Mum's the Word (6 page)

When I finally did enter the standing-room-only convenience, my usual panic set in. We'd be landing before I figured out how to engage the lock in accordance with instructions in three languages—none of them English. Instant darkness when I pushed a button. Afraid to touch anything else, lest it hurtle us into a forced landing, I kept a restraining elbow on the door and succeeded in dropping my bag. Down on my knees, retrieving the bits and bobs, my panic elbowed off in new directions. Had I left home responsibly? The last few days had tumbled over one another. Had I stocked up on enough Ovaltine for Jonas? Had I reminded Dorcas enough times to give Tobias his vitamins? What if all my relations
did
materialize on the doorstep, empty suitcases in hand, ready for a raid? Dorcas is cursed with a kind heart. So too, is Mr. Jonas Scrooge, however hard he fights the demon. Yes, I had taken the precaution of hiding the few pieces of jewelry left to me by my mother under the loose floorboard in my bedroom, but Aunt Lulu has the nose of a search-and-seize police dog.

Squeezing back into my seat, I whispered in Ben's ear (so as not to alarm the oriental gentleman), “I've ordered our flight captain to turn back.”

He gave me a seasoned traveller's smile. “Ellie, you must rid yourself of the idea that we've abandoned Dorcas and Jonas to a fate worse than death. I don't believe in Chantal's psychic powers.”

“The Tramwells think the world of her.”

“They'd think the same if she were a vampire. So long as she served a decent cup of tea.”

“Darling, you're so right!” Suddenly I wasn't merely happy, I was bursting with the conviction that together Ben and I were invincible. No matter that I wasn't the woman of my mother-in-law's dreams, I was a consort fit for a Mangé!
Who better to know the fat content of an orange? Shifting in my confined seat, I wrapped my arms around my husband's neck and kissed that marvelous, seductive mouth of his. I breathed in his aftershave, felt his sensitive knowing hands moving to my shoulders …

“Blue skies are here again,” said the oriental gentleman.

“He means we are about to land,” Ben whispered.

Boston's airport provided an immediate sense of the proverbial vastness, the fabled brashness of the United States. The ebb and flow of humanity, galvanized by foghorn blasts of loudspeakers, banished any fleeting thoughts of curling up on the luggage merry-go-round for a siesta. The customs man was nice. He accepted my assurances that I did not have Swiss watches or antique jewelry stuffed in the toes of my shoes, and I invited him to come and stay next time he was in England.

There I was, seriously considering having a good time—until I saw our luggage closing in around our ankles like a pack of stray dogs. The small bags were the puppies.

“Want to give them to good homes?” I asked. But as far as Ben was concerned I might have been another blast of the loudspeaker. He was off in search of a cart, his progress closely observed by several stray females. A dire thought occurred. Could they be Mangés sent to welcome him with open arms?

“Absolutely not.” He strained to grow more arms to stack the cases. “We are to make our way to headquarters on our own. The organization doesn't want any tenderfoots.”

“Good thinking!” I certainly preferred not having Mangés underfoot while we enjoyed the few days sightseeing Ben had promised, indeed, insisted upon.

“Are you feeling all right?” Buttoning my rain-or-shine jacket I strung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Ben did look like a sickly Lord Byron, ebony curls dampened to his pallid brow.

He managed a tubercular laugh. “Just wondering, sweetheart, whether you've given me your morning sickness.”

So he had noticed that I was feeling better. Probably afraid to say anything in case it was a false alarm.

My face pressed against his tweedy shoulder, he said, “I'm fighting fit. Let's to the car rental place.”

His eyes roved the LuxaLease showroom for a full one-and-a-half seconds before lighting on a voluptuous convertible, all bosom and no rear end. The agent, with his clown's nose and yellow bow tie, put me in mind of a game show host surrounded by prizes. He assured us that our choice would cruise comfortably at one hundred miles per hour.

“Starts like a dream, sir! Get your foot within an inch of the gas pedal and she's gone—with or without you!”

“Like it, Ellie?” Ben fondled the bonnet.

“Love it. Black is so slimming.”

“You are slim, sweetheart.”

He should start wearing his glasses more often. I had gained three pounds in three days. Goodness knows where they had come from. Could some evil force be polluting the Chitterton Fells water supply with calories?

Ben was circling the car, eyeing it with the look that should have been reserved for me alone. “In your expert opinion, sir, is this the vehicle for the expectant mother? The right suspension, the right brake linings?”

“Darling,” I cringed, “can't we go native with buses and taxis? There's so much to see and do in the city, we may not have time to go far afield.”

I couldn't get him to look at me, let alone convince him the Mangés might consider his pioneer spirit was not being sufficiently tested.

But fifteen minutes later, when we were tooling down the wide open streets with the top down under a canopied blue sky, I experienced an exuberant urge to shake my hair loose from its knot and let the breeze take it. Whatever the meteorologists might say, that big orange sun was not the same one that rises daily in our English skies. For the first time in my life I felt properly aired out, and not the least tired—even though it was four P.M. here, which translated into nine P.M. at home.

“Happy?” Ben squeezed my hand.

“Blissful.”

“And we are not going to allow any small disappointments or twists of plan spoil the trip?”

Had the car agent slipped him some bad news about our hotel? Were the rooms opulently vulgar? Did a live orchestra play under each rotating bed? Or worse—considering our entourage of luggage—were the lifts out of commission?

Happily, my fears were in vain. The Mulberry Inn was everything I could have hoped. The plank floors in the reception hall shone the colour of maple syrup, the walls were fresh cream, and the doors patriot blue. A Mayflower matron, middle-parted hair, and a voice flavoured with a teaspoon of Irish, looked up reluctantly from her open book and greeted us from behind a handhewn desk, centered on the sort of rug that grandma would hook on long winter evenings. Made from strips of rag, some from Uncle Franklin's long johns.

Only minor disappointments. Instead of a jigger of rum, our hostess promised cheese and wine to be served in the Pewter Parlour between five and six P.M. And the book she had been glued to was not
Puritan Fashions for the Mature Figure
, but a modern tome with a black and red cover. It was the same nail-biter as had caused that woman to hole up in the plane loo.

She laughed defensively, and her plump hands covered the title as though it were a bare bosom and Ben and I church elders. “I never read this sort of thing.” An old world blush. “I'm not interested in film stars and the nonsense they get up to, but everyone's bleating about this book—the huge advance, the paperback deal, the movie rights. And the clientele we get in here expects a certain, ah, sophistication.”

A glance at the bill she nudged toward us indicated that the rates were certainly sophisticated. Ben was looking displeased, but wifely intuition told me he was regretting the difficulty of writing a cookery book shocking enough to attract any wild clamouring of public opinion. Perhaps his sequel to
The Edwardian Lady's Cookery Book
could be a little less restrained in its language and less sensitive in its treatment of such subjects as killing little lobsters.…

“Books of this sort”—he tapped the glossy black cover—“are very much like wine. I understand that in this country the only requirement for joining most country clubs these days is drinking white zinfandel.”

The Mayflower Missus agreed pleasantly that zin was in and tucked the book beneath her arm.

“Mr. and Mrs. Haskell, you have yourselves a grand stay.” Having presented our key, she escorted us past the long case clock to an elfin-sized arched doorway leading both to a sun lounge and a twisting witchy staircase. Best not to ask about a lift in case they were deemed papist inventions.

A soldierly septuagenarian, wearing a uniform dating back to the War of Independence, took charge of the two suitcases Ben had brought in from the car. Cheeks going like bellows, he chugged ahead to the third floor to deposit us in a clove-scented sprig muslin room. If ever people need parents, it's the elderly! No mother worth the name would allow him to work like this! I gave him a tip he could retire on. And he departed with that lovely blessing—“Have a nice day.”

Enraptured, I sank down on the brass bed. An electric kettle nestled against the forget-me-not blue dish of teabags on the coffee table under the narrow paned windows hung with angel wing curtains.

Side-stepping the luggage, Ben joined me on the bed and unwound my hair.

“Shouldn't we unpack?” I asked virtuously.

“Later!” He drew me down upon the cross-stitched quilt.

“Are you sure you're up to…. taking a nap?” I turned my lips to his, but held them tantalizingly at bay.

“What?”

The glints of sunlight gold in his eyes turned me weak and at the same time all-powerful. “You seemed a bit off colour back at the airport. Remember?”

“You're right.” He slid my jacket off my shoulders, twirled it on one finger and sent it into a free spinning arc, to land on the petticoat shade of the bedside lamp. “Time for some physical therapy.”

“Let's not overdo things,” I warned. “Must have you in tip-top shape for the Mangés.”

He was undoing the buttons of my blouse. “To hell with the Mangés.”

Instantly the room darkened. There came a rasping sound
as of the wind gathering for a storm. My eyes were closed and he was breathing hard.

Sometimes I had trouble believing I was the woman who had been wearing a marked down sticker when Ben took her off the shelf and dusted her off. He was so incredible! Everything about him impeccably groomed, down to his long lashes. At that moment I would have promised him anything short of agreeing to name the baby Esau. Turning my head on the pillow I hoped my hair would spill about my shoulders in the manner of the heroine of
Love's Last Lament
. But, true to form, the rubber band confining my torrid locks refused to snap. And my legs didn't writhe between satin sheets because the Mulberry Inn didn't go in for anything so vulgar. I had to make do with kicking off my shoes and rubbing a foot against Ben's.

The scent of cloves receded; the feather mattress embraced our bodies. For some weeks I had not been myself matrimonially speaking, but now the spice of his aftershave, the rasp of his manly chin, the lingering dexterity of his hands upon every button of my blouse brought back the sublime ecstasy of knowing I was loved for something other than my mind.

My lips toyed with his.

“You drive me insane with desire,” he whispered.

“Likewise,” I murmured.

Yes, it was all very lovely, but afterward … well, I would have been failing as a tourist had I continued lying there, the holiday ticking away, while I gazed into his eyes.

Semi-respectably dressed in my aqua and sea foam lace negligee (purchased as a last fling before giving myself over to maternity bras and smocks with bumble bees on the pockets), I suggested we get our first taste of American culture.

“You want to go out and tour the U.S.S.
Constitution
?”

“No.” I readjusted a loose end of the Laura Ashley sheet he wore with such fetching machismo. “I want to watch television.”

“Very well, but remember you only get three wishes.” He waved his remote control wand. Amazing! The dry sink in the corner turned into a television set. The picture slid around as though greased. The words
Melancholy Mansion
had leaped upon the screen.

“Looks like your cup of hemlock, Ellie.”

“My mother had a part in this film.”

“You never told me.” He touched my hair.

“I've never seen it.” I pressed a hand over his mouth. “She gave me a choice of this or
Bambi
.”

A surge of surflike music holding undercurrents of tidal terror. A swirl of mist, momentarily twitched away—in the manner of a magician's hanky—to reveal a full moon, hovering above a house of finest Gothic Horror design, rising up out of a body of water—a river or perhaps a lake. A crashing of cymbals, the scarred front door lunges inward, and the viewer is swept into a wainscotted hall of magnificent gloom. All in glorious black and white.

My breath caught when the imperious butler, complete with patent leather hair and penciled moustache, descended the stairs, a candle held aloft.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he intoned, his voice dripping with gore, “I regret to be the bearer of inclement tidings.” His lips crept into a travesty of a smile, emphasizing his unearthly pallor. “The master is dead of unnatural causes, and the will is as full of holes as cheese.”

A shifty-eyed hush from the recipients of this news—a matriarch, who is clearly a man with eyes sharp as hatpins; a stout bespectacled schoolboy; and a bubble-head blonde fan dancer in working clothes, doing a half-hearted bump-and-grind while tearing a small piece of paper into confetti.

“That's your mother?” Ben whistled.

I shushed him. “No. Hers was just a non-speaking bit part in the chorus line scene. Don't let's miss …”

Too late.
Melancholy Mansion
faded out, to be replaced by a close-up of a greyhaired, broad-shouldered man with TV interviewer regulation features.

“Good evening. I'm Harvard Smith and this is
Talk Time
. What you just saw was a scene from one of actress Theola Faith's most popular films. We have in the studio with us this evening her daughter Mary Faith, author of the newly released, bestseller,
Monster Mommy
, an exposé of the chilling childhood she experienced at the hands of the woman known to millions as Kitten Face, the sexy comedienne who during the fifties and sixties paid the rent of movie houses across the country.”