.

  Ruth went on. ‘Then Tom had this idea, you see. He suggested to him that he should come here and do a bit of gardening whenever he felt like it – as much or as little as he wanted. He told him that he could either go on sitting on his backside watching television all day or get out and do something useful instead. Well, he walked over from the Hall and started yesterday.’

  ‘Very good advice. I hope it does the trick.’

  ‘So do I. He’s been busy potting up some of the rosemary cuttings that I took last autumn. Rather fiddly for him, but at least he can sit down to do it. Will you give him some encouraging words?’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’

  The beneficial effect of gardens and gardening was something that the Colonel could vouch for personally. Before he had moved into Pond Cottage he hadn’t been able to tell a daffodil from a daisy, but, thanks to Naomi, he had learned enough to make some order out of the jungle he had so rashly acquired and he had also discovered that there was a good deal of pleasure to be had in the process. Working in a garden was balm to the soul, Naomi had assured him, as well as creative. Hours passed easily. Plants became friends. He had even found himself talking to them, like Prince Charles apparently did. Naomi swore it made all the difference and, as she had pointed out, they answered by growing or not growing. The right plant in the right place was another mantra of hers that he had adopted. You couldn’t force a plant to grow where it didn’t want to be. Better to move it somewhere else, or cut your losses – like playing poker. Pull out and wait for winning cards.

  Tom Harvey’s stroke patient was at work in one of the Manor’s very old and beautifully dilapidated greenhouses, sitting on a stool in front of a
bench and absorbed in transferring a rosemary cutting from its nursery quarters to its more grown-up home. The Colonel could see from his slow and awkward movements that it was a difficult job for him.

  Ruth made the introductions and Lawrence Deacon held out his left hand.

  ‘The other one’s not much use yet. Glad to meet you, Colonel. Rather slow progress being made here, I’m afraid.’

  His speech was slurred and the stroke seemed to have taken its toll on the right side of his face and body. According to Ruth, he had recently retired and so would probably be somewhere in his sixties.

  ‘Well, it looks like you’re doing an excellent job.’

  ‘I hope so. I shouldn’t like to do any damage.’

  Ruth said quickly, ‘We’re very grateful for the help.’

  The Colonel turned to her. ‘Naomi has been telling me I should plant some herbs to cook with and she mentioned rosemary. Could I buy one of these?’

  ‘You can have one for nothing, Hugh.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s kind of you, Ruth, but I’d like to pay for it like a proper customer.’

  Her plant business was doing deservedly well. Almost everything she sold was grown from scratch, along with any advice needed. The gardening talks given periodically at the Manor by green-fingered people like Naomi were invariably packed out.

  ‘All right. If you insist. I’ve got some other herbs coming along, if you’re interested. Thyme, mint, parsley, tarragon, coriander …’

  The last two sounded well beyond his cooking range.

  ‘I’ll start off with the rosemary.’

  Jacob had appeared beyond the greenhouse doorway, poised like a timid wild animal ready to bolt, and Ruth went off to speak to him.