At Death's Door

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

U
PSTAIRS IN THE LARGE
front bedroom that looked out to the sea the old man's voice droned feebly on, coming and going like waves against the shore.

“To Lydia Thursto, a good and trusted friend, I bequeath . . . I bequeath the silver George the Second teapot on the mantelpiece in the library. To my cousin Nicholas Quantick I leave my Sheraton dining table and chairs. I bequeath my yacht . . . I bequeath my yacht . . .”

The voice faded away into silence. The dim eyes in the wrinkled, sunken face stared ahead. Minutes passed. A quarter of an hour. A dribble of saliva came from the corner of the old man's mouth and coursed down his chin. Eventually, the forehead wrinkled, as if pale shadows of thought were going around in his mind. At last there was some movement under the bedclothes, and slowly a hand emerged from under the sheets—a hand so little fleshed as to resemble a talon. Wavering, it felt its way to the little bedside table and pressed down the switch on the portable tape recorder that always sat there. The voice resumed, with a slight access of strength and determination.

“I bequeath my yacht and all its contents to my good friend Willy Harrison in the firm belief that he will have more fun with it than either of my children. . . . I leave my Sheraton dining table and chairs to . . . to . . . to my dear sister . . .”

Eventually, the voice faded into silence again. On the bedside table the machine whirred on.

• • •

“He's making his will again,” said Caroline as she brought in the soup and hot rolls on a tray.

“Good,” said Roderick. “At least it shows there's some activity there. I suppose he's disinheriting us again?”

“He doesn't disinherit us. It's just that he barely remembers we exist. It's all those friends from way back, long-lost cousins. . . . I agree; it's the days when he's entirely passive that are difficult to bear.”

Roderick, his own face creased by tiredness, looked at her with love.

“The burden falls hardest on you,” he said.

“Oh, nonsense. I have Mrs. Spriggs four mornings a week. She does most of the heavy work—and a lot of the nasty work. The royalties from the books at least give us that boon.” She thought for a moment. “Which is not to say I won't be glad when he finally goes. For his sake. This half-life that he lives, this twilight existence, is pretty horrible to contemplate after the sort of life he led.”

“Absolutely,” Roderick agreed. “I shan't even be sorry to leave this house and find something smaller . . . though I know Becky will be upset to leave.”

“If we find a pleasant cottage with a manageable garden she can roam about in, she'll soon adapt,” said Caroline briskly. She often adopted this tone when talking of her daughter. It served to keep the pain at bay. “Did you write that letter to the
Guardian
about teaching the mentally handicapped?”

“Yes. At great length. I don't know where I get this verbosity from. Father's books were always brilliantly concise. Anyway, I painfully cut it down. I'll give it to Tom if he comes with any afternoon post. Otherwise, I'll take it down to the village myself.”

Caroline piled up the soup plates and went to fetch the cheese. They ate lightly at lunchtime. When Roderick was at school, he sometimes didn't find time for anything at all. A school for handicapped children, however generously staffed, presented a constant stream of problems, and situations demanding decisions. It had aged him, Caroline knew, as he would not have aged if he had stayed at Stowe. On the other hand, he was happy.

“Tom's on his way,” Caroline called from the kitchen. “He'll be here in a couple of minutes.”

Roderick handed over his letter—Tom was a favorite of Becky's and always very obliging. When he came back into the dining room, he was holding another.

“Who do we know lives in Pelstock, in Essex? Writes an enthusiastic but unformed hand, probably female?”

“One of your father's fans,” said Caroline promptly. “Wanting his autograph, or conceivably advice on her love life. Send her the form reply.”

“No, it's to me,” said Roderick, cutting himself some Camembert. “The ones that don't know always write to him, usually care of the publishers.” He slit open the letter. “Good Lord!” From the first line it had his attention, and he read on avidly, his cheese disregarded. “Good Lord!”

“Roderick, you don't know how aggravating it is to have someone reading a letter and saying ‘Good Lord!' over and over. At least tell me who it's from.”

“What? Oh, yes—it's from Cordelia Mason. My—what is it?—half sister. Dad's by-blow.”

“That's an awful expression to use of an illegitimate child,” Caroline said reprovingly. “Think how het up you get if someone uses words like ‘idiot' for retarded children.”

“Dad's final fling,” amended Roderick, hardly pausing in his reading.

“Well, come on. What does she want? Why is she getting in contact now?”

“She's writing a book on her mother. She wants to come here.”

He handed the letter over. Caroline took it, frowning.

“Can't we just explain the situation? Tell her there's no question of her getting anything out of him?”

“She knows that. She wants to talk to us. To read any of her mother's letters we may have.”

“We have letters. I never met Myra, so I wouldn't have anything to tell her.”

“I did,” said Roderick reflectively. “Oh, yes, I met Myra.” As Caroline began reading the letter he said, still musingly: “You can say what you like about Dad's sexual appetites, but Myra was no ingenue, seduced and then heartlessly abandoned.”

“I didn't say she was,” said Caroline, who was glancing at the last page of the letter. “Why ‘Cordelia,' I wonder? The only time we saw Myra she was playing Goneril. Much more her line, I would have thought.”

“Still, perhaps she cast Father as Lear, and in some obscure way you can see her point. The patriarchal figure, quixotic and demanding.” When Caroline had finished, Roderick asked: “What shall we say?”

Caroline shrugged.

“Well, she says she won't ‘trespass on our hospitality,' so there won't be any burden on us. We can take her upstairs and introduce her. He won't know who she is, of course. She can read the letters, we can find a room for her to work in. Becky likes new faces, so she won't be any
problem. . . . Unless of course she's one of those intense young people with a grievance about her birth, or something. Illegitimacy was regarded rather differently in . . .
when
was it?”

“About 1960. I was down from Oxford, I remember, and was about to start teaching at Stowe. It was a year or two before I met you. I remember hoping when the publicity broke that you wouldn't be put off me.”

“Fat chance,” said Caroline, grinning.

“Actually, the sixties weren't
that
bad a time to grow up illegitimate. It was just becoming rather the thing. And I should think in theatrical circles it's never been a very dreadful stigma.”

“Anyway, that would make her now about twenty-seven,” said Caroline, looking back to the letter. “She writes a very childish hand for twenty-seven. Isn't there something odd about writing a biography of your mother while she's still alive?”

Roderick pursed his lips.

“I don't think so, these days. There would be a market for it. Myra is immensely popular, and a dame, and always in work. Does she actually say it is to be a biography? Maybe it will be one of those gushing jobs, strictly for the fans.”

“The letter itself sounds sensible enough. I can't see she wants to do a hatchet job on your father. I wouldn't want her to do that. She says she's going to ring. We can explain the situation to her then.”

“Can't be urgent,” said Roderick, taking up the letter. “She sent this second-class mail.”

In the event, though, she rang shortly after six that evening. Becky was just back from a visit to a friend and was making some noise in the living room. Roderick, hearing who it was, shut the door from the hall and returned to the phone.

“I wondered if you got my letter, Mr. Cotterel? . . .”

Roderick was immediately struck by the charm of the voice. Probably that was only to be expected in the child of his father by an actress. His father, in his early days, had had a beautiful voice and had sometimes read his own short stories on the wireless. Myra's voice was, quite simply, thrilling.

“Yes, I did. We should be delighted to see you. Of course, you understand the position with Father—”

“Yes, I do. I've heard about it enough from my mother. So please believe me when I say I wouldn't want to upset him in any way.”

“Frankly, he's beyond being upset by anything. We can take you into his room, tell him your name, and he'll smile—but he won't know who you are, and there's no way we could make him understand. It's you who are more likely to be upset.”

“Oh, no. He's played no part in my life, except as a writer, of course. That wouldn't be at all distressing to me. What really interests me is whether you have letters and things.”

“Yes, we do. Put away in a rather higgledy-piggledy fashion, and certainly not filed or archived in any way, but, yes, we do have quite a few. Eventually I suppose, when he dies, we'll hand them over to a biographer. There have been various academics sniffing around already.”

“You do have letters from my mother?”

“Yes. And I think there are quite a few about her. During the affair, and of course
after
.”

“The aftermath. Don't be embarrassed. Naturally I know all about that.”

“So you won't be shocked by anything he says—?”

The girl laughed. “No, I won't be shocked. There may even be some photographs, I suppose?”

“Certainly. I think I took some the only time I met them together. Your mother, I remember, was pregnant.”

“Great! The three of us together! Mr. Cotterel, I said I wouldn't be a burden to you, and I won't. I believe you have a handicapped child—”

“Yes. A daughter. Becky.”

“Well, I'm sure you and your wife have more than enough to do. But I wondered if the Old Rectory has a lawn. It sounds as though it ought to.”

“Yes, it does. The church commissioners sold off a lot of land when they put it on the market. There are hideous custom-built houses on it now. But that still left us a goodly stretch of garden, a lot of it lawn. It's very good for Becky to have a bit of open space.”

“You see, my boyfriend and I have this tent, and we wondered if we could pitch it on your lawn. It would be very convenient for me, working on the letters and things. And Pat could go off swimming or hiking. It's the way we usually travel, and it would only be for a few days.”

“I'm sure that would be all right,” said Roderick. “We're rather high up, and there are sometimes strong winds, but if you are experienced campers, that shouldn't faze you. Becky may come and disturb you; new faces always intrigue her.”