Mother’s bedroom was on the ground floor, behind the kitchen. I opened the top pane of her window, because the room really did need freshening up, though she complained that it was too windy. I left her door open a crack. Perhaps I was in shock and perhaps I wasn’t, but I must have omitted to turn off the burner of the cooker when I had made her usual breakfast of porridge. Then I fetched my coat, bag, purse, keys and shopping bag. And before I left, I must have dropped a tea towel carelessly, because one edge was touching the burner and the other fell over the worktop where there were three or four cotton wool pads soaked with methylated spirit (left from when I had been rubbing her elbows and heels to keep the skin strong). The bottle stood alongside the roll of cotton wool, and evidently I had omitted to replace the cap. The wind must have blown it over. I left the door from the kitchen into the front hall open, too. I didn’t go to the office that day or, in fact, ever again. I did some unnecessary shopping, slowly. Then I sat for half an hour over a cup of coffee. Then, as it was a fine, blustery day, I took a long walk along the towpath, and I thought about my mother, my real one. I must have been out for over four hours, but what with the through draught and our old-fashioned kitchen cupboards of painted wood (I had been on at Mother for years to change them) the ground floor had gone up in less than two hours.
Everyone was so kind. Mother had been found in the kitchen, they said, obviously trying to make herself a cup of tea or something. I kept quiet about the fact that Mother would rather lie for a week with a mouth like a desert than get up to make her own tea. They said she could not have noticed what she was doing with the tea towel, and she must have panicked when the meths caught alight. Anyway, although she might also have suffered a mild heart attack, it was smoke inhalation that killed her.
The fire almost destroyed the house, which turned out to be under-insured. The sale of the house was just enough to pay off the builders for the rebuilding work. I have been a house sitter since, joining Town and Country with a reference from nice Roger Palmer of Oakfield Avenue, who agreed with me that there was no need to mention the house fire business. All this time I have been becoming the person I am today.
So, as you see, I am capable of such an act. I admit it, but because I am still not sure what I intended, I cannot say exactly just what the act was. I do know that it was the opposite of coldblooded. My blood that day was close to boiling, but I certainly was not out of control. I am not sure whether or not that makes what I did deliberate.
Nor am I cold-blooded now, in considering the monkshood. If I can contemplate the next step calmly, it is only because I know that that is the state of mind necessary. Besides, I am doing it for all of us. And I feel responsible, and that always has a calming effect, I think.
I looked it up in the garden book, just to be sure. It says, ‘Monkshood is a useful plant, bearing graceful, small bell-like blooms of an intense blue up and down its stem. Its leaves are attractively pinked in appearance, and it makes an effective filler for the back of the mixed border. No attention is necessary. All parts of the plant are very poisonous, especially the roots.’
Because there is nothing I can do to stop the Standish-Caves coming here. They are expected soon. I have the date. In fact I have always had the date, though I have been unable until now to connect it with something that might actually happen. But Shelley rang to check up on me again and to confirm the date. She has informed me that they will be taking a taxi from Heathrow and will be here by half past four on that day. They want me to be here to hand over the keys, and expect me to be ready to go by six o’clock.
That being so, I thought, I shall have tea ready for them. They shall be received with such ceremony and circumstance, by this humble, fawning, slightly embarrassing house sitter, that they will not refuse. I shall make such an obsequious fuss and show of this cake I have made for them that they will indulge me. I shall bake them a cake to welcome them back, made with apples, honey, fruit and spice, which will mask any foreign taste, assuming that monkshood has any. I think it more likely that it imparts a bitterness, that is all. And with the spices to distract the tastebuds, any slight bitterness on the tongue will not be noticed until after enough has been swallowed.
Jean began to glow with her idea. As she worked in the house, she planned it in detail. On the day when she believed that she had it perfect in her mind, she went to the walled garden. Michael stretched up from picking beans and together they strolled down towards the paddock. It was after five o’clock, and Steph had taken Charlie indoors for his bath.
It was, of course, unthinkable. But it was less unthinkable than all of them having to leave Walden and have all the other things catch up with them. Only that would be truly unallowable. Michael saw that at once.
‘A cake? Are you sure it’ll work?’
‘I’m going to use the roots. They’re the most poisonous part. I’ll grate it up small, it’ll look like ginger. All the books say it’s deadly.’
‘But even if it works… even if it does, somebody will know, won’t they? People will know they’re coming back. They’ll be missed.’
‘Listen. I’ll tell Town and Country that the Standish-Caves came back as planned but then they decided not to stay here after all, and went off back to the States. But even though the contract with Town and Country has expired they’re keeping me on themselves, privately, because I know the house so well by now. And it’s for an indefinite period, because Mr Standish-Cave’s been developing some business interests over there. All right?’
‘But what about money? There won’t be any more coming in. How will we manage?’
We can write to their bank again, can’t we? We can instruct them to carry on paying me, double my salary even. And they’ll have credit cards on them. Chequebooks for their other accounts, passports. We’ll be able to get at all their accounts.’
‘I’ve already got stuff on all their investments. It’s all in the study. I could set up an e-mail address. I’ll say I’m him, I’ll e-mail the whole lot of them, the bank, the advisor, everybody, tell them to use e-mail now, because I’m living abroad. Oh God, it’d work.’
‘And you could say that all statements and all the correspondence are to be sent to Walden Manor from now on, because you might be moving about and there would be arrangements there for forwarding things.’
They had walked round the paddock and returned to the garden. Now they were sitting side by side on a bench green with mould, looking down the path towards the gate in the far wall. Beyond, across the back lawn, stood the dark wall of the house. Jean waited for Michael, who looked excited but still fearful, to speak again.
‘We could just go on as before,’ he said softly. ‘We won’t be greedy, will we? When we get the statements for the other accounts we’ll see what comes in from the investments and what they spend. We’ll just make sure we don’t get through any more than that. There’ll be enough for everything. Repairs when we need them, everything.’
‘Yes, and I was thinking… Charlie’s going to need a swing soon. You could fix one up in one of the trees. And we could get him a slide.’
‘And Steph quite fancies getting a cat. Somebody’s selling kittens, she says, there’s an ad in the village shop. We could get a cat.’
‘Well, yes, we could. We should get two, though, I believe they’re happier in pairs. Oh, we could do all sorts of things.’
‘It’d work. Nobody would ever know.’
‘We just need to get through the… the necessary part, the awful bit. Without making mistakes, or getting frightened and giving up.’