Dead to Me (8 page)

Susan said nothing, just looked sadly at Verity for a moment. Then she got up. ‘Let’s go to the tea house and buy an ice cream?’ she said.

Verity felt a surge of gratitude to her friend for moving things on; their conversation had been getting very gloomy, and she hadn’t known how to get out of it.

‘Do you think I should try to get in touch with Ruby?’ she asked Susan a bit later. They had got their ice creams and had gone down by the tennis courts to watch two boys Susan knew playing. ‘Or is it better to leave well alone?’

‘I think you should write to her,’ Susan replied. ‘She’ll be thrilled to get a letter. And you never know, it might help her stay on the straight and narrow. You can be honest with her too, she’s not going to judge you, or talk about you to other people.’

That evening Verity wrote to Ruby and put the letter inside another one addressed to Maggie Tyrell at the Red Lion,
explaining she was now settled at her aunt’s house and asking her to send the enclosed letter on to Ruby.

Without knowing if Ruby’s mail might be censored by someone, she couldn’t tell her friend all that had happened, only that she and her mother had moved to her aunt’s house in Lewisham. She said a little about her new school – enough so that Ruby would know they’d come down in the world – and she said her mother hadn’t taken the move well. But her letter wasn’t supposed to be about her, she wanted to know how Ruby was faring, if she still went to school, if she’d made some new friends, and if she had any plans for her future when she came back to London.

Reading it through one last time before sealing the envelope, she felt she’d hit just the right tone. She sounded respectable and educated, so a censor wouldn’t think she could be a bad influence, but she also sounded like she really cared about Ruby and would always be her friend.

She was just putting the stamps on the envelopes she’d bought that afternoon, and wondering if she could walk down the road to post the letter and get some fresh air before going to bed, when she suddenly heard Aunt Hazel exploding with rage.

‘You’ve bloody well pissed on the chair,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Not satisfied with lying in bed half the day, now you can’t be bothered to get up and go to the lav!’

Verity was horrified. She couldn’t believe her once so fastidious mother could do such a thing, and it seemed to be proof she really was losing her mind. She ran down the stairs to find her mother standing in the parlour with a vacant expression on her face, the skirt of her pale blue dress dripping on the floor. The chair in question was a
dark green velvet button-backed one which had been passed down from their grandmother.

‘I’ll clean the chair.’ Verity grabbed it and took it out to the garden. Rushing back, she took her mother’s hands and led her into the scullery to strip off her wet dress and underclothes.

‘As if I haven’t got enough to put up with already, without her pissing on chairs,’ Hazel ranted from the hall.

Verity couldn’t blame her aunt for being so angry – she would be too in her shoes – but it looked as if Cynthia wasn’t even aware of what she’d done. If this was the start of a new problem, how on earth would they cope with it?

‘Surely you knew you needed the lavatory?’ Verity asked. She put some water into a bowl and ordered her mother to wash herself. Without waiting for an answer she ran upstairs and got her mother’s nightdress for her to put on.

‘It just happened. I couldn’t help it,’ her mother bleated as Verity came back downstairs.

Verity sighed, removing her mother’s brassiere and slipping the nightdress over her head. ‘Mother, you aren’t feeble-minded. You’ve got to snap out of this, as Aunt Hazel is getting very cross. She’ll throw us out, if you do something like this again.’

‘Hazel always was a bully.’

‘She isn’t being a bully. You’ve ruined her favourite chair and made the rug stink. It’s disgusting. I’m going to take you to the lavatory every two hours now. And I’ll slap you, if you do it again.’

‘You can’t hit me, I’m your mother!’ Her incredulous tone reminded Verity of how her mother had been before everything began to unravel.

‘Well, start behaving like my mother, then,’ Verity retorted. ‘You’ve been a spoiled, sulky child ever since we got here. That’s why I’m treating you like one.’

Her mother’s face crumpled and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘You don’t understand how bad it is for me,’ she whined. ‘I’ve never lived this way before, and I can’t bear it.’

Hazel appeared in the scullery doorway, and it was obvious she’d heard everything that had been said. Her face was purple, tinged with anger. ‘Never lived this way!’ she shouted. ‘You lived in this house until you married. It’s no different now to how it was then. Don’t come all that high-and-mighty stuff with me. You only married Archie because you were up the spout, and you thought he had money. No wonder he had to resort to swindling to try and keep you happy.’

‘You don’t have a clue about men, because you’ve never had one,’ Cynthia threw back at her. ‘You were always jealous of me, because I made things happen for myself. If you hadn’t been so gormless, maybe you could’ve attracted a man.’

Hazel sprang forward, as if she intended to strike her sister. Verity stepped in front of her and prevented it. ‘No more, Auntie,’ she begged. ‘Mum’s not herself.’

‘Not herself indeed,’ Hazel shot back. ‘You don’t know her like I do. She thinks the whole world should revolve around her, never a thought for anyone else. She doesn’t give a jot about you, Verity, she didn’t even want a child in the first place.’

That was enough for Verity. She pushed past her aunt and mother to get outside. Suddenly she didn’t care if they fought and hurt one another, she’d had enough.

It was dark now, the inky sky studded with stars when she looked up. It was still very warm, and she could smell honeysuckle from the garden next door. On such a beautiful summer’s night people ought to be happy, not saying vicious things about one another.

Was it because her parents had to get married that there was always that bad feeling at home? It struck her as odd that, whether it was true or not, her mother had rallied enough to rile Hazel by bringing up the past. She couldn’t be as loopy as she seemed, if she could do that. Was she doing this for effect? But why would she? What did she stand to gain?

Verity didn’t know what to think, or even who she should sympathize with. What she really wanted was an adult to look after her, to make it alright. But even as she went back into the scullery to fill a bucket with water and find a scrubbing brush, the sisters were still shouting at each other – they’d just moved back into the parlour to do it.

From an early age Verity had realized her mother wasn’t a sweet and loving soul, like mothers were supposed to be. She complained about everything, she was joyless, a social climber and a spendthrift. But Verity had always believed her mother and father loved each other, even if they were brusque with one another most of the time. It certainly had never occurred to her that she hadn’t been wanted.

Carrying the bucket of water outside, she began to scrub at the chair seat. It seemed that everything she once believed in – that her parents loved each other, that they were good, honest people and would protect her from all things bad – was entirely wrong. Father had done bad
things to her, and beaten her so harshly she thought she was going to die. Mother hadn’t lifted a finger to prevent this, all she cared about was her own comfort.

Verity knew it must have been a terrible shock to her mother to find out about her husband swindling his company, and to lose her home. But surely any other woman would find enough pride and dignity to at least attempt to find a new life for herself and her daughter?

All at once Verity sensed that her mother had known exactly what she was doing when she peed on the chair. She wanted both her sister and daughter to believe she was becoming unhinged; because that way they’d look after her, and she wouldn’t need to take any responsibility for anything.

How low was that?

On
Monday Verity left home at midday, after giving her mother a sandwich and a cup of tea, because she could feel herself growing more and more angry with her. As so often in recent weeks, she had left her mother lying on her bed. Unwashed and still in her nightclothes, she smelled nasty because of the hot weather and lack of breeze.

Verity planned to go up across Blackheath to Greenwich Park, coming back to Lee Park in Blackheath Village for five thirty to meet Aunt Hazel at the doctor’s surgery.

It was lovely in Greenwich Park, despite the long period of hot, dry weather which had turned the grass brown. She sat under a tree in the flower garden and read J. B. Priestley’s
Angel Pavement
for a couple of hours, then made her way back across the heath to the doctor’s.

Aunt Hazel met Verity outside the surgery.

‘Gosh, it’s hot and sticky!’ she said, mopping her streaming face. ‘Enough to fry your brain! There’s talk of a storm tonight, and I hope it’s true. The drains stink, everyone’s getting bad-tempered, and it’s too muggy at night to sleep.’

It was pleasantly cool in the waiting room at the surgery.

There was only a young woman with a small boy, and an elderly gentleman ahead of them. Aunt Hazel whispered that they wouldn’t have to wait long.

Verity hadn’t been to the doctor’s before and she was
surprised to find his house was a big, grand one. The waiting room could do with redecoration, and the chairs were all scuffed and old, but through the window Verity could see a splendid garden with a manicured lawn and flower beds that were a riot of colour. It reminded her of the garden back in Daleham Gardens, where old Mr Angus used to come in every week to cut the grass and do the weeding. She wondered in passing whether her mother had ever thanked him for all his good work over the years, or even explained why she couldn’t keep him on. Somehow, she doubted it. She resolved that she would write to Miss Parsons tonight; she wouldn’t like the housekeeper to think she was as selfish and uncaring as her mother.

‘It’s always good to look at the magazines in here,’ her aunt whispered. She was leafing through a copy of
Vogue
. ‘I know it’s for people who live in a different world to me, but I like a peek into it.’

Verity smiled. Aunt Hazel often surprised her. On the face of it she was just another working-class woman with no aspirations or expectations, but perhaps behind that crusty, old lady facade there was a younger, more vibrant woman trying to get out.

Dr Menzies listened to Aunt Hazel very attentively as she explained how her sister was behaving. Hazel didn’t hold back on anything, allowing her bitterness and anger towards her self-centred sister to show. Yet she did add that she liked having her niece in the house and how helpful she was. The doctor then turned to Verity and asked her how her mother had been before they’d come to Lewisham.

‘She was always beautifully turned out,’ Verity said.
‘Our home had to be immaculate at all times. Although she left our housekeeper to do the cooking and housework, she did involve herself in how the house was run, planning menus, dinner parties and having her bridge afternoons. She played the piano, she liked to go to the theatre, she never just sat about. She only started being vague and weak when we were told we had to leave the house.’

‘I see,’ he said, running one hand over his bald head. He was about sixty, Verity thought, but with a nice plump face, a neat beard and twinkly blue eyes. ‘You say she has made no effort to find work, or do anything around the house? She spends most of her time lying in bed, and takes no interest in anything?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Hazel said. ‘I can’t afford to keep her for ever – and I don’t want to, either. Now she’s become incontinent, that’s the last straw.’

He looked at Verity. ‘You are very young to have such a worry thrust upon you.’ His tone was so kindly and sympathetic that Verity’s eyes began to prickle with tears. ‘I will come tomorrow afternoon to see your mother, before my evening surgery. Try not to fret too much, many people become very withdrawn after a bad shock, but they usually recover in time.’

‘Time and my patience are running out,’ Hazel said sharply. ‘I’m only one step away from throwing her out on the street.’

Verity said nothing as they walked down Lee Park, her aunt’s last words to the doctor ringing in her ears. Would she really throw them out?

As they reached Lee High Road, her aunt said she was going to call in on a customer in Belmont Park. She was making curtains for her and wanted to check the measurements. ‘I can’t believe the window is over ten foot high,’ she said. ‘They sent Mr Edwards to measure, and I suspect he’d had a few drinks on the way there. But if the curtains turn out to be far too long, it will be me who gets the blame.’

‘What are we having for tea?’ Verity asked. ‘I’ll start it.’

‘Peel some spuds, then. And we’ll have a tin of corned beef,’ Hazel said. ‘I really hope it pours down tonight, I’m sick of this hot weather turning the milk sour and making everything go off.’

Verity almost said that they’d had a refrigerator at Daleham Gardens, but she stopped herself just in time. Her aunt didn’t need further reminders that her sister had once had everything.

As Verity crossed Lee High Road she glanced at her aunt making her way towards Belmont Park and saw the weariness in her walk. She worked very long hours in a hot, stuffy workroom, and until Verity and her mother had descended on her, work was all her life consisted of. They may have added another dimension to her life, but instead of bringing light, some laughter or help, their presence must be like a lead weight, pressing her down still further.

‘If mother was different, we could enhance her life,’ Verity murmured to herself. ‘I will try harder to make her change.’

The front door was no longer standing open to catch the breeze, as it had been for days now since the heatwave
began. Verity had to put her hand into the letter box and pull out the key tied to a string on the back of the door.

As she opened the door she smelled gas. Not just a faint smell, but so thick and strong it caught in her throat.

‘Mother!’ she called out, running in and pushing open the closed kitchen door, in her heart already knowing what she was going to find.

Cynthia was there, lying on the floor in front of the open gas stove, her head and shoulders on the little footstool from the parlour.

Holding her hand over her nose and mouth, Verity turned off the gas and opened the kitchen door and window. Then she turned back to her mother. She didn’t need to touch her to know she was dead. But all the same, she put her hands under her armpits and pulled her out into the back garden.

Once out there she stood for a moment looking down at her, too shocked to even cry or scream for help. Her mother just looked as if she was asleep – not deadly pale or anything telltale – and it was hard to believe she would never wake up again. She had dressed herself in a pink dress with a sweetheart neckline and short sleeves, even adding her pearl necklace and earrings, and had washed and arranged her hair.

Verity knew that the police, when they got here, would assume Cynthia had dressed up and arranged her hair because she wanted to die looking glamorous. But Verity knew better; her vain, selfish and stupid mother had not intended to die. She had staged this, assuming her daughter would come home at five as she always did. In fact, when she’d taken her mother a sandwich and cup of tea at
lunchtime, she’d asked if she was going to the library as usual. Verity had nodded – she couldn’t very well admit she and Hazel were meeting up at the doctor’s surgery to discuss her mother. If she had said she’d be home later than usual, her mother would have asked why.

It was in fact the first time since they’d moved here that her mother had asked where she was going. That alone proved what she intended to do. She certainly couldn’t have lost her mind – not if she could wash and dress herself, and think about what time she must turn the gas on to make her suicide attempt credible.

‘You cruel, selfish woman,’ Verity said, as tears cascaded down her face. ‘I can never forgive you for this.’

Even if she lived to a hundred Verity knew she would never forget the sheer awfulness of that night. Within just a few minutes of finding her mother, just as she was running down the road to telephone the police from the phone box, the heavens opened. The rain lashed down, soaking her to the skin in seconds, and then the thunder and lightning started. Yet the thunderstorm, however scary and unexpected, was nothing compared to what came next.

Aunt Hazel arrived home, along with the police, and she was so shocked when she heard of her sister’s death that she passed out. For a few moments Verity thought she’d lost her aunt too, but thankfully it was just shock, and after a cup of tea and a sit-down, she recovered. The next day she told Verity she’d felt a sharp pain in her chest and she thought she was having a heart attack.

But that night there were endless questions from the police, and their manner was entirely unsympathetic. This
was made worse by the neighbours who stood out in the pouring rain, desperate not to miss anything. Yet over and above the shock, grief and guilt Verity felt because she hadn’t been home that afternoon with her mother, there was also seething anger. She couldn’t comprehend how any woman could be so utterly selfish that she’d put her daughter and sister through such a terrible ordeal.

Later that evening Aunt Hazel was a tower of strength. She put her arms around Verity and assured her they would come through this together. She even told Verity she loved her, and that she would always have a home with her.

But that first night as Verity lay sleepless, listening to the rain hammering down outside, she hated her mother with every fibre of her body. She knew that once the local newspaper heard about this, they would have a field day, possibly connecting the family with Archie Wood and resurrecting what he had done and how he’d brought his wife to this tragic end.

Everyone at school, the neighbours, even the ladies at the library would hear about it. How could she ever hold her head up again?

The next morning Aunt Hazel blurted out that she absolutely knew her sister had staged the gassing for sympathy, never expecting to die.

‘She thought you’d be home by five as you always were, and you can bet your life she turned that gas on just minutes before five o’clock. She was the same all her life, always trying to get attention with whatever means she could. Well, this time it caught up with her. She’s gone now, and good riddance – so much for crying wolf.’

Verity knew her aunt wasn’t really glad her sister had died, she’d heard and seen her crying, and could see the sorrow etched into her face. She suspected Hazel felt guilty that she hadn’t asked the doctor to pay a home visit weeks ago, and then maybe it would never have come to this.

But whether Hazel was grieving or glad, at least Verity could now admit she too knew her mother had staged her suicide. Why else would she have put on her best pink dress and her pearls? That wasn’t the act of someone totally out of their mind with hopelessness.

It also meant Verity could talk freely about guilt and anger and all the other emotions that came in waves, threatening to overwhelm her.

She rather admired Hazel’s unconventional way of dealing with her grief; she spat out words like ‘sensationalist’, ‘traitor’ and ‘halfwit’ as she stripped her sister’s bed and packed her clothes away. She banged things around, even kicking furniture at times. Fury appeared to make her feel better.

Verity wished she could feel anger like her aunt’s; it would be good to rant about what a terrible, uncaring mother she’d had. But what she felt was a deep sadness, a big lump of it inside her that made it hard to eat, sleep or share her feelings with anyone.

She wrote a letter to Susan telling her what had happened, thinking she’d be worried when she wasn’t at the library. She hoped her friend would call round, as it would be a relief to talk to someone.

Hazel had a few days off work to enable her to arrange the funeral, though there wasn’t anything much to arrange. She had no desire to invite neighbours to the
service – Cynthia had never spoken to any of them – and those people she’d known as a young girl were almost all dead now or very old. She didn’t have any real friends, only old bridge partners who certainly wouldn’t come all the way to South London.

Hazel said it was best that no one came anyway – after all, suicide was a sin. She also didn’t want to alert any of the reporters who had banged on her door in the past few days, trying to get more information on the still-missing felon Archie Wood.

The vicar at the local church where her parents were buried would only allow Cynthia to be buried in the unhallowed ground at the edge of the churchyard, so Hazel took the view the interment should be done as speedily and privately as possible. She added that the wisest thing for her and Verity would be to draw a veil over it all, and try to forget.

The funeral was to take place on the fourth day after Cynthia’s death. In the days preceding it, Verity and Hazel spent most of the time sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and talking. It wasn’t all about Cynthia, either; Hazel spoke about their mother, and said how she too used to play games to get sympathy.

‘Whenever I said I was going to leave, she always became ill,’ Hazel said. ‘Such an actress! She could vomit, starve herself and writhe in pain. But it was all put on, and I got wise to it eventually. She was not a nice woman, Verity, she had no real heart. So I suppose it isn’t surprising that both Cynthia and I could be so calculating.’

‘You aren’t calculating,’ Verity assured her. ‘You do come across at first as chilly, but you were kind and
generous to take Mum and me in. But tell me about Grandfather. What was he like?’

‘Quiet, gentle, hardworking. He was a train driver, you know,’ Hazel sighed. ‘He deserved better than Mother, she bullied him, nothing he did was ever good enough. He used to spend all his spare time out in the garden, he made it beautiful, but she even ridiculed him for that and said he wasn’t a real man. I asked him once why he didn’t leave, but he just smiled and said it was his duty to stay. He passed away just before he was sixty, with a heart attack. Mother turned to bullying me after that.’