Lynda Plante: The Little One

‘You must have been mistaken.’

‘It seemed to come from upstairs.’

Shaking her head again, Margaret turned the bacon.

‘How do you like your eggs?’

‘Sunny side up, please,’ Barbara said, helping herself to a slice of toast.

Margaret served breakfast, then asked Barbara if she thought she should be checked over by the hospital.

Barbara shook her head. ‘I’m sure I’ll be OK. I’ll call Alan and ask him to collect me.’ She paused. ‘You have a lovely house.’

‘It was my sister’s,’ said Margaret. ‘She was intending to do it up and then convert it into separate apartments. She planned to sell each of them off and make a large profit. There are three floors. It’s a Gothic monster.’

‘That’s a big project to take on.’

‘Yes, it certainly is. There are also ten acres and a wooded copse behind the house which makes it quite dark. Most of the rooms are closed off, but I will get round to doing something with them one of these days.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

Margaret wiped her lips with a linen napkin.

‘Since my sister died.’

She pushed her chair back as if she didn’t want to discuss it any further and said, ‘I’m going to feed the birds.’

Barbara was left alone, sitting at the table. She’d cleaned her plate, even wiping it with some more toast, and had had two cups of coffee. Now she felt she should start to question Margaret more closely. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

She decided to act friendly and not push for any details. She was very good at teasing out information from people, but time would be against her. If Alan was going to come and collect her soon, she didn’t have very long.

She crossed to a window and looked out. A child’s swing hung from the branches of a massive sprawling oak tree. She saw Margaret shiver, no doubt reacting to the change in temperature.

Barbara went to her handbag and took out her mobile phone. She called Alan but just got his voicemail. She left a message saying that her ankle was very swollen and she could hardly walk but would try him later. Margaret came in just as she was finishing.

‘Alan’s busy doing a voice-over, so he’s not sure when he can come. Is there a train I could catch?’

Margaret said she wouldn’t hear of it until Barbara’s ankle was 100 per cent better.

Barbara thanked her, but then said, ‘Do you know, a strange thing happened last night. I saw a clockwork rabbit hopping from stair to stair.’

Margaret smiled, but made no reply. Instead she said, ‘I’m thinking of making an Irish stew. Would you like that?’

She went to help Barbara sit back on the sofa.

‘I use lots of fresh vegetables with the lamb and potatoes. I let them simmer for a couple of hours.’

‘Sounds delicious...’

‘Of course, I’m nowhere near as good a cook as my husband was.’

‘Your husband was French, wasn’t he?’

Margaret nodded and went to a dresser. She opened a drawer and took out a framed picture.

‘This is Armande. He was an actor.’

Barbara looked at the stunningly handsome dark-eyed man. He was in period costume, wearing a frilled shirt with a velvet waistcoat and tight-fitting trousers with riding boots.

‘Gosh, he’s so good-looking.’

‘Yes. He was also a genuine, kind, loving man. I fell in love with him as soon as we met. He was everything I could ever have hoped for. He proposed to me after only a few months.’

Barbara made all the right noises as Margaret showed her more photographs. This time they were arranged in albums. There were lots of pictures of the two of them on their wedding day. They were not only a breathtakingly beautiful pair, but they were also obviously very much in love.

Barbara sighed. ‘I’ve always dreamed of meeting someone like him. I seem to have a wretched ability to go for the wrong type. I’ve been constantly let down. In fact, only recently...’

Suddenly she felt tearful and found herself explaining how, in the last few days, she had been dumped by her boyfriend, lost her job and then been told to leave by her landlady. The only good thing was how kind Alan had been in allowing her to stay.

‘What work do you do?’

Whoops! Barbara sniffed and blew her nose. She was clever enough to think quickly and repeated that she was a writer.

‘What kind of writing?’ Margaret persisted.

‘Oh, novels, though I haven’t had any published yet.’

‘I write,’ Margaret said, smiling. ‘Well, I want to write. I think I have a strong story, but I’ve never managed to get it down.’

‘Maybe we can discuss it,’ said Barbara with interest. ‘If I can help at all, I’d love to be able to repay your kindness.’

Margaret closed her albums and looked thoughtful before saying, ‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell someone. Not right now. But I just keep thinking that if I were to write it down I would feel better.’

‘Is it to do with no longer working as an actress?’

Margaret gave her a cool glance.

‘No. My career is of no interest.’

She put the albums back in the drawer and closed it, before heading to the Aga to prepare the stew.

‘Your husband died, didn’t he?’

Again the cold glance.

‘Yes. I couldn’t write about that. If I think about it, I get so emotional I can hardly function. All that would happen is the pain would return. The memory of the day I was told Armande had died still burns inside me. Sometimes I wake at night and I live through it all over again. It was so hard to believe that he would never take me in his arms again. Never kiss me. Knowing I was never going to see him again, it felt as if I’d been swallowed by a whale.’

‘A whale?’

Margaret suddenly gave an infectious childlike giggle.

‘That’s how I explained it to my therapist. I felt I was trapped inside a whale, swilling around with the water and the dead fish. I was unable to get out, always in the dark and yet warm. Every time the whale opened its massive jaws I tried. I thought that if I could just swim out to safety, Armande would still be alive.’

She had a puzzled expression on her beautiful face. No longer aware of how attentive Barbara was, she appeared to have moved into a world of her own. Her eyes closed and she remained silent.

Finally, Barbara said, ‘Did you ever get out from the belly of the whale?’

Margaret’s manner changed suddenly. Now angry, she clenched her fists.

‘I didn’t want to get out! I didn’t want to break through the heat and escape out through its jaws, because then I would be alive. In its belly I was dying.’

She gave another odd laugh, shaking her head.

‘I was sent to a mental hospital. My sister arranged it. Ghastly place. I suppose I did swim out of its belly, because I was only there for a few months. I went back to work.’

She turned to her pan, picked up a big wooden spoon and stirred the contents.

‘Did you feel you came to terms with the death of your husband?’

Margaret waved the spoon as she spoke.

‘No. He was the love of my life. Until I’m buried beside him, the pain will continue. I exist because I have to. That is, until I can join him.’

‘Have you ever contemplated suicide?’

‘It’s impossible for me to do that.’

Margaret seasoned and stirred the stew, then tasted it and smiled.

‘Mmm... that’s good. A bit more salt, then I’ll leave it simmering.’ She paused for a while before saying, ‘It’s going to snow. I can always tell. The clouds are dark and full. I do love a stew on a cold wintry day.’

‘I should get dressed,’ Barbara said.

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want. You can rest up and maybe after lunch see how you feel. I have to run a few errands in the village.’