The Widows Club

“Let’s take the hint,” I urged, “and scoot.”

Roxie ignored me. She blotted the signature with her hanky (that way she had two souvenirs), then called after Mr. Digby’s vanishing figure. “Great literature, Mr. D., is those books that regular people like me and Mrs. H. can enjoy without needing a dictionary every second word. That includes your stuff”-she gave the album a pat and dropped it into her bag-“and even cookery books.”

Mr. Digby’s voice came floating down. “Do not think of me and Mr. Haskell in the same breath. His objective is to take the mystery out of the sauce; mine is to put sauce in the mystery.”

“A very strange man,” I said as Roxie and I plodded down the sloping walkway toward Cliff Road. Snow stung our faces. My companion didn’t answer. Mrs. Roxie Malloy was a woman touched by greatness. Henceforth she would sit at her beer-spattered table at The Dark Horse, holding the other regulars spellbound with the story of how Mr. Digby had spoken to her with magnificent contempt and signed her autograph book. Needing to move my lips to keep warm, I tried again. “A man carved out of tragedy.”

“Did he speak to you of it, Mrs. H.? All about how his wife took the notion he was carrying on with someone else…”

Roxie paused, either for effect or because the wind had blasted her breath back into her lungs. What woman would want to make love to Mr. Digby, I thought, unless compelled by a sense of wifely duty? I recalled those purplish fingers with distaste. “Was this other woman his secretary?”

“Couldn’t say, Mrs. H. All I know is the wife stuck her head in the gas oven.”

Was that when he stopped writing books? Was he punishing himself? I should have felt sorry for Mrs. Digby. Loyalty to fellow wives. I told myself that should Ben ever betray me, I wouldn’t stick my head in the oven. I’d put him in the oven and insert a thermometer. “Well, at least he gets some company at The Dark Horse,” I said. “A chance to despise other people’s chatter and listen to a singsong.”

Roxie looked at me as if to say, What do you know? “He hates singing! Leaves the minute Mrs. Hanover starts sashaying her skirts and belting out ‘Charmaine.’ ”

“Come into the house for a hot drink,” I urged Roxie. But she refused, and when we reached the gates of Merlin’s Court, she handed me the key. “Then I’ll walk with you to the bus stop.”

“I’d much rather you didn’t.” She slid the handle of her bag up her arm. “I want to be alone with me thoughts.”

I should have insisted. Instead I hovered near the gates, arms wrapped around Mr. Digby’s three-piece suit, until the last splotch of astrakhan coat disappeared around the curve. A gull screeched overhead. Steady-if I fell down I might go into a skid. Another screech found me clutching at the gate post. But did the sound come from the gull overhead? Gripping the post with my feet, I peered back in the direction of The Aviary. The man was trotting, sending up billows of snow. Mr. Digby! He must be desperate not to see me again if he’d come after me with my dressing gown. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yelled an apology. It blew away in a frozen whisper. No matter… a pulse beat in my neck and I lifted a finger in slow motion to make it stop. The man wasn’t Mr. Digby. Oh, that it might have been! Whatever his physical failings, Mr. D. didn’t have greasy black hair and rotten spiky teeth.

“Hey, you-Mrs! You wanting a gardener?”

I stood there perched on the top of that cliff, like a bride on a cake, within easy shoving distance of certain death. Alone with the elements and the Raincoat Man.

“I’m… not sure.” As he drew closer, I could count the pores in his skin. But it was his black-currant eyes that goaded me to action. Diving down, I grabbed an armload of snow, clamped it into a ball, and flung it. Then I stepped out of my boots and was off at a skidding run, through the gates and past the cottage. The thought did traverse my mind that should he go over the cliff edge, I might be guilty of something-murder, manslaughter, or at the very least, killing a man in self-defense. One doesn’t want that sort of thing on one’s resume, but neither did I want the Raincoat Man so quickly recovered he could crawl at a fast pace after me. Thank God for the wind. It pushed from behind, forcing my legs along at unnatural speed. The snow was coming down half-heartedly as I passed the stables and barrelled into the courtyard.

But I wasn’t home free yet. I heard a noise. Something, someone came moving behind me. A scream began percolating in my throat. And then, in a snap, I realized I was a fool. The Raincoat Man couldn’t have leapt over our high fence and sprinted here ahead of me. Either Freddy had returned from Abigail’s and hoped to cadge lunch or Tobias had something similar in mind. Ah yes-here he was, creeping out from behind the rainbarrel, snow glistening on his fur.

“There, there,” I crooned, as Tobias landed, hissing, spraying snowflakes, in my arms. “Poor baby, you got locked out, too. How about some nice Ovaltine?” My panic was gone. Stuffing him inside my coat, I rubbed my frozen feet against each other, took a step forward and saw the figure standing by the back door.

Not the Raincoat Man. This was an elderly female person in a grey flannel coat and a damson knitted beret dragged down over her ears. She was small and the black holdall she grasped with both hands, the way Roxie did, was pathetically big.

“Mrs. Bentley Thomas Haskell?” Her feet, laced up in brogues, were pressed tightly together; wisps of dust- colored hair escaped from the beret. Who was she, an elderly orphan? A terrible thought occurred.

“Yes, I am Mrs. Haskell. Do please come in and have a hot drink. I feel awful-your coming all this way in the cold and snow. You have every right to be furious, but what with one thing and another, I quite forgot to take the advert for household help out of the paper and we have already hired someone.” Tobias slithered down to my waist and jumped to the ground, as I stabbed the key into the lock. The woman in the beret hadn’t opened her mouth. Perhaps it was frozen shut. “I do hope you haven’t been standing here too long.” I pushed open the door. “As soon as I have heated you some soup and fixed you a sandwich, I will make some phone calls on your behalf.” I stepped aside to let her enter. “Or better still, I will talk to my cousin Freddy (my husband is in London) and see if there are any vacancies in the kitchen of our new restaurant; the work wouldn’t be too arduous.” I stopped and, when she didn’t budge, added desperately, “This way, please.”

“Did you say our restaurant?” the woman asked in a tight little voice.

“Yes, I-”

“Do you work there?”

“Well, if by that you mean-”

“I see. In other words, the decision doesn’t rest with you, and naturally I won’t wish to be a burden.”

Frostbite of the brain, and we knew who to blame. Me.

“Do please come into the kitchen and I will get the kettle going.”

Still she hesitated. Tobias was lending his howls to the wind. Snow blew around the woman in silver eddies. She clutched the holdall tighter.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot set a foot over your threshold until I’m given the assurance I am welcome.” She looked down at her hands. “Certainly I’m used to hard work and it’s always been in my nature to keep the peace, but as we both know, there are a lot of very nasty jokes about mothers-in-law and it’s not as though you and I are likely to have anything in common, saving my dear boy, and from what you say”-she tugged open the bag and dragged out a hanky-“he’s off in London, not here to greet his mum.”

15

… “May we assume, Ellie, that you gave Mr. Edwin Digby and this Raincoat Man scarcely a thought during the course of the next few hours?” Hyacinth flipped a page of the green notebook…

Having my mother-in-law materialise on my doorstep brought home to me the realisation that for weeks I had been harbouring the nasty suspicion that she was dead. Murdered (by the predatory Mrs. Jarrod-I did not want my children to inherit a tendency to homicide from their paternal grandpa) and buried somewhere dark and slimy, waiting to be dug up by carefree little children with buckets and spades. I should have been overjoyed at seeing her. Instead, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t fortified for the interview by impeccable grooming, say an ascot, hat, lipstick, and fake fingernails. I had pictured this scene so often in my mind. My teary smile and outstretched arms had totally disarmed the imaginary Mrs. Haskell: “My son loves you, Ellie, so I love you, too.” The