No Cure for Death Read online

  No Cure for Death

  HAZEL HOLT

  For

  Dr Jan Fergus and Fr Gabriel Myers OSB, dear friends and fellow CMY enthusiasts.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  By Hazel Holt

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “I must say I do feel a fool,” I said to Rosemary when she came round to sympathise. “It was such a stupid thing to do.”

  “What happened?” Rosemary asked.

  “I suppose there was some water on the floor – I’d been draining the potatoes – and I was wearing an old pair of slippers and the soles are a bit shiny, so I simply skidded across the kitchen floor and crashed into the worktop and banged my wrist really hard.”

  “How awful. It must have been very painful.”

  “It was, dreadful. I thought I’d just bruised it and put some arnica on but it was still pretty miserable the next morning. Anyway, Michael came round to bring me some early peas from their garden and, being a dutiful son, insisted on taking me to casualty to have it X-rayed. They said it was fractured and put this horrible plaster on.”

  “Oh poor you, how wretched.”

  “It’s not as bad as it might be. They left my fingers free so I can pick things up, but I can’t move anything heavy.”

  I moved over to put the kettle on but Rosemary forestalled me.

  “No, let me.” She plugged it in and took out the cups and things. “How are you managing?”

  “Not too bad. Michael and Thea wanted me to go and stay with them until the plaster’s off, but I said no. I can cope, more or less, and it would be difficult with the animals. Which reminds me, can you open a couple of tins of food for them. I forgot to ask Thea when she was here – she comes in every day, bless her – and I do find those ring-pull cans awkward.”

  “Of course. How long have you got to keep the plaster on?”

  “I’ve got to go back in a fortnight and they’ll see how it’s going. Thank heavens it’s my left wrist – I’m dreadfully right-handed and I couldn’t have coped if that one had gone.”

  “Well, for goodness sake let me know if I can do anything. What about shopping?”

  “I can drive short distances so I can get to the shops.”

  “What about taking Tris for walks? I can easily take him when I take Alpha – they get on perfectly well together.”

  “It’s sweet of you to offer, but he’s getting on a bit and doesn’t need a lot of exercise so he’s all right running about in the garden while the weather’s fine.”

  “Well, just say, won’t you.”

  “It’s Foss who’s the trouble. He refuses to believe that I could have anything wrong with me that might interfere with his comfort!”

  As if on cue, there was a thump as of a cat jumping off a bed, the sound of a little light claw sharpening on the stair carpet and Foss strolled into the kitchen demanding food.

  “You see!” I said.

  Rosemary smiled and opened a tin of cat food, spooned some out into a dish and put it down for Foss who cleared the dish rapidly and looked up for more.

  “He’s pretending to be starving because you’re here,” I said. “Normally he only picks at that particular cat food.”

  “Shall I pour the tea?” Rosemary asked.

  “Oh yes please. And there are some biscuits in that blue tin.”

  Foss, seeing that he had lost our attention, moved off into the sitting room.

  “So,” Rosemary said. “What exactly have you broken, did they say?”

  “Oh it’s not bad – a hairline fracture of the radius apparently.”

  “Oh yes – the ulna and the radius, I remember them from biology!”

  “How clever of you. I don’t remember anything from biology. I was terrified of Miss Udall; she was so sarcastic. I always sat at the back and tried to keep my head down and out of her sight! Thank goodness I only had to do it for one year – I simply couldn’t have got to the stage where you had to cut up frogs.”

  “Mmm, she was formidable wasn’t she? Mind you, the science people said she was an absolutely brilliant teacher.”

  “Possibly, but details of the ulna and radius have passed me by. I was only glad to know it wasn’t serious. Which reminds me. I saw poor Alan Johnson when I was at the hospital. He was just going in to have some more tests – his heart’s playing up again. He looked awful, so I really don’t think I should complain about a hairline fracture, however inconvenient.”

  “Anyway,” Rosemary said, “let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  It’s funny the sort of things you can’t do with only one useable hand, things you’ve always taken for granted. I couldn’t get into certain garments (trousers and tights were a problem so I was glad the weather was warm), I found I was using the microwave quite a bit since preparing food was difficult and I found it very tiresome to have to remember to put a plastic bag over my hand and wrist when I was washing or washing up. And all the things everyone has always said about the misery of itching under the plaster (scratching with a knitting needle was absolutely useless) were only too true. But I managed, and really got quite good at coping with a one-handed life. Still, it was with considerable relief that I went back to casualty when the fortnight was up.

  I’m a member of the Hospital Friends Committee and know most of the staff at the hospital, so Sandra Bradshaw, the sister on duty, greeted me with the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance.

  “Well Sheila, what have you been up to? That plaster looks a bit the worse for wear!”

  “I know,” I said guiltily. “I knocked over a tin of soup and it went everywhere. I did try to clean this wretched thing, but I only made it worse!”

  “Tomato?”

  “Carrot and coriander.”

  “Very colourful anyway. Right then.” She produced a pair of shears and I shut my eyes while she cut the plaster away.

  “Goodness, that’s better,” I said. “Just to feel the air on my arm again!”

  “Don’t get too excited, we’ve got to see how it’s mending. I’ll send you into X-ray and then Mr Wheeler can see how it’s getting on.”

  While I was waiting my turn in the X-ray department I thought how lucky were are to have such a good hospital in Taviscombe. It’s a Cottage Hospital, which means that our local GPs take it in turns to be the doctors on duty, but we also have clinics on certain days taken by specialists from the main Taunton hospital. Best of both worlds really. An old fashioned way to run a hospital – perhaps that’s why it works so well. And because most of us, staff and patients, have lived in Taviscombe all our lives, there’s a sort of family atmosphere that you don’t get in big city hospitals.

  Someone came and sat down beside me. It was Susan Campbell, Alan Johnson’s sister.

  “Hello,” I said, “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, my knee’s been giving me a lot of trouble so they’re going to see if there’s anything wrong or if it’s just arthritis.”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought I hadn’t seen you about for a while.”
<
br />   “Well, it wasn’t just that. Alan’s been quite ill and I haven’t been able to get about much anyway. He’s still pretty bad. Fiona’s with him today while I’m out – I don’t like to leave him alone.”

  Fiona is Susan’s daughter.

  “He’s very lucky to have you both living with him, I can’t imagine how he’d cope otherwise.”

  “That’s really why we came back from Montreal when Mary died,” Susan said. “I didn’t like to think of him trying to cope all alone.”

  “I think it was very noble of you to give up your life there.”

  “Oh it wasn’t a big deal. I had thought of coming back when Jim, my husband, died, but Fiona was still a teenager and I didn’t want to upset her schooling, so we just stayed. But I’ve always wanted to come back to Taviscombe.”

  “Well, give Alan my kind regards,” I said as I got up to take my turn.

  I was sitting on yet another bench, clutching the envelope containing my X-ray when Dr Macdonald, my own GP, came by. He greeted me absently and I thought he looked unusually upset and worried. He went into the office next to where I was sitting and was joined soon after by Dr Howard, one of the members of Taviscombe’s other group practice. There was a low murmur of conversation, but then I heard Alec Macdonald’s voice rising and saying, “It’s quite impossible! I’ve spoken to him about it very strongly and told him that it’s absolutely the last thing the practice needs just now.” His voice dropped again and, as I was straining to hear more, Sandra came and called me in to see Mr Wheeler.

  He was tall and thin, with his hair, surprisingly, fashionably spiky and en brosse. Like all figures in authority (not just policemen) he seemed, to my elderly eye, very young. However, he dealt most competently with my wrist.

  “It will take a little while to mend completely,” he said. “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but your age is against you, I’m afraid. Still, you should regain the full use of it. You must just be patient.”

  “I haven’t got to have another horrible plaster on it, have I?”

  He smiled. “No, I think we can get away with just strapping it up, but you must promise to rest it and keep it in the sling as much as possible.”

  “Oh yes,” I said fervently. “I promise.”

  Sandra gave me another appointment for three weeks’ time and I was on my way out when I saw Alec Macdonald again, on his way to visit the general ward. He was going up the stairs slowly as if it was difficult for him to make any sort of effort, most unlike his usual brisk and lively progress, and I wondered what it was that had upset him so much. Outside, on a lovely early summer day, rejoicing in my freedom from the itchy plaster cast, I ran into Rosemary who insisted that we should go to the Buttery for coffee (“and a nice sugary bun”) to celebrate.

  “Well, you look better than when I saw you last,” she said when we were settled in a quiet corner. “I see you’ve got the plaster off.”

  “Such a relief. Not that I can do much more because it’s all strapped up and Sandra – you remember Sandra Bradshaw, Molly’s daughter, she’s a Sister there now – made me promise faithfully not to use it much. Still, the bliss of no itching!”

  “Well do be careful, you don’t want to set yourself back. What’s this Wheeler person like? Roger came across him in some case or other and said he was very competent.”

  Roger is Rosemary’s son-in-law and a Chief Inspector in CID.

  “He’s certainly that. Nice, I thought, though he looks a bit trendy – hair spiked up a bit with gel, which looked odd with a suit.”

  “Good heavens, what is the medical profession coming to!”

  “I saw Alec Macdonald while I was waiting. Now he really looked his age, he was obviously upset about something and seemed as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

  “Well he is the senior partner of that practice and that must be pretty stressful. Besides, he’s getting on a bit – I should think he’ll be retiring soon.”

  “Oh dear, I hope not. He’s been our doctor for ages. I’d hate to have to get used to someone else.”

  “Jilly says that Joanna Stevenson is very nice.”

  “I suppose there’s a lot to be said for a female doctor, at least they have some idea of what one is going through.”

  “Though I gather she seemed a bit upset last week when Jilly took Delia in about that poisoned finger she has. Anyhow, Jilly said that although Dr Stevenson was perfectly good with Delia – she’s finally put her on an antibiotic – she was very distrait and not her usual self. I wonder what’s going on there.”

  “Oh well, if there’s any sort of scandal it’ll turn up on the front page of the Free Press.”

  “Which reminds me,” Rosemary said, “did you see that article last week about the new traffic system in the town at the bottom of West Street? It’s really dreadful.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “There’s going to be a bad accident there. Just painting white lines in the road like that – nobody knows who has right of way and as for the poor pedestrians! I nearly got mown down the other day by a car turning left without indicating.”

  “It’s bad enough for the locals who know it’s a death trap, but all the visitors just drive blithely on not knowing what they’re supposed to do. And it’ll get worse as the season goes on.”

  Taviscombe was beginning to fill up with summer visitors. The amusement arcades on the sea front opened up, boards advertising “All-day breakfasts” and “Cream teas” appeared outside the cafes, and racks of cheap clothing from the shops in the Avenue obstructed the pavements. There were fewer places to park the car along the sea front and, because of the summer Council regulations, I could no longer walk Tris on the beach. Like most residents, I regard the summer invasion with dismay, irritable at the crowded pavements, the longer queues at the supermarket checkouts, the general feeling that the town had been taken over by strangers, but, then, I feel mean at wanting to deny everyone those delights of our coast and hills that we residents so often take for granted.

  This day, however, the crossness predominated when I went into Woolworth’s to get some shoe polish and found the place full of dawdling holiday-makers and over-excited children (who should, surely, have been in school) blocking the aisles when I was in a hurry. I’d come to a halt in the garden section when a voice behind me said:

  “I don’t know why it is, but it seems to me that the holiday season starts earlier every year.” I turned and found Alec Macdonald standing behind me, awkwardly burdened by a brightly packaged flowering cherry tree. “How are you, Sheila?” he went on. “I saw you in casualty – sorry I didn’t have time to say hello properly.” He indicated the sling that I was dutifully wearing. “What’s all this?”

  I told him about my fractured wrist and said I’d just been in to have the plaster off and to see Mr Wheeler.

  “Oh Wheeler’s a good man, he’ll see you all right.”

  “He seemed very nice. I’ve got to see him again in three weeks’ time.”

  “Splendid. You’ll be fine.”

  He nodded benevolently and made his way through the throng towards the door. He seemed to be his normal cheerful self again so presumably whatever had been upsetting him had been resolved. As Rosemary had said, being the head of a large practice was a stressful business. I found my shoe polish and on my way out I passed the videos and couldn’t resist browsing through the children’s section to see if there was something suitable to take with me when I went to have supper with Michael and Thea.

  “I don’t think she’s got this Teletubbies one, has she?” I asked when I arrived.

  “Alice,” Thea called, “come and see what Gran has brought you.”

  A small sturdy figure came hurtling into the room and hugged me round the knees.

  “Alice, careful!” Thea admonished. “Mind poor Gran’s wrist.”

  “She’s fine,” I said embracing my granddaughter with one arm, “aren’t you my love?”

  “Present!” Alic
e said, going straight to the point as small children do.

  The video was a success, though the grown-ups felt that seeing it through twice was quite enough. Alice reluctantly went up for her bath on the understanding that I would come and read to her (“How did the cow jump over the moon, Gran?” “What’s a cockle shell?”), so that by the time we all sat down to supper I was quite tired.

  “So how did you get on at the hospital?” Thea asked as she spooned out a generous helping of fish pie. “I thought I’d do something soft that you could eat one-handed.”

  “Mm, it’s lovely,” I said, “the smoked haddock makes all the difference. It was wonderful to get the plaster off. The strapping’s a bit uncomfortable but at least it doesn’t itch!”

  “Well, you be careful,” Michael said severely. “Don’t go mad.”

  “As if I would.”

  “I know for a fact,” he continued, “that you’ve got all those plug plants that need potting on. Now promise me that you’ll leave them till the weekend and I’ll come round and do them for you.”

  “There’s no need, really. I can do them a few at a time…”

  “No!”

  “Well, if you’re sure. You both have such busy lives and I really must do what I can.”

  “I tell you what you can do,” Thea said. “You can come with me to the open morning at Alice’s nursery school. It’s on Friday.”

  “Oh yes, I’d love to. Goodness, though, isn’t it terrifying how time flies. Nursery school already – it’ll be proper school next.”

  “Then university,” Michael said “then a job, then marriage. Should I start saving up for the wedding now? I believe it costs a fortune.”

  I laughed. “All right, I know I’m being silly, but time does whiz by. Rosemary was only saying this morning that Dr Macdonald’s going to retire soon.”

  “Well he must be getting on,” Michael said.

  “I suppose he must,” I said sadly, “but I still think of him as the young man who took over the practice from old Dr Milner. Oh well, we’re all getting old.”