Caroline Graham: Faithful unto Death

“This is the best bit.”

“Alan came out into the back garden calling the cat .”

“Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If she wasn’t there to do it.” Brenda pulled the plug and dried her hands very vigorously on the tea towel. “I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Reg and Iris stared at each other in disappointment and dismay. There had been many an occasion when a mountain if not indeed a whole cloud-capped range had been made of detail not nearly so rich in dramatic potential. And Brenda had been the first to relish such discussions. But now she simply flung the cloth down, clicked her tongue in the direction of the dog and left the room. Shona, full of joy but with more sense than to express it by barking, leapt from her basket and trotted after. There was a breathing space when the Brockleys could hear the bell on the dog collar tinkling as her lead was attached. Then the front door slammed and they were gone.

Reg and Iris rushed to the picture window in the lounge and watched as the pair made their way down the drive. The poodle dancing and prancing, ecstatically exercising her vocal cords; Brenda walking carefully with neat, even steps. They hesitated briefly outside Nightingales before walking on into St. Chad’s Lane.

Reg and Iris returned to the kitchen. Iris picked up the tea towel—a nice view of Powys Castle—prised open a turquoise plastic peg and hung the towel up next to her rubber gloves.

Her husband said, “What’s got into her tonight?”

“Nerves, Reg. I blame these high-powered meetings. Remember how you used to come home?”

Heather Gibbs gave Arcadia a good seeing-to every Friday. Two hours, twelve pounds. Generous in comparison with the usual but, as Heather’s mum pointed out, if you’re batty as an egg whisk you’re going to have to cough up just that little bit extra.

Mrs. Molfrey sat in her faded petit-point wing chair, feet up on a beaded footstool, and watched Heather with deep satisfaction. When the girl had first turned up some months ago now, clomping into the sitting room on shoes like great blocks of wood and bawling her head off, Mrs. Molfrey had trembled on behalf of her delicate glasses and fragile ornaments. But Heather, though lumberingly uneconomical in her movements, handled every one of these treasured artefacts with the most gentle and precise movements.

At the moment she was carefully going over an ornately carved, many-mirrored overmantel with a feather duster. Mrs. Molfrey’s satisfaction deepened when she glimpsed, through a gap in the sitting-room door, her gleaming kitchen. Aware from a certain amount of static from the shiny pink box on her concave chest and the liveliness of Heather’s lips that she was being spoken to, Mrs. Molfrey switched on her deaf aid. She waited till the girl was looking elsewhere for she felt it was rather rude to have switched it off in the first place.

“So I said, what time do you call this and he only said ‘nookie time’ didn’t he? In front of me mam and the kids and everything.”

“Who was this, Heather?”

“Kevin’s dad. He’s never off the nest. Know what I mean?”

“Which dad is that?” asked Mrs. Molfrey, for she had still not disentangled Heather’s assorted progeny let alone grasped the ramifications of an extended family that seemed to cover half Bucks county.

“Barry. The one with the Harley Davidson.”

“Ah. The musician.”

Heather didn’t bother to put her right. It wasn’t worth it. She’d have forgotten by next time. And really Heather only chatted to be polite. Given a choice she’d as soon bring her Walkman and a tape of Barry Manilow. But the old lady must crave a bit of conversation what with only the old geezer in the caravan for company. He cooked for her every day too. Sweet really.

Now, giving a final polish to an emerald glass lustre, Heather asked Mrs. Molfrey if she was ready for her cuppa. This was Heather’s last chore. She would leave the tea and a piece of cake on the little piecrust table by Mrs. Molfrey’s chair.

Mrs. Molfrey always asked Heather if she would like to join her but Heather had only done this once. The tea was disgusting. A funny colour and a worse smell. And there wasn’t any other sort. Just looking at it, thought Heather, was enough to make you heave. Like dried up black worms all mixed up with yellow flowers.

Now, as she put the kettle on in the kitchen, Heather heard the thocketer, thocketer of a 500cc engine and saw, through the kitchen window, a Honda scooter bouncing gently over the grassy approach to the back of the house.

“It’s Becky,” she called through to the other room.

“She’ll be bringing my hair,” called back Mrs. Molfrey. “Chuck another spoon in the pot. And dig out the cake tin. There’s a WI lemon drizzle.”

Becky Latimer, a sweet-faced young woman with a lightly freckled skin, smooth and brown as a hen’s egg, lifted the latch and walked into the kitchen. She carried a wig block under one arm and a customised plastic carrier on which a crossed brush and comb surmounted the words “Becky’s Mobile Maison.”

“All done for you, Mrs. Molfrey.” She smiled at the old lady. “How’s the world treating you today?”

“You’ll stay for tea, Becky?” Mrs. Molfrey laid an arrangement of knobby bones covered loosely by gingery spotted skin urgently on the girl’s arm.

“Course I will,” said Becky who was already running twenty minutes late. “Just a quick one.”

As Heather brought out Mrs. Molfrey’s tray, Becky brought up Simone Hollingsworth’s name, asking Mrs. Molfrey if she had seen anything of the woman. “Only I was giving her a cut and blow dry yesterday half three and when I turned up she’d gone out. She didn’t cancel or ring or anything. It’s not like her at all.”

“I heard she was looking after a sick relative,” said Mrs. Molfrey, “and had to dash off. No doubt it put the appointment right out of her mind.”

“Yes, it would,” said Becky with some relief. She was trying to build up her business and had feared that Mrs. Hollingsworth had become dissatisfied with her work. Simone was a demanding client and her soft, white-gold hair was far from easy to handle. Unlike most of Becky’s customers she wanted something different every week, if only in some small detail. When Becky arrived there would often be a Vogue or Tatler lying open on the sitting-room table and her young heart would sink as she was shown some elaborately styled or brilliantly cut coiffure and asked to copy it. Still, so far, fingers crossed, she seemed to have done OK.

While these thoughts had been passing through Becky’s mind, Heather had taken the cling film off the cake, cut it in slices and poured a second cup of tea. Now, having put her outdoor coat on, she stopped in the middle of saying goodbye and said instead, “Hey, Becks. You talking about Mrs. H from Nightingales?”

“That’s right.”

“She was on the market bus.”

“On the bus?”

“That’s right, Mrs. Molfrey.”

“But she never goes anywhere.”

“Well, she went to Causton.”

“Was that the two thirty?” asked Becky.

“No, half twelve. Got off outside Gateways. And I’ll tell you another funny thing. She hadn’t got no case nor nothing. Just a handbag.”

“You’d think,” said Becky, “if she was visiting this sick relative she’d have got off at the stop near the railway station.”

“It’s a right mystery,” said Heather. She swung round and her full skirt floated about her, describing a wide circle.

There really should be a shipping warning when people like Heather entered one’s natural orbit, thought Mrs. Molfrey. She closed her eyes and prayed.

“Ah well,” said Heather, now safely on the threshold. “Ta-ra again.”