The Shortest Journey (15 page)

The Red Cross Fête was being held in the garden of a
rather grand house on West Hill and as I hurried along the drive
with my boxes of scones I was pleased to see that old Mr Sewell was
now apparently quite recovered from his stroke and taking the money
at the gate.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘I told you I’d be back in
harness before you knew it!’

‘It’s marvellous to see you,’ I replied. ‘How’s
Bijou?’

‘Oh, she’s very fit – just like her master.’

‘Are there many people here yet?’

‘Quite a few. The weather’s not very good, I’m
afraid, but’ – he lowered his voice slightly – ‘everyone’s curious
to see Mrs Braithwaite’s garden. She’s always going on about
it!’

I reflected that Mrs Braithwaite’s garden would have
to be absolutely perfect, for no weed, no untidy compost heap, no
clutter of old flower-pots, however carefully hidden behind the
potting shed, would escape the beady gaze of a dedicated
fête-goer.

‘I’d better get on with these, then,’ I said.
‘They’ll be wanting them for the teas.’

I found Anthea and several other lady helpers
methodically splitting scones, filling pots with cream and jam and
conscientiously counting strawberries into small dishes.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I said.

‘Better late than never, I always say.’ Mrs Burden, a
plump, jolly woman wearing an apron that bore the legend ‘Somerset
– the Team to Watch, took my scones away and added them to others
laid out on the trestle tables, where I hoped they’d be decently
anonymous, since I feared they might be rather heavy. I was
conscious that my mind had been on other things while I was making
them.

I dutifully did the round of the various stalls,
acquiring a pot of greengage jam, a couple of old Penguin thrillers
and two pairs of knitted pink bootees for Jilly’s baby. I guessed
the weight of a cake (hopefully wrong, since it looked highly
indigestible), won a bottle of Worcester sauce and not the Drambuie
on the bottle stall and bought four raffle tickets for a prize the
nature of which was not disclosed. Then, duty done, I made my
escape.

It really wasn’t a very nice day. There was a strong
wind blowing off the sea and most of the holiday-makers were
wearing anoraks with the hoods up as they wandered dispiritedly
along the promenade. Some brave souls were eating ice-cream cones,
but others were sensibly making for the Old Ship tea-rooms in
search of a nice hot cup of tea.

Going into West Lodge out of the sharp wind I was
quite glad of the wave of heat that met me, but after a few
moments, as I climbed up the stairs to Mrs Dudley’s room, I began
to find the constant heat oppressive.

She was sitting in a chair by the window. Just for a
moment, when she turned towards me and before she recognised me,
she seemed suddenly shrunk and frail. I felt a pang of something
like pity, an emotion she had never inspired in me before. Then she
greeted me in her old familiar manner and was herself again and
the moment passed.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘isn’t it splendid news! A beautiful
little girl!’

‘I always think it’s better if the first child is a
boy.’ she said. ‘Though I suppose,’ she added grudgingly, ‘if there
is no title or estate then it doesn’t matter so much.’

‘I’m sure you must be thrilled to have a
great-granddaughter,’ I said, trying to make it sound as if the
achievement had been all hers.

‘I can’t say I greatly care for the name they have
chosen. There have been no Cordelias in our family.’

‘Oh, I think it’s rather a pretty name,’ I said, ‘and
it’s out of Shakespeare,’ I added placatingly.

‘Indeed – and look what happened to her! I have
always thought
King Lear
a quite shocking play, a terrible
example of what happens to young people who do not pay proper
respect to their parents!’

I mentally saved up this splendid piece of
Shakespearean criticism for Rosemary and changed the subject.

‘It will be nice for Jilly to have Rosemary with her
for a few days. It’s always difficult having to cope with a new
baby at home, especially a first baby.’

‘Rosemary does far too much for Jilly, I’ve always
said so. She’ll wear herself out.’

I suppressed a smile and said, ‘Oh, I think she’s
enjoying it...’

‘That’s not the point. Jilly shouldn’t think that her
mother can just abandon her other responsibilities at a moment’s
notice. I wanted Rosemary to help Elsie give my bedroom a thorough
spring-cleaning before I go home, and then there are the
dining-room curtains, they need to go to the cleaners. And there
are a hundred and one other things that really can’t wait. Young
people are so thoughtless and selfish these days.’

To divert her mind to other things I said, ‘Well, you
do seem to be nice and comfortable here.’

Mrs Dudley looked around her in a disparaging way. ‘I
really don’t know if I can bear another fortnight in this poky
little room. I must have a word with Mrs Wilmot. It is ridiculous
that Mrs Rossiter’s room is standing empty like that. It would suit
me very well and it seems unlikely that she will ever use it
again.’

‘But we don’t know …’

‘I expect it was a road accident. People drive like
lunatics these days.’

‘But the accident would have been reported …’

‘Hospitals are totally inefficient. When I think how
well the Taviscombe Hospital was run when I was with the Red Cross
during the war! Matron used to say to me, “Mrs Dudley, if only my
nurses were as efficient and well-trained as you are.” Well, of
course, we all knew that we had to do our bit to help the war
effort. That was the Dunkirk spirit. Things will never be the same
again.’

I made the sort of acquiescent noises that were all
Mrs Dudley required from her listeners and she went on, ‘Poor Mrs
Rossiter, now, she was quite hopeless – couldn’t even roll a
bandage! We used to have working parties at the Manor. Your mother
used to come, though, of course, that was in the old days before
she became such an invalid. Mrs Rossiter was useless at organising
things, so I simply had to take over. Colonel Rossiter ran the Home
Guard – he was just too old for military service. He missed both
wars, rather strange if you think of it. A disagreeable man, very
disobliging and a very nasty temper. Rather like that boy of
his.’

‘Alan?’

‘Yes. You must remember that dreadful incident when
he had to leave his school.’

‘No, I don’t think I ever heard …’

‘They hushed it up, of course. People in Taviscombe
were never told the truth. Everyone thought he just left. Well, he
was eighteen and wasn’t going to university. But my cousin’s boy
was at the same school and she told me. He was asked to leave. I’m
surprised you didn’t know. After all, your mother was supposed to
be such a close friend.’

She looked at me maliciously and I said rather
stiffly, ‘If Mrs Rossiter told my mother something in confidence
then she wouldn’t have told anyone, not even me.’

Mrs Dudley looked annoyed but decided that she would
rather continue her gossip than take offence at my remark.

‘Oh, yes, it was quite a scandal, I believe. The
other boy was badly hurt. The headmaster had a dreadful job to
persuade the parents not to take legal action. No, Alan always was
a difficult boy, and what has he made of his life? Living on the
other side of the world with all those poor Africans – I saw a
documentary about them on television the other day and all I can
say is I’m glad that neither of my children are out there! A
dreadful place, nowadays. Of course when my husband’s uncle was a
District Commissioner in Tanganyika things were very different, but
all Alan seems to do is fiddle about with wells and poor
farmers.’

‘I’m sure it’s very valuable work,’ I said.

‘But hardly a career, not like Thelma. Now there’s a
girl who’s really got on!’

‘Yes, I suppose you might say that.’

‘No question about it. I know she had all that
Rossiter money behind her, and I suppose she’ll have a great deal
more if her mother is dead, but she has turned out to be a
wonderful businesswoman. She’s really left you and Rosemary a long
way behind!’

She laughed unkindly and looked at me sharply, to see
if I would rise to her remark, but I simply said, ‘Yes, she is
certainly successful in business.’

I stayed a little longer and then thankfully escaped
for a cup of tea with Mrs Jankiewicz. I listened while she told me
once again about the Old Days on her grandmother’s estate in
eastern Poland, which was familiar and comforting, and made me feel
as though I was listening to a short story by Chekhov.

The weather improved in the next few days, and I was
able to get out into the garden at last to do a few jobs. I was
tying up one of the climbing roses which had blown down in the wind
when a loud barking made me realise that Don had arrived to clean
the windows. He stooped to pat the dogs before he unloaded his
ladders, slightly hampered by Tris and Tessa who ran round him
excitedly in circles.

‘Hello, Don,’ I said, ‘I didn’t expect you
today.’

‘No, well, you see, Mrs Malory, I’ve got these
contract jobs now with some of the hotels and so on, so I’m having
to fit my regulars in where I can. I hope it’s not
inconvenient?’

‘No, today’s fine, carry on. Would you like a cup of
tea?’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’

Taking this as a form of assent I went in to put the
kettle on.

As I was taking off my gardening gloves I was aware
of a loud bellowing from my bedroom and resignedly went up the
stairs. Foss was perched on the back of an armchair by the window,
the ridge of fur on his back standing up and his tail puffed out
like a bottle-brush. He was informing me at the top of his voice
that there was someone outside the window looking in at him. I
scooped him up and told him not to be silly.

Don pushed the window open and said cheerfully, ‘I
see the old moggie still doesn’t like me doing the windows,
then.’

I apologised for my cat’s impolite behaviour and
Foss, rigid with disapproval, allowed me to take him away.

Don likes a good gossip and I have long since
resigned myself to the fact that this is the price you have to pay
if you want to get things done around the house, so I sat down at
the kitchen table, poured out two mugs of tea, pushed a plate of
bourbon creams towards him and said, ‘Well, Don, and how is the
world treating you?’

‘Can’t complain, Mrs Malory. Now I’ve got these
cleaning contracts – course, with the hotels it’s more the summer;
there won’t be so much in the winter when the visitors have gone.
But West Lodge should keep me busy all year round.’

‘Oh, you’re doing the windows there?’

He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his mug.
‘Terrible thing about the old lady!’

‘The old lady?’

‘That Mrs Rossiter, disappearing like that. Proper
mystery, that was.’

‘Yes, it’s been very worrying for her family and all
her friends.’

‘A very nice lady, always liked a chat. I thought she
was lonely in that place.’

‘Well, of course, her family don’t live in Taviscombe
so they can’t get to see her very often.’

‘She saw her son, though, she told me. All the way
from Africa he was coming. She was that pleased!’

I sipped my tea, which was too hot to drink, and said
casually, ‘When did he come? Did she say?’

‘Couldn’t rightly tell. She told me about it the last
time I was there before she went. Let me see, she must have gone
off about a week after that, so I suppose he must have come some
time that week. I mean, if he’d come and found she’d gone off like
that he’d have made a fuss, wouldn’t he? And I didn’t hear nothing
about anything like that when I was there the next time. Very full
of it, they was, and having the police there and everything. Didn’t
like that, Mrs Wilmot didn’t. Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’

‘Did Mrs Rossiter say if her son was visiting her at
West Lodge, or was she meeting him somewhere else?’

‘I don’t think she – no, hold on, she said she was
going to see him in Taunton. Said it would be more convenient for
him. Though if he’d come all the way from Africa, it seems to me he
could have just as well come on out to Taviscombe and not made his
poor old mother go into Taunton to meet him!’

‘Oh’ I think she liked little outings. She used to
take a taxi.’

We had a little further conversation about the
iniquitous price of taxis and how, if a bloke could get a decent
car, instead of an old banger, he could probably make a fortune,
and then Don packed up his ladders, leaving me with nice clean
windows and another piece to be fitted somewhere in the jigsaw.

On a sudden impulse I picked some roses from the
garden and went to see Mrs Jankiewicz at West Lodge.

Mrs Jankiewicz, too, was sitting by the window, but
erect and alert. Her room faced Jubilee Gardens but, although there
was the usual brilliant floral display, I knew it was only an
indistinct mass of colour to her. It seemed to me that she sat by
the window not so much to see what was going on in the world
outside as to be seen, so that passers-by would know that she was
there and still keeping an eye on things.

While I put the roses in a vase (deep ruby red glass
in a heavy, ornately wrought pewter holder) she gave me the latest
news of Sophie.

‘She works too hard, that girl. Taddeus should not
allow it.’

‘I think she enjoys her work,’ I said.

‘Is not the point. To be a doctor’s wife is hard
enough – I know it – but to be a doctor’s wife and also a doctor
with no wife is terrible.’

We had had this conversation many times before as
well.

‘How’s Kasha?’

Mrs Jankiewicz’s face softened. Her granddaughter was
the one person in the world who could do no wrong.