Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“Go and talk to my wife, if you like. I daresay she could do with a chat. I am not much by way of company these days. I must trust you not to tell her the reason for your visit.”

“Of course I shan’t. That’s between you and Mrs. Matson.”

Surprised by the sudden affront, she had spoken sharply, but he merely nodded and waited for her to leave.

From the hallway she could see Mrs. Stadding in the kitchen, standing by a counter, motionless. She was holding a tea bag by one corner between fingertip and thumb tip, as if posing for a photo in an ad. The whistle of the kettle broke her trance. She dropped the tea bag into the cup and moved out of sight. When she came back with the kettle Dilys saw that, as she’d guessed, she was crying.

She waited until the kettle was safely back on the cooker and went in. Mrs. Stadding made no effort to stop her tears.

“Oh, you poor thing,” said Dilys.

“I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it any more.”

“It’s his liver, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. We knew it was bad, and we’d been waiting for a transplant, but suddenly it’s got so much worse and he’s too ill for it and they want to take him to hospital but he’s made up his mind he’s dying and he wants to die here. I can’t bear it. He’s so much younger than I am, so we’d always known I’d go first.”

“Oh, that’s so hard on you! Of course it is! Why, you’ve only made one cup.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“I’m sure you do. Come along now. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, I suppose.”

“There’s a good girl. Now you tell me all about it and don’t worry what you’re saying because a secret’s a secret and I’ll not pass it on. I never think any the worse of someone for what they say when they’re in trouble. Far better have it out, I always say, than bottle it up. Now, then, not too strong, I expect.”

“Oh no, terribly weak. And a teeny bit of milk—I’m not supposed to but I can’t stand it without.”

“Me too. Now you sit there and tell me about it. No wonder you’re fond of him. He must have been ever so handsome when he was a young man.”

“Oh, you should have seen him! From the moment I set eyes on him I knew there was no one else in the world I wanted. I hadn’t a hope, you’d have said, with me being so much older than he was though I wasn’t a bad looker still, if I say it myself, but I wasn’t one to give up. I found out he was keen on bird-watching, so I got myself a book and some binoculars and…”

Still weeping gently she glanced at Dilys and smiled, and Dilys saw for a moment what a lively little woman she must once have been.

“I’ve never fancied it myself,” she said. “Too much hanging around and getting chilled through for me.”

“Oh, no, you can get quite cosy in a hide, you know, waiting for something to happen. I never expected him to love me the way I adored him. There’d been just this one girl he’d loved like that, ever, and ever would, but it had gone wrong, and now he was tired of living alone and at least I’d amuse him and make him comfortable.”

“Looks like you did, too,” said Dilys. “It’s got a nice homey something about it, this house. I felt it the moment I came in.”

“Oh, yes, hasn’t it? And I’ve worked so hard for that, and so has he. He didn’t used to be like this, you know—it’s just his illness. It’s eating him up. He keeps saying he’s got bad blood—well of course he has, now, but it’s as if he’s always had it and it’s his own fault for being born like that, and now he’s being punished for it, and he can’t think about anything else. He was always so thoughtful too…and we’ve had wonderful holidays together…and been so…comfortable…and it’s not going to be like that any more…never any more…”

She had stopped crying and now sat staring, grey-faced, at something that wasn’t there between her and the Aga.

“You know what’s killed him?” she said, biting the words out. “It’s the Cambi Road Association, that’s what. And that’s what you’ve come about too now. I didn’t want him to see you, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dilys. “I’m only a messenger, sort of, bringing him something. I don’t know much about it myself.”

“But you wrote, didn’t you? The postmark said Matlock. It must have been a photograph of something, but he’d hidden it when I came back. And he was upset—in a funny kind of way, though…you aren’t going to tell me, are you? It’s another of their stupid secrets…”

In a sense the situation was familiar to Dilys, familiar enough to know what she felt and what she should do. It happened again and again, younger relatives concealing stuff from her patients on the pretext of saving the old and helpless from unnecessary fret, though in reality, as often as not, doing it to avoid having to cope with what might be a perfectly justifiable fuss. It put her in a false position, and she resented it. Regardless of who was paying the fees her primary loyalty was to her patient, and she disliked being forced to go along with these deceits, as in most cases she was, because now if she told the truth the patient would suffer not only the original fret but also the greater hurt of betrayal. Mrs. Stadding wasn’t her patient really, but…

“I’ll tell you what was in the letter, if you like,” she said. “I don’t think Mrs. Matson would mind, because she did it that way in case it got opened by somebody else. It was just so Mr. Stadding could know it was Mrs. Matson who sent me. It was a photo she took of him, years ago at Forde Place, on the fire escape, looking all romantic. And she said to tell him ‘Carrot,’ because it was some sort of joke had happened, and he’d remember and know it must be from her in spite of me writing it. And I was going to bring him a tape with a message on it, and he could send a message back the same way. It was to keep it all secret, you know.”

“Don’t I just!” sighed Mrs. Stadding. “It’s always secrets, and they’re killing him. I knew he shouldn’t have let you come.”

“If you want my opinion, it might help this time,” said Dilys. “It might be a chance to get something off his chest after all these years.”

“Oh, if only he’d do that! If only he’d tell me! I can’t ask—I just can’t. It’s the same with his brothers. There’s two of them, and years and years ago us three wives—because they’re both married—we got together—we didn’t see that much of each other, not usually—but that time we were on our own and we settled down and thrashed out everything we’d picked up, one way or another…Do you mind? It’s just that I’ve had it buzzing around in my head all these years…”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Dilys. “In the ordinary way of things I’d say you tell me if you want and I won’t pass it on. But this time…I’m here for Mrs. Matson. She’s not got long to live now and there’s something she’s desperate to know before she goes, and she’s hoping Mr. Stadding will tell her. And it’s all to do, far as I can see, with the same sort of secrets, so suppose you went and told me stuff Mrs. Matson might want to know, I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t tell her.”

Mrs. Stadding was gazing again at the ghost behind Dilys’s shoulder. Dilys wasn’t at all sure she’d heard or understood, but she smiled stonily.

“Then we’re both in the same boat, I suppose. I’m desperate to know before Sim goes. I’ve got nothing against Mrs. Matson—not that I’ve ever met her—Sim didn’t want me coming to Forde Place…Oh, you tell her what you like, Miss Roberts…If it hadn’t been for Colonel Matson I’d never have had my life with Sim, anyway…

“There was this girl I told you about you see, the one Sim loved. She was Colonel Matson’s daughter, and they were all great friends, the Staddings and the Matsons, and Sim and the girl were going to get married, and everyone was very happy about it. But then there was some kind of row between Colonel Matson and Sim’s father—I don’t know what it was about, but it must have been something Sim’s father had done because he walked out. Went abroad somewhere, I mean, and never came back, and took a lot of his wife’s money with him too. Leila, her name was—she was my mother-in-law, of course, and Sim used to take me to visit her in Torbay sometimes, where he and the other two had bought a little house for her. She was a sad old thing, and she’d been such a beauty once—that’s where Sim got his looks, of course—and there were all these photographs all round the room with bits cut out of them. And it wasn’t Sim’s father, if that’s what you’re thinking. There were lots of him, so I know what he looked like, though I never met him. No, it was the Matsons. Any of her photographs had one of them in it, she snipped carefully all round them and put it back in the frame, because she didn’t want to let anyone forget that everything that had gone wrong, it was all Colonel Matson’s fault.