“Now, Muriel,” Florence said. She spoke distinctly, as if to a foreigner. “Now Muriel, your mother’s had a bit of an accident. I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll go out the front,” she said to Colin, “it’s quicker.” For a moment Muriel stood blocking her path. “Now, Muriel,” Florence said again. Her eyes focusing, as if she had only just seen her, Muriel stepped aside. The front door clicked shut after Florence.
Isabel looked down, frowning. “I think you’re wasting your time.”
“There’s no heartbeat,” Colin said. He bunched his fist and brought it down on Evelyn’s breastbone. “It’s no go,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Get up then.”
Colin levered himself up to a kneeling position. Gently he removed his jacket from under Evelyn’s shoulders, steadying the head reverently till it rested on the hall floor.
“What happened?” Isabel’s tone was dull, as if she could barely be troubled to frame the question.
“She was coming after me. Trying to drag me back. I must have pushed her. It wasn’t intended. Not hard. She just slipped back a few steps, she wasn’t hurt, she was coming up after me again.”
“She didn’t die of being pushed. She’s had a heart attack.”
“Muriel banged her against the wall. It must have been quite a knock.”
“Did she now? Yes, well, you can see that. She’s got a bump on the head too.”
“She’ll have done that when she fell.” Colin rubbed his back. He put his jacket on. “Ought we to cover her face?” He was surprised at how little he felt; no shock, no revulsion, just a kind of numb practicality.
“If you like. I imagine there’ll be an inquest. You’ll have to give evidence.”
“Will it come out, about the file? I mean, all those months—”
“No, I’ll say they refused to let me in. I had no reason to make them a priority. I have a full caseload. Of course they’ll criticise the Social Services. It’s the rule these days. Never mind. Personally, I’ve had enough.”
Colin nodded warningly in Muriel’s direction.
“Oh, Muriel doesn’t know what day of the week it is. Do you, Muriel?”
Muriel gaped at her. Isabel took her eyes from Muriel’s face. “What on earth are you doing in that overcoat, Muriel?” she said sharply. “Where did you get that?”
“She had it on when she let me in,” Colin said.
“Take it off,” Isabel said. “Let me have a look at you.”
Obediently, Muriel unfastened the coat, a dark flapping garment of old-fashioned shape and cut. She slipped out of it, held it in one hand, looked around her, and finally hung it tidily on the hallstand. Isabel ran her eyes over the girl’s body; bare-legged, thick-waisted, her breasts shapeless inside an old stained pinafore.
“What is it?” Colin said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Muriel glanced up the stairs and along the hall, rested her eyes on each of them in turn, and spoke, very softly. It sounded like “Victor of the field.” Isabel had so seldom heard Muriel speak that she could not be sure what she had heard, or that there had been anything at all. “What did you say?” Her voice was urgent. She looked up into Muriel’s face and saw there for an instant an expression of extraordinary lucidity and calm. Then Muriel turned, stepped over her mother’s body, and shambled off towards the kitchen. Colin blundered after her. Muriel picked up from the table a piece of bread and jam—which she must have been eating, he thought, when I came to the door—and began to chew at it, laughing quite loudly, and once offering him a bite. Ten minutes later, the ambulance arrived.
CHAPTER 9
The many marks of violence on Evelyn Axon’s body, some recent, some quite old, were carefully enumerated in the postmortem report. Cardiac arrest had killed her; she had been alive when the left side of her face had struck the wall with some force, but dead when the right side of her skull had struck the hall floor. I wonder how they can tell that, Colin said to himself, as he came out into the fresh air. He looked at his watch; twelve-thirty, nice time to get some lunch.
He had needed to take the morning off work for the inquest. There was a reporter from the local paper present. What would Frank O’Dwyer make of it? They were sure to put HEART ATTACK MOTHER WAS BEATEN, CORONER SAYS, or BEATEN MOTHER DIED OF NATURAL CAUSES. Perhaps he had no gift for headline-writing.
Frank had made no more references to the night of the dinner party. He obviously didn’t remember being hit on the head. If he’d found a lump next day, he’d obviously put that down to natural causes too. Colman had not said anything either, except “bit of a bore.” As if such Charenton junketings were what you got every time you accepted a dinner invitation. But possibly, Colin thought, it was more his memory that was at fault. Already he could see a tendency in himself to confuse the two incidents, to impose on Frank’s drink-sodden features the expression of astonishment he had seen on Evelyn Axon’s face as she died. Or thought he had seen. Perhaps it had not been there, and perhaps the party had not been as bad as he thought. Perhaps I have a tendency to dramatise things, blow them up out of proportion. He could not ask Sylvia for her reminiscences; she had said it would suit her best if the evening were never referred to again. The loss of his driving licence was breeding much inconvenience for the family. Everything has been out of perspective since last September, he thought, and that dinner party was not the worst of it.
A weak sun was struggling out as Colin and Florence came down the steps.
“You gave your evidence very well,” Florence said. “Very lucidly.”
“Florence, I’d like to have a word with the young social worker. Will you just wait for me?”
“Miss Field? I’d like to speak to her myself. I want to know what will happen to Muriel.”
“Muriel? Why?”
“We are neighbours, Colin, after all. Or have been, all those years. I’d like to visit her.”
“She might not know. She’s resigned, after all. I’ll ring them up about it, the Social Services Department. No, you stay there, I won’t be two ticks. I’ll have to dash.”
“All right, Colin,” Florence said, and stood on the steps looking after him uneasily, her stout handbag dangling from her wrist.
He caught up with Isabel in the car park. She heard him behind her, and walked back to meet him.
“It wasn’t too bad, was it?” he said. “It’s all over now.”
He saw a sullen young woman with a pale face and sharp nose, drably dressed in office clothes, with legs disproportionately thin. Last winter’s ghost burned feebly behind her eyes, almost extinguished.
“Like spring, isn’t it?” she said, making an effort at a smile. “No, it wasn’t too bad. I’m out of it now, anyway.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to work in a bank. It will suit me, don’t you think?”
“Well, it’ll be less complex. Less wearing, I should think.”
“No emotional upheavals or moral dilemmas.”
“I’m sure you’ll get on. You’re a clever girl.”
“I may not be, you know. I may be most extraordinarily stupid.”
“Forget it. If you made a mistake—”
“Yes, it’s too late. I know it’s no use crying over spilt milk, but it is a very common and understandable thing to do.”
“She was elderly. You couldn’t prevent her having a heart attack, could you?”
“No.” Her eyes searched his face. “I couldn’t help her and I couldn’t really help Muriel, and there was no one else, was there?”
“Well, you could have helped me.”
“Oh, perhaps. How is your wife?”
“Sylvia?”
“Have you another?”
“No, of course not. I was just surprised at you asking after her. She’s fine, thanks.”