We shook hands all round and I left them.
Up in my room, I heard them talking. The low rumble of their voices didn’t worry me.
Tomorrow I would finally meet Mrs. Beth Marshall.
Beth!
I liked the name.
As she put the breakfast tray on the table, Mrs. Hansen said, ‘I brought up the paper. I thought you would like to see it.’
I thanked her and had to restrain myself from grabbing it until she had left the room.
The Wicksteed Herald had done a fine snow job on Marshall.
The report written by the Editor himself, began by giving Marshall a big build up. Quote: Mr. Marshall is one of our most liked citizens who has always had the interests of Wicksteed close to his heart. Then, after more blah: it is common knowledge that Mr. Marshall has been for some time under considerable strain due to his aunt’s distressing illness. His aunt, Mrs. Howard T. Fremlin, has been and will always be our most important citizen. Mr. Marshall frankly admitted that after visiting her at our fine hospital, he was so upset, he took a drink. We think it is unfortunate that Deputy Sheriff Ross (a new recruit to our town) felt it necessary to arrest Mr. Marshall when he was about to drive home. Mr. Marshall mistook Deputy Sheriff Ross’s intentions and pushed him so Deputy Sheriff Ross fell against Mr. Marshall’s car and slightly injured his mouth. After consulting with his attorney. Mr. Yule Olson, Mr. Marshall agreed that it was only fair that he should lose his driving licence for a few months. Smiling, Mr. Marshall told our reporter: ‘It’s tough, but there are so many kids around here who drink-drive, I want to set them an example.’
To me, this was the most vomit making reportage I had ever read. I tossed the paper aside and wondered how Deputy Sheriff Ross was reacting.
I had just finished my breakfast when Mrs. Hansen came tapping on my door.
‘A telephone call for you, Mr. Devery. It’s Mr. Marshall.’
I could tell by the way her eyes were popping how excited she was. I went down the stairs and took the call.
‘Is that you, Keith?’ Marshall’s booming voice came over the line.
‘How are you Frank?’
‘I could be worse. Listen, I’ve talked to Beth and she’s willing to learn to drive. Is that okay with you?’
‘It’s my job, Frank.’
‘Yeah.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘Could you come up to the house? She doesn’t want to go down to the town. Could you do that?’
To meet Mrs. Beth Marshall, I would have done a moon shot.
‘No problem, Frank.’
‘Well, thanks. Right now I’ve a taxi waiting to take me to the station. Would eleven o’clock be okay?’
‘Why, sure.’
‘Get her driving fast, Keith. This taxi business is costing me money.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
A long pause, then he asked, ‘Did you see the paper this morning?’
‘I saw it.’
‘Nice job, huh? Elliot — he’s the Editor — would kiss my prat if I told him to.’ He gave a great bellow of laughter. I got the impression that he was a little drunk. ‘Then you come here at eleven... right?’
‘I’ll be there.’
He hung up and I hung up. Then seeing Mrs. Hansen hovering in the living room, all ears, I told her I was going to Marshall’s home to teach Mrs. Marshall to drive.
‘That should be very interesting, Mr. Devery,’ she said, her mouth prim. ‘You will be the first of us to meet Mrs. Marshall.’
‘I’ll tell you how I find her,’ I said.
‘I’m sure everyone will be interested.’
Returning to my room, I put on swim trunks, took a towel and was starting down the stairs when the telephone bell rang.
Mrs. Hansen called to me as I reached the front door.
‘Mr. Pinner is asking for you, Mr. Devery.’
It seemed I was becoming an important citizen in this one horse town.
‘Have you any news from Marshall?’ Pinner asked as I picked up the telephone receiver.
I told him Marshall had asked me to give his wife driving lessons.
He grunted, then said, ‘No one in town has met Mrs. Marshall. We’ll be interested to hear what you think of her.’ A long pause while I imagined he was stroking his moustache. ‘You remember what I said about her being as important to this town as Frank?’
As if I could have forgotten! I said I remembered.
‘Yeah. When will these driving lessons be finished?’
‘I wouldn’t know. It depends how she makes out.’
‘That’s right.’ Another pause and probably more moustache stroking. ‘Well, suppose we get together at Joe’s bar at six tonight, huh? I expect Tom will join us and maybe Yule if he can spare the time. Suppose I buy you a drink, Keith?’ and he laughed.
‘That’s fine with me, Mr. Pinner.’
‘Hey! Cut that mister stuff. I’m Joe to my friends.’
‘Why, thanks, Joe, I appreciate that.’ Knowing he couldn’t see me, I grinned. ‘I’ll see you at six.’
‘That’s it. We’ll be interested to hear what you think of Mrs. Marshall.’ His laugh, as sincere as a politician’s promise, boomed in my ear. ‘And Keith, you could probe — you know what I mean? It would be constructive from our point of view to find out what she thought of our town and if...’ He stopped short. It probably occurred to him he was shooting his mouth off too much. ‘Well, you know, Keith... we regard you as one of our friends.’
‘Thanks, Joe. I know what you mean.’
‘Fine.’ If he could have reached down the line and slapped me on the back, he would have done it.
He wasn’t fooling me, but I was pretty sure I was fooling him.
The clock on the dashboard of my car registered exactly 11.00 as I pulled up outside Frank Marshall’s big, lonely house.
I had had a swim. I was wearing a blue sports shirt and white slacks and although looking my best, I wasn’t feeling my best. This meeting with the mysterious Mrs. Marshall somehow bothered me. I had a thumping pulse I hadn’t before experienced.
Remaining in the car, I looked at the front door, expecting it to open, but it didn’t. I waited for some moments, then was forced to the conclusion that Mrs. Beth Marshall wasn’t peeping through a curtain. So I got out of the car. Leaving the driving door hanging open, I walked up the steps and thumbed the bell.
Somewhere inside the house, I heard the bell ring. I waited, sweating in the heat, then just as I was about to ring again, the door swung open.
While driving up from Wicksteed, I had tried to imagine what Mrs. Marshall would look like. Hopefully, my first thought was she could be a second Liz Taylor, but I put that image out of my mind, telling myself it would be my bad luck for her to be dumpy, deadly dull and possibly kittenish. After milling over that image, I found it so depressing, I rejected it At best, I hoped she would be young, pretty and perceptible to male charm: my charm in particular.
The woman who stood in the doorway gave me a jolt of surprise. Around thirty-three, she was almost as tall as myself and she was thin: too thin for my liking. I prefer women with bumps and curves. Her features were good: a long, thin nose, a big mouth and a well sculptured jaw line. Her eyes gave her unusual face its life: black glittering eyes, steady and coldly impersonal. This wasn’t a woman with whom you took liberties: strictly no fanny patting.
She was wearing a shapeless dark blue dress that she must have run up herself. I was sure no dress shop would have owned to it. Her black, silky hair, parted in the middle, fell to her shoulders.
During my short stay in Wicksteed, I had had the opportunity to survey some of the female scene. Comparing what I had seen, Mrs. Beth Marshall was a lioness among the roebucks.