The Widow's Club (23 page)

His footsteps died away; the house settled into silence. Throwing off the blankets, I lurched over to the window, closed it, and pulled the curtains tight. Had Ben locked the garden door? I had been nagging at him about that lately. Was that pounding coming from inside my head or downstairs? I got back in bed and pulled the covers up to my poor nose. A fire would have been cosy. Nine o’clock said the bedside clock; time for Roxie to arrive and always time for Tobias to be on the scavenge.

At the end of our month’s trial period, Roxie had summoned me to the kitchen for her decision. Would she say the working conditions at Merlin’s Court weren’t up to snuff? After pouring us each a glass of gin from the supplies bag (wonderful stuff for buffing chrome and giving glass a sparkle), she had made her portentous pronouncement. The gossips could stop cackling and start laying eggs. She had observed Mr. H. was a decent gentlemen, as men went, except when one of his cooking experiments failed.

The buzzing in my ears became the revving of the Hoover outside my bedroom. The door pushed open and Roxie poked in her black and white head, bellowing over the motor.

“Hangover, Mrs. H.?”

Easing up on my elbows, I fetched forth a wan smile. “I gob a bit ob a colb.”

“So’ve I, but some of us have to stay on our feet. Anything I can get you? A scudsy book? Guinness and milk?”

“I dob’t—” Throwing a tissue over my face, I surrendered to a sneeze that rocked the bed.

“Don’t do to just lie down and die, you know. I had me appendix out, and I—” An explosion of annoyance. Her red butterfly mouth stretched into a shout and her brows rose into inverted commas above the very violet lids. “There goes the Hoover! Making off down the landing like a bleeding robot! Best catch it before it makes a break for the stairs.” Her muffled voice came back to me. “On the subject of stairs, Mrs. H., three times I have sprained me wrist polishing that loose bannister and I don’t have to tell you it’s against union regulations for me to work under such conditions.”

To my knowledge the only union of which Roxie was a member was the Mother’s Union. She had a few words
to say on the subject of its sister organisation when she returned at 11:00
A.M
. to plump up my pillows and spill water between my parched lips.

“Her Graciousness, Mrs. Amelia Bottomly, rang. Wants to fix a date for Mr. H. to do the cookery lesson for The Hearthside Guild.”

“I dob’t knowb when Ben could do it.”

“Don’t worry your woolly head. I swung me pencil over the calendar by the phone, and when it stopped moving, I marked the spot. Third Saturday in May. Twelve noon in the church hall. A word from the wise, Mrs. H. When you’ve been married as often as me, you’ll know we don’t ask men if they can spare the time. We tell ’em. Put on your trousers. Be there.”

That was all very well! My darling could be run off his feet, whipping up eggs here, pounding pastry there. The date in question was only three weeks away and Abigail’s premiere a week today; our calendar would begin to look used. It had begun to dawn on me recently that Ben and I had not become swept up in the social whirl as a couple. We were either together at home or he was out with Freddy.

“How about something to read?” Roxie reached into the pocket of her plum synthetic dress with the sequined neckline and brought out a paperback book. “Hoped I’d get to put me feet up and have a little wallow with me elevenses. But, no rest for the wicked.” From the reek of Eau de Lily of the Valley on Roxie’s breath I suspected she had already had elevenses. “Nothing like a corpse, I always say, to lift the spirits.”

“Ib’s a thriller, then?” A sneeze prevented my taking the book.

“I wouldn’t be talking about the corpse de bally, would I?” Roxie plopped down on the bed, making my lungs rattle, and lit up a fag. “I won’t spoil it for you, Mrs. H., but there’s this Victorian kitchen maid named Ethel who chops up the young master of the house on account of him making advances and turns him into chutney. Pots and pots of him. You’d think the old Earl and his Mrs. would be worried about sonny-boy, wouldn’t you? Not on your life—they think he’s gone foxhunting or wenching—and been delayed, but they’re delighted with Ethel, what with her working overtime.” Roxie dropped ash on the carpet and rubbed it in with her foot.

“What utter rubbish!” Contemptuously, I blew my nose.

“I didn’t say it was Shakespeare, Mrs. H.” Mrs. Malloy ruffled up like a chicken. “But who reads Shakespeare unless they’re made to? Don’t see chaps strap-hanging with their eyes glued to his stuff on the train, do you?” Roxie stomped across the room, tossed the cigarette in the grate, flung open the maroon velvet curtains, did a half turn, then with deliberation pulled wide her apron pocket to plop in the book.

“Thought you might be interested because it’s written by Mary Birdsong—otherwise known as Edwin Digby—your neighbor and a person with which I do have a nodding acquaintance through seeing him”—she heaved a breath—“at The Dark Horse of an evening.”

I took the book. One does have a moral obligation to support local talent.

Roxie was right.
In a Devil of a Pickle
was not Shakespeare. It was literary lunacy, but (quite against my better literary judgment) I became so absorbed in discovering whether Bingham, the butler, would discover the secret exit from the subterranean stillroom into the smuggler’s tunnel before Villainess Ethel returned with the silver platter for his head, that I had to keep shoving my nose out of the way in order to race to the next page until a knock at the bedroom door heralded Dr. Melrose, little black bag in hand.

“Hello, Ellie.” His was the tentative smile of the door-to-door salesman. Social or professional visit, I wasn’t pleased. No time to change from my flannel nightgown into something with rosebuds.

When ill at ease, attack. “Hello, doctor. I must be sicker than I realised—I don’t remember sending for you.”

“Your husband”—the doctor fussed around in the bag—“felt I should check you over. Ah, yes, here comes Mrs. Malloy. Would you like her to remain?”

I wasn’t going to like
anything
about this. Ben had no right to foist medical attention on me. All I had was a colb.

“Could be worse, Mrs. H.” Roxie shuffled the mop around the bed. “Master could have sent for Dr. Bordeaux.”

“Open wide. Say, ‘Ah’!”

I hate surprises unless they have bows on them.

“Take a deep breath, please.”

The last straw would be if I lost my voice before Ben got home.

Refolding his stethoscope, Dr. Melrose stood flapping it around in his hands.

Roxie said with great relish, “Give it to us straight, Doc. Will this prove fatal? Because if so, I’ll think about finding meself another job.”

Dr. Melrose shook his head and paced. “No need for alarm, I assure you.”

Roxie struggled to conceal her disappointment.

“Ellie, I’ll prescribe something for the cold, but more important, I want you on a strict diet.”

His words came pretty close to proving fatal for him as well as me. Was nothing I had done in the service of starvation enough?

“You are to eat three well-balanced, man-sized meals a day, take two milky drinks and …”

That buzzing in my ears wasn’t just the colb, it was the giddiness of relief and shock. I liked Dr. Melrose (as much as I could like any man who knew as much as he about my inner workings), but I had never suspected he had a grain of humour. Something else struck me about him; he had grown a little pudgy. And had probably ‘doctored’ the numbers on his Ideal Weight Chart accordingly.

Now if he would only get out of here so I could get back to Chapter 7 of
In a Devil of a Pickle
. Was it possible that Villainess Ethel had an accomplice in that nice Mr. Snodgrass who did the exquisite petit point?

When Roxie put in a final appearance at five o’clock, I was on the brink of discovering who was going to be bottled next.

“Lovely little story, isn’t it? Keep it overnight, Mrs. H.” Roxie was magnificent as well as magnanimous in a fuchsia satin toque. Her fur coat bore signs of having been washed in hot water instead of cold.

“By the by, Mrs. H., Her Graciousness Bottomly phoned back. Seems the ladies of the Historical Society want to tour here next Thursday afternoon if convenient. I said it was, seeing Thursday is not one of my days. And now, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be pushing off. Friday’s bingo night for me. Wouldn’t miss it for the world nor would Hairdresser Sid. Him and me always sit together
and have a chum. People can say what they like, but the worst I have to say against him is that he’s teetotal.” She moved to the bed and gave the covers a twitch. “Locked and barred all the doors and windows, I have, Mrs. H. Put me into overtime, it did. But I’m sure you won’t mind the extra under the circumstances.”

I struggled to sit up. “What circumstances?”

Roxie sank down on the bed and tapped a slow dum-de-dum-dum on the footrail. “Now, understand, Mrs. H., I wouldn’t frighten you, not for the world, but a couple of times when proceeding home from here, I have seen this nasty customer loitering near the gates.”

My fingers gripped the sheet. “What sort of nasty customer?”

Roxie looked impatient. “The usual, like in the films or on the telly. Raincoat with the collar turned up, hat with the brim pulled down, scarf at the neck, chewed-up fag in the mouth.”

“A mouthful of dingy teeth?” The stifled feeling was not due to my cold.

“You’ve got it.”

“Eyes like jagged slits?” I had just read that description in Chapter 8.

“Hard enough to cut glass.”

Roxie heaved a sigh, which chilled me right through my flannel nightgown, and stood up. “But you’ve not a thing to worry about, Mrs. H., all’s locked up like a safe. Don’t want to wake up and find the house stripped down to its vest and pants, do we?”

Time to face facts, Ellie. The Raincoat Man is not a figment of your imagination. Make what you will of the fact—he first put in an appearance when your mother-in-law disappeared.

I shrank back against the pillow, picking at Edwin Digby’s book. The desire to read had vanished. The Raincoat Man had to be a detective of some kind. Watching to see if Ben or I made contact with Mrs. Haskell. Perhaps the nosy neighbors of Crown Street had hired him. I was certain now it was he, not Jonas, I had seen in our drawing room in the middle of the night. I cast a fearful glance toward the window. Ben’s claustrophobia provided an open invitation. My mind was writing its own peep-show horror.
Mr. Elijah Haskell swam in and out of focus in the starring role of villain. What if he wanted to marry Mrs. Jarrod before either got too ancient? His wife’s Catholic beliefs forbade divorce. My mind twisted down another dark alley—the Raincoat Man metamorphosed from sleazy detective to sleazy hatchet man. No, that didn’t make sense; if he had done the foul deed and murdered Ben’s mother in return for a lifetime of free vegetables, he wouldn’t be hanging around for close on five months, sizing up the reaction of the family.

My nose tingled. I was about to be overtaken by a gigantic sneeze. My hand flapped feebly at the tissue box. There was a positive side to all this—during the past weeks I had stopped picturing my mother-in-law with prayer sores on her knees. Indeed, she had acquired a cherished place in my heart. This was the woman who had brought Ben into the world. So she hadn’t jumped for joy when he married me! Who could blame her! It wasn’t anybody’s fault that Ben had found that girl Angelica Evangeline from Crown Street somewhat sexually repellent.

Speaking of things repellent, my bedroom door handle was turning—slowly. A sneeze stalled. In anguished immobility, I watched another quarter revolution.

“Whob there?”

A muffled, almost animal grunt; a metallic click, like a safe being cracked.

“I hab a gun amb a red-hot poker.”

The door opened an inch. My lungs squeezed shut and my mouth opened in a soundless scream. Then luckily I came to my senses. The trick in this sort of situation is to stay calm. My options were numerous. I could play dead. I could make a break for the window and dangle from all that lovely ivy outside … No, no! First place the intruder would look. Ditto under the bed. But if I could wedge myself between the mattress and box spring … Too late, too late! I was floundering off-side when the door opened wide. A man with a blackened sack hoisted on his shoulder staggered drunkenly toward the bed. A handkerchief mask flattened his features. I opened my mouth to scream.

“For God’s sake, Ellie!” The sack tumbled onto the hearth and Ben ripped off the mask. His next words were lovely and concerned. “My poor darling—you look even worse than this morning.”

Actually I felt pretty good. Mary Birdsong was the real culprit. I had let my imagination run away with me. Propped up on one elbow, I pointed to the sack. “Have you come selling turnips?”

I couldn’t tell whether he was amused. His black head was bent, and he was rubbing a finger. “Coal, actually. I thought you might enjoy the cheer of a fire. My difficulty with the door was that I didn’t want to set the sack down and get coal dust on the carpet and I have never been very adept with my elbows.”

“What’s wrong with your finger?”

He stopped bending it and held it up to the light. “Tobias scratched me just now when I told him he still couldn’t come in here.”

“Poor pet.”

“I’ll live.”

I had meant Tobias. But I did so love the way Ben’s eyes darkened when he was being noble. Even more wonderful was that he showed no signs of being repulsed by my bloated visage. True, only the reading lamp was lit, but I was so gratified I decided not to utter a word of complaint about his sending for Dr. Melrose.

Such a loving evening. Firelight bathed the walls with a roseate glow and set red-gold angels to dance upon the ceiling. Dinner on a tray and Ben didn’t expect me to eat a lot. Beatles records on the stereo. The two of us talking, laughing. I didn’t miss my friends in America. I even loved Freddy. I hoped Jill would give him a reprieve and swoop him off to a guru who did weddings, but not immediately—Ben was anticipating between four and five hundred people at Abigail’s premiere.