She scurried back to Mr. Trainor’s and pounded on the door. He breathed deeply when he saw who it was, as if bracing himself for another onslaught.
Miss Dewey rattled on breathlessly, “You must give me a lift to the police station. This is an emergency. I’ve found the doll!”
He stared at her blankly, unimpressed by this revelation.
“The doll that was left hanging in my flat yesterday, Mr. Trainor. I must speak with the police!”
Of course, he thought humorlessly. Why not? He sighed and put on his windcheater because it was breezy out and looked like rain. It was just as well he took her now rather than suffer the endless recriminations that would follow if he refused. But it was really quite a bother. It was Saturday, and he was planning on kippers and tomatoes for breakfast, then sitting in front of the telly to watch a cricket match. Mr. Trainor found nothing more pleasant than watching cricket, and it was infinitely less demanding than actually playing the sport. He envisioned himself relaxing for hours undisturbed, eating the food his sister had prepared for him. Ah well, maybe this excursion with Miss Dewey wouldn’t take long and he could get back in time to watch the end of the match.
Mr. Trainor refused to accompany her into the station. He didn’t want them thinking he was mental as well. And maybe, he thought with a sudden glimmer of hope, they would realize she was absolutely crackers and even suggest that she be committed. The possibility of that’s happening was especially remote, but the idea did give him some momentary comfort as he sat waiting outside in the red Mini.
Miss Dewey entered the doors to the station with the doll tucked inside her handbag. She couldn’t bear looking at those reproving eyes any longer. She presented a disheveled figure, still in the clothes from the day before, strands of hair falling out of the bun. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had forgotten to tidy herself up, but it was too late now.
The nice young officer listened tolerantly to her grievances, looked doubtfully at the doll (he couldn’t say it was necessarily intended as a malicious act), and told her to keep her doors shut tight, just as the woman upstairs had done. But while his words were intended to be comforting, she suddenly realized that the woman’s were not. The woman upstairs seemed quietly menacing, somehow. Could she possibly be Miss Dewey’s tormentor?
“I think I might know who’s been getting into my flat,” Miss Dewey announced with indecision, telling him in sketchy detail about her former forgotten pupil. It was unfortunate that she knew so little about her.
The officer sensed her uncertainty and responded soothingly. “Well, I think, Miss Dewey, that we shall need a bit more evidence than what you’ve got so far. If you can find something linking her specifically to these uh—” he coughed and looked as if he were suppressing a grin “—incidents, then we will be happy to speak with her.”
Miss Dewey could see that he did not understand the seriousness of what was happening, and that he probably didn’t even believe her, as Mr. Trainor had not. And she was tempted to rip that soothing voice out of his throat and smash it. But instead, considering the physical impossibility of such a task, she replaced the doll carefully in her handbag, gathered up what little dignity she had left, and flounced out of the station in frustration.
Mr. Trainor watched Miss Dewey guardedly as he drove her back to Waverly Mansions. The trip took longer than he had expected because they were delayed for quite some time by a traffic accident. Miss Dewey was uncharacteristically silent and he was grateful for that, but he worried about when her next round of grievances would begin.
By the time he dropped Miss Dewey off and parked the Mini in the garage, the cricket match was over. He would never be able to see the same match again, and it was all because of Miss Dewey. He moaned in disappointment, and ate the bangers and mash his sister had prepared for lunch, all of them, for it was now well past lunch and his plans for the morning were ruined. After that, he polished off the trifle in the fridge, comforting himself with at least that meager pleasure. He would have to consider getting a VCR so he didn’t continually have to miss his programs when he was catering to Miss Dewey’s whims. But oh, the expense, he thought regretfully. He could see that the situation with Miss Dewey was not going to improve. It could only get worse.
Miss Dewey glumly returned to her flat. She looked down at her rumpled housedress, the one she had slept in last night, and she felt exhausted and beaten. This was a foreign feeling for Miss Dewey, but the curious thing was, she felt unable to fend it off. Odder still, that woman from upstairs was sitting casually on Miss Dewey’s settee, as if it were her very own rather than the property of someone she barely knew.
Miss Dewey opened her mouth to speak, to tell her that she knew what was going on, but the woman spoke first.
“I want you to sit down, and I want you to sit down now,” she ordered firmly, and with such authority that the former schoolmistress felt compelled to obey. Miss Dewey crumpled into the armchair farthest from the settee.
“I wonder if you know, Miss Dewey, how many children you tortured when you were a teacher. Young, defenseless children you were responsible for.”
“Well, I hardly think that tortured is the proper word,” she replied hoarsely. “You’re implying that I beat them or something.” Miss Dewey was surprised that she was still able to speak up for herself. She also knew that she had a perfect right to ask this woman to leave, but was strangely unable to.
“Yes, I think tortured is a very good word. Do you remember when you forced me to stand in front of the class and announce ten times, ‘I am stupid because I forgot my pencils’? My classmates snickered because they agreed with you. You didn’t pick on everyone, never the strong ones. I learned that much later. You usually selected one or maybe two pupils in each class to degrade and hold up to everyone as examples of what they mustn’t become. We could have started a club or an association even, there were so many of us.”
Miss Dewey looked at her former pupil nervously and stammered, “I don’t remember doing anything like that. I was very strict, of course, but I was hardly cruel. Perhaps you’ve got me mixed up with someone else?” she added hopefully.
The woman smiled that placating smile and tossed back her head, smoothing out the bleached, stringy locks with her free hand. She was all dressed in black, the bones around her neck jutting out prominently where the blouse was cut low. She began picking at her fingernails with a file she had taken from her pocket.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Dewey. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I know exactly who you are, but I do understand why you don’t remember me.” She spoke serenely and matter-of-factly, as if she were discussing the weather or the ingredients in a shepherd’s pie. “I was too insignificant, hardly worth bothering with. Except to belittle. I wonder, did it make you feel better about yourself to make me feel like nothing?”
Miss Dewey couldn’t defend herself, not really. It had been such a long time ago. Beads of sweat began to form across her brow. She wasn’t at all well. Had she taken her heart tablet today? She couldn’t remember.
“I would like you to leave now. I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.”
The woman upstairs fairly cackled at her request. “Oh, I’m not leaving, Miss Dewey, not until I’m good and ready. And I won’t be good and ready until you hear what I have to say.”
Miss Dewey got up to go to the door. She suddenly wished that she had a telephone so she could call for help.
“You’re not going anywhere, Miss Dewey, not until I’m finished with you.”
Somehow her last words frightened Miss Dewey into obedience. Maybe if she humored her former pupil, did what she wanted...