6 - Superfluous Death Page 4

  This evening Jack was fulminating against several of his fellow council members.

  ‘That old idiot Roberts,’ he said, crunching a handful of peanuts as violently as though they were the bones of his adversary. ‘You’ll never guess what damn-fool scheme he’s putting forward now.’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ I said.

  ‘He’s only suggesting that we let that man—whatsis-name—put his Godawful clock golf course at the end of the Promenade, on the cliff walk!’

  ‘But surely that land was left to the town as an open space,’ I protested, ‘by old Colonel Lumm.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Jack took a reviving pull at his whisky and went on. ‘That’s what I told them, but apparently there’s some way they can get round it. I don’t know what the law is coming to, if they can do a thing like that. What do you have to say about that young man?’ He turned to Michael.

  ‘It depends on the way the bequest was phrased, I’m afraid,’ Michael said in his best legal manner. ‘Apparently the land was left to the council to be used as they thought best for the benefit of the town. I suppose they could say that the rent they could get for it from this man would help the general finances.’

  ‘That’s the sort of rot they’ve been telling me,’ Jack said. ‘Bloody fools of lawyers! The poor old Colonel must be turning in his grave!’

  ‘It will be awful if they do take it away as an open space,’ I said. ‘It’s one of the few places left where a lone female can safely take her dog for a walk now we’re not allowed on the beach in the summer!’

  ‘Have they got planni Ney got png permission?’ Michael asked.

  ‘No, and they’re not going to,’ Jack said grimly. ‘I think I’ve got a majority on the planning committee to oppose it. Though they’re not very sound. Take that doctor fellow and his nursing home, for instance. We turned it down flat the first application he made, but then I suppose he must have got at some of the committee because he got it through the second time. Bloody nonsense. Too many nursing homes in the town, if you ask me, a lot of damned geriatrics everywhere!’

  ‘Do you mean Dr Cowley?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s the fellow. Can’t stand him myself, but all the old ladies seem to think he’s the cat’s whiskers.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid he’ll be badgering poor Miss Graham again now he’s got planning permission. I suppose that first refusal must have been the complication Mrs Wheatley mentioned, but now that’s cleared up he’ll want to go ahead.’

  ‘What’s all this about Miss Graham?’ Jack demanded. ‘Honestly, you and Rosemary are as bad as each other for going off at a tangent so I never know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Michael will explain,’ I said, ‘while I go and see to the food. Help yourself to another drink.’

  As I mashed butter into the potatoes I thought about what Jack had said and decided that I’d better go and see Miss Graham quite soon. With the planning permission settled I couldn’t believe that Dr Cowley would be content simply to wait until Miss Graham had a change of heart. She was a determined old soul once she’d made up her mind about anything, but she was old and she’d need all the support we could give her if she was to hold out against such a devious opponent.

  ‘No, my dear,’ Miss Graham said, when I called, ‘he hasn’t written again, but I did have a visit from Mrs Wheatley! You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw her standing there at the door, because we’ve never actually called on each other. Well, I invited her in, of course, and you’ll never believe this! She’d come to ask me if I was going to “take up Dr Cowley’s kind offer”, which was how she put it. Did you ever hear anything like it?’

  ‘What did you say?’ I enquired.

  ‘Well, I told her. I said this was my home and I had a perfectly good lease and I intenout and I ded to stay here.’

  ‘So what did she say to that?’

  Miss Graham gave a little snort of indignation. ‘Such nonsense! She went on about what a good offer it was and how it would be a nice little nest egg for me and that Dr Cowley had the lease of a very nice flat in Winterfield Road that I could have for the same rent. Winterfield Road! Can you imagine it, right by that car park, cars in and out all the time, and caravans and goodness knows what in the summer!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘It sounds horrid.’

  ‘How that Mrs Wheatley had the nerve to suggest such a thing! And I told her so. I asked her if she would like to live there! She got up and went after that, and good riddance. And what’s Dr Cowley offered her I should like to know.’

  I told Miss Graham what I had seen that day in the County Hotel. ‘So you see, it looks as if she’s going into the scheme with him.’

  ‘Well!’ she said. ‘It just goes to show! I suppose I should have known she was up to no good—high heels and nail varnish at her age! I suppose she thinks she’s going to trap him into marrying her if she puts money into that plan of his. And where does her money come from, I wonder?’

  I put my tea cup (a very pretty one, decorated with pink and gold roses) down on the little table beside me and leaned forward to put my point as forcibly as possible.

  ‘If they’re both in this it really is going to make life rather uncomfortable for you here. Don’t you think you should accept Dr Cowley’s offer? Not Winterfield Road, you’d hate it there. But if he’s really keen to get you out I daresay Michael could negotiate somewhere much nicer for you, as well as the money. What do you say?’

  Miss Graham shook her head. ‘No, my dear. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I’m not going to move from here, no matter what either of them does. This is my home and I won’t be bullied into giving it up.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, my mind is made up. Let that man do his worst!’

  ‘There really was something gallant about the poor old soul,’ I said to Michael when I was telling him about my visit. ‘J’y suis, j’y reste. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘I’m sure we could put pressure on Cowley to find her somewhere reasonable,’ Michael said. ‘He’ll be making a packet out of this scheme, so he could easily afford a really decent place.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s simply dug her heels in now,’ I said. ‘Old people can be very stubborn when they make up their minds to something.’

  ‘I don’t like to think of the poor old bat being hassled by Cowley and that Wheatley female,’ Michael said. ‘I do think we ought to try to make her see that it could be pretty uncomfortable for her. What about that nephew of hers? Couldn’t he persuade her to change her mind?’

  ‘I don’t think she wants to tell him about it,’ I replied. ‘She more or less said as much—something to do with his wife not wanting him to get involved with his aunt’s affairs—a sort of family coolth; you know how it is.’

  Still, when I was passing Ronnie’s shop the next day I did hesitate and wonder if I should go and have a word with him. But, as I looked in, he was crouched on the floor, surrounded by a quantity of rejected shoes, trying to fit a pair of tan leather brogues on Phyllis Brock, a really difficult woman (as I know from our battles on the Red Cross committee), and I felt that he had troubles enough of his own at that particular moment.

  Several weeks went by. Rosemary returned from Taunton full of excitement about her new grandson.

  ‘They’re calling him Alexander John,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that nice? Jack’s delighted, though they’ll call him Alex. Mother’s in a great huff because they didn’t name him Arthur after Father, but, I ask you, whoever’s called Arthur these days? The poor little mite would have a dreadful time at school with an old-fashioned name like that.’

  ‘Alex is splendid,’ I agreed. ‘An interesting name, solid and not too trendy. All those Jasons and Carlys—very unsuitable for old age. Though, come to that, think how peculiar to be called Robin when you’re in your eighties!’

  Rosemary poured another cup of coffee and pushed the plate of chocolate digestives vaguel
y in my direction.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘to take Mother’s mind off the Arthur situation, I asked her if she’d managed to get the low-down on the Wheatley woman yet, and guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It seems she isn’t Mrs Wheatley at all—she’s not married, just called herself that.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ I said. ‘Do tell!’

  ‘Well.’ Rosemary took a deep breath. ‘It seems that Freda Morrison’s sister Olive—you know, the one who married the doctor and went to live in Bristol—knows the Wheatley family. He used to own a chain of chemist shops there, but he sold out to one of the big multiples some time in the sixties and made absolutely pots of money. Anyway, he took up with this woman, Eileen Watson; apparently she managed one of his shops and he bought her the flat at Kimberley Lodge, so that he could visit her discreetly. He was a big noise on the committees of various charities by then, so he couldn’t live with her openly.’

  ‘How splendidly old fashioned!’ I exclaimed. ‘It sounds like something out of an Edwardian novel!’

  ‘Well, he was almost that generation; much older than her. Anyway, he died last year and left her quite a large sum of money. The family were furious, Freda said—well, you can imagine—but there was nothing they could do about it.’

  ‘Lots of money!’ In my excitement I took another chocolate digestive and bit into it. ‘No wonder Dr Cowley was smarming around her with offers of cruises and so forth.’

  ‘Trying,’ Rosemary said, ‘to persuade her to put it into that nursing home of his. I can just see him!’

  We sat and looked at each other for a moment, delighted at having put together this jigsaw of cause and effect, and then I said, ‘Well, haven’t I always said that wherever you come from, and whatever your past history, there’ll always be someone in Taviscombe who knows someone who knows all about it! Especially,’ I added with feeling, ‘your mother.’

  I told Miss Graham about Mrs Wheatley’s inheritance.

  ‘Fancy that!’ She sighed. ‘It must be nice to have money. Now if only I could have afforded to buy this flat it would all have been so different. But, of course, I had to look after Mother for all those years and then, when she passed on, I sold the house and used the money to buy the lease of that little wool shop in the Parade. It was something I’d always wanted to do; I like knitting——I was really quite an expert knitter, everyone used to say—and I did enjoy it, well, you remember how cosy it used to be, people dropping in for a chat and asking me about new patterns and things. But I’m afraid I didn’t really have a head for business. I never seemed to get the books to balance properly and there was no one to advise me, and, with a wool shop, you have to put wool away for people and then they don’t always come back for it and there it is, left on your hands when you need the cash to buy new stock ...’

  Her voice trailed away and we sat in silence for a moment. I remembered the particular atmosphere of Miss Graham’s wool shop, small and overstocked, a cheerful place, though, with the fixtures stuffed full of brightly coloured wools—soft lambswool, delicate mohair and angora, all crying out to be touched—tottering piles of pattern books, swinging racks of needles and crochet hooks, hand-knitted garments and toys hopefully displayed, and usually two or three women deep in conversation, filling up the tiny space so that it was almost impossible to get to the counter to make a purchase.

  I had heard the saga of its decline many times, how gradually the profits had got less and less, until they had finally dried up altogether and Miss Graham had been obliged to sell the remainder of the lease for quite a small sum, certainly not enough to buy any sort of flat.

  ‘Mother and I didn’t have a lot of money when Father died,’ she went on; ‘just his pension from the bank. And of course that died with Mother. Her family were farmers, over Wellington way, quite prosperous, but they didn’t really approve of Father, so we never had much to do with them. I think my brother John, Ronnie’s father, that is, he died just after the war if you remember, he used to see them sometimes, but I never did.’ She sighed again. ‘Oh well, that’s all water under the bridge now, I suppose. Let’s have a nice cup of tea to go with some of that lovely fruit cake you brought me.’

  I had a nagging tooth; well, it wasn’t really the tooth that was aching but a sort of abscess on the gum that came and went. I kept waking up in the night and taking an aspirin, but by the morning I knew I’d have to go to the dentist and have it seen to. Mr Flecker is very good about fitting you in if you’re in pain and his receptionist offered me an appointment that morning. Of course, as always, the moment I approached the surgery the pain eased off, but I knew from bitter experience that if I turned round and went away it would come back, worse than ever. I always get to places too soon, so I had quite a while to wait. I sat, leafing through the pages of The Lady and wondering if perhaps I might take on a new career as a resident companion (‘no nursing, no housework, own flat, use of car’)—so different from the as nt fromdays of the downtrodden poor relation or the Victorian governess. I was so occupied, wondering how Jane Eyre would have responded to her own TV and use of car, that I barely noticed another patient coming into the waiting room. However, when she leaned forward to pick up a magazine from the table I recognized the tawny hair and realized that it was Jennifer Drummond.

  ‘Hello!’ I said brightly. ‘How are you? Nothing horrid to be done, I hope?’

  She looked puzzled, obviously not recognizing me.

  ‘I’m Sheila Malory,’ I went on, ‘Michael’s mother. We met briefly in your office.’

  ‘Of course!’ She smiled. ‘How awful of me not to recognize you.’

  ‘Oh, I never recognize people if they suddenly appear in a place I don’t expect them. It took me ages to identify one of the girls in the library, who I sometimes see out walking her dog. You know the face, but ...’

  ‘It’s even worse with clients,’ she agreed. ‘They get very hurt if you pass them in the street, even if you’ve only seen them briefly, just the once!’

  We chatted for a while and I was pleased to see that my first impression had been right and she was a lively, intelligent girl.

  ‘Have you settled in all right?’ I asked.

  ‘I was lucky,’ she said. ‘I managed to get a nice flat overlooking Jubilee Gardens. It’s very pleasant there.’

  ‘And have you made any friends? Or did you know anyone in Taviscombe before you came?’

  ‘No, but people have been very kind; people in the office, I mean. And I’ve joined a few clubs, tennis and badminton and the natural history society—I like bird-watching—and I’ve met a few people that way.’

  ‘You must come and have supper with us one evening,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely! Thank you so much.’

  She sounded genuinely pleased and so, on an impulse, I said, ‘Can you manage this week some time?’

  We both fished out our diaries and arranged a date.

  As I sat in the dentist’s chair, tilted rather too far back for comfort, I began to wonder if I’d done the right thing, if Michael would think I was match-making and be annoyed, but then Mr Flecker’s voice broke in on my thoughts exhorting me to ‘have a rinse away’ and I concentrated on the matter in hand.

  Actually, Michael sounded quite pleased when I told him about the invitation.

  ‘Oh, good, she’s a jolly girl, nice and cheerful, never sulks or gets in a huff, not like some of them.’

  ‘Did you discover if there is a boyfriend?’ I asked. ‘You said you thought there might be.’

  ‘There are no obvious signs and she never seems to mind working late and isn’t always rushing off at lunchtime to go shopping or have her hair done.’

  I agreed that these were indications of a possible relationship.

  ‘She doesn’t share her flat with anyone?’

  ‘Well, the mortgage is in her name—I helped with the conveyancing—and she always says “I” and not “we” when she talks about
decorating and stuff like that. There now, does that satisfy your appalling curiosity?’

  Jenny came to supper and it was a great success. She and Michael seemed to develop a nice easy relationship and there were lots of little legal jokes and capping of stories about eccentric clients (‘he stole this pig and kept it in his garage’) and embarrassing situations in court (‘and I suddenly realized I’d left the further and better particulars in the taxi!’). I was really pleased to see Michael so cheerful again, because his latest girlfriend (a rather difficult girl called Helen whom I wasn’t, quite frankly, sorry to see the last of) had gone to New Zealand with her parents and he’d been rather moping around for the last few months.

  ‘It’s no earthly use planning anything for them, though,’ Rosemary said, when I told her how pleased I was and what a nice girl Jenny was. ‘When I think of all the trouble I went to over Jeremy Gardner, having him to supper, playing bridge with his boring parents, the lot! But Jilly wouldn’t look at him—that was when she was absolutely besotted with that dreadful Paul Empson—the Hell’s Angel, Jack used to call him, hair down to his waist, dressed in black leather and riding that fearful motor bike! Still, she found Roger in the end, so everything turned out for the best.’

  ‘I saw Paul Empson the other day,’ I said, ‘wheeling a baby in a pushchair. He was with Jean Armstrong’s daughter and his hair was quite short and he was wearing a blue anorak.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ Rosemary said obscurely. ‘It just goes to show!’

  Chapter Four

  Michael went off to spend two weeks in Italy with his friend Gerry and, after he got back, I visited my cousin Joan in Kirkby Lonsdale and then, quite suddenly, it was autumn. The summer visitors in their pink and purple shell-suits were replaced by more soberly clad pensioners on weekend bargain breaks and the queues at the supermarkets dwindled to bearable proportions. The children went back to school and it was possible once again to walk along the pavements of Taviscombe without being mown down by racing skate-boarders or small crash-helmeted figures on junior mountain bikes.