Withering Heights (13 page)

“No!” I stalled on my way to the door, having heard Mrs. Malloy’s heels clicking down the gallery.

“You’re right.” Ariel trailed after me. “I remember now; it was one of the vergers. Okay! I’m kidding. Mr. Hardcastle hasn’t ever been married. Mrs. Cake says many a woman has pricked her little fingers to the bone embroidering altar cloths and kneelers, but it hasn’t got them measuring for curtains at the vicarage. She said he’s a confirmed bachelor. And I told her he should be. A bad example if he wasn’t
confirmed
. It was a joke, but I don’t think she got it. She spent twenty minutes explaining she meant he’s happy as he is.”

“That’s nice.” I opened the door carefully, not wanting Mrs. Malloy to have a black eye on meeting her sister. “We’ll have another talk later, if you like, Ariel.”

“I asked Mrs. Cake if Mr. Hardcastle knits like Seargent Walters does. She said it wouldn’t surprise her, seeing it’s getting popular again with both women and men. She prefers a night out at the Bingo hall.”

“Bingo?” Mrs. Malloy uttered the word in throbbing accents. She stood facing us at the top of the stairs, but had she been in Angola she would have overheard just as well. Not only is Bingo one of her consuming passions, she obviously grasped the implications of Mrs. Cake’s being a fellow enthusiast. A way had been provided to open up a conversation that would weave its way to the recent unsettling events at Cragstone.

“Oh, no!” Ariel exclaimed as we rounded the final curve of
the staircase and saw the group below us in the hall. “It’s them!”

“Who?” I lowered my voice, hoping she would take the hint and do likewise. Alongside Tom and Betty I saw two people, neither of whom was Ben. Mrs. Malloy, equally interested, strained to see over my shoulder. We must have looked like those ghouls who stop to stare at an accident: for the thrill, not to offer assistance.

“The Edmondses. Frances and her husband, Stan.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Mrs. Malloy asked, out the side of her mouth.

“Frances steals stuff; she’s a klepto. Stan’s a weasel. Ugh! Just look at him hugging and kissing Betty. It’s not like he’s even keen on her. No chance of
them
being desperate for each other. He’s like that with everyone. All smoochy-woochy.” Ariel’s whisper turned into a giggle. “Old Slop Face! Doesn’t he make you want to throw your shoes at him and hit him on the head?”

That would have been extreme in my case; so far I’d only seen a squidge of profile and an ear. Tom was blocking most of the view, preventing a full sight of Frances as well. But when Mrs. Malloy and I reached the hall, Ariel having ducked back upstairs, he stepped aside and beckoned us forward.

“Come and meet our friends the Edmondses.” He might have been telling us that the doctor had arrived to take out his tonsils.

Stan, who did look like a weasel, stopped squeezing Betty’s hand to flash a sharp-toothed grin and wave a paw. His slicked-back brown hair and small darting eyes were enough to make me hope he wouldn’t decide to hasten over and kiss me. His wife made a better picture. True, she had a lumpish figure, her complexion wasn’t great, and her hair too brassily blond, but
there was something appealing about her bright eyes and broad smile.

I didn’t look at Mrs. Malloy to try to assess her opinion of the Edmondses. We needed to get off to see Melody and perhaps even get a glimpse of Mr. Scrimshank. Betty explained that she and Tom had lived next door but one to the Edmondses in London. Stan poked Tom playfully in the ribs, saying some got lucky after playing the lottery only once, while their friends who played every week never won a bean.

Just as I was starting to miss Ben, he came into the hall from the other end of the house, which made for another buzz of greetings and a flurry of handshaking. I wove my way toward him, intent on telling him that Mrs. Malloy and I were heading out the door. He looked up from listening to something Frances Edmonds was telling him, but he didn’t catch my eye.

The front door had opened, a woman came into the hall, and all conversation and movement stopped. It would have been impolite to go on talking. But there was more to it. Any entrance by this woman would have had a similar impact. Impossible for all eyes not to be drawn to her. She was wearing a peasant skirt, which swirled softly with each step, and an off-the-shoulder lawn blouse. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing a pair of high-heeled shoes with narrow crisscrossed straps. I knew they had a gold-leaf design on the back, because Mrs. Malloy had a pair exactly like them. My cousin Vanessa is a fashion model and stunning, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone this lovely. Hair the color and shine of blackberries, skin like cream, eyes bluer than any sky, and cheeks brushed with rose. The ideal of Irish beauty proclaimed in soulful ballads.

“Hello, Val.” Tom shifted his gaze between Mrs. Malloy and me. More introductions, he had to be thinking.

“Have I come at a bad time?” The voice had the slightest of lilts. Betty said something, I didn’t catch what, because Ben brushed past me without a glance. It seemed to me that what happened next did so in slow motion. I saw him take hold of the woman’s hands, heard the surprised query in his voice.

“Valeria? How do you come to be here?”

“Ben?” I could hear her intake of breath. “It can’t be! We’re imagining this, aren’t we?” She leaned into him, her face hidden on his shoulder. The smallest sound—a shifting foot, Tom’s hand smoothing down the lapel of his sports jacket—became magnified. The ticking of the long case clock seemed to be coming from inside me. In a moment it would explode. I saw Val—Valeria—draw back from my husband as if it required all the strength at her disposal to do so. She was still holding his hands.
They
were holding hands. At last she spoke, in a voice between a sob and a laugh.

“Betty, Tom . . . however did this happen? Ben and I know each other! We met when I was training in the travel agency and he was working in his uncle’s restaurant.”

There was nothing to disturb me in this disclosure. Old friends meeting again; what could be nicer? The way Ben avoided looking at me when going up to her had been bothersome. But that was nothing compared to the shuttered expression on his face when his eyes finally met mine.

I
don’t know as I like to bring it up,” Mrs. Malloy said in a deplorably smug voice, as I drove past the Dower House and turned onto the road in the direction of Milton’s Moor’s business area.

“Then don’t.” My voice was tart, and I didn’t regret it.

“All right. Keep your hair on, Mrs. H!”

She should have said chauffeur’s cap. I was proud of my professional handling of the car. My hands were steady on the wheel, my nose pointed in the right direction. I wasn’t blubbering, begging for the loan of a hanky, or leaning my head on her shoulder, any of which many a woman would have done under the circumstances.
She
was the one looking as if she had been struck a mortal blow.

“I’m sorry for snapping. Please go ahead with what you wanted to say,” I told her. We were passing the man with the
sheepdog I had noticed on our arrival. I no longer cared about their romantic appearance. I hated romance. It was the root of all evil. From now on I would read only nonfiction. My favorites would be appliance manuals.

“I expect you’re missing the children,” Mrs. Malloy answered forgivingly, “but don’t you worry. They’ll be having the time of their lives with their grandparents and that dear little dog, Sweetie, to play with. That is, if he hasn’t come down with rabies; he looked like he might be doing that the last time I saw him. But as I said to you then, very likely that breed always foams at the mouth.”

“Say what it is you don’t want to say.”

“It seems silly.”

“Please!” I was tempted to bury my face in my hands, if it wouldn’t have made for irresponsible driving.

“Well, it’s about her shoes. They was the same as mine.”

“Whose shoes?” As if I didn’t know.

“Val’s. Or Valeria, as Mr. H called her.”

“It’s a lovely name. Therefore, perfect for her.” I continued driving at a steady speed; my foot did not vibrate on the pedal; I did not roll down the window, stick my head out, and shout something nasty at a passing clump of trees.

“Yes, well. . . .” Without looking at her, I knew Mrs. Malloy was pursing her lips and looking judicious. “I suppose there’s bound to be some as would say she’s not bad-looking, but I don’t think she’d win a prize for her legs. Which is why I feel I can say, without boasting, that them shoes didn’t look near as good on her as they do on me.”

“I didn’t realize you had them on.” I involuntarily glanced down as she nudged a foot in my direction.

“I changed from what I
was
wearing when I went upstairs. Have to put me best feet forward for Melody.”

“Some can wear shoes and some can’t.” My eyes were again
riveted on the road. But in my opinion Val’s—Valeria’s—legs were as great as the rest of her.

We were now passing the house with the BED AND BREAKFAST sign on the gatepost, but this time there was no woman with orange hair on display.

“According to Betty, we should turn right at the next corner and then shortly make another right in order to reach the part of the high street where Mr. Scrimshank has his office.” I hoped Mrs. Malloy would concentrate either on coming face-to-face with her sister Melody or on admiring her footwear.

“What was it,” she said, as I knew she would, “that made you snap at me just now, Mrs. H? And you always so even-tempered.” She did know when to lay it on thick. There never was any keeping things from her when I was seized by a desperate need to pour my heart out.

“I was afraid you’d bring up Madam LaGrange and her predictions, in particular the one about a woman having problems when her husband’s old girlfriend showed up.”

“Oh, that!” Mrs. Malloy chuckled unconvincingly. “The way I remember it, we agreed she was spouting off nonsense. I’ve even stopped worrying about that bus-stop business. Of course,” she could not resist adding, “you could say as how the part about me traveling to foreign parts has come true, seeing as Yorkshire isn’t England as we know it down south and the people do talk with a funny accent. Not Tom and Betty and Ariel, of course, but Mrs. Cake’s speech is quite broad. But”—backtracking hastily—“that was probably just a lucky guess on Madam’s part. I don’t think you need to worry about Mr. H and . . . her.”

“You don’t?”

“ ’Course not! If there ever was something between them, it came to nothing, didn’t it.”

“There could have been reasons.”

“Well, let’s just say, to make you happy, that once upon a time they was all hot and bothered about each other. That’s in the past. You can’t reheat a week-old stew and make it worth eating. Besides, it goes against the laws of nature.”

“What does?”

“Them being physically attracted to each other. They’ve both got black hair and blue eyes—well, maybe Mr. H’s are more green. Still, it comes to the same thing. In the sort of books you and me like to read, the hero and heroine are always opposites when it comes to coloring, him usually being the one that’s dark. I should have realized that when I got the wind up about me third husband having a thing for the woman next door. They both had hair as red as fire. It was her
hubby
mine was after. Ran off together, they did, and they’ve been happy as larks ever since. And who can begrudge them, seeing as they were a miserable pair of buggers before?”

“There’s sometimes a killjoy.”

“The difference is, Mr. H is happy. He’s daft about you. Nothing’s going to change that. You and the children—and his pots and pans—are his whole world.”

“He didn’t even see me after she walked in. At least that’s how it was at first. When he realized I wasn’t the long case clock, it was as though he shut the connecting door between us.”

“And hung up the NO ADMITTANCE sign? Now you just stop this, Mrs. H!” Mrs. Malloy rounded on me, nearly elbowing the steering wheel out of my hands. “Working yourself up over nothing, when we should be asking ourselves why Mr. Gallagher did a bunk. Jealousy’s an ugly thing! If you let it get hold of you, it won’t let go. That was the root of the trouble between Melody and me. Always out to put a spoke in one of me wheels, she was, because I was better at leapfrog and could do the cat’s cradle without looking.”

I felt myself relax. I had worked myself into a state over
nothing. My wretched insecurities! Before setting eyes on Val I’d felt absurdly threatened by her talents in what was supposed to be my field. When would I grow up? So she was beautiful! Had I ever in all the years of our marriage feared that Ben was pining for a long-lost love? Never! Suddenly I felt like singing, but this was hardly the time. We were now in the high street, making it even more important to concentrate on my driving. There was quite a lot of traffic. This being a Saturday, pedestrians bustled along the pavement, many of them loaded down with shopping bags. Mrs. Malloy peered out her window, looking at the street numbers on the buildings.

“There’s Barclay’s Bank,” she pointed out, “and the bus stop, a bit farther down. Remember, Betty said it’s right outside the office. Slow down, we turn here into the alleyway. She said it was a good place to park without a meter. There. Pull up alongside that car.”