Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

As did the Pym sisters. They were identical, from the veils on their hats to the tips of their lavender gloves. They looked so tiny and frail that I wondered how on earth they had managed the walk from Finch to the cottage, until I noticed a car parked behind the one we had leased. Like them, it was both ancient and pristine.

As remarkable as the Pym sisters were, I was pleased to note that Bill found me even more distracting. His jaw dropped when I descended the staircase, dressed in my teatime finery, and Emma had to introduce him to the Pyms twice before he remembered to say “How do you do.” Even then, he said it without taking his eyes from me. I, of course, gave my undivided attention to my guests.

“Thank you so much for your kind invitation,” the one on the right said.

“Yes, indeed. Such a lovely day for a drive,” the other added. Even the voices were identical—not just the tone, but the rhythm as well.

Emma had cautioned me not to tackle the subject of Dimity head-on. The sisters’ sense of propriety would not permit them to gossip. They were, on the other hand, perfectly willing to reminisce for hours if given half a chance, so I invited them to take a look around the cottage. I hoped that a tour would spark memories of their longtime neighbor.

“How kind.”

“How lovely. Emma tells us…”

“…it has changed quite a bit…”

“…since our last visit.”

It was like watching a tennis match. As I led the way through the ground-floor rooms, the Pyms kept up a steady flow of point-counterpoint commentary in my wake. After a while, I was able to distinguish one voice from the other: Louise’s was softer, and she seemed more timid. The minute they closed their mouths, however, I couldn’t tell one from the other.

After we had seated ourselves around the wrought-iron table in the solarium, Emma excused herself to make tea. The Pyms chatted on about the weather and the garden and the vicar’s new roof, and just as I’d begun to think my memory-sparking tour had fizzled, both sets of eyes came to rest on the heart-shaped locket which still hung on its chain around my neck.

“Oh, my…” said Ruth softly.

“How very curious. Might we ask…”

“…how you came by this piece of jewelry?”

“I found it upstairs,” I replied. I held the locket at the length of its chain for the sisters to examine more closely. “It was in a little blue box. I think it belonged to Dimity.”

“Indeed it did,” said Louise. “She acquired it in London, during the war, and she wore it…”

“…always. We never saw her without it. We had been given the impression, in fact…”

“…that a young man had given it to her.”

My heart leapt and Bill leaned forward eagerly, but the Pyms seemed unaware of the impact of their words.

“Dimity was always a very kind…”

“…very generous…”

“…very good-hearted girl. And a great…”

“…judge of character.”

“Yes, indeed. She was quite a…”

“…matchmaker and not one of her matches…”

“…ever failed.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know about that. She introduced my mother to my father, didn’t she, Bill?”

“What?” He looked up from what appeared to be a minute inspection of his teaspoon. “Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “She did.”

“And were they happy together?” asked Ruth.

“Extremely happy,” I said.

“Well, there you are,” said Ruth, and beamed with pleasure. “Dimity grew up in this cottage, you know.”

“And she never left…”

“…until the war.”

“A most tragic affair. Here, dear, let me help you with that.” When Louise turned her attention to helping Emma pour, Ruth took up the narrative thread on her own—more or less.

“She was engaged to a young officer very early in the war.” I held my breath. “Young Bobby MacLaren.” I looked at Bill with exaltation and he gave me a covert thumbs-up.

“Did you ever meet Bobby?” he asked.

“Indeed, we did.” Ruth accepted her cup of tea with a distracted air, her face reflecting a long-forgotten sadness. “Such a fine boy, and so courageous. We lost so many….” Her voice trailed off.

I took my cup of tea from Emma and placed it on the table, wondering how many young boys Ruth’s old eyes had seen march off, first to one war and then to another. She sat motionless, and I could almost see their faces as she saw them, the faces of boys who would never grow old, who would always be young and fine and courageous. A memory flickered at the back of my mind, but a jay’s angry chatter from the back garden extinguished it.

Ruth drew herself up and went on. “Dimity brought him to visit us once when they came to Finch on leave. He was such a lively boy, so energetic, and he had such lovely manners.” She sipped her tea. “When he died, Dimity was…”

“Devastated.” Louise had finished helping Emma.

“Quite devastated. She would have worked herself to death in London. But her commanding officer saw what was happening and ordered her to rest up for a month. She returned here, to the cottage, looking like a…”

“Ghost.”

“A pale ghost, a shadow of herself. Louise and I thought it would be best if we came over regularly, to sit with her and look after the garden. We didn’t like to leave her alone, you see…

“…not after the first time.”

“The first time we stopped by…” Ruth paused and her eyes widened. “My, but these seedcakes are lovely,” she said. “Did you make them yourself? Might I ask for the recipe?”

“Y-yes, of course,” I stammered, startled by the abrupt change of subject.

“I’ll copy it out for you,” Emma offered, and went into the kitchen to pull out the dog-eared cookbook. I sent a silent blessing after her.

“Oh, that is most kind of you. It is so difficult these days to find real seedcake.” For a second it looked as though Ruth might stop there, but after a sip of tea, she continued. “The first time we stopped by, we found Dimity curled up on the couch, as cold as ice, staring and staring at that lovely photograph. It didn’t seem healthy to leave it with her. We don’t think she noticed…”

“…when we took it. And she didn’t seem to miss it. We brought it home with us and kept it safe. We thought that one day…”

“…it might be precious to her.” Ruth looked up as Emma returned, recipe in hand. “Thank you so very much, dear. Tell me, are you still having trouble with your Alchemilla mollis?”

Emma was halfway through her reply before I realized they were talking about a plant. I’m not sure if Bill actually saw me gripping the edge of my seat, but he seemed to sense my agitation because he decided to lead the witness for her own good. He waited for a pause, then leaned slightly toward Ruth. “Can you tell us about Bobby?” he asked.

“So full of life,” mused Ruth in reply. “He wasn’t a local boy, you know, but he loved it here at the cottage all the same. He said that he could imagine no place more beautiful than Pouter’s Hill, and he could think of nothing more wonderful than to return there after the war. He and Dimity spent hours up there, the way young lovers do. A valiant young man, and so proud of his wings.”

“So very proud,” Louise echoed. “I believe the bluebells are out on Pouter’s Hill.” Ruth and Louise turned their bright eyes upward. “What a lovely sight.”

* * *

The fact that I survived the afternoon is amazing, but it’s nothing compared to the fact that the Pym sisters emerged unscathed. After the initial burst of information, their progress was sporadic at best. They’d move toward adding another tidbit about Bobby and then meander onto some wholly unrelated topic, usually having to do with food or flowers, and every time they did, I was torn between having an apoplectic seizure or committing Pymocide. Now I knew why my mother had described them as not very coherent. But Bill and Emma kept their cool and guided the conversation with admirable dexterity. By the time the Pyms took their leave—in stereo—we had learned quite a lot about the sequence of events following Bobby MacLaren’s death.