An Air That Kills Page 15

  Antonia held out her hand. She felt hot and she knew that an ugly, dark-red blush would be spreading like a guilty stain over her face. She was aware that Jill was saying something and had to ask her to repeat it.

  ‘Your father discharged himself from hospital just after lunch, which took everyone by surprise. He took a taxi back to Chandos Lodge. Luckily the hospital phoned his GP and he phoned Charlotte.’

  The implications rushed over Antonia – first and foremost, that she would see her father in an hour or two.

  Jill explained that they had tried to phone Dampier Hall but hadn’t been able to get through; it must have been while Antonia was packing. In the end Charlotte had decided to go to Chandos Lodge while Jill fetched Antonia.

  ‘I understand the house is in a bit of a mess,’ Jill said. ‘Charlotte thought she’d see if she could do something before you came.’

  ‘It’s awfully kind of you. I’m afraid I’m causing a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s a lovely drive down from Lydmouth.’ Jill put the suitcase in the back of the car. ‘Shall we go?’

  Antonia lingered. ‘Is he – is he all right?’

  ‘Your father? I haven’t actually seen him since the accident, but Charlotte said he just seemed a bit bruised and shaken. But he must feel all right if he’s discharged himself.’

  Antonia gave an awkward little laugh. ‘Couldn’t wait to get back to his home comforts.’

  They got into the car. Jill started the engine and glanced at Antonia.

  ‘I’m sorry about your dog.’

  ‘There’s no need. My father gave it to me. But I couldn’t keep a pet here, even if I’d wanted. It’s always been his dog really.’

  Soon they were driving down to Newport. Jill asked about the school and what had led her towards teaching the disabled.

  ‘Oh I don’t teach. I’m only a secretary. It was just an accident, really, I did a secretarial course, and when I’d finished I started applying for jobs.’ The awkward laugh slipped out again. ‘This was the first one I was offered.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Nearly five years.’

  ‘So they seem to like you.’

  ‘Not many secretaries will take a residential job for the salary the school pays.’

  For a few miles they drove in silence. Antonia sat straight-backed in the front passenger seat, gripping the strap of her handbag with both hands. Jill wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, she noticed, which was surprising because Antonia thought that men would find her attractive.

  After Newport they took the road north.

  ‘Look at the trees,’ Jill said. ‘Don’t they look wonderful in the autumn? I don’t know how anyone can bear to live in London.’

  ‘Is that where you live?’

  Jill nodded. ‘I’m a journalist. Do you know Charlotte’s husband, Philip? We used to work on the same paper.’

  ‘It sounds very glamorous.’

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  The journey to Lydmouth was shorter than Antonia had expected. As they drew closer, Antonia’s hands tightened round the strap of the handbag. It had been nearly two years since she had seen her father. He had turned up at the school just before Christmas and it had been hideously embarrassing.

  During one of the lulls in the conversation, Antonia wished, not for the first time in her life, that a lorry would come roaring round one of the bends ahead on the wrong side of the road. She wouldn’t have time to realise what was happening. In an instant she would be dead, just like Milly, and she would never have to go to Lydmouth again. Why should the dog have all the luck?

  They had reached the outskirts of Lydmouth already. The town looked shabby, and everything seemed to have shrunk since Antonia had last lived here before the war. They drove through the town centre and out to Edge Hill. Instead of turning into the drive of Chandos Lodge, Jill parked the car on the green. Antonia got out and stared at the rusting gates and the discoloured and decaying house at the end of the drive.

  ‘It looks like a ruin,’ she said. ‘What’s happened to it?’

  Jill glanced at her. ‘Old age, I think. These old places need a lot of looking after. When were you here last?’

  ‘A few years ago. It was summer then. Somehow it didn’t seem so bad.’

  They crossed the road and walked up the drive. The door was unlocked. In the hall it was colder than it had been outside. Antonia noticed the dog’s blanket and the tarnished soup tureen at the foot of the stairs. The place looked and smelled filthy. She felt deeply ashamed that someone like Jill, someone so neat, clean and organised, should see the house in this condition.

  ‘It’s disgusting.’ she muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Jill said, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Antonia shrugged. ‘It feels like it.’

  She led the way down the corridor to what, in the old days, had been the housekeeper’s room. The door was ajar and a woman was talking inside about the importance of getting another dog. Antonia glanced at Jill who smiled encouragingly at her. She pushed open the door.

  ‘Antonia! There you are.’ Charlotte Wemyss-Brown bustled across the room and, before Antonia realised what was happening, planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Come and tell your father what a naughty boy he’s been, causing all this worry.’

  She herded Antonia towards the fireplace. Her father sat in his armchair in front of the gas fire. Since she had last seen him, his face had grown redder and more ravaged. What shocked her most of all was the fact that he hadn’t shaved. His cheeks were speckled with sharp white bristles. The effect was sinister: it made him a little less than human.

  ‘Hello, Tony,’ he said, lifting his head as if expecting a kiss.

  ‘Hello.’ Antonia added, because she thought it might seem strange to the other women if she did not: ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bloody awful. Aches and pains all over the shop.’ He reached for his glass. ‘But I’m hungry. What’s for supper?’

  Charlotte plunged into the silence which followed this question. ‘We haven’t discussed the food question, Jack. Leave it to us. First we’d better sort out the bedding, I think. We’ll be back in a moment.’

  She led Jill and Antonia out of the room and shut the door. ‘I think we’d better make up a bed for your father in there. The less he has to move the better, and it’ll be warmer for him. What about you? He thought you’d probably want to sleep in your old bedroom.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Antonia hesitated, then went on in a rush: ‘It’s a long way from here. Besides, the last time I looked inside, most of the furniture had gone.’

  ‘So where do you suggest?’

  ‘There’s a little room at the top of the stairs. Perhaps there.’

  ‘I brought you some sheets. I’m not sure there are any clean ones here.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.’ To her dismay, Antonia felt her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m sorry everything’s in such a mess.’

  Jill patted her arm. Automatically, Antonia jerked away as though stung. She stared at Jill, her mouth working.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Jill said.

  ‘There’s a Mrs Thing from the village who comes in five mornings a week,’ Charlotte announced in what was evidently a diplomatic attempt to provide a distraction. ‘But I don’t think she does a very good job.’

  The next half-hour had a dreamlike quality. Everything was familiar, yet nothing was the same. The house and its contents seemed hardly to have changed since 1939 except to grow older, shabbier and dirtier.

  First, the three women swept and dusted the little room at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I’d keep away from the corner by the fireplace if I were you,’ Charlotte said. ‘There’s a hole in the floorboards.’

  They made up the narrow bed with Charlotte’s sheets and with blank
ets they found neatly folded in the linen cupboard – slightly damp but otherwise undamaged; their condition, Antonia thought, was a tribute to the efficiency of their former housekeeper who had left in 1938. Leaving Antonia to look for pillows, Charlotte and Jill went downstairs to make a hot-water bottle.

  While the others were downstairs, Antonia slipped across the landing and opened the door of the room which had been hers as a child. It was cold and damp because there was a hole in the window as if someone had thrown a stone through it. The bed had lost its mattress and the frame with its bare springs looked like an instrument of torture. The chest of drawers had gone. Someone had taken all the books from the shelves and stripped the pictures from the walls. A heap of soot filled the hearth and on top of the pile, half-buried in the soot, was a spiky ball of feather and bone which had once been a sparrow.

  She opened the built-in cupboard on the right of the fireplace. It was empty, apart from two wooden hangers on the rail. Inside her was an absence of feeling which in its way was more terrible than pain.

  As she turned to go, she caught sight of something pale in the far corner of the cupboard. She bent down. It was a naked doll with a china face. Memory obligingly supplied her name and provenance: Alexandra, a present from Aunt Maud on Antonia’s eighth birthday.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. Quickly Antonia shut the cupboard door. Charlotte appeared, breathing heavily and cradling a stone hot-water bottle wrapped in a towel.

  ‘Was this your room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see what you mean about the furniture. Do you know, I’ve kept my old bedroom almost exactly as it was? Philip says I make nostalgia into an art form.’

  Antonia nodded unsmilingly. ‘Shall we go downstairs? Let’s have some tea.’

  ‘Jill’s put another kettle on.’ As they were going down the stairs, Charlotte murmured, ‘I looked in on your father on my way up. He was just staring at the fire. He’s feeling very sorry for himself, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Because of Milly?’

  ‘Partly. But I think it’s more than that. The accident’s made him realise how frail he’s getting. It’s shaken him very badly.’ Charlotte hesitated. ‘He’s also worried about money.’

  ‘He could sell this place.’

  ‘That might be easier said than done. Of course some of the contents might be quite valuable. It could be worth having a valuation done.’

  They went into the kitchen, a large room which was dank in winter and cool even in summer. Jill was washing up.

  ‘I found some cups and saucers,’ she said, smiling at Antonia. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’m making myself at home.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. Anyway, it’s not my home.’

  The sink and the draining board were piled with dirty pans and crockery. A kettle steamed on the blackened top of the gas cooker. In the centre of the room was a large deal table sprinkled with crumbs and mouse droppings; there was also a basket – so clean and new that it could belong only to Charlotte – containing a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread.

  ‘Mrs Thing – the charwoman, whoever she is – sometimes brings him a meal to heat up. Apart from that, he fends for himself.’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘Or fails to fend, as the case may be. I expect you’ll want to think about the future, dear. He can’t go on as he is.’

  Antonia said nothing. She opened the larder door. The tiled floor was awash with empty bottles. On the shelves were more crumbs and several tins of baked beans.

  ‘Have you thought about coming back home?’ Charlotte said. ‘It could be the simplest solution.’

  Startled, Antonia spun round to face Charlotte. ‘But that’s impossible. My job—’

  ‘Perhaps we could find you another job. Something local. It’s just a thought.’

  ‘Shall I make the tea now?’ Jill asked.

  Whether by accident or design, this caused a diversion while they looked for the tea caddy. While Jill made the tea. Antonia cut the bread and Charlotte laid the tray.

  ‘We can do without a milk jug and a sugar bowl, can’t we?’ she said as she lifted the milk out of her basket. ‘By the way, Antonia, the hospital gave your father some tablets in case he had trouble sleeping.’ She held up a small brown bottle. ‘I wondered if you’d like to take charge of them. As head nurse.’

  Antonia reluctantly took the bottle and stuffed it in the pocket of her skirt. Jill picked up the tray and the three of them left the kitchen with Charlotte in the lead.

  ‘Here’s a nice cup of tea, Jack,’ she announced as she opened the sitting-room door. ‘And some of Susan’s home-made bread.’ Her voice sharpened and hardened. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Harcutt’s disembodied voice snapped. ‘Trying to pick up these bloody poppies.’

  The three women hurried into the room. He was on his hands and knees between the sofa and the gas fire. The hearth rug was covered with poppies.

  ‘Thought I’d count them,’ he muttered. ‘Seem to be more than usual. They fell out of my hands.’

  Charlotte helped him up and persuaded him back to his chair. Antonia started to pick up the poppies.

  ‘It’s a hell of a worry,’ Harcutt said. ‘I haven’t taken them round the village yet. And the tins need collecting from the shop and the pub. It’ll be Sunday before we know what’s hit us.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack.’ Charlotte patted his arm. ‘We’ll sort it out.’

  He shook off her hand. ‘But we need to sort it out now. Tony, will you do them?’

  Antonia, still on her knees, looked at him. First Charlotte, now her father: they were all at it – pushing her back to the past, intent on destroying everything she had made for herself. They were herding her into a trap. She wanted to scream but she knew it would change nothing.

  The Adam’s apple jerked in his scrawny neck. ‘Please.’

  Jill put down the tray on the table behind the sofa. ‘Is there a lot of work involved? I’ll help, if you want.’

  Chapter Seven

  It was years since Gloria had been in Minching Lane: she thought of it as enemy territory.

  Time was short. She had given her husband his tea and left him with the Gazette. Harold was incurious by nature, like most men, so long as his creature comforts were not disturbed. And the older he got the more his creature comforts involved dozing in front of the fire with a full belly and the newspaper on his lap. These days he left the running of the Bathurst Arms almost entirely to her.

  Gloria hurried along the uneven pavement, wishing she hadn’t worn high heels. She had always disliked and feared Templefields; even the paving stones and the cobbles were hostile. The wind was behind her and blowing in powerful, uneven gusts which increased her unsteadiness. She had covered her hair with a dark headscarf and the big raincoat concealed her figure. The shoes were the only touch of vanity she had allowed herself. A girl had her pride.

  If she hurried, she should just be able to get back for opening time, and there would be no need for Harold to know she had been out. Her mind ran busily into the future, laying plans to meet contingencies.

  She passed the King’s Head. The Meagues’ house was only a few yards away, but there was no light in the windows. Nevertheless she knocked on the door. It wasn’t dark yet, not quite; in any case they might be at the back of the house. She waited, pressing her hand into her side where there was a stitch. Charlie and his mother should both be at home. It was too late for work and too early for the pub. Please come. She knocked again. The wind chilled her legs.

  She stepped back and looked up, trying to see if there was smoke coming from the chimney. Behind her a door opened.

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  There was a chink of milk bottles. Gloria turned. Mrs Halleran was standing in the lighted doorway at the side of the King’s Head.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘She’s in hospital. Pneumonia, they say. God knows where he is.’

  In her eagerness Gloria moved for
ward into the oblong of light streaming from the doorway. ‘But he’s still in Lydmouth?’

  ‘He was at dinner time.’ A greedy expression settled over Mrs Halleran’s doughy face. ‘Hello – it’s Gloria, isn’t it? Gloria Simms that was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a surprise. Don’t often see you in this part of town. Not nowadays.’

  Gloria hesitated. ‘I was looking for Charlie. If you see him, could you tell him?’

  ‘All right.’ Mrs Halleran raised her bushy eyebrows. ‘Any particular reason shall I say? Or is it just for old times’ sake?’

  Gloria was already clacking along Minching Lane, regretting she had come, regretting above all that she had talked to Mrs Halleran. ‘Just tell him I called, all right?’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Antonia said as she opened the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Charlotte drew on her gloves. ‘It’s always distressing when a parent is ill.’

  As the door opened, the wind rushed into the house. The branches of the trees lining the drive rustled and trembled, giving off a continuous moaning roar. Jill glanced down at Antonia who stood, small and slight, with her knees slightly bent as though she needed to brace herself in order to cope with the wind and these strange women on her doorstep. It made a welcome change, Jill thought, to feel sorry for someone other than oneself.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ Antonia said suddenly to Jill. ‘If that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course it is. At about eleven.’

  ‘I do wish I could come and help,’ Charlotte said. ‘But I promised I’d help at St John’s. Anyway, I hope you both have a good night.’ She leaned a little closer to Antonia. ‘Don’t think me interfering, but I’d try to keep him away from the whisky if you can. Especially if he has one of those tablets.’

  ‘Yes,’ Antonia said. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Go back in the warm, dear. Goodbye.’

  Antonia closed the door. Jill and Charlotte picked their way down the drive. Dusk was falling, and they had to watch their step. Neither of them spoke until they were nearing the gates.