The Shortest Journey (10 page)

Benjy was her budgerigar. I enquired after his health
and she said, ‘Oh, he’s lovely, Mrs Malory, such company. I don’t
know what I’d do without him!’

Ivy had been a widow for many years, much longer than
me, and I reflected that the replacement of a loved one with an
animal (or a bird) seemed a very Anglo-Saxon solution; somehow I
couldn’t see the French or the Italians doing such a thing.

When we parted I made my way slowly down the Avenue
to where I had parked my car, wondering what, if anything, Ivy had
heard. A foreigner – a man with an accent – talking to Mrs Rossiter
about religion ... I really couldn’t make head or tail of it. He
could be from a foreign mission, though somehow that didn’t seem
quite right. I was still feeling rather dazed from the continuous
flow of Ivy’s conversation and my mind was even woollier than
usual. Actually, I’m never at my best in the late afternoon. I
usually pick up about suppertime, after a small glass of something.
Perhaps later on I would be able to make sense of the information
that had come my way.

My key was in the car door when I remembered that I
hadn’t bought my tomato fertiliser after all. With a sigh, I turned
round and made my way back up the Avenue.

That evening I was sitting looking mindlessly at a
programme about Impressionist painters on the television. Tessa was
sitting heavily on my feet and Foss and Tris were edging me
gradually off the sofa as they jockeyed for the best position. I
gave a sudden exclamation which made Foss jump down hurriedly from
the sofa and then turn to look at me reproachfully.

I looked again at the screen, where a large close-up
of Van Gogh’s ‘Cornfield at Arles’ caused me to say aloud, ‘Of
course – Dutch! Marion’s husband.’

Certainly Van, or whatever he was called, was the
only foreigner I could think of in connection with Mrs Rossiter.
And certainly he – or Marion – had a very strong motive for wanting
Mrs Rossiter out of the way before Marion’s mother died. He could
perfectly well have come down from Scotland to see her. No one knew
him in Taviscombe except Thelma, and she wasn’t likely to be there.
He could quite safely call, pretending that he just happened to be
in the area and wanted to give her news of her sister.

Foss jumped back on to my knee and began to knead my
skirt with his claws. I always wear an old tweed skirt when I’m on
my own in the evenings and so many threads have been pulled that
the front has taken on the quality of fine mohair. I stroked Foss’s
soft dark head and continued to work out my theory, if such it
could be called. While he was there, Van could have arranged to
meet her in Taunton – for lunch, perhaps – so that she would
genuinely have thought that she’d be back for tea. Then, when they
met, he could say that he’d just heard from Marion that Maud was
much worse, dying, in fact, and was asking for her sister. He’d
have a car ready and would say they needed to leave at once and
he’d telephone West Lodge when they stopped on the motorway. That
would have been the scene that Ed Cooper saw in the car park in
Taunton.

I wasn’t sure who the woman could have been. Not
Marion; presumably she would have been at her mother’s bedside.
Perhaps one of their daughters? They must be quite grown up by now.
Then events could have followed the grim scenario I had considered
before. A lonely spot in the Quantocks, somewhere Mrs Rossiter
could have got to herself by bus or taxi, and then (my mind shied
away from this) they disposed of her so that it would look like an
accident when she was discovered. All they had to do was to make
sure that the body would be found before Maud died and they would
inherit the larger part of old Mr Westlock’s immense fortune.

The picture on the television now was the haunting
self-portrait of Van Gogh, his head bandaged and his eyes enormous
with defeat and despair. It seemed too painful to contemplate so I
pressed the remote control and banished the image from the screen,
but I couldn’t so easily banish the pictures I had conjured up in
my mind of Mrs Rossiter in danger and in fear.

On a sudden impulse I stood up and got out my address
book. Marion was on my Christmas card list, so I knew where she
lived. I got her number from Directory Enquiries and, not knowing
in the least what I was going to say, I dialled. The voice that
answered was low, pleasant and definitely foreign.

‘I do hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time,’
I said, ‘but do you think I might have a few words with Marion? She
does know me, though we haven’t seen each other for years. My name
is Sheila Malory.’

‘Oh yes, I know, Shei-la.’ He gave my name two
distinct syllables. ‘Marion has spoken of you. When you were
children in Taviscombe.’ He pronounced it ‘Taviscom’. ‘I am sure
she would be delighted to speak with you. Poor Marion, everything
is very sad for her, for us all, you know. She will be happy to
hear a new voice. It will cheer her. Wait one moment and I will
fetch her.’

After a few minutes, when I began to wonder what on
earth had possessed me to embark on this ridiculous enterprise,
Marion picked up the receiver and said, ‘Sheila! What a nice
surprise! How good of you to call.’

‘I just wondered how things were,’ I said rather
feebly. ‘How is your mother?’

‘About the same. We’ve brought her home now. There’s
nothing more they can do for her in hospital and we thought she’d
rather be here than in a hospice. I know they’re marvellous but,
well, she just wants to lie in her own bed by the window and look
out over the loch.’

‘Of course. But it must be a dreadful strain for
you.’

‘Well, it’s sad, of course, but she’s a marvellous
patient and quite cheerful. One good thing, it’s quite easy to get
domestic help up here – our Mrs Buchan is a real treasure – so we
can just concentrate on being with her, me, Van and the children.
It’s been a surprisingly happy time; isn’t that strange!’ I found
it difficult to reconcile this calm, resolute, cheerful woman with
the awkward girl I had known, plunging about physically and
emotionally. It would seem that Marion had, quite simply, grown
up.

‘How long has she been back with you?’

‘Oh, about six weeks now. I’m afraid it can’t last
much longer, though. The doctor’s not very hopeful; he says
probably only a few more weeks. She’s very frail now.’

‘I’m so sorry ... You must be worn out.’

‘Yes, well, it’s a bit tiring. We’ve none of us been
out of the house, except for the odd hour in Inverness to do the
shopping, since she’s been back, and that gets a bit wearing. Mrs
Buchan would take over, I know, but we feel that time is so
precious that we don’t really want to be anywhere else. Well,
you’ll know what it’s like. Aunt Edith told me about your mother –
I’m sorry, I meant to write, but...’

‘Yes, of course. You’re lucky to have Van...’

‘He’s wonderful. Mother adores him, he hardly ever
leaves her side. He’s taken his easel and painting things into her
room now and they sit together and he paints the loch.’

‘I’m so glad.’

There was a small pause then Marion said, ‘Is there
any news of Aunt Edith? Is she all right? Thelma rang in a bit of a
state.’

‘No, I’m afraid we still don’t know what’s happened –
where she is.’

‘It’s a most extraordinary thing. Poor little soul, I
do hope that nothing awful’s happened to her. She was always very
kind to me. I used to hate going down there to stay – well, you
remember how ghastly that house was. Uncle Julian and Thelma –
terrible! Poor Aunt Edith, they led her a dreadful life, but she
always tried to smooth things over when I did something stupid or
clumsy (which was quite a lot of the time!). And when we were alone
she gave me little treats – chocolates and once a pretty lace
collar for a dress, bless her! I do hope she’s all right. We
haven’t told Mother. They weren’t very close after they came back
to England, but it would worry and upset her. Well, you can
imagine.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll let you know if there’s any
news, but it does seem a complete mystery.’

‘I bet Thelma’s raising hell.’

‘You could put it like that.’

‘Going on about that bloody Trust, I suppose. That
woman is obsessed with money; I suppose she hasn’t got anything
else.’

‘No children, you mean?’

‘No children and a husband who is equally obsessed.
Anyway, I imagine she didn’t want any children. She doesn’t like
them. She was always foul to my lot whenever we called in to see
Aunt Edith when we were in the south.’

‘It’s probably just as well,’ I observed. ‘She’d have
been a ghastly mother. Just think of it!’

‘Don’t. No, really Sheila, what can she get out of
life? I don’t understand it, I mean what’s it all for? When she’s
built up that business, made yet another fortune, what then? Money
won’t buy you happiness, don’t they say? Well, I suppose it’s easy
enough for me to say that; we’ve always been comfortable. But it
isn’t the things that money has bought that I value. Does that
sound priggish? I suppose, just now, seeing Mother and what really
gives her happiness in these last days, well...’

‘You’re right, Marion,’ I said warmly. ‘And it’s only
at times like this that one actually stops to think things out
clearly and set out one’s real values.’

‘How strange – that’s more or less what Van said the
other day. I’m glad it’s been like this for me and I do, honestly,
pity Thelma if all she can think of when her mother is missing is
the money. It must be terrible to live without love.’

We talked a little more and then I said, ‘I mustn’t
keep you – you will have things to do.’

‘Yes, I must go and settle Mother for the night.
Thank you so much for calling, Sheila. I do appreciate it. I’m so
happy to have had this talk. Bless you.’

I rang off, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself.

Of course, it might have been a tremendous act,
setting an alibi for them all, but somehow I knew it wasn’t like
that. I remembered clearly enough, from my own experience, the
feeling of isolation and self-containment in a household where one
of the members is dying. The world outside doesn’t seem to exist
and one has to make a positive effort to communicate with anyone
beyond that circle. I recognised in Marion’s voice the same note
that must have been in mine in the weeks before Peter died. I was
still amazed at the new Marion, so unlike the heedless girl I knew,
but she had always been a good-hearted person and such an
experience might well have brought out the best in her. And,
ultimately, you can always tell, especially over the telephone when
there is nothing else to distract you, when someone is really
sincere and Marion, I was absolutely positive, was sincere when she
said she didn’t care about the money.

Next morning I had to nerve myself to go and visit
Rosemary’s mother in West Lodge. Although she had made a good
recovery from her stroke and was certainly marvellously well looked
after by Rosemary and the faithful Elsie, Mrs Dudley was bored and
had wanted a change of scene. ‘And, of course,’ Rosemary had said,
‘her friend Mrs Bascombe has just gone into West Lodge for a few
weeks while her daughter’s away, so Mother had to go too. I
wouldn’t mind,’ she added, ‘if it meant that I could have a little
break and it’s quite convenient to have her there, under cover,
just now, but I have to go down twice a day in case she wants
anything special – and to prove to Mrs Wilmot and all the other
patients what a devoted daughter she has!’ So I said I’d pop in one
morning – not because I wanted to see Mrs Dudley, but because I
thought it might ease things a little for Rosemary.

Armed with a pot of primulas I made my way to West
Lodge.

Mrs Dudley, expensively dressed, her face carefully
made up and her hair recently set, was sitting in an armchair in
one of the best rooms, looking out over the promenade and the sea.
I saw that she had already settled in. There were vases of flowers,
a box of chocolate mints, several of the more expensive magazines
and a new biography of a minor member of the royal family.

She greeted me with a gracious smile and looked
critically at the primulas.

‘How kind of you, my dear. I must make sure they
water them properly; primulas do tend to die off in a warm
atmosphere.’

‘You look very comfortable,’ I said, hoping to
placate her.

‘They do their best, I suppose, and certainly they
charge enough, but the service isn’t what I’m used to. Just press
that bell, my dear, for coffee.’

‘Anyway, you’ve got a nice view.’

She cast a disparaging look at the promenade below.
‘I must say, it doesn’t give me any pleasure to see how dreadfully
Taviscombe has gone down these days. Just look at those terrible
people.’

A family party, a mother, father and two small
children, all wearing brightly coloured Bermuda shorts and
T-shirts, were making their way down the steps to the beach. A
little further along a young couple were unloading a windsurfing
board from the roof of their car, watched with interest by two
elderly ladies with white cardigans over their summer dresses.

‘Well,’ I said rather feebly, ‘it is holiday
time.’

‘In the old days,’ Mrs Dudley, said, ‘we never used
to have summer visitors like that. People used to come down for the
hunting – and, before the war, they used to play polo on the Castle
lawns. We had members of the aristocracy and Maharajahs. Indian
princes, you know,’ she explained, in case I did not fully
appreciate past grandeur. ‘They hired houses, of course. Polo is
still played in the best circles, but you couldn’t expect Prince
Charles to come down here, not with the sort of riff-raff we get in
the town nowadays.’

Maureen from the kitchen, now apparently promoted to
Ivy’s job, put her head round the door.