A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  They had stayed friends even though their lives had diverged when they left school; Sylvia going to university and then training as a teacher, Pam staying at home as full-time carer for her semi-invalid mother.

  Sylvia remembered how dominated Pam had been by her mother, how she had hardly been able to leave the house.

  Sylvia’s own mother had been very scathing about the situation. “Emotional blackmail,” she used to say. “Barbara Ford is a self-centred bitch. She doesn’t need poor Pam there all the time, does she?”

  “She can’t be left on her own,” Sylvia had explained, “and she won’t let Pam get extra help because she doesn’t like strangers round her.”

  “Exactly,” her mother had expostulated, “emotional blackmail. Downright selfish I call it.”

  Remembering those words now, Sylvia found herself echoing them. Pam’s mother had indeed been a manipulative bitch

  Sylvia had graduated as a teacher, and had taken a job in London, and though the two girls kept in touch, they had seen little of each other.

  When Pam’s mother had died some years later, Sylvia went to the funeral, but since then their lives had drifted apart and she had hardly seen Pam at all.

  Pam had written to tell her she was getting married.

  Roger’s been married before, Pam had written, and he’s been left with a little daughter, Karen to bring up on his own. She’s only five, so I shall have a ready-made family. I’m so happy. It’s the beginning of the rest of my life! We aren’t having a big wedding, just our witnesses and Karen, of course, and much as I’d like to have you as my witness, Roger is having his cousin, Raymond and he wants me to have Raymond’s wife, Della. It would be a long way for you to come, anyway, on a weekday in the middle of term-time….

  So, Sylvia hadn’t been at the wedding, and had never met Roger or his daughter. There had been suggestions that they should get together. Sylvia had invited them to visit her on more than one occasion, but there’d always been some reason why they couldn’t come.

  When she thought back to that letter now, Sylvia could see that Roger had already been making the decisions, even before they were married.

  Has she left him, after all this time? wondered Sylvia as she remembered the desperation in Pam’s voice. She must have, and now she’s what? Hiding?

  Sylvia glanced at her watch. Another hour and a half before she had to drive into Belcaster to meet the train. Would Pam be hungry when she arrived? Probably.

  Sylvia went to the freezer and pulled out a portion of chicken casserole which she set to defrost in the microwave, then she went upstairs to prepare her small spare room for her visitor. It felt chilly and she turned the radiator to high, closing the curtains against the cold night beyond the window. When she had made up the bed, turning down the covers invitingly, she left the bedside lamp switched on, casting a mellow light across the room. Pam had sounded at her wits’ end and Sylvia wanted everything to be as warm and comfortable as possible.

  Twenty past ten saw Sylvia pulling into the station car park. She was determined that when Pam came through the barrier, she, Sylvia, would be there to greet her, smiling and welcoming. When at last Pam did appear, Sylvia didn’t immediately recognise her. The pale, drawn woman with the lank and faded hair straggling on her shoulders and a hunted look in her eyes, was not the Pam Smith, or Ford, that Sylvia had grown up with. Dressed in a rather baggy, blue trouser suit over a crumpled white shirt, and with no makeup on her face, she looked far older than her forty-three years, far older than Sylvia herself who was the same age. When she did recognise her, Sylvia schooled her face into a wide smile to hide her dismay at what her childhood friend had become.

  “Pam,” she cried as she moved forward to hug her, “how lovely to see you.”

  Pam, unacquainted with hugs, stood stiffly against her for a moment and Sylvia let her go at once. “Here,” she said brightly, “let me take your case. The car’s just outside.”

  “No, I’ll carry it,” Pam said, still clutching the handle of the case. “It’s fine, really, it’s not heavy.”

  “Is that all you’ve got with you?” Sylvia asked. Silly question, she thought even as she asked it, so she added, “Well, let’s go. I’m afraid it’s very cold here, but we’ll soon be home in the warm.”

  She hurried them out to the car park and unlocking her Saab on the click, opened the passenger door for Pam to get in. “Shall I put your case in the boot?” she suggested.

  “No it’s fine on my lap, Sylvia, honestly. It’s not very big.” Pam’s hands continued to grip the handle even while the case lay on her knee. Intrigued Sylvia said no more, time for explanations later; now, she needed to get Pam home.

  “Not far to go,” she said as she pulled out into the late night traffic, and when Pam just smiled but didn’t answer, a silence lapsed round them that lasted for the twenty minute drive to Stone Winton. Sylvia was content to leave Pam with her thoughts as she concentrated on the icy roads, and Pam stared out into the darkness as they left the city and drove through the moonlit countryside. At last Sylvia swung the car into a narrow lane and then onto a track, and drew up outside what had once been a pair of farm labourers’ cottages, now knocked into one larger house. Light gleamed from a window and there was a welcoming light in the porch.

  “The path may be slippery,” Sylvia said as she cut the engine. “You wait in the car a moment while I go and get the door open.”

  Pam watched her cross to the house and moments later light flooded out from the front door. Pam got out of the car and walked slowly to the porch. For a moment she stood in its shelter and listened. The silence enfolding her was absolute; no sound of cars or voices or television, and it seemed to Pam, as she stood there, still clutching the baggage of her married life, staring out over the silvered fields, to be the epitome of peace and tranquillity.

  “Oh Sylvia,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful. Do you really live here?”

  “Yes,” Sylvia replied simply. “Welcome to St Jude’s Cottage.”

  “St Jude’s?”

  “Patron saint of lost causes,” smiled Sylvia. “Come on in. You’ll be quite safe here, I promise you.”

  They went indoors and Sylvia locked and chained the front door behind them.

  “Are you hungry, Pam?” she asked.

  Pam hadn’t thought of food at all, but now Sylvia asked her she realised that she was, indeed, very hungry.

  “I thought you might be,” Sylvia said. “Let me show you your room, first and then you can eat.”

  She led the way upstairs, and showed Pam into the bedroom she’d prepared.

  “Bathroom next door,” she said. “When you’re ready come back down to the kitchen. I’ve got a casserole in the oven. You must be starving.”

  She left Pam to make herself comfortable and went downstairs. The sitting room fire had died down, so she poked it back to life and having put on another log, went through to the kitchen to pour them each a glass of wine and to dish up the casserole, ready to take through on a tray.

  Pam came downstairs a few minutes later, carrying a black cash box.

  Sylvia looked at it in surprise. “Hallo,” she said with a grin, “what’s that? The family fortune?”

  “Could be,” answered Pam, “don’t know. It’s locked and I haven’t got the key.”

  Sylvia glanced at the hasp that secured the tin box. “You need a screwdriver,” she said as she ladled casserole out onto a hot plate. “Here, come in by the fire and eat this,” she picked up the tray and led the way into the sitting room where she’d already laid a place at the table, “have a glass of wine, and then we’ll have a go at it.”

  When she smelt the food, Pam suddenly realised just how hungry she was. She sat down and picking up her knife and fork, said, surprise in her voice, “No wonder I’m hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast.”

  “Since breakfast!” exclaimed Sylvia, adding as Pam began to eat, “Never mind, eat first, and you can tell me a
ll about it when you’ve finished.”

  “That was delicious,” Pam said as she finally pushed her empty plate away. “Just what I needed.” Her eyes turned to the cashbox standing on the other end of the table and Sylvia followed the direction of her gaze.

  “Do you know what’s in it?” she asked, unable to curb her curiosity.

  Pam shook her head. “No, it was in the safe in the office. I had a quick look to see if there was any money in there before I left…” She broke off before adding, “I’ve left Roger, you see, and I haven’t got any money, so I was looking to see if he’d left any in the safe. I couldn’t see any, but this box was there, so I took it.” She sighed, “It may not be much, it’s very light and it doesn’t clink. It’s locked and I didn’t have time to force it open, so I just brought it with me.”

  “I see,” Sylvia’s eyes gleamed with mischief, “Shall we open it now? As I said, we’ll need a screwdriver, but I can soon find one of those. Hang on a minute and I’ll get one.”

  She left the room and was quickly back with a sturdy-looking screwdriver which she handed to Pam. “There you are,” she said. “Have a go with that.” She held the tin box steady while Pam inserted the blade of the screwdriver under the hasp. The lock was not strong and with a little leverage it broke quite easily. Putting down the screwdriver, Pam lifted the lid and looked inside. What she saw made her stare in amazement.

  “Look at this,” she breathed, and tilted the box so that Sylvia could see. Inside there were three rolls of notes, each secured with an elastic band.

  “Wow!” Sylvia stared at the money. “You’ve really hit the jackpot. How much is there do you think?”

  “Lots,” replied Pam. She picked up one of the rolls and pulled off the rubber band. Fifty-pound notes uncoiled into her hand; she counted, there were twenty of them. Hastily she pulled the bands of the other rolls and counted those. The same. Three rolls of one thousand pounds each.

  “Three thousand pounds!” she cried. “Three thousand pounds!” She thrust one of the rolls at Sylvia and said “You count...in case I’m wrong.”

  “You’re right,” Sylvia confirmed with a grin, “so you won’t be short of cash for a while, will you?”

  “Roger will be so angry,” Pam said, and Sylvia saw the naked fear in her eyes.

  “But he doesn’t know where you are, does he?” Sylvia tried to sound reassuring.

  “No,” Pam agreed wryly, “and I better make very sure he doesn’t find out.”

  Chapter 4

  When Roger came to in the morning he had a thumping headache and for a moment or two wondered what he was doing in Karen’s room. Then the happenings of the previous evening came flooding back to him and he groaned. He staggered to the bathroom, washed down three aspirin with a glass of water, and then looked across the landing. The office door was still closed and for the first time it struck him that Pam might not be inside. He went over and rattled the handle, but to no avail. There was no sound from inside the room and the door remained locked.

  Roger called Pam’s name. Nothing. He went to his own bedroom which looked even worse in the daylight of a rainy February morning than it had last night. He pulled the door closed in disgust and went downstairs. In the kitchen he found the debris of the ruined meal still on the floor, as well as his empty wine glass and dirty plate on the table. Clearly Pam had not been into the kitchen that morning, she would never have dared leave the mess as it was.

  Roger finally accepted that Pam had gone when he managed to break into the office and discovered it empty. At first he couldn’t believe that she had left him.

  Silly cow, he thought as he stared into the empty room. She’ll soon be back with her tail between her legs. She hasn’t any money and she’s nowhere else to go. And when she does come back, he thought viciously, I’ll make her sorry for all the trouble she’s caused.

  Much against his will he made some effort to clear up the kitchen so that he could use it, but he continued to sleep in Karen’s room, simply closing the door on the wreck of his bedroom. He went to the shop and opened up, but business was very slow. There was no sign of Charleigh and her continued absence over the next few days did little to improve Roger’s state of mind.

  It was several days later, when he had still heard nothing from Pam, that he finally discovered her ultimate perfidy. He was taking delivery of two paintings from Gord and needed some cash. He already had buyers lined up, but they of course wouldn’t pay him, as middle man, until the pictures were handed over. Roger could not risk keeping the items he bought from Gord, and one or two others, in the shop. He had hired a lock-up garage some half mile away and it was there he kept his more shady acquisitions. Having arranged to meet Gord there, he went home to collect the required money from the safe. When he first discovered that the cash box was missing he could not believe it. He pulled everything out of the safe, tossing things aside even when it was quite clear that the box had gone. Even then it took him a moment or two to determine that he hadn’t left it at the shop and realise that Pam must have been taken it.

  He bellowed his rage at the pitch of his lungs, cursing her and calling her all manner of foul names, but it did little to lessen his fury. Not only had she stolen his money, but she had put him in a dangerous position. With this money gone he couldn’t pay Gord for the paintings, and their purchaser, a man in an entirely different league from Roger, was coming to collect them in the morning. He’d have to try and talk Gord into parting with them before he was paid, something he didn’t relish.

  He was about to leave the house when the phone rang. He waited in the hall, leaving the answerphone to cut in so that he could hear who was calling. He heard his own message:

  “This is Roger Smith’s number. I’m sorry I’m not available to take your call. Please leave your name, number and a message and I’ll ring you back as soon as I can.”

  “Hallo, Roger? This is Marilyn, Pam’s friend. I’ve been trying to contact her but so far no luck. Is she staying in London? Please could you get Pam to ring me when she gets back.” She added a number and rang off.

  Roger pressed the erase button, as he had on the other three messages Marilyn had left, and re-set the machine. Then, his mood still dark, he set out to try and deal with Gord.

  Gord agreed to leave the pictures in the lock-up but demanded more for them that had been agreed.

  “Interest, you might say,” he growled, “for late payment. Know what I mean?”

  Roger, who had been secretly relieved, reluctantly agreed, and the paintings were safely stowed. He went back to the shop and found a message from Karen on his phone. She was coming over that evening.

  Roger faced his daughter across the Chinese take-away cartons on the kitchen table. Karen had been away on holiday when Pam walked out and now she was back she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “But where’s she gone?” demanded Karen.

  Roger shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve heard nothing since she went. All I know is that she took some money from the safe and disappeared.”

  “Money? How much money?”

  “Enough to keep her going for a while,” replied Roger, unwilling to tell his daughter exactly how much Pam had taken. He felt such a fool now, for keeping that much in the safe where she could get her hands on it, but then it hadn’t crossed his mind that she might know the combination. Nor was he prepared to admit to Karen that he hadn’t realised that Pam had taken it until nearly ten days after she had gone.

  “But what made her finally go?” asked Karen, her food forgotten as she took in her father’s news. “I wouldn’t have thought Our Pammy,” she sneered the name with which she’d dubbed her stepmother so long ago, “would have had the nerve just to walk out.”

  Roger gave a mirthless snort. “She walked in on me when I was entertaining,” he said.

  “Entertaining?” Karen looked puzzled and then realising what he meant she gave a shout of laughter and said, “Oh Dad! But it wasn’t the first time wa
s it? I mean, I’ve always known you had girlfriends. Pam must have known too.”

  Roger shrugged. “I expect she did,” he said, “but I thought she was away for the night, so we were upstairs…in our room.”

  “Oh Dad, you are awful,” giggled Karen. “Still I’m still surprised she walked out…for keeps I mean.”

  “She went berserk and threw something at the long mirror. It smashed and there was glass everywhere,” Roger said.

  “Wow! Well done Pammy!” said Karen admiringly. “I wouldn’t have believed she had it in her. What did she say?”

  Roger didn’t care to repeat what Pam had said to him, even to his daughter, so he ignored the question and went on, “I dare say she’ll come back when the money runs out.”

  “Doubt it,” Karen said. “I wouldn’t. I’d go for a divorce.”

  The phone chirped loudly and Karen reached over to pick it up.

  “Hallo.”

  “Pam?”

  “No, it’s Karen. Pam isn’t here.”

  “Oh, I see, Karen. Is she out again? When do you think she’ll be home?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Karen said briskly. “Who is this please?”

  “It’s Marilyn, a friend of your mother’s….”

  “My step-mother.”

  “Yes, well anyway, do you know when she’ll be back? I’ve rung several times and left messages, but she hasn’t called back.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” replied Karen, improvising, “Pam’s away…on holiday. She’s gone to France.”

  “Has she? Lucky girl. Whereabouts?”

  “I don’t know. Look I’ll tell her you called, OK? When she gets back.”

  The woman on the other end of the line was still saying, “Thank you. Just ask her to give me a call if you will,” when Karen put the phone down.