The Widow's Club (18 page)

Somehow she managed to make the situation sound unseemly. My natural defensiveness was aroused. But before I could explain that Freddy’s life had derailed and I was the depot, a hand touched my elbow.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Bottomly,” interposed Sidney. And before she could get going on an apology, he led me to a chair and spun me to face a washbasin and mirror.

Taking the pins from my hair he tossed it dispiritedly into the air. “What’s it to be, Ellie luv? Oh, don’t you look awful! Hollow eyes, white lips. Either the honeymoon didn’t agree with you or you’ve just lost your best friend.”

My eyes met his gloomy ones in the mirror. Problems were what this man did best. At last someone who understood that happiness is sometimes burdensome.

“The honeymoon was fine, but you’re right about the best friend—doubled.”

My hair floated into the washbasin as I explained how the U.S.A. had enticed Dorcas and Jonas to defect. Warm water soothed; its gentle rushing softened my lament.

“Terrible, Ellie! How you must have suffered. I feel your pain—right here.” Sidney’s hands sudsed and massaged
so it was impossible to tell with which part of his anatomy he empathized, but his sigh, gusting down my neck, warmed the cockles of my heart.

“And to top it all, Sidney, there has been this worry over Ben’s mother. You understand, we are not broadcasting the facts over the BBC, but since you’ve known the family for years, it won’t matter telling you, Sidney, that her disappearance is connected to rumours that my father-in-law is involved with another woman. Not to mince matters—Ben’s parents have separated.”

“Never! Won’t my mum be shocked! This other woman, would she be a Mrs. Jarrod? Redhead? Given to tight-fitting jumpers?”

I got water all down my back. “None other.”

“Good God, I can’t believe it! The woman’s not his type at all. Why, she’s yards taller than him—he’d have to hop like a rabbit just to kiss her good night. And I told you what Mr. Haskell thinks of tall women. I hate to make you feel worse than you already do, Ellie, but has to be the man’s in love and his brains have dropped below the belt. Believe me, it happens!” Sidney draped a dry towel around my neck and gusted another sigh. “Poor sainted Mrs. Haskell. Ben must be out of his mind with worry.”

I shook my head and apologised to the woman at the next basin for spraying her. “He speaks with surprising calm of his mother going off on an extended holiday. Whenever I bring up the subject, he brushes me off.”

“You feel shut out. Who wouldn’t?” Sidney deftly parted the front of my hair into sections.

“Sidney, if I didn’t know Ben to be a very deep-feeling person, I might be concerned at his apparent callousness. I might wonder just how bothered he would be if anything happened to me.”

Sidney produced scissors and began snipping. “Ellie, you mustn’t let yourself get worn down. Are you sleeping well?”

“I hate to complain, Sidney, but since you ask—no. I keep having these dreadful nightmares.”

“Ask your doctor to prescribe something.”

“I don’t know. I keep hoping the nightmares will stop. Mrs. Haskell is always in them—and so is food. One night I was pursued by chickens—cooked ones. And there was
the one about the hamburgers with their tomato sauce smiles. Ben thinks I am becoming obsessive about my diet.”

Sidney plugged in the hand dryer. “Obsession,” he said with relishing gloom, “is part of our culture. You’re not normal if you aren’t a little cracked. Even dear Ben has his claustrophobia.” The broad shoulders lifted and fell. “I don’t think he ever believed it was that idiot Patterson kid, not me, who shut him in the potato bin. And your goblin is …”

“Yes?”

“Trying to please that savage little tyrant—you.”

“Really? What about you, Sidney?”

“Duck-waddle Sid?” He turned the hairdryer down to a hum and blew a welter of hair over my forehead. “Old-fashioned bloody greed. I tell you, Ellie, it can be a pain. I can never buy two matching pillow slips. I can’t be satisfied with stripes, I want flowers—until I see polka dots.”

“I noticed the teacups. All different and beautiful.”

He turned off the dryer and rippled his fingers through my hair. “Mum thinks I’m this way because Dad left us. Course, she thinks Maggie Thatcher’s Prime Minister because Dad bunked.” Sid’s eyes met mine in the mirror and he gave me a clown’s sad smile. “Is this satisfactory? We didn’t want anything too drastic, did we?”

I reached up a tentative hand. “Perfect, Sidney.”

“Nice seeing you, Ellie. Best to Ben. That will be five pounds fifty, please. Pay Sally at the desk.”

Another customer approached. Time for me to decide whether Sidney would consider a tip an insult. Something about the way his right hand dangled, palm outward, indicated he would not. Sidney must rake in a lot of pennies to keep himself in pillow slips and Minton teacups. I walked outside into a grey drizzle and wondered what the devil had come over me in there.

According to the tower clock it was only five to twelve. Would Ben still be at The Dark Horse? My feet hesitated under the creaking pub sign. But, after downing a few pints of malt-liquor air, I crossed the square. The secure, confident wife does not tread on her husband’s shadow.

High noon. Before meeting Bunty, I had time for a little window shopping. I idled past The Muffin Pan Bakery and
drooled past The Chocolate Box. Damn this diet! I would break out at lunch and eat … the leaves on my celery. To sublimate my base urges I would look in at Abigail’s and measure the staircase window. I had found a marvellous ruby-and-gold damask which would be ideal for a valance. And if Ben had finished at The Dark Horse and happened to be there, I could lure him into the buttery to … to take its measurements.

I went up the red brick steps of Abigail’s and stepped under the dark green awning to the pounding of invisible workmen. A building inspector had denounced sections of the attic floor as dangerous, so I imagined that most of the carpenters were up there. Not so the painters. A little man, so wizened even his bald head was wrinkly, a paintpot dangling over his arm, careened into me as I came through the door. Before I could say hello, he was off down the hall, muttering.

“I know, I know, your husband told you to come spying. But I’ll have you know this is the lunch hour, so don’t give me any gaff. Get enough of that from the gov’ner.”

Really! Naturally not everyone could love Ben as I did. But such hostility!

Then I forgot the painter. A wave of warmth flowed over me as I looked around the square hall with its heavy, timbered door frames and uneven floor. This building had originated as a small inn in 1703, and the ghosts of caped and bewigged travellers passed to and fro as I went from room to room. No sign of Ben. However, he was present in spirit. Taped to the walls I found numerous notes to workmen. Some kind, some restrained, many caustic, all ending with a scrawl of initials.

A firm hand, yes—I could see that might be needed (as I stepped around two purple-haired youths doing lasso tricks with electrical cord), but I would probably have inserted it in a velvet glove. I went into the kitchen which was stripped pathetically naked, imagining how it would be when all shiny white and stainless-steel bright, with Jonas’s geraniums flourishing on the wide quarry-tiled window sills. I knew equally well how the reception room to the left of the front door would look. That bluebell wallpaper I had discovered would be perfect. Trailing up the stairs, my fingers savoured the satin feel of the bannister.
I took the measurements of the landing window and went on to the second floor. This long room with its linen scroll paneling, elaborate ceiling molding, and tall latticed windows would be ideal for our opening bash. There would be candles in sconces and white roses in silver bowls on refectory tables flanking each side of the room.

I unflipped my tape measure and went into the room two doors down, already being used as Ben’s office. Its neatness brought a tender smile to my lips. Even the paper clips were stacked in rows, and the notes he had made to himself were all lined up. I stopped smiling. One of the notes was to me. It said:
Ellie, don’t care for the paint you chose for the kitchen. Would prefer oyster shell to oyster pearl, and darling
(this word was an afterthought, a little arrow pointing to it),
don’t leave your wallpaper books laying around. It undercuts morale
. It was signed with the initials
B.T.H
.

I almost forgot myself to the point of crossing out the ‘a’ in laying and initialing above the correction, but a passage from
Deadlock in Wedlock
swam before my eyes. I unclenched my fist, smoothed out the paper and wrote,
Will make requested changes
, then signed it
E.S.H
.

My watch told me I had time to nip down to Delacorte’s Antiques to see if they still had those picture frames. Even should they be gone, there was bound to be something to tempt me.

Delacorte’s bow window was lush with treats. There was a late nineteenth-century copper kettle and matching trivet, an embroidered shawl draped over an easel. Cold and repellent Mr. Charles Delacorte might be, but he did know his business.

I entered to a tinkling rendition of the
William Tell
Overture. Should I stick an apple on my head and stand to attention? Better not. The crossbow hanging on the wall behind the brass till looked in good working order, and above, a quiver sprouted bolts like a porcupine. Oh, good! There were my picture frames. Now all I needed was someone to sell them to me quickly before I began filling my arms with things I couldn’t live without. I coveted so much here except—the feeling crept over me slowly—the ambience. This was odd because usually I love the reek of age. I moved between tables, fingering an enamelled snuff box and a pair of silver grape scissors. Was it that everything here was almost too indicative of a stage antique shop?
Those amber velvet curtains screening the nether regions should part right now and a body plummet to the floor. As I watched, they did inch apart and Charles Delacorte entered.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Haskell.” Inclining his head of fair hair and consulting his watch, he stationed himself behind the counter. As I went up to him, the curtain spread again and Ann came in. Today she was wearing an olive green brocade suit, the skirt narrow, the jacket pinched at the waist and fanned out over her hips. Her dark hair was puffed into a roll in front, the back falling in a smooth pageboy behind. Very elegant and undoubtedly the height of fashion forty years ago.

“Ellie, how charming to see you.” Her cool hands touched mine. “I have been wanting to tell you again how radiant you were as a bride.”

“Thank you.”

“And the wedding dress was a good fit? When you bought it, I was somewhat concerned about the waist.”

“Oh?” I clutched my side.

“I thought it might be too big.”

“How kind … of you to worry.”

“My dear wife lives and breathes worry.” Charles Delacorte’s voice chilled the room. “What is one more sleepless night in a good cause?” Horrible man. Other than sharing his interest in antiques, what could have possessed Ann to marry him? That she could ever have loved him was frightening.

“I did appreciate your help in selecting the dress,” I told her.

“You are certainly intrepid, Mrs. Haskell,” commented the man with acid flowing through his veins. “My wife might have sent you down the aisle dressed as the ghost of Joan Crawford.” He picked up a silver-backed mirror and buffed it. “Not that your wedding lacked excitement.”

Ann touched my arm and gave a low laugh. “Charles likes to tease about my taste in dress.”

“I have never found the forties interesting.” He jiggled a finger on one of the keys of the till.

Ann, who would never see thirty-nine again, pressed a hand to her throat and laughed. “I suppose I am time warped, but I admire everything about that era. Those were the days when I was happy, perhaps not a child prodigy,
but a child success. I could sing, and I had parents who wanted me to shine. They entered me in talent contests and for several years I toured the country.” Her eyes took on a far-away look; she leaned against the counter, one hand rippling along its surface as if it were a piano keyboard.

And suddenly, incredibly, she began to sing, “Where did you go, man of my tears, leaving nothing on my horizon, but lonely, lonely years …”

I was excruciatingly embarrassed. Charles Delacorte was smiling as if his wife had finally made his day. Her voice (which wasn’t great) petered out. She gave a choked laugh.

“As well I retired at age ten, isn’t it? I never had the magic of the greats like Sylvania. Hers was a voice like Irish whiskey, all fire and passion. I did a show with her once.” The far-away look was back in Ann’s eyes. “She must have been about eighteen at the time, and she lit up the place with her sequins and her flaming hair. She sang ‘Goodbye, Again.’ I wanted to grow up to be exactly like her.” Ann lifted a hand to her face. “I don’t need you, Charles, to tell me that she was a great beauty and I never was. But I think my figure is comparable; I’m still thirty-eight, twenty-three, thirty-seven. One of the benefits of never having had children.”

Charles fixed his arctic gaze on me, increasing my discomfort. A clock chimed the quarter hour and I slid the picture frames across the counter and opened my bag. I had yet to overcome my feeling that measurements were a private matter, never to be casually discussed, especially in mixed company.

“I’m not really familiar with this Sylvania.” I glanced at the bill Charles handed me and started writing out a cheque.

Ann moved around the counter. “She shunned publicity. Her private life was always exactly that. There were rumours that she was secretly married, first to this man and that and even that she had children. But then her music went out of style, like this dress. For ages nothing was written about her, except for the occasional piece in the gossip papers pondering her fade-out and hinting that some tragedy had befallen her.”

Poor lonely Ann. Forty-some years old and a crush on
a dead singer. I was tucking my parcel under my arm when the
William Tell
Overture sounded again. Gladys Thorn entered the shop.