Jumping the Queue

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Differently, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it. Another side to the side which was mine? People are so much more difficult than animals.’

  ‘You love animals best?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said quickly. ‘I trust animals.’

  ‘Not Tom? You didn’t trust Tom?’

  Matilda flushed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hugh said quickly. ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘I didn’t trust Tom before I found him in bed with Louise. There was a part of Tom I never knew and John, in an odd way, knew it. He knows more about Mark, Claud, Anabel and Louise than I ever shall.’

  ‘Why does John want to be called Piers? Does he hate his name?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He wants to be Sir Piers, it’s more elegant.’

  ‘Are you afraid of him?’

  ‘He is a bit creepy. Claud says he’s creepy. When the children were small he pretended he knew all about Burgess, Maclean and Philby. The children called him “Beclean filthy”. A silly joke.’

  ‘How well does he know you?’ Hugh wondered whether Matilda would tell this man about himself.

  ‘We’ve known each other since we were tots. I don’t tell him things, not since I killed Felicity. I’ve been very careful since that episode.’

  ‘Maybe there’s some other thing?’

  ‘What could there be?’ Hugh watched her puzzled face and a minute breeze of fear flickered in her eyes. She also seemed puzzled. I’m getting to know this woman, he thought then. ‘Let me tell you where the money is.’

  ‘Yes, do.’

  ‘If I give you my latchkey could you get me a pair of my own shoes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What else shall you do?’

  ‘Get my hair done, shop.’

  ‘Don’t let them spoil it!’

  ‘If I go looking like this John won’t take me to good restaurants. He’ll say nothing and take me to cheap, pokey places, hide me.’

  ‘Nasty man.’

  ‘Just vain. He likes to be seen with presentable women.’

  ‘Not Polish Fowls.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘He doesn’t like animals best.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes animals at all, or people. He is the sort of person who likes power. Poor old boy, it would be nice for him to be Sir Piers. That would give him a certain power. Sir Piers first, then after a few years Sir Piers will shift into another gear. Who knows – KCMG? I think he would like that.’

  She is being malicious, Hugh thought and wondered whether Matilda knew she did not like this man or whether she had buried her feelings too deep to germinate.

  ‘Shall you see friends?’

  ‘I have so few left in London.’

  ‘That’s no answer.’

  ‘We, or I, have changed. There isn’t much left in common.’

  ‘Your other children?’

  ‘Neither Anabel nor Mark are in London.’ She straightened her back. ‘I wouldn’t know if they were.’

  ‘Surely?’

  Matilda grinned. ‘Did you keep your mother posted?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not bother.’

  ‘She had her cat.’ Matilda’s unkindness was intentional.

  ‘You need not invite me to your funeral either,’ he said.

  ‘Love all.’ She pursed her lips.

  14

  WHEN MATILDA SET off, respectable in her London clothes, Hugh sighed with relief. He intended a voyage of exploration. He was still sure that he would find some clues about to amuse him during her absence.

  In the dressing-table drawers were the photographs – Louise, Mark, Anabel and Claud from babyhood to adolescence. He turned them over. Sometimes something was written on the back – ‘Mark in Berlin’ or ‘Picnic near Helston’. In a good-looking family Claud’s beauty was outstanding. He was like Matilda, but beautiful. He put the photographs aside, feeling that he knew Claud, would not care for Louise, would like to fuck Anabel, be bored by Tom and really dislike Mark who had a priggish expression. He searched for letters but was not rewarded. He put the snapshots back. There was a space in the drawer where probably Tom’s letters had lain – now destroyed? No sign of any in Matilda’s writing. At the back of the drawer a yellowed postcard of Trafalgar Square. ‘Come at the same time. I’ll take you on to the party. It’s in Guildford Street.’ No signature, but Hugh was reminded of the voice on the telephone which he had heard, ‘You will take the usual train.’ The postcard was in an authoritative script. He put it back.

  Hugh prowled, felt the bed, a deep mattress. He examined her books. There had been a poetry phase. Then, rather surprisingly, the Russians: Chekov, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy. Then Camus and Sartre. The flyleaf of each book was initialled and dated. She had tried Bertrand Russell but not got far, had read Thomas Mann, left Jane Austen untouched but managed Shaw. Graham Greene and Muriel Spark were read and reread. In Ivy Compton-Burnett she had written on a flyleaf, ‘needs more concentration than Dostoevsky.’ In Margaret Drabble’s first novel, in Claud’s hand, ‘Darling Mama, try this, she knows about your kind of despair.’

  Hugh opened Matilda’s drawers. The clothes were not the clothes of a woman who felt the need of sexy knickers. She wore Indian cotton shirts as nightdresses, Jaeger wool tights in winter. The clothes were rather worn, unglamorous. In the middle dressing-table drawer a note: ‘Have put jewels in the bank, listed for each of you. Don’t quarrel – take what’s given. I flogged the pearls.’ That wouldn’t make much difference with Matilda dead, Hugh felt. There was an envelope with a bent corner as though it had been stuck in the corner of the mirror. Hugh tried it. The crease fitted. He went downstairs and put the kettle on to steam the envelope open. Inside on a plain sheet of paper dated the day he had met her was a note:

  Darling Louise, Mark, Anabel and Claud. I have had enough. Please have me cremated and scatter my ashes over the stream. I love you all. I am in full possession of my faculties. My Will is at the bank. Goodbye. I love you. Don’t feel guilty. Your loving Mother.

  Hugh wondered why she had said twice that she loved them. It tinged of doubt. He stuck down the envelope and went back to the room to replace it. He closed the drawer and lay down on Matilda’s bed. Folly, who had kept silent company, got up and lay sighing, pressing her nose against his neck, her breath warm and damp.

  ‘She must be about fifty.’ Hugh put his arm round the dog. ‘She hasn’t quite swept herself out of the house,’ he whispered to the dog. ‘She left her anxieties about their subsequent behaviour. Poor fare.’ Hugh sighed and repeated ‘poor fare’ which made him feel hungry. Matilda would be arriving in London about now. ‘Let’s get some food and then get out.’ He stroked the dog who was making a draught with her tail.

  Downstairs he fed her, made tea and ate a tin of tuna fish with pepper and raw onion, then lay again on Matilda’s bed until it grew dark.

  He let himself out of the back door, locked it and set off across the fields, desperately in need of exercise.

  He walked up the valley, taking his bearings by the stars. The air was clear, the country very still. Walking across the fields, trying not to disturb sheep and cattle, he zigzagged to find gates, kept on uphill. Cars drove occasionally along the lane but he kept below the skyline, gaining confidence as he walked, feeling his unused muscles working easily. Near the top of the valley he came to the village – a post office, one pub, a church, scattered houses, two farms in the village itself. He debated whether to try and skirt round but decided to walk through. It was September, there would still be holiday people about, he would not be conspicuous. The pub was surrounded by parked cars, a cheerful hubbub came out of open windows. Dogs barked as he passed the farmyards. Folly closed in on his heels. From the houses came the sound of television, music and loud laughter. Beyond the village a stretch of road, then a wood, a stile, a path sign-posted. He climbed the stile and followed the path, disturbing a pair of lovers. It led through the wood, over a stretch
of moor to the top of a hill, turning left downhill. He stopped to get his bearings. Below and behind him lights from scattered houses and farms, the headlights of cars probing along the main road, far off the red glow of the town. To his right, away from the path and below it was a long reservoir, silver from the rising moon slicing the black water. He jogged down-hill to the water’s edge. Folly drank. Hugh felt the temperature of the water. He listened. There was no sound other than faint rustling in the reeds.

  His mother, he remembered, as he crouched with his hand in the water, had told him that in her youth, sent to Germany to learn the language, she had swum at night in the lakes. He remembered her voice.

  ‘We swam naked, darling. If we rode we took off the saddles and swam the horses. We held on to their manes and they drew us along. It was poetry.’

  Hugh had been delightedly shocked, unable to imagine his mother so.

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Yes, darling, naked boys and girls. Of course our parents thought we were all in bed.’

  ‘Together?’ Hugh had asked. His mother had said:

  ‘Don’t be improper. Of course not.’

  ‘Wasn’t the swimming improper then?’

  ‘It didn’t feel it. They were all young Nazis, strength through joy and so on, handsome creatures. Their father was a Graf – very pro-Hitler for a while.’

  ‘But Grandfather!’

  ‘Your grandfather sent me there to get a good accent. When I wrote to him about the Strength through Joy he came at once and fetched me home. He’d never bothered about the quarter of Jewish blood in my mother before, never thought about it.’

  ‘Poor mother.’

  ‘Well, the swimming was lovely, you should try it some time in a lake at night.’

  He took off his clothes and waded into the water, trying not to make a splash. Folly followed. They swam out together. The dog came too close and scratched his shoulders. Hugh swam out to the middle of the reservoir, thinking of his mother, trying to visualize her swimming in Germany, but it was Matilda he thought of who, having had enough, had been about to swim out to sea. He turned back to find his clothes. He dressed while Folly shook herself and rolled in the rough grass by the water’s edge.

  He walked back slowly, astonished at the distance he had covered on his walk. His mother was right, the swimming was good. He decided to do it again. There was no need to tell Matilda, who would worry and push her hair up in a crest. What had she had enough of, he wondered? Loneliness? People adjusted to being alone. Was she bored? Certainly not ill. She appeared to have the wherewithal to live without undue worry. Guilt? Not guilt – she barely remembered killing that woman – he was half inclined not to believe it. What then? What? He was very tired when he got near the cottage, anxious for food and sleep. In his scullery Gus honked loudly. Hugh stopped. Gus could not have heard him yet. Folly pricked her ears. Hugh stood at the edge of the copse. A figure was creeping round the cottage, a short thickset man with a beard. He peeped in at the windows, funnelling his eyes with both hands to look in, moving from window to window, trying the back door. Gus honked.

  ‘All right, all right, I hear you. She out or something? Not like her to be going out.’ The voice was faintly Welsh. ‘She can’t be away or she would have asked me to look after you.’ He was now peering in at the scullery window, standing on an upturned bucket to look in. Gus flapped his wings.

  ‘All right then, all right. I’ll be round again tomorrow, eh?’ The visitor stepped off the bucket and set it right way up. Hugh watched him walk away, waited for him to be well out of sight before letting himself into the house. Gus throttled in his throat in greeting.

  ‘Mr Jones, was it? Seen a UFO or something? I’d forgotten about him.’

  Not daring to put on a light in case the man came back, Hugh felt his way about the kitchen, finding the bread, butter, a bottle of beer in the larder, cheese.

  He sat at the table munching, still thinking of Matilda. Despair? Self-hate? Maybe. Hugh shrugged his shoulders, climbed the stairs. He went into Matilda’s room, got into her bed with Folly. She had not changed the sheets, they were rumpled, the pillow smelled of her hair. He felt comforted. It was on this pillow she snored open-mouthed.

  15

  THE RINGING TELEPHONE woke Hugh. He had overslept; it was late, nearly ten.

  He let the thing ring. He had promised Matilda not to answer it. They had arranged a code. If it rang three times and stopped it would be Matilda. She would do this twice. The third time he would answer, otherwise he would let it ring unanswered.

  When the phone stopped Hugh went down to let Folly out and feed Gus his mush by the back door, which he propped open with the bootscraper. He made toast and tea, got out marmalade and butter. He stood eating, watching Gus guzzle his food then move slowly across the grass, cropping.

  Hearing a car in the lane he hurried into the hall. Folly joined him. The car stopped by the gate; he heard voices. He looked out cautiously. The man he had seen prowling round the cottage was getting out of a police car. He slammed the door.

  ‘Well, thanks, Constable. Thanks for listening anyway.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Jones. Any time.’

  ‘I’ll just tell Mrs Poliport.’

  ‘You do that. You tell her. She and Mr Poliport were always interested I understand.’

  ‘Oh yes, he was particularly.’

  ‘A nice gentleman. Goodbye, Mr Jones. See you.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ The car drove off, footsteps came up the path. Hugh retreated up the stairs to the landing.

  Gus honked.

  ‘Hey, Gus, where’s Matilda then?’ The man came to the kitchen door, calling.

  ‘Matilda, hey Matilda, where are you?’ He thumped the back door, walked into the kitchen. Hugh slipped back into Matilda’s room, caught up Folly into his arms and dived into her hanging cupboard, bending down, pushing between the coats and dresses to the back where he sat down on a heap of cushions.

  Mr Jones moved noisily about downstairs, talking to himself and the gander.

  ‘Where is she, then? I came early this morning. She wasn’t here, boyo, not here to see Jones. There, there, don’t honk so. You know me. You honked this morning but she’s fed you since. Ah, kettle’s hot. She’s had her breakfast, not put away the butter nor the marmalade. Don’t come in boy and make a mess, you know what she’s like.’

  There was a listening pause. ‘Matilda? You ill or something, Matilda?’ Then steps on the stairs. Mr Jones was coming up. Hugh held Folly’s nose lightly.

  ‘Matilda, you in there?’ Steps in the room. ‘Not made her bed. Funny. Gone out in a hurry.’ The springs of the bed were bounced. ‘My, what a comfortable bed she has.’ Hugh held his breath. The cupboard door opened suddenly, letting in light. ‘Not in there either. Hardly be hiding in her cupboard. Must look in the garage.’ Then a loud shout as the footsteps retreated down the stairs. ‘Matilda! I know I bore you woman, but there’s no need to hide. I told you I won’t do it again, I told you!’ There was anger and pain in the voice, frustration. Mr Jones in the kitchen called for the last time.

  ‘Matilda?’

  Hugh crept out of the cupboard, keeping well out of sight, looked down on Mr Jones. Short, thickset, a forest of a beard, thin strands of hair trained over a large head from ear to ear. From Hugh’s view-point the top of Mr Jones’ head looked like spaghetti junction. He stood looking about him with one hand stroking the strands into place. Presently he moved off to the garage, his feet slapping on the stone path. Hugh heard him say, ‘Gone out then. Where’s she gone, Gus? Ah me, poor Jones, I should have known better. I should never have tried.’ The gander honked and flapped dismissing wings. Mr Jones reached the gate. ‘You tell her, boyo, I’ll be back.’ The gander resumed his cropping, unmoved by the rather affected Welsh voice. Hugh swore. Damn the man, when would he be coming back? Obviously he’d got a lech for Matilda. He tidied Matilda’s bed. Fine thing if Jones had come in to find him in it. He sat on the edge of th
e bed considering what to do, idly thumbing through the book she must be reading at the moment. Rosamund Lehmann’s The Ballad and the Source – notes in pencil on the flyleaf in Matilda’s hand, but shaky:

  I think only people like me do this. I get heightened perception. I’m insecure. I’m pissed on pot, Claud darling. I found it in his overcoat, him of all people! He made me safe. This perception is awful. I found it last night, I wonder if – no not last night – last year Claud, it’s made me remember – it was at a party –

  The writing straggled and stopped. Hugh sniffed the book. I’m not a trained Labrador, he thought. Then he remembered the overcoat at the back of Matilda’s cupboard, crawled back in.

  In the pockets of an overcoat he found a sizeable amount of cannabis and a packet of heroin. He flushed the heroin down the lavatory and pocketed the cannabis. It would be interesting to know why Matilda had left evidence of Tom while sweeping herself out of the house before her picnic. And the note to Claud? Perhaps Claud was the only one she could talk to. Hugh walked thoughtfully downstairs.

  Mr Jones was standing in the kitchen.

  ‘I thought there must be someone here,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Hugh Warner.’

  ‘The Matricide, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mine is Jones.’

  ‘How d’you do.’

  ‘Matilda usually asks me to care for Gus when she goes away.’

  ‘I’m doing it.’

  ‘Good.’ Mr Jones looked hesitant. ‘Do you know when she will be back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve just flushed the heroin down the loo –’

  ‘Oh de-arr!’

  ‘I suppose it comes in the UFOs.’

  ‘Clever you are.’

  ‘Matilda seems to have found out.’

  ‘Oh de-arr.’

  ‘Shall we ring the police separately or together?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘You can tell them about me and I can tell them about you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Too upsetting for Matilda. When did she find out about Tom, then?’