‘No, that’s likely to be a sudden death,’ said Pam, thinking of post-mortems. ‘Broncho-pneumonia is better.’
‘Suits me,’ said Tracey, writing it down. ‘After he’s dead, I take this to the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths in Worcester, and tell them that Clive Jones was my brother, is that right?’
‘Yes, it’s very straightforward. They’ll want his date of birth and one or two other details that you can invent. Then they issue you with another certificate that you show to the undertaker. He takes over after that.’
‘I ask for a cremation, of course. Will it cost much?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Pam. ‘He can afford it.’
‘Too true!’ said Tracey. ‘His wallet is always stuffed with notes.’
‘He never has to spend much,’ Pam pointed out. ‘The way he runs his life, he gets everything he wants for nothing.’
‘The bastard,’ said Tracey with a shudder.
‘You really mean to do it, don’t you?’
Tracey stood up and looked steadily at Pam with her grey-green eyes. ‘On Monday evening when he comes to me. I’ll phone you when it’s done.’
Pam linked her arm in Tracey’s. ‘The first thing I’m going to do is burn those pyjamas.’
Tracey remarked, ‘He never wore pyjamas with me.’
‘Really?’ Pam hesitated, her curiosity aroused. ‘What exactly did he do with you? Are you able to talk about it?’
‘I don’t believe I could,’ answered Tracey with eyes lowered.
‘If I poured you a brandy? We are in this together now.’
‘All right,’ said Tracey with a sigh.
Sunday seemed like the longest day of Pam’s life, but she finally got through it. On Monday she didn’t go in to work. That evening, she waited nervously by the phone from six-thirty onwards.
The call came at a few minutes after seven. Pam snatched up the phone.
‘Hello, darling.’ The voice was Cliff’s.
‘Cliff?’
‘Yes. Not like me to call you on a Monday, is it? The fact is, I happen to be in Worcester on my travels, and it occurred to me that I could get over to you in Hereford in half an hour if you’re free this evening.’
‘Has something happened?’ asked Pam.
‘No, my darling. Just a change of plans. I won’t expect much of a meal.’
‘That’s good, because I haven’t got one for you,’ Pam candidly told him.
There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, ‘Are you all right, dear? You don’t sound quite yourself.’
‘Don’t I?’ said Pam flatly. ‘Well, I’ve had a bit of a shock. My sister died here on Saturday. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. Broncho-pneumonia. I’ve had to do everything myself. She’s being cremated on Wednesday.’
‘Your sister? Pam, darling, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t even know you had a sister.’
‘Her name was Olive. Olive Jones,’ said Pam, and she couldn’t help smiling at her own resourcefulness. After she had poisoned Tracey with a drop of nicotine in her brandy, all it had wanted on the death certificate was a touch of the pen. ‘We weren’t close. I’m not too distressed. Yes, why don’t you come over?’
‘You’re sure you want me?’
‘Oh, I want you,’ answered Pam; ‘Yes, I definitely want you.’
When she had put down the phone, she didn’t go to the fridge to see what food she had in there. She went upstairs to the bedroom and changed into a black lace negligé.
Did You Tell Daddy?
Jonathan Wilding, four years old, his tight curls bleached by the August sun, stepped busily through the village delivering letters. He called at every house. They were his mother Sally’s love letters.
Jonathan had found them at the bottom of the spare-room wardrobe when he had gone to look for a tennis ball to replace the one he had lost over next door’s wall. The moment he had slipped the elastic band off the shoe-box and lifted the lid, he had forgotten about the ball. Those bundles of letters neatly tied with coloured ribbon had seemed provided for him to realise the one ambition of his young life: to be a postman. Mr Halliwell, with his peaked hat, grey uniform, bicycle and above all, the brown bag stuffed with letters and parcels, was Jonathan’s idol, a loud-voiced, bearded man with something to say to everyone he met, including the children. Sometimes he allowed Jonathan to walk along the street with him and guard the bicycle when he propped it against someone’s gatepost.
Jonathan’s status this afternoon was infinitely more important. With his nursery-school satchel slung from one shoulder and filled with letters, he made his way purposefully from door to door making his special delivery. He knew that ideally the envelopes should not have been torn open at the top, but every one had a long letter inside, often running to several pages, so no one ought to feel dissatisfied. By a happy chance, there were just enough letters to go round. He had covered both sides of the street, slipping two or three through the doors of people who were particular friends of the family, and he was home and watching television before the first knock came at the front door.
Sally Wilding was in the kitchen cooking plaice and chips for her husband Bernard, the author of the letters. Bernard was asleep upstairs. He was a sergeant in the police, with responsibility for one small town and seven villages, including their own, and this week he was on nights. He and Sally had lived in the village all their lives. It was often mentioned that they had been childhood sweethearts, but that was sentimental blurring of the truth. They had ignored each other in school and avoided each other outside until a month before Bernard had become a police cadet. That month, April 1969, had made nonsense of all the years before. Out of nowhere, an avalanche of passion had engulfed them. They had been eighteen and in love and facing separation, for Bernard had been due to report to Hendon Police College, two hundred miles away, on May 1st. That last weekend, they had got engaged and promised to send letters to each other every day.
Such letters! Sally still blushed at their frankness and prickled with secret pleasure at the unrestraint of Bernard’s ardour. If she ever needed a testimony to the force of his passion, it was there in his neatly upright handwriting, more candid and more eloquent than he had been before or since. There had been a few times in their marriage — very few — when she had been glad to take out those letters and read them for reassurance. Bernard was almost certainly unaware that she had kept them.
She heard the doorbell.
‘Michael, see who it is, please.’
Michael was her first-born, ten years old and pleased to be the man of the house when Bernard was not available.
‘It’s Mrs Nugent. She wants to speak to you.’
Sally sighed, took the frying pan off the gas, wiped her hands and went to see what the village do-gooder wanted this time. Probably collecting for something. Why was it always when the evening meal was on the go?
‘I rather think that this belongs to you, my dear.’
Sally took the letter and stared at it, unable yet to make the mental leap that linked it with the embarrassed neighbour on her doorstep.
‘Somebody pushed it through my door. I expect they got the numbers mixed. It was already open. I haven’t looked inside, believe me.’
Sally went numb. She couldn’t summon the words to respond to Mrs Nugent. If a chasm had opened between them, she would have jumped into it at once.
Her mind mobilised at last. Which letter was it, for heaven’s sake? What was in it? How could it possibly...?
One of the boys!
Fast as her brain began to race, events outpaced it. Mr Marsh from across the street came up the path with two more letters in his hand.