Dorothy Cannell - The Importance of Being Ernestine

“Come home?” Mrs. Malloy produced a notebook and pencil from her handbag with a flourish. “Where is she living now?”

Both husband and wife looked completely blank, but it was Mrs. Merryweather who spoke: “But that’s what you and this other lady,” he said, waving at me, “have come to tell us, isn’t it?

“No.” Now Mrs. Malloy and I were wearing the blank expressions.

“You mean… but we thought…” Mr. Merryweather spluttered to a halt and had to cough himself back to coherence. “We somehow got the idea that Ernestine had decided to get back in touch after having washed her hands of us twenty some years ago, never so much as letting us have her address. And because we’ve moved several times since then, sometimes out of the area and back, it would make sense for her to use a detective service. We thought, Ethel and I, that you were sounding us out to find out if we were willing to see her. To be honest we’ve had mixed feelings. We love her, always will, but we’re not sure we can go back to those days of having to hide the butter for fear of being lectured for hours about our cholesterol levels. Or of trying to keep the peace by drinking nothing stronger than decaffeinated coffee. And being reviled-that’s not too strong a word-for listening to rock ’n’ roll music.”

“The day she packed her bags and walked out the door we shed a lot of tears.” Mrs. Merryweather blinked hard.

“But then you know what we did?” Her husband grabbed her in a bear hug. “This little woman and I got back into life. She got her portrait painted. We went on our first cruise. And you know what helped most? Talking to other parents who’d learned to live with being a bitter disappointment to their children. So,” he paused, “what do you have to tell us about Ernestine?”

“That Lady Krumley wishes to make amends by leaving her a sizeable inheritance.” I said.

“Well, isn’t that nice.” Mrs. Merryweather dabbed at her eyes. “That calls for a drink. How about a nice clove cordial?”

Upon our departure from number seventeen Seashell Crescent, Mrs. Malloy and I drove to the Cottage Hospital where Lady Krumley was a patient. We now prowled its corridors, hoping to find a lift before our food supply-the bag of lemon drops and the half bar of chocolate in my handbag-ran out.

“Next time perhaps you’ll think to bring a map.” Mrs. Malloy teetered around to look back the way we had come. “I’m beginning to understand how Moses managed to spend forty years getting lost and relost in the desert. But I’m not blaming you, Mrs. H. I’m worn out after a morning spent talking to those Merryweathers. Them and their limbo dancing! It makes me wonder what it was like for Ernestine being their kiddie. Probably worn out by the time she was four and ready for the rocking chair at age twelve. But then again some little tinkers would have thrived on it and gone hot air ballooning out their bedroom window every chance they got. Or maybe it was like they said, that they didn’t discover their wild side till after she was gone. What did you think of that rude picture of Mrs. Merryweather?”

“Very realistic.”

“You can say that again, Mrs. H.! I’ve heard of them paintings where the eyes follow you all around the room, but this was worse. It wasn’t the eyes, it was the other-boobs and bobs-that kept staring at me, even when I squeezed me eyes shut. You can tell me it would be spoiling the integrity of the piece, but if that thing was to be hung in my front room I’d have to paint on a pair of knickers and a twenty-four-hour support bra. But we’ve got to be fair. Mr. Merryweather said it wasn’t done till Ernestine was out of the house. Rebelling against authority is what it’s called.”

“Whose authority in this case?”

“Ernestine’s. From the sound of it she was rather a strict child-on at them every minute about one thing or another. That sort of thing can wear you down in a hurry. My George tried it with me a few times, saying I should dress more me age and cut back on bingo and me occasional gin and tonics. Well, as you can imagine, Mrs. H., I soon told him what he could do with his advice. And it wasn’t to stuff it up his jumper. But likely the Merryweathers don’t have my backbone.”

“It’s very sad to think of parents not having any contact with a daughter in twenty years.” I kept on walking and Mrs. Malloy came teetering alongside me. Her sideways glance at my face was shrewd.

“You can stop that this minute Mrs. H.!”

“What?”

“Fretting about little Rose. What went on between Ernestine and her Mum and Dad had nothing to do with her being adopted. Children is children however they get here.”

“We can’t assume that Ernestine wasn’t affected. And you know how it is,” I said, quickening my pace, “whenever there are problems with an adopted child. People tend to throw up their hands and say what can you expect!”

“What people? Probably the ones who’d like to come up with an excuse for why their own kids is all messed up.”

“Possibly.” After the damp chill of the outdoors the hospital hallways felt unbearably stuffy. A few moments later I decided Mrs. Malloy had reached the point of hallucinating. Flinging out an arm she queried in a faltering voice, “Is that a wheelchair I see before me, the handles toward my hand?”

“Not that I can see. But if you want to get in I’ll push you.”

She heaved an irritated sigh. “I was just trying to lighten things up, taking the mickey out of Shakespeare. Didn’t take me for the highbrow sort, did you, Mrs. H.? Always a big mistake that is, making assumptions.” Her voice mellowed. “It’s why we’re both feeling so low at this minute. We showed up at the Merryweathers’s door thinking they’d tell us what Ernestine is up to these days and how to get in touch with her. Never a thought that we’d come up short.”

“We should have been more realistic.” We came to a water-cooler, but I decided it had to be a mirage. “If it were that easy everyone would be private detectives, which wouldn’t be good for the likes of Milk Jugg.”

“We wouldn’t want that.” Mrs. Malloy didn’t sound as sure as I would have expected. “But I’ve got to thinking as how there’s something to be said for being new at this work. Not going by the book like Milk would do.”

“How does our muddling along from one moment to the next work in our favor?”

“Muddling isn’t the word I’d choose. I’d call it taking a fresh approach.” Mrs. M. flung a vexed look my way. “If Milk was on the job, talking to the Merryweathers and such-like we’ve gone and done-I can’t see him stuffing his face with scones while they rambled on about this, that and the other, or sitting watching that Mrs. Joritz knitting. Being a busy man with other cases on the books he’d have had to speed things up, take control of the interview. It’s the way he’ll have been taught. But you and me, we haven’t been to private detective school. So, for the most part, we’ve just let people chat. And maybe that’ll end up being more help than them just answering questions.”

“Because it’s the little things-the seemingly unimportant snippets-that help build up the picture, or suddenly turn it around. Yes, I know exactly what you mean, Mrs. Malloy. It happened to me this morning. Only it wasn’t the Merryweathers; it was something you said.” I broke off because we found ourselves standing in front of a lift. Its doors opened. People-mostly hospital staff-got out. We stepped into the empty space, and I pressed the button to Lady Krumley’s floor.

“So what does that make me? The dim-witted sidekick that can’t figure out how he’s helped, while the detective just stands there combing his moustache and looking clever?” Mrs. Malloy stuck her nose up so high it almost knocked off her hat.