‘I see,’ I said. ‘Mr Dudgeon.’
Miss Brown sobbed, one hand over her mouth and the other pressed so hard against her eyes that it must be painful. I took her hands gently and drew them away, giving her a handkerchief, the thought flashing across my mind that I hoped Grant had packed plenty since this was the second I had relinquished since the same time yesterday.
‘And now my father wants me to go and see her.’
‘Well, that would be kind,’ I said. ‘But if you can’t face it no one will think the worse of you. You’re not a relation, are you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’ And for some reason this made her howl more than ever. ‘I can’t go there, because it’s – it’s – all my fault. And I was just being silly and now he’s dead.’ This was delivered in a tiny whisper, hoarse with tears.
‘How on earth can you think it’s your fault?’ I said.
‘I was supposed to give him his dram and if only I hadn’t looked in his face or if only I hadn’t dropped it. If only I’d been braver. If only I’d known.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ I said, putting an arm around her. ‘Oh, you silly girl. You must put this nonsense out of your pretty head at once. Why, you of all people are one of the few who shouldn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt, because you -’ I stopped myself. It had been decided by those with far more say in the matter than me that this should not be touched on.
‘Because I what?’ said Joey, looking up at last. ‘Why me of all people? What do you mean?’ She looked wary and rather scared. I stared at her, spitting with exasperation that I could not tell her that if only more of Dudgeon’s so-called friends had dropped the glass and run away he would be still walking around.
‘Nothing,’ I said at last. ‘Only one can’t bear to see a pretty young face spoiled by tears, and one can’t bear to see a bright young head full of nonsense. You did nothing to harm Mr Dudgeon, and you know it. Your father should have known better than to play such a trick. Tell him that from me.’
Miss Brown drew herself up, and wiped her eyes.
‘My father did no wrong, madam. I don’t know what you mean.’ She blew her nose and stood up and I must say it is a bit much to be cut dead by a slip of a girl while she blows her nose quite so lavishly into one’s own handkerchief. Still, I was glad of this natural end to our tête-à-tête.
‘Chin up, Miss Brown,’ I said magnanimously.
‘Thank you,’ she said, rather more gently. ‘Now, if you’ll pardon me, madam, I must get back to the bar. This is a very busy day.’ She set off in the direction she had come, whatever mission she had been on abandoned.
‘At last!’ Mrs Dudgeon half rose out of her seat as Buttercup and I entered her living room an hour later. The cottage was beset by the women we had passed the day before who sailed around her in that self-important kerfuffle which always ensues when there are more bodies desperate to help than there is help needed, but I had no great opinion of any of them as handmaidens for her grieving: if anything she seemed even more agitated than she had the previous evening, trembling and anxious, barely making sense when she spoke.
‘Have they finished with him? I don’t know where I had put my wits last night. I wasn’t even thinking. And they’ve kept him all this time and all his things.’
‘They have finished,’ said Buttercup, ‘That’s what we came to tell you. He will be brought home to you tonight. A Mr Faichen?’
‘The undertaker,’ put in one of the women.
‘Yes, Mr Faichen will be bringing Mr Dudgeon home very shortly.’
‘And all his things?’ said Mrs Dudgeon.
‘Of course,’ I said. I assumed I was correct. Why would these things – whatever it was she was so anxious to regain – be kept away from her?
‘Good.’ Mrs Dudgeon sat back for less than a heartbeat it seemed before she pressed forward again. ‘I need… I want to have him here with me. And his things. I cannot bear to think of them going through his things. Did they, do you know, madam? Did they go through all his things? What did they find?’ All of this was on a rising scale which brought an answering murmur of soothing noises from her companions.
‘What did they find among his things?’ echoed Buttercup wonderingly.
Mrs Dudgeon gazed blankly at her for a second and then spoke hurriedly.
‘No – I – What I mean is, what did they find when they did the… What did the doctor…’
‘Heart failure,’ said Buttercup.
Mrs Dudgeon sank back into her chair.
‘Heart failure,’ she repeated, but even as she said it her eyes began to flit back and forward as though she was thinking furiously, and presently she added:
‘So they’re not going to do a post-mortem after all? There won’t be any…’ Again a rushing chorus like wind in trees began as the women tried to drown out such a bald reference to the very worst of it all.
‘They’ve done everything necessary,’ I said. ‘And heart failure is what it told them. The doctor thinks it was probably down to… I mean, it didn’t help that he had had rather a lot of whisky.’
‘But he hadn’t,’ said Mrs Dudgeon. Her companions drew in a collective breath. ‘I mean… he’d had a few drams but he wasn’t fu’. I grant you he’d had a few nips, but he wasn’t fu’.’
‘These doctors,’ said Buttercup. ‘They would have us all on milk and water if they had their way. Of course he wasn’t. I mean, he was the Burry Man for twenty years and more and the nips of whisky are as much a part of the day as the burrs and the flowers, aren’t they?’
Mrs Dudgeon did not answer this although it seemed to mollify her. She chewed her lip for a moment, still casting quick glances from side to side, and then finally she raised her head and addressed me apprehensively.
‘Will there be an inquiry?’
When I shook my head I saw in her face a strange mingling of expressions, growing puzzlement and something else too. She could not, quite clearly, ask whatever it was she wanted to ask, and that in some way left her helpless. I looked back at her, just as helpless, longing to ask her what was wrong, what else could possibly be so wrong as to supersede something as enormous and immediate as her husband’s sudden death.
And did she really believe he had hardly drunk a drop all day? It was possible: people do manage to maintain such delusions. I have an aunt as wide as she is tall, fingers like sausages and calves like hams, who tells me with round-eyed sincerity, all chins a-waggle, that she lives off thin soup and grilled cutlets, actually tells me this while dipping her spoon in and out of the quivering mound of trifle with which she is cleansing her palate after the boeuf en croute.
Perhaps Mrs Dudgeon was not as bad as this; perhaps she knew exactly how drunk Robert Dudgeon had been and was feeling guilt that she had not prevented it with some application of wifely skilclass="underline" nagging or huge helpings of milk and potatoes, but it was not guilt, that expression upon her face, nor anything like guilt. I tried to pin it down but my attention was distracted by one of the handmaidens proffering tea. The rest of them watched me almost greedily as I drank, but only for a moment did I wonder why. No fewer than three, leaning against the sideboard in a row like waitresses in a lull, had cloths in their hands and they were waiting to pounce on our used cups, desperate for even such a scrap as that to make them feel busy and helpful. Out of kindness I accepted a biscuit and a plate to put it upon, and made sure to scatter plenty of crumbs. How it must have thwarted them that the grim woman of the night before had done so much of the available housework before they got there.
‘No inquiry,’ said Mrs Dudgeon, just as I finished my tea and relinquished the cup and as I did so and heard her words, I remembered something and at the same time I suddenly recognized the expression on her face, but before I could put a name to either the memory or the look they cancelled each other out and the moment was gone, quite gone, like a sneeze unsneezed, or like a gun half-cocked and unfired while the pheasant flaps off into the dusk, screeching.