The Thin Woman (8 page)

Ben had developed a frantic twitch in one eye but I ignored him. I was incapable of thinking clearly, let alone deciphering optical Morse code. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked the scrawny spectre. “Leaping uninvited out of pantries in the middle of the night!”

He emitted a mirthless chuckle, baring glossy pink, toothless gums, then hissed out an evil whisper. “Don’t you recognize me, my little pudding cheeks, naughty, naughty! You’re going to make an old man cry. Great fool! I’m your host, Giselle, your dear, loving uncle Merlin.”

“Isn’t this chummy,” smirked Ben into the raucous silence. “Mr. Grantham was telling me while you were in the midst of your swoon that he often feels peckish in the middle of the night, and comes down for a snack by means of the dumb-waiter. I heard your screams of terror through my bedroom floor and came down to investigate, by the rather unimaginative means of the stairs.”

“I didn’t faint.” I glared at them both. “I tripped. Perhaps I passed out later, when my head hit the floor, but that’s not the same thing.” I gave the chenille an upward tug. “And just suppose I
have
made a great fool of myself. If you had one ounce of decency, Uncle Merlin, you would accept some responsibility. I’m not used to seeing men shuffling around in the gloom of night decked out in white night-shirts and pixie hoods.”

“Huh! Not used to seeing men in the middle of the night in
any
guise more like. Unless … have you told this London bloke that you are coming in for my money? Bark up another tree, girl! This night-cap keeps the body heat from escaping through the head while sleeping. Can’t afford those electrical heating gadgets, especially tonight. One of my blood relations might sneak in and jimmy the wires.”

“About that nocturnal snack,” suggested Ben, over inspecting the cooker, “Mr. Grantham, would you like
me to whip you up a little something? Eggs Benedict, perhaps?”

“Ah, now I see it,” wheezed dear old Uncle. “You’re one of those, are you? Meet a lot of butterfly boys, do you, Ellie, in the decorating business?”

What a detestable sick-minded old man. I made a move for the door then thought better of retreat. I wasn’t going to leave him gloating over his victory. “Do you know something? I think it’s a good thing you have stayed holed up here all these years. The outside world is too good for you.”

Uncle Merlin was seated in a chair and didn’t move. For one rather scary moment I thought I had shocked him to death, and then I saw a flicker of icy amusement burning behind his hooded eyes.

“If you aren’t divinely enthusiastic about eggs”—Ben outrageously fluttered his eyelashes at Uncle Merlin—“perhaps something a little more titillating, shall we say a nice little dish of curds and whey?” He added in his normal voice, “One way to get rid of all your damn spiders.”

“Real men,” barked Uncle Merlin, “don’t eat gussied-up eggs and such for breakfast. We like our kippers. Follow your nose and you’ll find a newspaper package in the drawer to the right of the sink. That’s right, under the tea cloths. Hid it from Sybil. Those kippers were for Jonas and me. Friday nights we always play cards when she’s safely in bed and can’t look down her disapproving nose at us. Sybil doesn’t mind gambling—gentlemen’s activity—but she doesn’t approve of my consorting with servants. Huh! If I thought of Jonas that way I would have pensioned him off donkey’s years ago. I like the way he cheats at cards. Drat the old fool for getting himself laid up. Who wants his fish? Mine’s the big one,”

“As you have decreed kippers as men’s food, Uncle, I think I will pop two slices of bread into this toaster that looks like a rat trap, in they go, take a cup of that tea Ben is brewing, and retire upstairs with a tray.”

“What, and leave me at the mercy of this young thug? Upon your conscience, if you come down in the morning and find me with a meat skewer plunged through my heart!
Where did she pick you up anyway, young feller? One of those desperate heart places. And what do you do, besides dangle a frying pan from your pretty little wrist?”

“He writes books.” Furiously I scraped butter off a chipped saucer and smeared it over my toast. “Deliciously dirty ones, filthy actually, but not as filthy as this kitchen before I cleaned it up. Goodnight, Uncle dear, and don’t choke on a bone just to please me.”

Breakfast the following morning was atrocious. Thankfully Aunt Sybil was not present to hear the comments the meal aroused. She had brought in the food and was now taking a tray up to Uncle Merlin. Freddy sat stirring his porridge in circles like a child waiting for Mummy to say “one two three, all gone.” Dropping his spoon, he muttered, “Either someone has already been very ill in my bowl or I am about to be.”

My sentiments exactly. This was one meal I could forego, particularly as Aunt Lulu, her head a foam of soapy-looking curls, having just heard about The Engagement, was prodding a sullen-looking Ben for details. Lack of sleep had not improved his disposition. Excusing myself, I returned to my room where I found my suitcase sitting on a chest under the window. Ben had told me that he and Freddy had been out early and resuscitated the car, which was now drawn up against the wall of the old stable.

A diet even when unintentional should be accompanied by exercise. I would go for a walk in the snow. Off came the purple horror and I was happily reunited with my camel skirt, grey jersey, and serviceable brogues, woolly coat, and head-scarf. The mirror informed me I looked like someone’s faithful old daily. Better that than a carnival bouncer. I consigned purple to the litter bin.

I had forgotten how close Merlin’s Court was to the sea. The slapping surging rhythm of waves blended with the wind which bullied me along, wrapping my coat around my legs so tightly that walking became difficult. Certainly I had made a
mess of my life, but I had no burning desire to end it by being blown off the cliff and dashed to powder on the jagged rocks below. I was turning to retrace my steps when I saw through the snow blowing off the trees, the bent figure of a man stumbling towards me, a dark scarf muffling his nose and mouth and a hat pulled down over his ears. This had to be the gardener—Jonas. Wasn’t that his name? My efforts at walking were reduced to an exaggerated swagger, but I covered the ground as steadily as I could. As our paths met, the old man raised his battered hat, made a ducking motion of his head, and said, “Morning to you, miss,” wheezed a short hacking cough and started to move on.

“Nasty day to be out,” I said. “And you with a cold.”

He squinted at me. “I’ve heard tell a good frost kills germs. But Mr. Merlin, he’ll not be out on a day like this. Might catch his death o’ pneumony, and he’s not one what likes to see others happy. Miss Giselle, that be you, ain’t it? Aye, I know all the ins and outs o’ the lot o’ ye. Next to cheating at cards him likes a chin-wag about what ’e calls the maggots in the family pie. He! He! All came out at once, didn’t ye? He weren’t so sure about ye, but I bet him a quid ye’d be here. Brought a feller, too, is what I hear. A pornographist an’ all! A nice clean-cut spinster like you!”

“We’re engaged,” I snarled, and battled my way back to the house. Aunt Sybil was in the kitchen when I went in by the side door. She was draping very holey dishcloths over the piping and did not look thrilled to see me. Probably afraid I would muddy the floor.

“I met the gardener,” I said.

“Him! Lives at the cottage just inside the gates. Cliffside, it’s called.” She sniffed, maybe the bleach fumes from those cloths were opening up her sinuses. “You may not have noticed it last night with the weather so bad. Why Merlin keeps Jonas on, I don’t know. Always ailing. But that’s men for you—never happy unless they’ve something to moan about. Merlin’s a different story, of course.” Her bleach-wrinkled hands migrated to her hair, moving a strand.

“Jonas’s cough sounded real enough and he was out and about.” I shook myself out of my coat.

“Drawing attention to himself. And if it were not a cold it would be something else. Last summer it was waterworks trouble and before that varicose veins. Not a weed pulled in the garden, except to make up some home remedy potion, and Merlin insisting I fetch Jonas hot drinks of the stuff, morning, noon, and night.” Her jowls quivered. “As if I don’t have enough to do without pandering to hypochondriac servants. Oh, I know we have our duty to the lower classes—and if Jonas were the butler, something clean at least, I wouldn’t mind so much.”

What a dreadful snob. But I was wondering, behind the mask of evil recluse did Uncle Merlin have one or two salient qualities? At least he treated everyone with equal contempt and he seemed to care about Jonas. Or was that just because the man was a necessary amusement? “Uncle Merlin must appreciate his own health being good,” I suggested.

Aunt Sybil fixed me with a look which said, “That’s all you know.” She made a great show of peeling potatoes. Skin flew in all directions under the onslaught of her knife. No one but she knew how Uncle Merlin liked his vegetables and my offer of help was firmly refused.

“Poor dear, he’s lonely,” she said. “He and Jonas are as thick as soup, always got their heads together over a crossword or cards and I worry because”—she fixed me with vague watery eyes—“besides the class thing, I don’t feel Jonas is the best influence on Merlin, gets him to laughing and acting quite silly sometimes. So unsuitable. His father, dear Uncle Arthur, never said anything more than fetch and carry to the servants. But I have so little time for sitting, with trying to keep this house in shape and, as they say, this is a new generation.”

Uncle Merlin part of the in crowd? Subject to peer pressure?

“Jonas looked pretty harmless,” I said.

Aunt Sybil sniffed and continued slashing away with her knife.

Luncheon was another of life’s experiences best forgotten, memorable only because I lost pounds. Vanessa was more poutingly adorable than ever, my fiancé sullen, and Uncle Merlin did not grace us with his presence. We were informed by Aunt Sybil, as though bestowing a great treat, that he would be down for tea.

Late afternoon moved into twilight. At the stroke of four from the grandfather clock in the hall, the relations assumed their positions.

Aunt Sybil hovered by the door like an enthralled fan waiting outside the theatre for her idol to appear. Slow muffled footsteps sounded in the hall. “Here he is,” she cried. “My dear Merlin, I wouldn’t let them start tea without you. We have all been waiting.”

“I’ll bet you have.” Uncle Merlin’s voice was strong though he leaned heavily on Aunt Sybil, a grey shadowy figure in the half-light. “Pack of vultures, the lot of you,” he snorted venomously. “Swooping down to pick the flesh off my withered bones, but I’ll fool you, every last one. I’m not dead yet, and we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“Wicked old man,” said Aunt Astrid, almost choking as she tugged at her pearls. “I expect he will leave everything to a cat home. He should be put away.”

CHAPTER
Six

Our drive back to London the following afternoon was chilly; the weather was cool as well. Ben kept dwelling on my announcement of our engagement.

“Oh, stuff it, you pompous little prig.” I’d had enough. My eyes were watering with cold and my left leg was in a coma. “What you resent is having Vanessa think you are desperate enough to settle for me. Don’t worry, she won’t think we are sleeping together. I told her you were impotent, a childhood mishap. When she learned you were half-Jewish she was easily convinced. Circumcision sounds like a simple operation, but the knife must slip sometimes.…”

“Hell, Ellie.” Ben skidded neatly round a curve. “You’re impossible, but I wouldn’t have missed meeting you for anything. I almost hate taking your money.”

“You’ll manage. In what manner would you like me to terminate our engagement? Will a formal notice in
The Times
be sufficient?”

Ben grinned. “I can tell what kind of books you read. My mother reads the same drivel.” His voice sank to a growl.

“My dearest, we were never meant for one another.… I beg that you put me out of your life forever. And remember when
you dampen your pillow with your tears, that I was never good enough for you. Somewhere, some day out upon the far horizon …”

“What? Another man? And give up the thrill of having my life blighted by hopeless passion? Not on your life. I am going home to my cat and life as a disappointed spinster.”

Ben’s little car threaded its way tidily through the London traffic. We had made surprisingly good time. I had almost adjusted to the numbness below the knees when Ben skimmed into a tiny slot between two parked cars and flipped off the engine. Back to 129 Queen Alexandra Place.

The interlude was over. I insisted that he not come up with me. We stood on the kerb like a couple of refugees stranded in the desolate wastes of Siberia, hands extended in farewell, the battered suitcase at my feet. We needed music, the poignant anguish of “Lara’s Theme.”

“Sorry about keeping the top down,” said Ben, hands deep in his pockets.

“Not at all. I feel all crisped up, like a fresh lettuce.” “I suffer from claustrophobia.” “Nasty,” I said. We stared at each other for those long moments that stretched like elastic until they snap. “Damn it, are you trying to turn this goodbye into a marathon for the
Guinness Book of Records?”