The Widow's Club (33 page)

… “My poor Ellie, what an agonising day! If only we had known … known you!” Primrose sighed. “We could have helped by sending Butler over to make little sausages on sticks. You would have been pleased to do so, would you not, Butler?”

The man removed plates scattered with toasted teacake crumbs. “Certainly, madam. Although not as much as I h’enjoyed breaking into The Peerless Nursing Home. Surely Mr. Freddy …”

“Please!” Hyacinth’s black brows zigzagged together. “We do not wish to hear that name.…”

In all fairness, a certain person did knock on the front door Thursday evening to sob his apologies through the letter box. If Eli’s dog had been handy, I would have whispered, “Postman!” in her ear and flung wide the door.

“Ellie, old sock, did I by chance forget to mention that one of the deep freezes at Abigail’s is crammed with bite-sized morsels prepared during my training sessions with Ben? Of course, I never dreamed that they would go public—we have been eating them for lunch. But it occurs to me that in a pinch …”

I almost went through the letter box. To have suffered the horrors of the damned while a deep freeze had everything at the ready! A moment’s quiet reflection, however, brought me to realise that Freddy was not totally to blame. Had my husband and I been properly communicating, I
would have recognised that while Ben lay blank-eyed on the pillows, he wasn’t fretting whether Freddy would recall the precise ratio of air to solid in a mousse, but whether he was up to proper thawing.

Freddy rattled the letter box to recapture my attention. “Of course, Ellie, you might like to make some chicken tarts. They’re a bit simplistic for Ben or me, but—”

“I know, they were a great hit at the wedding reception.” So, the chicken tarts weren’t wasted, but nothing could give me back the hours I could have spent with Ben, or undo the fact that he thought he came a poor second to dusting the drawing room.

When I brought Poppa up to see Ben, I could tell that the dent in our marital relationship had deepened into a bottomless pit. My own husband had to snap his fingers a couple of times to recall my name. And if I didn’t have enough problems, the little dog, misnamed Sweetie, took a snarling dislike to me. I couldn’t think of a thing to serve for dinner except ruined hors d’oeuvres. And, for all his pleasantness to me, Poppa soon made it plain that his desire to see his son did not include a willingness to speak to him. Honour must prevail. The possibility of instant reconciliation between my in-laws also went out the window like a loose canary when they met across Ben’s bed.

“You’re looking fatter, Eli.”

“You’re looking thinner, Maggie.”

“I will not turn my son’s mansion into a battleground.”

“Won’t seem like home, will it?”

She smoothed down her grey cardigan, he rubbed his bald spot, and that was that.

From then on, the house turned into a revolving door. Each time Magdalene saw Eli, she crossed herself. Each time he saw her, he chanted something in Yiddish. I grew dizzy wondering how long this might last. And, to add zing to the tension, Sweetie was trying to drive me off her territory. Tobias went into hibernation. Occasionally I would espy a dangle of fluffy tail out the door of a high cupboard but, in my time of need, the comfort of a warm furry body was denied me.

How long would Poppa stay? My suspicions became confirmed when he requested a room with a view, enquired as to the location of the nearest synagogue, and wanted to
know whether I was aware of any chess societies in need of new members.

Within hours of Poppa’s arrival, I began to perceive unnerving signs of a different sort. He wasn’t making himself at home; he was making
my
home
his
home. Candlesticks bearing the Star of David and portraits of rabbis began springing up all over the house in direct competition with his wife’s statues, pictures, and the holy water fonts she had placed beside every door—from the refrigerator to the drawing room. What would Dorcas and Jonas think were they to walk in now?

Never had I missed my dear friends more than that long Thursday evening. How much more could I take of Poppa not talking to Ben (except with his eyes), Poppa and Magdalene not talking to each other, Ben not talking to me, and me … doing all the talking. With fond nostalgia I thought of the Aunts Astrid and Lulu, dear Uncle Maurice … stopping short only at Vanessa. But mostly I thought of closing the kitchen door on chaos and sinking into a deep, deep sleep. But to reach this utopia I would have to get into bed with Ben, who had summarily rejected the cup of tea I offered to fetch him; his mother was bringing him hot milk.

To sleep on the chaise lounge now that he was better would make me look silly. To retire to a separate bedroom would be wrong. Magdalene would know. Turning off the bedside light, I slid planklike between the sheets. I had worked off just a little of my remorse.

“Forget something, darling?” Ben’s voice broke into the darkness.

I wasn’t too tired to smile. “What?” I edged a millimeter closer to his warmth. Statistically, what were the chances of the bedroom door flying open?

“Your duster. Oh, and Ellie …”

“Yes?”

“I promise not to wake you if I die in the night. I know you need your beauty sleep.”

I felt him fold a pyjama’d arm over his face and close his eyes. Cruel! Cruel! How could I sleep? What if he died in the night and I were not awake to revive him? Dr. Melrose had assured me that all that was needed now for complete recovery was a few days of bed rest and medication. But I knew Ben when he was intent on making a point.

Tomorrow is another day, I thought, ripe with promise. The promise of continued hostilities, Roxie giving me hell on account of the kitchen, and Sweetie, the dog with the yap that went right through you, scratching her toenails as she hurtled across parquet and stone floors, wetting every time someone laid down a newspaper. Why didn’t I remember meeting the little dear on my visit to Tottenham?

Sweetie, so Poppa informed me the next morning, was new. Secondhand new, that is. He had purchased her from a man boarding the same London train yesterday, who, after much fumbling in his pockets, discovered he did not have the money for her fare.

“Is she a present for your wife?” I attempted a smile at Sweetie, but had to snatch it back.

“Maggie hates all dogs.”

Sweetie must not have heard him. When Magdalene entered the kitchen at eight o’clock and Poppa went out into the hall, the dog skittered toward her, whimpering and darting looks over her ratty shoulder at me.

“Poor neglected mite.” Magdalene squinted as though unsure precisely what the mite was, but ten seconds later the wee brute was halfway up her leg and into her heart.

And to give the devil her due, Sweetie did get Magdalene to set foot out of the house. My mother-in-law set the fuzzy scrap down, took one look at the dishes rising like the Tower of Babel, and pressed her lips firmly together. She was not going to say a word of criticism. She donned her coat and the damson beret, attached Sweetie to a length of string, and with a squaring of her birdlike shoulders, informed me that she refused to be a victim any longer to her nerves.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Giselle, but I’ve been hiding from shadows.”

“Have you, Magdalene?” I felt a surge of closeness, all tied up with the Raincoat Man and the hamburgers that chased by night. I wanted to ask what her shadows looked like, but Sweetie was standing cross-legged by the garden door. Out they went and in came Roxie. Half an hour early. Blast! I could have hidden the mess and the kitchen itself, given time.

I put on two aprons—one for the front, one for the
back—and started tying strings. “Feel free to develop a crippling headache, Roxie, and go home.”

She smacked her red butterfly lips together and, without removing the velvet hat with its sequined brooch, tossed both ends of her feather boa over her shoulders and rolled up her coat sleeves.

“I hate to think what the health inspector would say if he was to pop in. A good thing Roxie Malloy can keep her mouth shut.” Her record for that feat was 1.024 seconds.

I flushed water into the sink and said I would naturally pay her extra.

“I wouldn’t dream!” She fluttered purple lids. “What with the day you had yesterday, the Historical Society all over the house, falling into dungeons! Couldn’t hear the numbers at bingo for all the talk about it. Course, if you should choose, Mrs. H., to slip a little something extra into me hand when I’m not looking, there’s not much I can do to stop you, short of giving offense. And with your mother-in-law visiting you too, I gather—”

“Did someone mention me?” Magdalene came through the garden doorway, nose reddened by the wind, beret pulled over the ears, Sweetie trying to outrun the lead so she could gnaw my legs.

“I thought I heard the kettle whistle, Giselle, and I always have a cup of tea about this time. Oh, it’s not even on—never mind, I’ll manage without. What I have to tell you is I’ve changed my mind about tonight.”

“That’s nice. Magdalene, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Malloy.”

“Very pleased,” said Magdalene. “Perhaps you won’t need to come in as many hours now I’m here.” She blinked a smile at Roxie. “Yes, Giselle, as I sat on a bench looking at God’s lovely trees and thinking how they needed pruning, I came to know my duty. I must be at this party to see that my only son’s restaurant gets off to a decent start.”

I am ashamed to say I didn’t like Ben’s mother excessively, but I couldn’t fault her courage.

“Pleased to meet you, madam,” Roxie huffed at Magdalene. “Now if you’ll scoot sideways, I’ll mop around you. I hope Mrs. H. informed you that I don’t clean up after dogs.” The words were barely out of her mouth when
Sweetie went into a squat. That animal had to be two-thirds water.

4:28
P.M
.
I wriggled around inside my black dress, trying to get the shoulders to sit right. I had found my pearl earrings, but I still had to locate my flat shoes with room for swelling. Knowing they were in my bag would make my feet hurt less. I dreaded going upstairs to say good-bye to the men. On my last excursion into the bedroom, Ben accused me of being in collusion with Dr. Melrose. My husband’s hollow laughter still rang in my ears: “I will not be kept away from the most important event of my life!” So much for our wedding.

4:34
P.M
.
Up the stairs, one slow foot at a time. I opened the bedroom door. Within, all appeared tranquil. Poppa was seated in the Lloyd Loom chair by the window, carving the wooden icing for my cake. He had not taken kindly to my suggestion that cardboard would do. The atmosphere was like Delacorte Antiques: too idyllic. I got the nasty feeling that the moment the car disappeared in a fog of exhaust fumes, Ben would be out of bed and phoning for a taxi to take him to Abigail’s. And in such a crisis, Poppa would be useless. Even to cry, “Halt!” would be a violation of his principles.

I crept across the floor, turned the key in the lock of Ben’s wardrobe, then slipped it into my bag. Eli glanced up; I waved at him, kissed the air inches above my husband’s face and tiptoed out.

4:45
P.M
.
It was raining as I crossed the courtyard to the car. Magdalene was in the front passenger seat holding the silver punch bowl, wrapped in newspaper, on her lap. The smile she gave me as I yanked the door closed was a little frayed at the edges. She kept fingering the bowl. I was sure second thoughts had been attacking her since the sky began to darken. Would she have stayed at home if she hadn’t overheard Poppa telling me to keep my eye on her at all times because she wasn’t used to rich food and alcoholic beverages?

Roxie was in the back seat with the chicken tarts. She had kept finding things to keep her busy until she missed the bus and required a lift into the village, but she wouldn’t hear a word about my running her on home. Why was she
so determined to work this evening, unless it was all the behind-the-scenes booze?

Magdalene made little whispering noises beside me. I started a prayer of my own. “Please God, let Heinz have benefitted from his latest treatment at the garage. Grant that we may make this journey without doors or wheels flying off.” I turned the ignition key. Noises—harsh, grinding noises. Magdalene clutched the punch bowl. I grasped the wheel, pressed down hard on the accelerator and blew on the windshield to defrost it. My best hope was to outrace whatever was about to succumb to gravity.

Waves of Attar of Roses as Roxie leaned forward to tap Magdalene on the shoulder. “Want to know what put me off the Catholic Church for life? Well, I’ll tell you irregardless. It was all that talk about coming together and then Rome knocks off St. Christopher, the only one of the lot that nonbelievers like me thought did his job.”

5:00
P.M
.
Two waiters, impeccable down to their smiles, greeted us at the door of Abigail’s. Each took a tray of chicken tarts, but Magdalene was adamant about retaining control of the punch bowl. They preceded us up the Persian carpeted stairs to the second floor hallway. Facing us a few feet to the right was the alcove leading into the reception room. Standing within was a sight to make my blood boil. Freddy!