Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“I’m so sorry, but my husband can’t come now. He’s not been well, especially these last few days. He says if you could write. Do you have the address?”

“Yes, but…you see, we were hoping Mr. Stadding might come and see Mrs. Matson…”

“Oh, there’s no question of that. I told you he wasn’t at all well. No, you’ll have to write.”

Dilys looked towards the bed. The lips moved briefly, shaping a syllable—inaudible, but Dilys could perceive the weary acceptance. She thanked Mrs. Stadding and rang off. She stood for a little, staring blankly at the handset, still in her hand, while she put her thoughts in order, then turned to the bed.

“Now don’t try and say anything for the moment, dearie—you’re just wearing yourself out, and it won’t get you anywhere doing that. You’re going to have a proper rest now, and I’m going to put your book on and you’re going to listen to it for a whole side, and then we’ll see. And while you’re doing that I’m going to write a letter to Mr. Stadding, so you know something’s happening and you don’t just lie there fretting to get on. Only first we’ve got to get right what you want me to say. No, don’t try and say anything, not yet. You want to ask him something, and it’s about his father, isn’t it? Trouble is, it’s a secret, and he’s not going to tell just anyone. It’s got to be you, just between the two of you—that’s why you hoped he could come and see you. So it’s no use you telling me this question, because it’s a secret, like I say, and how’s he to know I’m telling the truth anyway, about it all being for you, and I’m not going to read what he says when he writes back to you? That’s really the first thing we’ve got to work out. I mean, if he’s sure it’s you and you can tell him somehow he can rely on me—which he can, if only he knew—and then, somehow, we can get your question to him, do you follow…?”

She paused, not expecting any answer, because that was as far as her thoughts had reached. She saw Mrs. Matson’s lips move, again inaudibly.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch that, dearie—you’ll have to say it again.”

She bent over the bed to hear the faint syllable.

“Tape.”

“Tape…? Oh, a tape recorder! That’s brilliant! Yes, I can hold the microphone right up close and I’ll put my Walkman on so I can’t hear what you’re saying and I can tell him all that in the letter and he can put his answer on the tape and send it back for you to listen to. You are a clever old thing, you really are!…Not like that? But…All right, you tell me!”

Again she bent and strained to hear the fought-for syllables, separated each from the next like drips from a tap.

“Write. First. Me. Dead. Soon. Must. Know. Before. Album. Family. Fifty. Seven…”

There was a longer pause. Dilys waited, realising that Mrs. Matson was momentarily exhausted and only giving herself time to gather strength again. She wouldn’t be at ease, not to rest properly, until she’d finished the message.

“Man. On. Fire. Escape. Send. Say. ‘Carrot.’ Joke.#8221;

“Joke…Oh, I get it! There was a joke about a carrot, and he’ll remember, so he’ll know it’s got to be you. That’s brilliant! And we can send it to him and ask him to help while we’re getting the tape ready…You don’t think we might as well wait. Ellen’s got a recorder sure as eggs. You’ve just got to have a decent rest, not fretting about it all, and you’ll find you’re talking normal again. And I’ll get that letter written while you’re resting, and see Ellen and get it all set up ready, so you can do the tape this afternoon and we’ll get it all in the late post. Don’t you think that’s best? Really?”

“No. Send. Letter. Photo. Graph. You. Take. Tape.”

“Me? Well, if that’s the way you want it. Just as you like, dearie. Now is that everything? It better had be, ’cause this isn’t doing you any good. Best have it off your chest, I know, but it’s no use trying yourself beyond what you can manage…”

She paused as Mrs. Matson smiled. She had the most beautiful smile, Dilys thought. They were often like that, old people’s smiles, holy, sort of, but naughty with it sometimes…

“Letter. Lay it. On. Thick. Dilys.”

“Do my best, dearie, you can be sure of that. And it’ll take me a bit of a while, seeing I’m not much of a writer, so I’m going to make you nice and comfortable, and draw your curtains this end and you’re going to have your rest. And I’ll settle down at the table there so I can keep an eye on you, make sure you’re behaving yourself. I’ll just nip out and get that photo first, shall I, so you know I’ve got the right one.”

The photograph was where Mrs. Matson had said it would be, of course. It was of a very handsome young man. Dilys had noticed a couple of pictures of him earlier in the album as she’d leafed through, one of them with Miss Anne down by the river, feeding ducks. Here he was alone on a sort of balcony…no, it was the fire escape, of course, like Mrs. Matson had said, only the way he was standing was so poetical you couldn’t help thinking balcony…you could see he was sending himself up, standing like that, so it was funny already, and then…something to do with a carrot—he’d got one and put it between his teeth, like a rose? Something like that. And Mr. Stadding had been there…No, of course, the young man was Mr. Stadding, so of course he’d remember…

She showed the picture to Mrs. Matson, settled her down for her rest, fetched her own writing things and got down to the letter.

It took her almost all morning, with several false starts and endless crossings out. Lay it on thick, Mrs. Matson had said, but she didn’t want it to sound soppy or pathetic because Mrs. Matson wasn’t like that. She found that the plainer she made it, the more she called a spade a spade, the righter it felt, so in the end it came out a good deal shorter than her first attempts.

Dear Mr. Stadding,

I’m writing to you for Mrs. Matson. She can’t write because she’s paralysed and she can only just speak so the phone’s no use either. She’s told me to send this picture along with the letter, so you can know it’s from her. She says to tell you “Carrot.”

The other thing she said to tell you is she hasn’t got long. Motor neurone disease is what she has, and once you’ve got it you just get worse, starting with your legs and working up. Mrs. Matson’s almost gone. I don’t know how long it will be, she’s such a fighter, but I doubt she’ll see another winter.

The thing I want to tell you for myself is she’s absolutely all there still, in her mind, I mean. She never stops thinking and remembering and working things out. So it’s no use trying to fob her off. She’ll see what you’re at, and she won’t give up. She’ll try and get at it another way.

Now, there’s just something she’s anxious to get sorted before she goes. She hasn’t told me what it is and I’m not asking, because it’s private, but it’s got to be something to do with the Cambi Road Association, or she wouldn’t be asking you. And I can tell you from me she’s not going to go happy without it—she’s got herself into such a state fretting about it. She’s killing herself, if you want my honest opinion. That’s no way to go, Mr. Stadding. It isn’t right.

Anyway, she wants to keep it private and so do you, she says, so her idea is I’m going to fix a tape recorder by her so she can whisper into it, which is as much as she can do by way of talking, anyway. And I’ll stop my ears so I don’t hear anything, and she wants me to bring the tape over for you to listen to, and then you can talk to her back the same way. So you’ll know it’s only me that had the chance to know anything about it, and you can make up your mind about me when you see me, I suppose.