Memento Mori

Godfrey turned back to his paper. Whereupon Charmian continued the argument with Mrs Pettigrew.

‘I don’t see that one can examine one’s moral conduct without memorizing everything that’s happened during the day. It is the same thing. What Lettie advises is a form of —’

Godfrey put down his paper. ‘I say it is not the same thing.’ He dipped an oblong of toast in his tea and put it in his mouth.

Mrs Pettigrew rose to the opportunity of playing the peacemaker. ‘Now hush,’ she said to Charmian. ‘Eat your nice scrambled egg which Taylor has prepared for you.’

‘Taylor is not here,’ stated Charmian.

‘Taylor — what do you mean?’ said Godfrey.

Mrs Pettigrew winked at him.

Godfrey opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again.

‘Taylor is in hospital,’ said Charmian, pleased with her clarity.

Godfrey read from the newspaper, ‘“Motling” — are you listening, Charmian? — “On 10th December at Zomba, Nyasaland; Major Cosmos Petwick Motling, G.C.V.O., husband of the late Eugenie, beloved father of Patricia and Eugen, in his 91st year.” Are you listening, Charmian?’

‘Was he killed at the front, dear?’

‘Ah, me!’ said Mrs Pettigrew.

Godfrey opened his mouth to say something to Mrs Pettigrew, then stopped. He held up the paper again and from behind it mumbled, ‘No, Zomba. Motling’s the name. He went out there to retire. You won’t remember him.’

‘I recall him well,’ said Mrs Pettigrew; ‘when his wife was alive, Lisa used to —’

‘Was he killed at the front?’ said Charmian.

‘The front,’ said Mrs Pettigrew.

‘“Sidebottome,”‘ said Godfrey, ‘— are you listening, Charmian? —

“On 18th December at the Mandeville Nursing Home, Richmond; Tempest Ethel, beloved wife of Ronald Charles Sidebottome. Funeral private.” Doesn’t give her age.’

‘Tempest Sidebottome!’ said Mrs Pettigrew, reaching to take the paper from his hand. ‘Let me see.

Godfrey withdrew the paper and opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it again. However, he said, ‘I am not finished with the paper.’

‘Well, fancy Tempest Sidebottome,’ said Mrs Pettigrew. ‘Of course, cancer is cancer.

‘She always was a bitch,’ said Godfrey, as if her death were the ultimate proof of it.

‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘who will look after poor old Ronald now. He’s so deaf.’

Godfrey looked at her to see more closely what she meant, but her short broad nose was hidden by her cup and her eyes stared appraisingly at the marmalade.

She was, in fact, quite shocked by Tempest’s death. She had only a month ago agreed to join forces with the Sidebottomes in contesting Lisa Brooke’s will. Tempest, when she had learnt of Guy Leet’s hitherto secret marriage to Lisa, had been driven to approach Mrs Pettigrew and attempt to make up their recent differences. Mrs Pettigrew had rather worked alone, but the heavy costs deterred her. She had agreed to go in with Tempest against Guy Lee on the grounds that his marriage with Lisa Brooke had not been consummated. They had been warned that their case was a slender one, but Tempest had the money and the drive to go ahead, and Mrs Pettigrew had in her possession the relevant correspondence. Ronald Sidebottome had been timid about the affair — didn’t like raking up the scandal, but Tempest had seemed to have the drive. Tempest’s death was a shock to Mrs Pettigrew. She would have to work hard on Ronald. One got no rest. She stared at the marmalade pot as if to fathom its possibilities.

Godfrey had returned to his paper. ‘Funeral private. That saves us a wreath.’

‘You had better write to poor Ronald,’ said Charmian, ‘and I will say a rosary for Tempest. Oh, I do remember her as a girl. She was newly out from Australia and her uncle was a rector in Dorset — as was also my uncle, Mrs Pettigrew —’

‘Your uncle was not in Dorset. He was up in Yorkshire,’ said Godfrey.

‘But he was a country rector, like Tempest’s uncle. Leave me alone, Godfrey. I am just telling Mrs Pettigrew.’

‘Oh, do call me Mabel,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, winking at Godfrey.

‘Her uncle, Mabel,’ said Charmian, ‘was a rector and so was mine. It was the thing we had in common. We had not a great deal in common, Mrs Pettigrew, and of course as a girl she was considerably younger than me.’

‘She is still younger than you,’ said Godfrey.

‘No, Godfrey, not now. Well, Mrs Pettigrew, I do so remember our two uncles together and we were all staying down in Dorset. There was a bishop and a dean, and our two uncles. Oh, poor Tempest was bored. They were discussing the Scriptures and this manuscript called “Q”. How Tempest was in a rage when she heard that “Q” was only a manuscript, because she had imagined them to be talking of a bishop and she said out loud “Who is Bishop Kew?” And of course everyone laughed heartily, and then they were sorry for Tempest. And they tried to console her by telling her that “Q” was nothing really, not even a manuscript, which indeed it wasn’t, and I must confess I never understood how they could sit up so late at night fitting their ideas into this “Q” which is nothing really. As I say poor Tempest was in a rage, she could never bear to be made game of.’

Mrs Pettigrew winked at Godfrey.