Barbara Vine - The Minotaur

She smiled slightly at this. I think Dr Lombard expected some sort of congratulation from one of the others on his wit but none was forthcoming. He went on to reassure Mrs Cosway about her arm and her ankle, citing all sorts of cases he had known of people a decade older than she was who had recovered full function from worse injuries than hers and, in one instance, gained enhanced flexibility. These days she would have been expected to attend physiotherapy sessions but if that was so then, it hadn't reached the cottage hospital.

Ida, always apparently greedy for more domestic tasks, went off to make coffee. I noticed she had failed to remind her mother about the prescription and I decided I wouldn't. We all listened to a recital of anecdotes from Mrs Cosway of hospital dramas, capped by others even more improbable from Dr Lombard and then the coffee came. I understood soon afterwards that there was to be no reminder from Ida as she got up and excused herself on the grounds of needing to make a meat pie for lunch.

Dr Lombard told an irrelevant vignette, the one about spaghetti owing its origin to the noodles Marco Polo brought back from China, kissed Mrs Cosway and said he would look in again on Wednesday – why do doctors, and no one else, say they will look in again? I went to the door with him, out of politeness.

‘She's very frail,’ he said when out of earshot.

I nodded. There seemed nothing to say.

Halfway towards his car, he turned and said, ‘Those leaves will be falling soon. They should have cut that stuff back but if they had I dare say the house would have fallen down. You look sceptical, young lady, but I tell you it's all those millions of tendrils that are holding the place up.’

He got into his car and drove off. I never saw him again.

17

I walked into the drawing room at about ten on the Wednesday morning to find John wearing his glasses and with the newspaper held close up against his face.

‘Would you find the big magnifying glass for me, Shashtin?’ he said.

His diction was perfect, as was his pronunciation of my name. Excited because he wanted to read, because at last he wanted to do something, I rummaged through drawers full of rubbish other people would have discarded. There was no one about to ask and Ida wasn't interested. Eventually, I found the glass, a large heavy one, washed it under the kitchen tap and brought it back to him. He experimented with holding it close against the print, then further away, with his glasses on and without them, but no result seemed satisfactory and he flung glass and paper down in disappointment. Mrs Cosway was brought in soon afterwards by Winifred and settled in an armchair.

‘Where's Dr Lombard?’ were her first words.

‘He didn't say a time,’ I said, ‘only that he would come.’

‘He knows I'd expect him early. Do you all realize Zorah came last night? Not that she has been to see me. That would be too much to expect.’

‘She's awfully upset, Mother,’ Ida said. ‘She came down here on purpose to see you.’

Using a very old-fashioned expression I had read in books but never before heard, Mrs Cosway said, ‘You can tell that to the Marines.’

John, who had been staring into his lap, lifted his head and turned his eyes on his mother. He said in a slow, deliberate voice, ‘I want to see a proper specialist. About the way my hands shake and I stumble when I walk. A specialist in London, a Harley Street man will be best.’

Mrs Cosway was astounded, as well she might have been. She was silenced but only for a moment. ‘No, you don't, John. Dr Lombard sees to all that.’

John, naturally, ignored her. ‘My sight is worse. I need new glasses.’

‘Yes, well, we'll take you to the optician in Sudbury and you can have your eyes tested.’

He held up his shaking hands. ‘I need an expert. I want you to tell the trust.’

‘All this is nonsense,’ Mrs Cosway cried. ‘Who has put you up to this?’ She looked at me but I had done nothing, unless thought has power. ‘They won't let you have it on the Health Service, you know. You'd have to pay.’

‘That's what I said. You must ask the trust to pay.’

‘No, John, it's not necessary.’

I expected Ida or Winifred to intervene but I should have known better. They said nothing.

‘I'm going to get the money out of the trust.’

‘I've said no. The answer is no and that's all there is to it. One of the girls will drive you to see the optician.’

John stood up. He turned his back, dropped to the floor and lay flat on the carpet, making no sound at first, then starting to thrash about and shout. As he paused to draw breath the doorbell rang. Everyone thought, of course, that it must be Dr Lombard.

‘Thank God,’ said Mrs Cosway, ‘that must be Selwyn at last.’

I went to the door. It was Eric. He came in, looking grave, but his expression changed to incredulity when he heard John's yells.

‘What on earth is that?’

‘John. He's lying on the floor making that noise.’

‘Good heavens.’ Eric cleared his throat and put on an expression of immense seriousness. ‘I am the bearer of bad news. Oh, not to you, Kerstin.’

‘What is it?’

‘Dr Lombard passed away this morning. He had a heart attack during his surgery. An ambulance came and they took him to hospital but it was too late. His housekeeper came over to the Rectory and told me. I'd better go in there and tell them.’

‘Break it gently to Mrs Cosway,’ I said.

He had called her frail but she was alive and he was dead. The front door was still open. As I went to close it I noticed Zorah's Lotus on the driveway, half-hidden by Eric's modest Ford.

*

They all moved out of the drawing room, Mrs Cosway hanging on to the arms of her two daughters, leaving John to thrash and scream. But the noise he was making lessened and when I went back in there about twenty minutes later he was in the foetal position, his fingers covering his eyes. That was the most distressing sight of him I had ever had, though not would ever have.

Mrs Cosway had taken the news with the calm of utter shock. Winifred and Ida, it was easy to see, had no idea how to cope with her. It would have been different if this had been some close relative who had died. The death of an old lover, even the great love of her life, as I suppose she saw him, could hardly be treated as a legitimate and honourable cause of grief. Embarrassment must be associated with it. The pretence must be kept up that this was just a family friend who would be missed but whose passing would certainly not cause any profound sorrow.

‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ said Winifred, who, as befitted a clergyman's betrothed, had begun introducing biblical snippets into conversation. ‘He'd had his allotted span, his threescore years and ten. Four or five years more, actually.’

‘And man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards,’ said Zorah, coming into the room. ‘Has anyone else a wise saw to contribute? May I know who is dead?’

The recollection of what Selwyn Lombard had been to Zorah, and that owing to this peculiar circumstance she ought to be told at once, must have come into everyone's mind simultaneously, with the exception, that is, of Eric's. Innocently he looked round at our embarrassed faces and said, ‘Unfortunately, Dr Lombard passed away this morning.’

Zorah approached him, staring into his face. ‘You mean he's dropped off his perch at last?’

An awful silence answered her.

‘Well, good riddance,’ she said. ‘Let me know where they're burying him and I'll come and dance on his grave.’

This last word was cut off by Mrs Cosway's scream. She made the same sounds as her son, shouting wordlessly, her head thrown back, her feet drumming on the floor, the plaster making muffled bangs as it struck the carpet. Zorah left the room, looking pleased with herself. A point had been reached when I felt I had had enough. This was the first occasion on which I thought I could no longer stand it. I must find Ida and tell her to forget about my undertaking to stay a year. I had had enough and must go. I could no longer stand this family – dysfunctional before the word was invented.