Dead In The Morning (19 page)

Phyllis paused outside her mother’s door. There was no sound, and the light was out. The old lady must be asleep, or she would have called out when she heard Phyllis return; her ears were still exceedingly sharp. Phyllis went back to her own room and prepared for bed.

When she was ready, she went to the window and leaned out. It was very quiet outside; not even an owl broke the silence, and no night breeze stirred the trees. Her mother’s window, like the rest of the house, was dark. Phyllis stayed there for a while, smoking a last cigarette and brooding; then she got into bed where she read for some time in an effort to reach a state of tranquillity, but the book failed to hold her, and she felt no calmer.

Eventually she opened a drawer in her bedside table, took out a blue capsule and swallowed it down with some water from the glass already beside her.

Along the corridor, Mrs Ludlow leaned against her pillows; she always slept in an upright position. Her light was out, and she could see beyond the pale square of her window the glow from Phyllis’s room. She knew that Phyllis would be smoking and reading; mooning, Mrs Ludlow called it. She had been very late coming back from Gerald’s. Popping down for a minute, indeed. Mrs Ludlow had known how it would be, and had said as much to Cathy. She had thought of calling to Phyllis when she heard her at the door, but had decided against it. Later, if she could not sleep, Phyllis should be summoned.

She thought about her children in their youth. Derek had always been solemn and plodding, Phyllis dull. Gerald was lively enough, though; she remembered him doing tricks on his bicycle, riding his pony bareback at top speed round the paddock, playing rugby for his school, and then going off to the war, slim, serious, bright-eyed, in his khaki, and so like his father. He was heavier now, fatter, twenty years older than his father had been when he died.

Her mind went blank and she drifted into a little sleep, but presently woke with a start. Something unpleasant had happened. She lay trying to remember what it could be. At last she thought of Mrs Mackenzie.

What a lot of red tape there was nowadays. All those policemen tramping about making a fuss over what was a straightforward matter. It was annoying, though, to think that a replacement must be found. Phyllis could quite well manage alone, with perhaps more help for the cleaning, but she seemed to think she could not; her jaunts to the library and her hair-do’s gave her ideas. Well, there would be no more art classes; Mrs Ludlow could not be left with someone she did not know on Tuesday nights.

Of course, Helen might come. That was a happy inspiration.

She dozed again, but she did not really feel ready for sleep and soon woke, her mind active, burrowing back and forth through the years. She played with images of Gerald in his pedal car, charging across the lawn uttering “Brrm-brrm” roaring sounds from his throat. Then Phyllis, in a white muslin dress with a blue sash, her long, fair hair kept back by an Alice band, off to a party; she held her red velvet cloak over her arm, and wore a pair of bronze pumps with elastic crossed over her insteps. “Hold your stomach in, child. Put your shoulders back,” her mother had said to her sternly. “You’re far too fat.” Across the years, Mrs Ludlow remembered; saw again, too, the sudden bright colour in Phyllis’s cheeks; she could still make it rise with a word.

Phyllis’s window was dark now. She must be asleep. She should have just a little while longer. Mrs Ludlow, meanwhile, lay musing, thinking of not very much most of the time, but sometimes of the long days of her courtship, and then back to her childhood, with vague memories of her kind, indulgent father with his curly grey beard and smell of tobacco; and of a faded pale stranger, lavender scented, whom she saw each evening: her invalid mother.

At half-past two she rang her bell.

It pealed shrilly in Phyllis’s room. She woke up slowly, with a thick taste in her mouth and a great reluctance to return to consciousness. The bell pealed on.

Phyllis blundered about, found her slippers at last and put on her dressing-gown. It was so long since her mother had had any sort of attack in the night that she never expected one now; some years back Mrs Ludlow had had a very slight heart attack, so mild that it left no trace. It was almost forgotten.

The bell still rang as Phyllis opened her bedroom door. She felt doped from the pill she had taken, and wove her way crookedly down the passage. If that ringing went on, Cathy would wake.

Mrs Ludlow had switched on her light when she decided to ring for Phyllis. She waited impatiently, twitching at the bedclothes with one knobbled hand, and clutching the bell-push tight in the other, until at last the door opened. Phyllis stood there, swaying slightly, her hair, ashen-coloured, falling on to her shoulders. Her dressing-gown was a white quilted one, with little pink flowers in sprigs all over it, ridiculous, more suitable for Cathy.

“What is it, Mother?” said Phyllis, coming towards her and blinking in the sudden light. “Can’t you sleep? Haven’t you taken your pill?”

Mrs Ludlow stared at her. What did she want, coming in like this, a caricature of the child she had been? She forgot that she had summoned her. She allowed the bell to be taken from her grasp and her pillows plumped up while she thought.

There was that policeman, the one who had sat in Gerald’s swivel chair. There was something he must not know, or it would cause trouble. What was it?

Ah! The visitors on Saturday, that was it; her secret. First Derek, then Tim, and later Martin. Stupid boys, all of them, thinking she would save them from their own folly. They must learn that money did not grow on trees. Well, the police could only hear of their visits through her, and she had not told, nor would she. They would not give themselves away.

Tim had not told his grandmother that he had already seen Phyllis, and the idea that he might have done so did not occur to her.

“I want a drink,” she said, and “How clumsy you are,” as Phyllis emptied her glass of water and filled it afresh. In spite of the waves of sleep which kept surging over her, Phyllis had not spilled a drop, nor made any noise.

“Now read to me,” said Mrs Ludlow.

Phyllis opened her eyes very wide; weights seemed to press down their lids.

“I’ve forgotten my glasses,” she said, and when her scolding was over she was allowed to go back to her room for them. Once there, she washed her face in cold water, splashing it into her eyes and round the back of her neck.

Her mother seemed to be dozing again when she returned, but her eyes opened as soon as Phyllis crossed the threshold. She was not released until nearly four o’clock. Each time that Phyllis thought her mother had fallen asleep, and stopped reading, Mrs Ludlow snapped: “Go on, go on, I’m not asleep,” though her eyes were closed. It was will-power alone that kept her awake, thought Phyllis.

The sky was light and the birds were starting their morning twitter by the time she got back to her own bed.

“What an hour to face your mentor,” Jane said. “Why didn’t you deal with him last night?”

Timothy had been to Reynard’s, received a mammoth sermon followed by some constructive help, and had departed, chastened but relieved. Now Jane, who had not been allowed to offer the boy even a cup of coffee, sat facing her brother across the kitchen table. Patrick was busy polishing off a large helping of eggs, bacon and tomatoes. The pleasant atmosphere in the kitchen, with its checked gingham curtains, red-topped table, and pine dresser hung with Cornish ware, had a softening effect on him, so that he began to wonder if his stately bachelor apartments in St Mark’s were quite so enviable after all.

“There was far too much of more importance going on,” he said. “Besides, it was good for him to have another night on the rack, and have to get up early. I got there last night just in time to stop him from making a clean breast of everything, thus unloading his own guilt but helping no one else.”

Jane handed a sliver of toast to young Andrew, who was seated in his high chair waving a spoon in one fist.

“I don’t like you casting yourself in the role of God,” she said. “Who are you to think that you know best?”

“My dear girl, that young wretch is my responsibility, whatever I may think about it. I’m quite certain his misdeeds have no connection with this larger problem, but if the police heard about them, they might have to pay official heed. Mind you, it might be better for the boy in the long run to face the consequences, be up before the beak and so forth. But his parents have enough on their plates without him adding to it.”

“Borrowing a car that wasn’t insured without its owner’s permission, and then piling it up. Is it such a terrible crime?” Jane asked.

“It could be called theft,” said Patrick. “True, the car belonged to a so-called friend, and true that young Tim didn’t know it wasn’t insured, but he took it while its owner was away, and then he piled it up. Suppose someone had been hurt? Then he would have been in quite a lot of trouble. As it is, there’s simply a hefty repair bill to be met.”

“Hm.” Jane was not convinced. “I believe it’s a crime to withhold information from the police,” she said.

“Information related to a crime,” said Patrick. “This boy has merely been grossly irresponsible, and that’s a fair description of his university life thus far. But he isn’t a hopeless case. There’s no bad core in him. His mother has doted on him to excess, and his father has been disinterested. Add to that the pressures of the day and a weak character, and you have young Ludlow. The other boy is weak too; no doubt that’s what drew him to this flighty girl he married. But he’s much more likeable than Timothy. Of course, he’s four years older.”

“But why should they be like that? Their parents seem all right. Solid citizens, in spite of the business disaster. It isn’t Derek Ludlow who’s pinched the client’s money, after all.”

“No, but he wasn’t vigilant enough to spot what was happening under his nose. I think indifference is the culprit,” Patrick said. “Good old
laissez-faire.”

“Well, that’s something you can’t be accused of,” Jane said caustically. “I wish you’d
laisse
a little more to
faire
for itself.”

“Indifference is one of the sins of the age,” Patrick said. “Passing by on the other side. But you worry too much, sister dear. As it is, the police will take ages to sort all this out. They have to check so much. Their work is like a scholar’s research, a mass of detail to be sifted very patiently. Foster may have to fly someone out to Canada, or have the relevant documents sent over here. That takes time, and meanwhile something else may turn up. There must be proof, if only I can find it.”

“You think you know what happened?”

“I’m sure of it. It all clicks, but I can’t prove anything, and my theories won’t convince the Inspector without some facts to back them up.”

“It’s horrible,” Jane said. “You could be wrong.”

“It’s still horrible, even if I am,” said Patrick. He helped himself to a slice of toast and some marmalade.

“I hope the other boy, Martin, will be all right,” said Jane.

“He will,” said Patrick cheerfully. “He’s well rid of that gold-digger.”

“He sounds a sensitive type, from what you say. It may have gone very deep,” Jane said.

“I’ll send him round to visit you,” Patrick promised. “Tea and sympathy from an older woman are what he needs to fix him.”

“What a cynic you are,” said Jane. “I hope no girl’s ever fool enough to marry you.” She wiped a dab of honey from her son’s snub nose. “Don’t take after your uncle, poppet,” she advised. “Nosey, vain and interfering, that’s what he is, and heartless to boot.” She poured the remaining coffee into her own cup. “You don’t deserve any more,” she said to Patrick. “You can wait till I brew another pot.”

Patrick got up and went to the back door. Outside, the garden wore wreaths of dewy cobwebs on the hedges and the flowers. The air felt fresh, and the sun was up; it would be another lovely day. Heartless, was he? He felt in his pocket for his pipe, took it out, and lit it. It wasn’t true. He felt deeply stirred with pity for some of the people involved in this unhappy drama, but infuriated with the folly of others. Unheeding stupidity was to him a wicked thing, deserving of no sympathy, and sentiment must not be allowed to cloud judgement.

He walked slowly down the garden, meditating, puffing at his pipe. A clump of love-in-a-mist, blue, blooming late, caught his eye. The colour, though a paler shade, was that of the capsules Mrs Mackenzie had been given. They had been opened, the powder taken out, the empty capsules thrown away, or swallowed boldly, perhaps. Absently he picked a flower head, twirled it between his fingers, and walked towards the gate. His car was parked outside, in the lane, where he had left it the night before. He crossed over to it, laid the flower on the bonnet, took a leather from the glove compartment and began to clean the windscreen.

“I’m all right, darling, really. Please stop worrying,” said Helen. She sat up in bed, her shoulders very white against the soft peach colour of her nightdress. Her eyes looked huge in the pallor of her face.

“Well, don’t get up yet,” Gerald said. He sat on the side of the bed holding her hand and looking at her anxiously. “I must ring up the office, and then I must talk to Derek. He seems to be in a hell of a mess, one way and another. I’ll come back when I’m through with all that and see how you are. You snuggle down till then.”

“That Bludgen witch will be here today. Send her home, Gerry,” Helen said. “I can’t face her.”

“You needn’t, She can stay downstairs.”

“Oh Gerry, no! Please send her home, or up to Phyllis. She could use her, surely? She gives me the creeps,” said Helen. “Imagine her working here all those years and then spying on you all and telling the police about everyone’s movements.”

“To be fair to the Bludgen, she can’t have had any idea of what’s at stake,” said Gerald. “In any case, as a law-abiding citizen she’s obliged to answer the questions of the police.”