Second Time Around (4 page)

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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: Second Time Around
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Mathilda began to place her tiles on the board. ‘Of course I do,' she said.
Isobel stared at her, surprised at such a swift and unqualified reply. Mathilda met her gaze and raised her eyebrows.
‘I must believe in it,' she said reasonably. ‘After all, it exists. It happens. How could I not believe in it?'
‘Oh, honestly!' said Isobel impatiently. ‘You're so pedantic, Mathilda. You know what I mean.'
‘If you are asking if I
approve
of it then you should say so,' replied the old woman. ‘If I am pedantic, you are sloppy. You were a teacher. You should know better.'
‘I taught very young children,' said Isobel, as though that excused it.
‘All the more reason for accuracy,' observed Mathilda.
‘But do you?' persisted Isobel. ‘Do you approve?'
‘It all depends,' began Mathilda—and smiled at Isobel's groan. ‘It depends on the state of the person at the time. If he is terminally ill and in his right mind I think that he should have as much right to choose the manner of his death just as he has chosen the manner in which he has lived.'
‘I notice you say “he”?'
‘A manner of speech,' murmured Mathilda, who had been thinking about Nigel.
She had visited him in hospital after his chemotherapy treatment. Even now the remembrance had the power to shock her. ‘That's right, love. Come to see your dad?' the man in the next bed had asked. Mathilda, who was several years older than Nigel, had looked down on the yellow, bald, mummified head, too horrified to explain that they were not related. Nigel had been unable to communicate and she had sat clutching the claw that had been his hand, staring into the open lashless eyes, her heart pierced with pain.
‘But is it right for someone to kill another person? Even if it is a mercy killing?'
I would have killed Nigel, thought Mathilda. I would have released him from the terrible indignity of those final weeks.
‘And don't say “it all depends”,' warned Isobel.
‘But it does, you see. It depends whether the killer is able to bear
the responsibility. Whether the sufferer actually desires release or whether the killer merely thinks he—or she—does … It is all extremely complicated.'
‘People cling to life,' mused Isobel. ‘They say, “Oh, knock me on the head if I get like that,” but when the time comes they decide they've changed their minds.'
‘This life is all we know,' said Mathilda putting her last tile in place. ‘It is the human condition to cling to what we know.'
‘Even if it's pretty awful. Mathilda! You can't have that!
Pribble
? I've never heard of it.'
‘Look it up.' Mathilda pushed the dictionary towards her. ‘It's a perfectly good word meaning “pointless chattering”. Go on. Look it up.'
‘If you will use a pre-war dictionary,' grumbled Isobel. ‘Pre-Boer War …'
‘Are you going to stay the night?' asked Mathilda, taking more tiles from the bag.
‘I think I will,' said Isobel, listening to the sea pounding against the rocks, the windows rattling beneath the assault of the wind. ‘If that's OK?'
‘Of course.' Mathilda felt relieved, although she was not quite certain why. It would never have occurred to her to question Isobel but she was aware of a tension in the younger woman.
‘Thanks.' Suddenly Isobel dreaded the moment when she would be alone in bed, unable then to postpone any longer the pictures of Simon and Sally together. She gave thanks that, because she slept so badly, Mathilda generally went to bed late. ‘I'll make us a hot drink when we've finished this game,' she promised. ‘OK. My turn. Wait till you see this one!'
Mathilda jotted down her score carefully. Her thoughts of Nigel had disturbed her and she was in some measure glad of Isobel's company. The fire burned cheerfully, the casserole had been delicious,
and she was grateful for the younger woman's care which went far beyond her duties. She wished that she could help Isobel but did not know how. At least they could bear each other company through this wild night and maybe in the morning the storm would have passed.
 
 
IT WAS A FEW days after her meeting with Simon before Isobel took in the whole meaning of what he had told her. Just as she had—albeit subconsciously—used the knowledge of his love as a safety net during her affair with Mike, so had she regarded their eventually coming back together as a certainty. Simon had loved her so much, with such care and consideration and loyalty, that she could not seriously contemplate his love ever dying. She had even rather enjoyed their meetings, seeing them almost as a prelude to a new, more exciting relationship. Although she had been taken aback when he did not immediately ‘kiss her feet', as Helen had put it, deep down she had been sure that she would win him back.
The shock of realising that there had been someone else numbed her and occupied her every waking thought. She recalled each single meeting and conversation she had ever had with Sally, even morbidly wondering if Simon had been attracted to her before Mike had appeared on the scene. She pictured them together and made herself miserable by contemplating Sally's happy, easy relationship with Helen. It was at this point that Isobel began to think about her own future. With Sally around it seemed unlikely that Helen would ever need her own mother again.
Isobel knew now how much she had counted on resuming her marriage with Simon as a route back to her daughter. When she and Simon were living together once more Helen would be confronted with the necessity of seeing and communicating with her. It would be
unavoidable, unless Helen gave up coming home altogether. Isobel had been confident that this would be the last hurdle. Now she saw her hopes and plans crumbling to nothing. She was the outsider with no rights to either Simon or Helen. She tried to deal with this as she went about her work, looking after Mathilda, shopping, cleaning and working at the bookshop.
She was grateful for those two days a week in Mill Street. She and Pat often laughed—sometimes rather bitterly—when customers or friends observed what fun it must be to work in a bookshop. They seemed to imagine that the days passed in a leisurely manner, poring over this book or that and drinking coffee. These people had no notion of the business of unpacking boxes of books, ordering new ones, talking to suppliers, tracking down books for customers who had very few details apart from the titles, answering the telephone, wrestling with the computer; nor how much one's feet ached at the end of the day. Most lunchtimes Isobel sat out in the back office with a sandwich but generally the telephone would ring or a customer would appear and her sandwich would have to be abandoned, bites snatched at odd moments during the afternoon. Occasionally she would escape next door to The Hermitage and in the warmer months would sit out in the garden with her drink, gratefully breathing in the fresh air.
It was Pat who made her think about her future. When Isobel told her what had happened, Pat's concern was for how Isobel would survive. She pointed out that she could offer her no more than her two days at the bookshop; perhaps she should think of going back to teaching? Isobel, who had not yet considered this aspect of her troubles, had remarked that she had Mathilda.
‘But for how long?' asked Pat.
During the next few days Isobel brooded on this. Until Simon had shattered her hopes she had seen the future somewhat hazily. She could manage on what she was earning but she had never looked upon her work, either at the bookshop or with Mathilda, as a long-term arrangement. At some point she and Simon would be back together in
the house at Modbury and all would be well. She had applied for teaching posts, which were very few and far between, but the competition was fierce and she had not been lucky. Then her job with Pat had turned up, along with Mathilda's advertisement, and she had put the idea of teaching on the back burner, so to speak. Now Pat's question haunted her. Mathilda was old and frail. What would happen if she should die? Isobel began to scour the papers in the hope of seeing teaching posts advertised and wondered who would inherit the house in the cove.
This question was answered almost immediately. The storms subsided and gentler, warmer weather set in. Isobel wandered on the cliffs above the beach but even the breathtaking beauty of the scene failed to raise her spirits. The sea appeared to be resting peacefully against the land, a world away from the recent storms. Beneath the cliffs the water was a pure translucent turquoise fading away, as far as the eye could see, to a softer blue which reflected the cloudless sky until both sea and sky seemed to merge into infinity. Isobel followed the tracks through heather and gorse, which had flowered together in a blaze of colour, and turned inland across the stunted grass towards the fields. A chiffchaff sung his two notes from a hazel bush and the hedges were full of blackberries. She untied the cotton scarf she wore at her throat and began to pick the berries. Mathilda might enjoy a blackberry and apple pie.
Her heart was heavy, however, and even this task seemed pointless and exhausting. Everything tired her and her natural vitality and enthusiasm had deserted her. She sat drown upon a boulder, turning her face to the sun, her fingers picking idly at the crumbly dry lichen on the rough pitted stone. At the sudden beating of wings and the raucous cry of a gull she opened her eyes and stared out across to Start Point; at the jagged bony spine of the cliff as it descended towards the sea and at the white column of the lighthouse. The tranquillity of the scene, the sheer timelessness of sea and rock, soothed her and presently she picked up her handkerchief and its contents, strolled back across the
cliff and descended the steps which led down to the back of her cottage. Soon the cove would be in shadow and she shivered a little as she thought of the winter drawing on. She knew that she simply must not allow despair to swamp her nor self-pity deaden her will to survive. She let herself into the kitchen which was still warm from a day of sunshine and put the blackberries on the table, determined to make a pie for supper.
Her kitchen was hardly less basic than Mathilda's but at least she had a microwave and an electric mixer. The room was filled with the light from the sea; a white shaking light which continually formed, dissolved and re-formed into watery patterns on the whitewashed walls. On certain days Isobel felt that she was living underwater. She loved it and she loved the sound of the sea shushing across the sand; hissing and sucking at the land as if it were loath to leave it behind as it retreated; whispering secretly across it as it returned.
At first she had been fascinated by the changing scene; the colour of the water as it reflected a cloudy sky; the dark outline of the Mew stone; the tall day beacon above Kingswear shining white in the evening sunshine. She had sat late at her bedroom window watching the moon rise clear from a skein of cloud and ride high above the black silk of the sea, its silver path running almost to her very door; and had woken early to see the sun rolling up out of the cliffs to the east to set the water blazing with orange and gold. After a while she had learned to close her curtains against these temptations lest she be too tired to work; but she never grew indifferent to her surroundings. Even now she was aware of the glory all about her and, even if it did not set her spirits leaping with joy, it brought a measure of comfort to her unhappy heart.
Isobel took off her jacket and concentrated on the pie. Now that she did so much cooking for Mathilda she was always finding that certain items were no longer to hand. This afternoon it was her pie dish which was missing; no doubt languishing in Mathilda's kitchen where it had been washed up after they had eaten their last pie together. Isobel
debated with herself. Should she run over to fetch the dish or take the ingredients and make the pie in Mathilda's kitchen? She knew that the pie would taste better if cooked in the Rayburn—apart from which she needed company. Gathering up the things she required, she piled them into a basket and went out across the cove. The shadow of the cliff stretched nearly to the water's edge and she was glad to reach the warmth of Mathilda's kitchen. She set the basket on the table, checked the Rayburn and glanced at her watch. Whilst the Rayburn pulled up a little to the necessary temperature she would make Mathilda a cup of tea.
Mathilda was in the study, working at the big desk. Isobel set the tray on the fender and paused to throw a log on the fire.
‘Tea,' she announced. ‘I'm making a blackberry and apple pie for supper but the blackberries taste a bit funny. Sort of mushy. I hope it'll be OK. Isn't the Devil supposed to spit on them at Michaelmas or something?'
‘I think,' said Mathilda, without turning round, ‘that the blame should be laid at the door of the fresh fly. He dribbles saliva on them so as to be able to suck up the juice.'
‘Eeuch!' Isobel made a face. ‘Honestly, Mathilda, I wish you hadn't told me. That's disgusting, isn't it?'
‘That depends on whether you are a flesh fly,' replied Mathilda. ‘Thank you. I should like some tea. I'm trying to work out my family tree.'
‘Heavens!' Isobel kneeled down by the fender and began to pour the tea, attempting meanwhile to expel the taste of flesh fly saliva from her mouth. She scraped at her tongue with her teeth, quite certain now that it was coated with it. ‘Whyever?'
‘I'm looking for a beneficiary,' replied the old woman. ‘I've decided to change my will.'
Isobel's hands were arrested in the act of adding milk; the flesh fly was utterly expunged from her mind—and mouth. ‘Your will?'
‘Mmm.' Mathilda swivelled round in her chair to look at her. ‘I
had decided to endow a studentship at my father's old college but I disapprove of their new policy of giving the highest proportion of places to foreign students who can afford to pay huge fees. And now I hear that they are intending to discontinue his field of study in favour of the peat bog. Apparently, with all this fuss about preserving peat it is hoped that it will attract more funding.'
‘I see,' said Isobel. She carried the cup across and placed it on the desk. ‘So how far have you got?' Her heart was hurrying a little as she tried to frame the words as carelessly as possible. ‘I hope you're not planning to pop off just yet, Mathilda?'
‘Not just yet,' said Mathilda comfortably, ‘but I do want to get this sorted out.'
Isobel stared down at the papers upon which Mathilda's neat writing was quite clear. Names stared up at her. ‘Who are Maria and Albert Holmes?' she asked.
‘Maria was my father's sister.' Mathilda sipped her tea. ‘She married Albert Holmes and had three children. Ruth died young and Peter and John were both killed in the Great War but John had already married a woman called Ada and had a son by her.'
‘It's fascinating.' Isobel peered at the names and the dates. ‘What about your mother's family?'
Mathilda shook her head. ‘I never knew my mother's family. I can very vaguely remember an old woman who might have been my grandmother but I think she must have died whilst I was still very young. My mother died when I was ten and my father was not good at keeping in touch with relatives. Even with his own family.'
‘I can believe that,' murmured Isobel, who guessed that Mathilda was much like her father. ‘And who are William and Edith Rainbird?'
‘William was my second cousin and died at Dunkirk.' Mathilda frowned. ‘It's all rather complicated.'
‘And how have you tracked down these people?'
‘Some of it was in the family bible and I found a few notes amongst my father's papers but a friend of mine in London is putting in the
real work,' admitted Mathilda. She replaced her cup in its saucer and looked at Isobel. She noticed that she was looking thinner, sharper around the nose and cheekbones, and the old woman studied her for a moment. ‘Perhaps you should have a holiday?' she suggested..
Isobel, surprised both at the sudden change of subject and that Mathilda should make such a personal remark, looked at her quickly. ‘Do I look as if I need one?'
‘You do rather,' said Mathilda bluntly. ‘Are you losing weight?'
‘I'm worried in case you're thinking of turning me out,' replied Isobel lightly. ‘In favour of all these relations.'
‘Oh, I shan't do that.' Mathilda shook her head. ‘You will have all the rights of a sitting tenant. No one shall turn you out.'
‘That's a comfort.' Isobel tried to maintain her lightness of tone, wondering whether the beneficiary would require a housekeeper and, if not, how she, Isobel, would afford the rent of her little cottage. ‘So which one have you decided on?'
‘There appear to be three possible contenders,' said Mathilda. ‘Edward Holmes married the year after I was born so, though it's unlikely he's still alive, he might have offspring. Then William married in 1914. He was the one who died at Dunkirk. Apparently he had a son but we have been unable to find him as yet. We
have
traced the third possibility down to the last decade at which point the entire family appear to have vanished without trace.'
‘But what will you do if you find them all?' Isobel's question had a certain self-interest behind it. ‘How would you decide? Would you interview them?'
Mathilda finished her tea and passed the cup to Isobel. ‘Yes, please. I should like another if there's any in the pot. It's a rather difficult decision. There might be an obvious candidate, you see. On the other hand I might decide to leave it to several of my father's descendants.'

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