The Widow's Club (21 page)

Here was my out. I heaved an echoing sigh.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Malloy, you have touched upon the one drawback to this job. He will be home sometimes during the day. Cooking.” I made the last word sound as sinister as I could.

“Mrs. H., you don’t grasp my meaning.” Roxie Malloy adjusted the diamanté clasp on her rope of pearls. “I don’t care a farthing what sort of floury muddle the man makes, so long as he cleans up after himself. Now was I married to the man”—she picked up a Victorian mixing bowl and inspected it—“I might feel all me femininity being sapped away, never getting to open a tin of peas. But what interests me is whether or not Mr. H. is given to lecherous advances. Having buried three husbands, I’m giving up men. Undependable lot.” She pinned me to the wall with her gaze. “So, give it to me straight, Mrs. H. Can you vouch for your man?”

“My husband is completely harmless.” The words came out like bullets.

“I’d guessed as much. Women aren’t his type … of vice.” Her eyelids fluttered. “But then—I’ve been known to bring out the beast in men a bishop would swear to. Still, I’ve put me cards smack on the table. And I’m giving you a month’s trial. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

“Well—”

“Only reason I’ve got any spare days is that one of my ladies, Mrs. Woolpack, has gone batty and is in hospital.”

And so she joined our happy home.

Of course, even with Roxie coming in two mornings a week, there was plenty to do in the house.

Every Thursday afternoon was aerobics class. Bunty had phoned me immediately after our curtailed lunch at The Dark Horse to solicit me as a pupil. When I had said that the Historical Society was more my speed, she had responded, “That lot! They weren’t born, they were
exhumed;
and their leader is Mrs. Bottomly!” The magic words.

Three years previously, a foray into the world of organized exercise had resulted in a week off work and a plea for forgiveness to my body. But as this new year got underway, I was determined to make good. If I could once learn to hop and bob in time with the rest of the group and stop smacking the woman next to me in the face with my foot each time I did a leg lift, I would be a marginal student. Bunty was an exuberant teacher. The rest of the class found her instructions easy to follow. I found the sight of her legs kicking to the ceiling demoralizing. All I wanted was to pull in, firm out, and be able to eat a little more, so Ben wouldn’t look so wounded when I tried to hide the potatoes under the parsley sprigs.

All of Bunty’s students were to be in the burlesque routine she was planning for the middle of May, benefits going to the St. Anselm’s youth group. And I was assigned a starring role, one which had the advantage of keeping me offstage much of the time. I was to leap out of a cake and cry, “Ta-Ta!” in the scene entitled Bachelor Party. The cake would supposedly have been baked by Ben. A little free advertising, which a good wife could not refuse.

Another plus was that I got to know Ann Delacorte better; she did wardrobe and sets for all the St. Anselm’s productions. She loved theatre, which helped in this case because for some reason she did not love Bunty Wiseman.

Ann appeared to have only one friend, Millicent Parsnip, the tabby woman who had been with Amelia Bottomly on the train. And although no one could replace Dorcas as a confidante, I needed a woman to talk to. The marriage manuals, I was discovering, often focused on the obvious, and I already possessed the sophistication not to wear rollers, a face mask, and flannel pyjamas to bed or devour onions by the plateful—even though they are low in calories and make a pleasing change from naked lettuce. Where I needed instruction was in how to deal with the revelation that after only a few months of marriage Ben did not think of me exclusively twenty-four hours a day. Equally saddening was my own growing indifference. I found I no longer begrudged him the occasional drink with Freddy at The Dark Horse. And on those evenings when he retreated to the study with his recipe collection, I could quite happily occupy myself with a book or sketch pad until it was time to go upstairs and fill my bath with Essence of Orchid. Was it possible that after four months our marriage was developing middle-aged spread?

I didn’t verbalize all this to Ann or confide in her my concerns about my missing mother-in-law or remark that Ben put the shutters down when I brought up the subject of his parents’ separation. Rather, Ann confided in me, taking my mind off myself, giving me a sense of perspective. On Thursdays, after aerobics class, she would accompany me on expeditions for Abigail’s accoutrements. Usually we took her cute bottle-green Morris Minor, because I had still not persuaded Ben to bury Heinz and get a new vehicle. But on an afternoon in mid-April, I drove because Ann’s car was in the garage.

“If we can make it to the village,” I assured her as we lurched through the church gates, “we should be all right. Usually when the sweet old thing conks out, he does so during the first five hundred yards.”

“Nice, though—having a convertible.” Ann put on a pair of dark glasses and hugged up the collar of her beaver coat.

Gracious, as usual; Ann knew this car did not convert. Its roof was permanently compressed into accordion folds. Ideal for Ben with his claustrophobia.

“Ellie, do you have to stop in at Abigail’s and get that sample of tile for the ladies’ room from Ben?”

“Actually, no.” I downshifted. “Ben vetoed … I mean, we mutually agreed last night that I should look for something more restful in colour.” Biting my lip, I stared through the windscreen. All euphemisms aside, Ben and I had verged on a quarrel the previous evening. I hadn’t been able to get through to him that we didn’t want the customers taking forty winks while freshening up. At one point I had come close to raising my voice, above the level of what it was already raised; but then, bathrooms had become something of unhallowed ground for us. Twice that week I had caught Ben removing my still damp hose from the towel rail in the bathroom, and once I’d nabbed him in the act of stuffing them in a drawer. The wrong drawer!

“I was just trying to be helpful, darling,” he’d said with that innocent look on his face.

“It would have been helpful if you had left them where they were … darling.”

A kiss on the back of my head—where I couldn’t feel it, let alone see it. “Ellie, you know I can’t stand clutter. I was brought up to be orderly.”

“And I was brought up to dislike mildewed drawers.”

The Heinz did a swerving figure eight. Relaxing my hold on the steering wheel, I turned to Ann. “Speaking of Ben reminds me—mind if I stop in at Mr. Wiseman’s office? Ben wants him to check some point on the lease.” We were vibrating down Cliff Road. The sea below was dark as malt liquor, its white head foaming into great spills.

“Of course not, Ellie!”

Something in her voice made me glance sideways, but I couldn’t read her face because of the glasses.

“I can as well go tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t think of it; I know you and Ben are down to the wire where the restaurant is concerned.”

Teddy Peerless was pegging away at a fantastic clip upon a medieval typewriter, her projecting teeth clamped on her lower lip in concentration, as we entered the outer office of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith. In a corner of the book-lined
room near the window a green and crimson parrot strutted and squawked in its cage.

“Greetings from your king, pretty damsels!” That was the parrot.

Teddy stopped typing. She rose, tugging the ends of her beige cardigan, and jabbed a comb more securely into her birds-nest hair. She was introducing us to Flinders, the parrot, when Lionel Wiseman came through the door. Some men have the knack of making an entrance—even I, a comfortably married woman, acknowledged that. Pressing my fingers, he thanked me for coming in about the lease. I found myself a little captivated by his deskside manner, the deep timbre of his voice, his impressive height and broad shoulders, his crisp, silvery hair glinting in the light from Teddy’s lamp, but, needless to say, only in the way I would have been captivated by a handsome piece of furniture. I pictured Lionel Wiseman’s first meeting with Bunty, imagining him leaning over the theatre balcony rail, deciding he wanted the second girl from the left in the chorus line, the blonde with the legs that went from here to eternity.

Releasing me from his intent dark gaze, he gave me back my hand and said he would sort out the lease quibble. I was sure he would. Teddy was at the file cabinet plucking out a yellow folder. She was saying something about the weather to Ann, who was sinking slowly into a chair, her face the colour of moonlight against her dark glasses. Teddy dropped the folder and pressed Ann’s head down toward her knees. Lionel strode over to them; concern made him even more handsome.

“Mrs. Delacorte, let me fetch you a brandy, or ring for a doctor.”

“I’m perfectly all right.” Ann grew, if possible, paler.

A question mark took shape in my mind. Was there more here than met the eye? I had sensed an antagonism between Ann and Bunty at The Dark Horse. Had Lionel botched some legal matter for the Delacortes or (I studied his Saville Row suit) sent them an exhorbitant fee for services rendered?

Ann, truthfully or otherwise, blamed her dizzy spell upon Flinders, saying in a faint voice, “Silly of me, but I thought he was going to peck me through the bars.”

I offered to take her directly home, but she insisted the
zesty sea air was what she needed. So we said our goodbyes and drove along Coast Road through Pebblewell to Snaresby. There we got out and walked, coming almost immediately upon a little tucked-away shop which sold china doorknobs. I found one with enamelled bluebells. Perfect for the ground floor reception room at Abigail’s. Afterward I pressed Ann to stop at the cafe next door for tea. As we sat sipping away, I strayed the conversation back to her fainting attack.

“It was nothing to do with Mr. Wiseman.” She was quite definite. Too definite? She twisted her cup around in her saucer. “Ellie, do you recall my telling you that several people have hinted that Charles is having an affair?”

“You told me you didn’t believe it,” I replied.

“I didn’t, but this morning I received a letter signed A Friend, informing me that I am a wronged wife.”

“Did it look like a form letter?”

Ann smiled. “Do you think it could be that sort of thing, Ellie?”

“Absolutely.” As it happened, I was speaking the truth. I could not imagine Charles Delacorte thawing out long enough to start an affair.

Ann spread her fingers and looked down at them. “Charles and I … He never was very keen, you know; he always said”—she twirled the necklace at her throat—“that sex was … untidy.”

“I see.” I blushed.

“It could have been worse, I suppose.” Ann tried to smile. “The note could have said, ‘Your husband is carrying on with another man.’ ” Now it was her turn for her eyes to avoid mine. Was I missing something? My eyes fixed on a man with an abundance of glossy black curls seated at the corner table. Mr. Daffy? Yes, but a drastically changed Mr. Daffy. Pale, hollow-cheeked, thin. Or was it that all the stuffing seemed to have gone out of him? He saw me looking at him, but instead of bouncing out of the chair and foisting his relentless sales technique on me, he actually shrank back in his chair, his ripe olive eyes growing dull. So this is what I got for refusing to sell Merlin’s Court! After a minute, he walked slowly over to the table.

“Well, well, ladies. Fancy seeing you here! You weren’t looking for me by any chance, were you?” He was inching backward as he spoke.

“No, I’m afraid not.” I felt guilty about it.

“Good, good.” His face broke into a trembling smile. “I’ve been having these odd notions recently that I’m being followed, that … the bloodhounds are after me, closing in.” He wiped a hand across his sticky brow. “All nonsense, of course. But I think I’ll see my doctor, get a tonic. Here, let me give you another of my cards.” He dropped one in my hand, as if it were hot, and virtually fled out the door.

We were on the outskirts of Pebblewell when I noticed the first beading of moisture on the windscreen. In seconds water sheeted down, puddling in our laps. And, to make matters worse, the road kept getting narrower until it looked like a smoker’s breath. A glance over the stupidly low wall to my left showed waves far below, whipped by the wind into a spiteful froth, encouraging me to drive as straight a course as possible. Minutes later, seeing became the number one problem. Heinz scraped against the wall, which now seemed to be on my right. Add to that our feet being underwater and I had to agree with Ann that it might be wise to pull over and wait out the deluge. But pull over which way? Right meant running up the side of the cliff; left meant going over the sea wall. Time out for a moment of prayer.

Miraculously, the gusting wind lifted my hair away from my eyes and through the downpour I espied two towering pillars. Affixed to one was an unreadable sign board. The essential point was that between them ran a steepish track, pathway, lane, whatever.

“Mind if we pull in here?” I asked.

Ann removed her hat, shook it free of water and replaced it. “I’d mind if you didn’t.”

Not trusting Heinz to stay parked on an incline, I drove up the short rise. We were in an avenue, darkened to heavy shadow by the thick overhead branches. Rain drummed against the windscreen. Turning off the engine, I wiped my face on my soggy coat sleeve and apologised to Ann for bringing her to this pass.

“Ellie, really—this makes an interesting interlude in my uneventful life.” Her lips smiled serenely but her eyes were hidden by rain-spattered glasses.

“I wonder where we are?”

Ann lifted the glasses to her forehead then lowered
them, without looking round. “Sorry, Ellie, I’m quite useless when it comes to getting my bearings.”

I glanced around. This avenue was undoubtedly pleasant at times, but now the sea was muffled to a soft, ominous stomping.

Never mind, we were about to get out of here! To my joy, I could count the raindrops landing on my upturned palm. A cheery word to Ann, a flick of the ignition key, a trounce on the accelerator, and … Nothing.