The Thin Woman (7 page)

“Do you know what you are?” Ben gave the tail of his
tie a jerk which threatened to strangle him. His face was dangerously red. “You are trouble! I Knew that the minute I first saw you looking like a typhoon in that purple shroud, and you have been nothing but a nightmare ever since. I wouldn’t put it past you to sue me for breach of promise when I break off our fictitious engagement.”

“You’re not worth it.” I made for the stairs. “You don’t have any money to tempt me.”

“Know something else,” he said from behind me. “I don’t understand why this farce is necessary. Other than having a fantastic face and figure, your cousin Vanessa is a zero. Talk about bored to yawns back there. While she was talking to me all I could think about was my bed.”

“I’ll bet,” I said.

“Goodnight, my dears,” called Aunt Sybil from below with what I am sure she hoped was gentle finality. She had told me where we would be sleeping so I was able to inform Ben that his room was the last but one on the left. “Not the last one,” I warned him. “That is the dumb-waiter. Years ago it was used to bring up meals from the kitchen.”

“There’s a place I wouldn’t care to visit.” Ben shuddered. “After the grub we were served tonight, I picture cobwebs on the ceiling, slime on the walls, and the butler floating face down in a vat of beef tea.”

“Ridiculous! He was pensioned off years ago. Either Uncle Merlin refuses to spend the money for servants or they are afraid to work here.” If I had hoped for a lingering goodnight at my door. I was doomed to disappointment. Ben gave me a soldierly pat on the shoulder, informed me he was not an early riser, and disappeared down the corridor.

My bedroom was not a cheerful place. It seemed to be suffering from a bad case of the ague, the walls sweating patchily through mould-coloured wallpaper. The coverings on the great four-poster bed stank of age and the irritable little fire hissed and stuttered in the grate but did nothing to drive back the chill. Thank goodness I had possessed the foresight to pack my woollen jammies with the feet. This thought cheered me until I remembered they were securely packed
away in my suitcase, which was still sitting in Ben’s car.

Shuddering, I stripped down to my bra and undies, spread the purple monster over a chair—strategically placed to waylay any chance bursts of warmth from that sullen fire—and crawled like a skinned polar bear under the flea-ridden blankets. I was able to reach the light switch from the bed. The room shrank into darkness, but sleep like a spry old elf pranced just out of reach. I was afraid to stretch out my legs full length in case something soft and furry was nesting in the bed. The events of the day jostled and elbowed their way into my head, but out of the chaos came one realization: Though Ben had totally failed to live up to my expectations of the way a man from E.E. should conduct himself, five minutes into our first squabble I had felt completely at ease with him. Instead of counting sheep I played my favourite fantasy game, What if? What if I were painfully, emaciatedly thin, with a soul above cream cakes and Yorkshire pudding and big airy dumplings simmered in thick rich gravy? Oh hell! Given that luscious spread, who needed men!

A soft footfall sounded outside my door. The handle turned with a grunt. Ben? I could eat tomorrow; food was always available while … He was padding across the floor. A thump and a muffled yelp told me he had met the tallboy head on. My heart was slamming against my ribs and my temperature kept going up and down like a department store lift. “Scream,” said the inner voice of decency and common sense. “So you can die not knowing?” asked its sparring partner. His hand was on the bedspread, an inch away from my exposed flesh. The sheet was lifting. I felt a pyjamaed leg rub briefly against mine. And it was all over. My hand found the light switch and the room blinked back to life.

I turned to spear Ben with my accusing, righteous (but grateful) eye.

“Uncle Maurice?” I quailed, yanking the blankets up around my neck. “Please explain yourself! You’ve got to the count of ten and then I start screaming.”

CHAPTER
Five

I should have known that the only man to come creeping into my room in the dead of night would be a lost soul returning from the bathroom. Uncle Maurice, looking quite ridiculous in lavender flannel pyjamas, apologized profusely for the intrusion and begged me not to mention the incident to Aunt Lulu. She would be most upset if she knew he had barged in on me and disturbed my rest. I swore that my lips were sealed and turned off the light. Now to try and sleep.

A noise awoke me, a threatening growling that jerked me upright, bleary-eyed and not at all in the mood for receiving midnight marauders. Another false alarm: The racket was only my growling stomach reminding me it was time for my favourite date—the two of us alone together—me and food. I tried to be strong. I reminded myself it would be more than greedy, it would be sneaky, to trek downstairs at two o’clock in the morning and invade Aunt Sybil’s kitchen. My nose began to itch. Dust! Did Aunt Sybil never flick a duster, air a blanket, cook a decent meal? Resentment built. Those measly sandwiches! And stale, too! What a meal to serve people staggering in from the clutches of
a raging blizzard! Besides, Freddy and Ben had scoffed most of them! Thumping my pillow with a fierce hand, I savoured my wrath. If Auntie couldn’t cook, what was wrong with her buying a few sausage rolls from the baker’s, and perhaps some Cornish pasties? My stomach was either applauding or cursing. Obviously it had decided to keep me up all night.

Moonlight reflecting off the snow cast a spiral of light into the otherwise darkened room. The illumination was sufficient for me to be able to read the face of my watch. Two-thirty. Hours before breakfast, and I did not have high hopes for that meal. Lumpy porridge and cold tea were not adequate sustenance for a growing girl. Climbing out of bed, I stood shivering as the chill air hit me. The fire had petered out and I was not surprised to discover that the purple horror was still more wet than damp. What was I to wear? Descending the hall stairs in my undies was out. There could be no greater anguish than being caught by Ben in my midriff bra and lace-up corset. Bumbling around in the moonlight, I managed to find the wardrobe. The inside stank of mothballs and old newspapers, but it contained no cast-off clothing other than a pair of button-shoes and a feather hat, which I mistook for a dead bird. Not much cover-up there. My hand found a shelf to one side and its search was rewarded. Under a furring of dust lay what proved to be a bedspread. It felt like chenille and, luckily, it seemed to be a double size.

Inching my door open, I peered out onto the landing. Several windows, particularly a huge stained-glass one at the top of the stairs, provided ominous shadows that crept along the walls. Only the promise of hot buttered toast and a decent cup of tea prodded me forward. One of those heartening theories about heavy people is that they are light on their feet, and I sincerely hoped it was true. I had crossed the narrow strip of carpeting and now had to deal with the stairs. My toga slipped and I tucked it back together. I felt like a liner being launched into shallow water. Steady as she goes!

The kitchen door swung inward with a slight shudder and I found the light switch at the first reach. The bulb was weak and the illumination it threw poor. Depressing as was the rest of the house, the kitchen was worse. Dingy grey linoleum and salmon-pink walls. They were not helped by the hunched assortment of cupboards, from which most of the paint and several of the doors were missing. The maze of tarnished copper piping extending up the walls from the rusty old-fashioned boiler was strung with greasy floor-cloths and stained dish-towels. Did Aunt Sybil sometimes confuse the two? Anyone with minimal housewifely instincts would have been revolted. I also looked at the room with a professional eye. Size and shape of the kitchen were both good, the windows large and facing south. Under that disgusting lino was probably a stone or brick floor. Already I was picturing it as it might be, with a navy blue Aga cooker, copper pans burnished to a warm glow, lots of greenery replacing the curtains, and a creamy wallpaper accented with navy and coral.

The vision faded and I was left staring at dirty crockery stacked precariously on the table, draining board, and other available surfaces. No wonder Uncle Merlin wanted the lights kept low.

I am not in favour of mandatory sterilization for all homes. Tobias had shredded my couch, and sometimes I did not make my bed for a week. But this filth was unbearable. The boiler, bless it, was still hot. After a valiant search among the cobwebs under the sink, I found a limp cardboard box that contained a slightly damp tin of cleanser, and a box of soap powder. They would have to do. Washing-up liquid was obviously not down on Aunt Sybil’s list of life’s necessities. Hoisting up the bedspread, I tied it in a knobby knot at the back of my neck, dared it to fall down, and started heaving refuse out of the sink.

Two hours later the dishes were washed, dried, and stacked as evenly as possible in the cupboards. The table had responded fairly well to scrubbing. Half the paint had peeled off the top, but what was underneath looked clean. Filling a pail with hot water, I poured in a bottle of bleach
(so old the top had corroded), gingerly pried the cloths off the pipes, and watched them sink into the fumes.

Stifling a yawn, I opened and closed my eyes rapidly a few times to remind them I was still awake. How could I explain my interference to Aunt Sybil? Perhaps she would think the fairies had come. Biting down on another yawn, I filled the kettle, set it on the newly wiped cooker, and lit the gas. At last I was free to open the magic door.

The pantry was another room which should have exuded old-fashioned charm. Its marble shelves were built for hams and cheeses, pork pies and jellies. It should have sent forth an aroma rich in the promise of culinary delights. The truth was it stank. The odour of rancid fat mingled with the stench of bad meat and mice droppings. Crumbs were scattered on the shelves and spilt milk had dried to a yellow crust. Other than a half-eaten chicken, a bowl of curdled custard, and a basket of sprouting vegetables, the place looked like Mother Hubbard’s—bare.

I found the breadbox. It was metal with a fairly secure lid, so I pulled out a loaf without too much foreboding and went out, closing the door behind me. The kettle was whistling, a high shrill peal which reminded me I still had to find the tea. As if annoyed that I did not come when called, the sound grew deeper, becoming a threatening rumble that set the saucepans bouncing about on the rack above the cooker and the row of cups jangling on their hooks beneath the cupboards. A lot of noise and vibration from one kettle. More like a steam train! I turned off the gas, and the noise went on briefly, then stopped. Thunder? I wondered, but the strip of sky glimpsed through the kitchen window, though flecked with tiny flakes of snow, looked clear enough. The rumpus must have been the hot water tank filling up. Where was that tea caddy?

Back to the pantry. As I opened the door, a slight movement caught my eye. Mice? I hate them, but if I didn’t have my cup of … A form grew out of the shadows; arms extended, white gown flapping, it came slowly towards me. The ghost of Merlin’s Court! My scream turned into a
squeak which would have made me the laughing-stock of any mice that might be listening. I could not see the creature’s face, but it had a white hood pulled over its head. That was not the worst part. It was laughing, horrible choking gasps of mirth that reduced me to gibbering terror. Any girlish heroine worth her salt would have swooned. I did almost as well; I tripped over the chenille and went down for the count, with the spectre’s hollow words ringing in my ears: “By God, it’s Aphrodite.”

I should, by rights, have wakened to the pungent scent of smelling salts. Such was not my good fortune. Someone had me under the armpits and I was being dragged across the rutted floor, grazing my bottom and scaring me out of what little wits I had left.

“Lord save me, I’d rather drag an ox.” Ben! How did he come into this? He certainly was not the pantry ghost. “This will have to do.” He was stacking me up against a wall like a sack of flour. “If I try to hoist her into a chair I’ll give myself a hernia—a double.”

I’ll wring his neck! But if I moved my arms the chenille would go completely. The only way to get even would be to report him to E.E. Another voice spoke, a foggy, barking, inhuman voice.

“What do you want from me—sympathy? Said she was your girl, didn’t you? A man who takes on a woman twice his size should at least have muscles where his brain is supposed to be. Stop blithering around like a daffodil in the wind and bring her to her senses, if she has any. Douse her down with that pail by the sink. Looks like she’s been meddling around in here disrupting the natural disorder. Damned interference.”

The bleach! I had always wanted to be a blonde but not by such drastic measures. “Oh no, you don’t!” My eyes flew open like a pair of window blinds. I shook myself free from Ben’s grasp; flaying out with my fists I had the satisfaction of catcning him a good one on the chin. “Fool!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet. “Drop that bucket and we’ll have a hole in the floor that goes clear through to Australia.” I turned
and waved a furious schoolmistress finger at the scraggy figure in white. “Okay, you nasty Wee Willie Winkie, why don’t you go off somewhere and chew on your tassel! I may not be a thing of beauty but look at you in that ridiculous headgear!”