The Lamorna Wink (18 page)

Moe Bletchley used a sliding scale; it was pretty much pay-what-you-can. Sometimes they couldn't. He subsidized the rest. The scale in Mrs. Atkins's case had stopped sliding at ten percent, which amounted to thirty pounds per day. Given it cost more like three hundred to provide rooms, medical care, full-time nurses, and gourmet food, thirty pounds was a drop in the bucket.

Well, it was Moe's bucket and he could have whatever he liked dropped in it. He cocked his head and said, “So?”

She seemed astonished he should ask why. “How can we admit her when she hasn't fulfilled the terms of her contract?”

“Why didn't you tell her to sell her first-born grandchild?”

Matron drew herself up, tilting her breastplate even more. “
Mr.
Bletchley! If you insist on bending the rules and relaxing standards, our job will become impossible.”

“I've been bending and relaxing for four years and you're still here, ain't you?”

She pressed the bridge of her nose, one of several mannerisms denoting victimization. She said, “If you feel my services are no longer necessary—”

“Oh, but they are, they are! You are a formidable presence; you set an example!”

Still higher went the bosom, but this time with pride. “I certainly
hope
to keep the younger and less seasoned staff on their toes.” She ventured a wintry smile. “Now, if you care to come and speak with Mrs. Atkins?”

Moe flapped his hand. “I'll talk to her later. You show her where her room is. I'm off to visit Linus Vetch.” Moe removed his baseball cap, rubbed the top of his head, and slapped the cap back on. He gave a little wave and snapped the wheelchair into a ninety-degree turn.

Rules. Matron lived for them; they were her sound and substance. But it was pretty hard to apply “rules” to the dying, much less enforce them. Heavy with anger and corsets, Matron turned on her heel and marched down the galleried hall.

Damn it all, thought Moe, wish we'd had her at Okinawa. Moe had served three years in the Second World War. In no hurry now, he rolled along on the deep blue and green oriental runner that not too long ago had been trod by Lord Bugger-all and his lady wife. They had sold up because they couldn't afford their stately home, then called Sheepshanks Hall, any longer. No wonder, when these British aristocrats (whom he disliked without exception) tossed money around like confetti paying for big cars and horses and keeping a staff of fifty. They had been raised not to work but to lounge.

Moe was an American who'd spent the last part of his life in Britain. He'd peeled off all he wanted to in the States (millions) and come to see what was on offer in England (billions).

Moe had built up a fast-food chicken empire “from scratch” (as he was fond of telling people, most of whom didn't get it, but then most people were pretty witless). He called this popular chain of eateries Chick'nKing. Franchises had sprouted all over England. He had even wanted to plant a few on the North York moors and Dartmoor, but the idea had met with little enthusiasm by the building-permit people and the National Heritage. Moe wasn't long on aesthetics, except for the design and decor of his Chick'nKings. There he went to town; they were the brightest, boldest things on the horizon, painted in astonishingly brilliant colors. And he had broken the everyone-the-same commandment by having three different designs. It was his building planner—not quite an architect and a kid at heart—who loved to come up with fresh ideas for the shape of a new Chick'nKing. Some were egg-shaped, an enormous marine-blue egg, painted around with bands of Easter-egg designs and standing on its fatter end. There were two dozen of these. Another group was designed to resemble a hen laying, or rather sitting on a nest. Then there was the newest line Moe had christened Chick'nTots, designed expressly for the kiddies. (As if the others weren't?) These were a huge hit with both children and parents. They were shaped like chicks and painted a buttercup yellow so bright you could see them half a mile away down the A30 to Truro. The Chick'nTots were popular with parents because there were small tables and chairs in a section set apart so the children could eat out from under the parental eye and even order from their own menus; it made no difference whether or not they could read since there were pictures of every dish. The kiddies' area was tended by a pretty Disney World-ish princess with a pink neon wand. She was there in case the kiddies started throwing food at each other. Peace would be restored immediately; it's amazing what a princess with a wand can do that mums and dads can't.

Another big difference between Moe's eateries and most others was the food. This had been brought about several years back. One of the Chick'nKings had run out of potato chips (tasteless but familiarly tasteless, which made the difference), and an employee named Patsy Rankin had just sliced some potatoes thinly, tossed them in the hot oil, and served up homemade potato chips the like of which had never been seen in any fast-food place. The customers loved them so much, sales of everything had leaped by over ten percent. No one appreciated inventiveness more than Moe Bletchley. Patsy Rankin was immediately transferred to the Birmingham headquarters in charge of food innovation, a position created for her talents alone.

Chick'nKing had cost a fortune to get started but had already tripled that fortune for Moe Bletchley. The difference between his and others' fast-food emporiums was that the food was better and the buildings so whimsical they simply sucked people in.

Linus Vetch had been admitted six weeks before and was clearly rallying. The unusual thing about Bletchley Hall was that the people who came here, all diagnosed with a terminal illness, did not all leave in a box. Actually, it was part hospice, part nursing home, and not a small part resort. Of course, no one could enjoy this last element if he wasn't deemed sick-to-dying. But some diagnosed as terminal got considerably better and left under their own head of steam—or perhaps to the disappointed expectations of their relatives, who were then forced to return the elderly family member to his or her own hearth. This made Bletchley Hall a sort of miracle home and, consequently, a highly desirable last stop on the road to wherever. This rallying of seemingly hopeless cases mystified the doctors.

“What the hell's the big mystery?” said Moe. “It was you fellas misdiagnosed these cases in the first place.”

“Mr. Bletchley,” Dr. Innes had said, “Linus Vetch came in with esophageal cancer. Hardly ever does a patient recover from that particular cancer. Linus Vetch has had radiation, chemo, a bone marrow transplant—”

“So? Maybe the voodoo finally kicked in. It happens.” Moe started humming.

This, of course, infuriated Dr. Innes and no wonder: If a patient had terminal something, he should terminate.

“It makes me wonder,” Moe went on, “why you fellas hate to see somebody get better.”

“That's absolute nonsense. I—”

Moe waved a thick-veined hand, meaning
Shut up, man.
“Thing's this: A fellow is diagnosed with a terminal disease. Then he doesn't die. Well, one of those premises is wrong. So it must be the first one. Unless of course you think we've got another Lourdes here and I'm the Virgin Mary.”

“Funny,” said Dr. Innes. “I never really suspected that.” He flounced off down the hallway in a manner that Moe was surprised hadn't raised Matron's suspicions.

Linus Vetch was propped up in his bed, looking wasted—true—but otherwise like a man on the mend. The poor fellow, in his seventies, had been through the hell of chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant and still lived to talk about it. That he could talk was surprising, the radiation and chemo probably doing his vocal cords little more good than the cancer that had invaded his esophagus a year ago.

Moe bumped into the lavishly appointed room and up to the bed, where Linus shot his hand up for a high five. They had taken to greeting this way ever since the once-dying man had been able to raise his arm. Moe had to admit it was amazing. He himself had never been sick (with anything other than contrariness) and he knew he had no conception of the physical pain Linus Vetch had been cursed with.

“So what's up, buddy?” Moe treated all patients—he preferred to call them “guests”—as if they'd just stopped in for a pleasant weekend.

“Better today. Must be your cooking.”

“Brought you tonight's menu.” Moe believed looking forward to a fine meal could keep you going at least until you got it. Food was surprisingly soporific and comforting, and the meals here were cooked by two first-rate chefs Moe had lured away from two four-star restaurants.

Linus drew himself into more of a sitting posture and fumbled for his glasses. “Where did I put the damned things? Always losing them.”

“Maybe they're in the drawer.” Moe nodded toward the bedside table. Linus always kept them there and always forgot that he did.

Linus found them and hooked them over his ears, as if for a better view of Morris Bletchley. Then he removed them and looked around the room.

He had the most searching look Moe had ever seen. Eyes that scanned the entire room, floor to ceiling, as if some sort of answer could be found in the William Morris-designed wallpaper, the Art Deco wall sconces, the beautiful wood floors, Kirman carpet, and high windows that looked out over the flower-bound stream.

Still, Moe wished he had the answer, or at least some answer to give Linus.

Linus said, “What put you in that wheelchair?” He was always asking this. It was clear he was glad that Moe, although not dying, hadn't got off scot free.

But Moe had. He could walk as well as the next man (as long as the next man wasn't Linus, who couldn't make it to the toilet without a steadying hand).

Moe slapped the wheelchair's arm. “Life, Linus. Life put me here.”

W
hen Emily Hayter answered her doorbell the following morning, she looked up at Melrose as if she'd been expecting to see someone else. As she opened the door, her small mouth seemed to form a word or words called back when she saw him. Her figure was hefty with age and too much of her own good baking. Melrose could smell some of it now, the spicy warmth of cloves and nutmeg that hung in the air.

He introduced himself, unnecessarily, for she clearly knew about him; had the disappearance of Chris Wells not superseded him, Melrose would be the most interesting thing in the village. Seabourne had stood untenanted for a number of years (except for the Decorators, who hadn't lasted long). Curiosity overcame inconvenience. She waved him in with the wooden paddle she was holding—he wondered what it was for—invited him to have a seat and a cup of coffee, and said the apricot bread was just cooling. Had it been timed for someone else's arrival?

Emily Hayter lived in a little street not much wider than an alleyway behind the village's main street where the Drowned Man and the Woodbine Tearoom sat. Her cottage was similar to her neighbors': a mansard roof sloping down to peephole windows and whitewashed clay. It stood in an overgrown garden. Indeed, the garden seemed to have trailed into the front room, for here where Melrose took a seat were weedy potted plants, ivy-bound, and papery, stricken buds and blossoms.

Yet Mrs. Hayter struck Melrose as a woman of industry, so perhaps a lack of time was her problem. Coming in with a tray of coffee, she confirmed this. “There just never seems to be time for things,” she said, as she jammed the plunger down in her French press pot, which seemed to sigh in its downward descent in tune with Mrs. Hayter's own huge sigh. “You saw the state o' my garden, and in here too. You can see—” She waved the white napkins she'd brought in around the room as if they were flags of surrender, and poured the coffee. She did this with a grace that spoke of many years of pouring. The bread she now passed to Melrose looked delicious and was undoubtedly the source of the spiced air.

Once they'd settled back, she asked him how he was liking Seabourne. “Very much. It's a beautiful place. A wonderful setting, too, up there overlooking the sea.” He added this, hoping it would cue her to speak of the children.

“Cold, though. Costs a fortune to heat those rooms.” Her glance swept over him, no doubt estimating the extent of his.

“I don't mind a nip in the air.” (Oh, yes, he did.) “I'm used to it.” (Oh, no, he wasn't.)

Emily Hayter struck Melrose as a pump that would require some priming; she hadn't risen to the prospect overlooking the sea, so perhaps he should lead with more suggestions. “The estate agent tells me the owner lives in the village. In a kind of nursing home and hospice?” He was sure she would be only too ready to talk about the eccentric Morris Bletchley.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Morris started that. Used to be a stately home, and he took it over and calls it Bletchley Hall. I expect it's quite nice for these unfortunates so near—” She could not summon a cliché to make death more acceptable. “Mr. Morris, yes, he's a queer duck, that one.”

Melrose waited patiently to be told about Mr. Bletchley's queer duck-ness while Mrs. Hayter fed herself a morsel of apricot bread and washed it down with coffee.

“See, he owns the Hall so he can do as he wants. I expect it's generous of him to provide care like that, but as for me, I think you'd have to be a little batty to go live there, don't you? I mean, does a person want to be reminded of—you know—all the time? Yes, definitely a queer duck is Mr. Morris.”

She did not go on, leaving Melrose to cast about for an opening to the tragedy of the Bletchley children. His eye fell on the rather bad examples of art hanging on her walls and then fixed on a print of a stormy J.M.W. Turner. He smiled, thinking of Bea. Turner was her favorite.