Every Woman for Herself (4 page)

‘Yes, but is it a good idea?’

‘Who knows? No one can stop Em doing anything she’s made her mind up to do.’

‘That’s true. I expect she’s got the measure of the mistress by now, too. Do you think you might be visiting Upvale soon?’

‘Might do, in a few weeks. Depends.’

She rang off after a few bracing words about getting a solicitor and a better settlement, but I didn’t think Matt had got very much to settle, so it would be pointless and tiring.

Came back from the supermarket with a whole lot more boxes, and had to kick the front door closed behind me.

Flossie was still snoring in the kitchen, lying just as she had been when I went out: on her back in her furry igloo, with her head hanging out of the opening and her ears on the floor. She didn’t wake up even when I started clattering unwanted cooking-ware in the boxes.

It was as I was standing on tiptoe on the very top of the high kitchen steps, unhooking the cast-iron frying pan from the ceiling rack (so convenient for Matt, who never cooked, so inconvenient for me, who did), that I was seized extremely familiarly from behind.

‘All alone at last?’ gloated a horribly familiar voice. ‘You can’t know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on these!’ And he squeezed painfully, like an over-enthusiastic fruit tester.

These were, I fear, the last words ever spoken by Angie’s husband, Greg. Had he known, perhaps he’d have thought of something a little less trite: but then, everything he uttered was straight out of a Victorian melodrama, so perhaps not.

Startled and off-balance, I couldn’t stop the weight and momentum of the pan I’d just grasped from swinging down and connecting with his head.

What an odd, strangely meaty, but hollow noise it made against his skull! A sort of watermelon-hit-by-a-cricket-bat sound that I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live.

It
was
only the smaller frying pan, but unluckily he must have had a very thin skull. Mind you, even with a two-handed swing I would probably have dropped rather than swung the bigger pan. Bad luck all round.

As I stepped carefully down, Greg twitched like a dying insect at my feet, then lay still.

Not dead yet? Not dead?

Someone let out their breath in a long exhalation, and when I looked up, Miss Grinch was standing in the doorway, her choppy fingers to her skinny lips, as Shakespeare has it. An empty milk jug hung from the lax fingers of her other hand.

‘I mustn’t have locked the door,’ I said inconsequentially. ‘I’m always careful, especially when I know Greg’s home – but it was awkward with all those boxes.’

Naturally Miss Grinch would have been so consumed with curiosity she’d followed Greg in. Probably tiptoed up the hall right behind him.

‘Is he dead?’ she enquired, stepping into the room just as I dropped the pan from nerveless fingers. (It landed on Greg’s foot with a crunch, but he was beyond caring by then.)

‘Did he fall, or was he pushed?’ I quavered.

‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it, behaving in such a disgusting way to a defenceless woman,’ she said severely. ‘Find a mirror and hold it to his lips.’

I began to giggle helplessly: ‘A mirror? Why would he want to see himself at a time like this?’

‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she snapped. ‘A mirror will mist up if he’s breathing. Here, I’ll do it.’

She unhooked the small pine square from the wall under the clock. ‘You phone 999.’

I managed that, even though my fingers felt even deader than Greg looked.

‘Ambulance – accident – emergency!’ I babbled. ‘There’s no mist on the mirror!’

‘Where are you speaking from, please?’

‘This is Miss Grinch,’ that lady said, taking the receiver from my hand. ‘I don’t think there’s any rush. He’s dead.’

She gave my name and address to the operator, then added, ‘We just need the ambulance, no police. This is such a nice neighbourhood, and none of the Grinches have ever been mixed up with police.’

‘Except the one who stole Christmas,’ I said helpfully.

Of course, we did get the police, much to Miss Grinch’s indignation, but never did I think I would be so glad to have a nosy neighbour!

Were it not for Miss Grinch I was sure I’d have been facing a murder charge, but she described how she’d followed Greg right into the house and had seen the whole unfortunate accident.

If Greg hadn’t suddenly assaulted me just as I was reaching down the pan, with no idea that I wasn’t alone, it would not have occurred.

The frying pan was impounded, but I wasn’t, although I felt so guilty at having taken a life I’d have gone without a struggle.

Flossie finally awoke at one point during the noisy and exhaustive débâcle, took a look out of her igloo and retired back in, until everyone was gone except Miss Grinch and me. Flossie was easily confused by loud voices and big feet.

Later, Miss Grinch gave me a small glass of colourless fluid and insisted that I drink it. I was positive she said it was gin and laudanum, but surely that couldn’t be right?

Whatever it was, it put me out like a light.

Late that night Angie came to the door and beat on it, screaming hysterically, ‘Bitch! Whore! Murderess!’

The last was the only one I felt truly applied.

Fortunately I was sitting in the upstairs bay window, sleep being something I’d lost the hang of, and my legs had gone too numb to go down, otherwise sheer guilt would probably have made me go and let her in.

After a while lights went on in several neighbouring houses, including Miss Grinch’s, and shortly after that a police car coasted quietly up and removed Angie.

There was a faint, receding cry of, ‘Pigs! Pigs! Arrest the murderess!’ and then the street slowly sunk back into dark silence.

I’d been wondering how I could break the news of the accident to Matt, but in the end I didn’t have to, because Angie did it for me.

He phoned to inform me tersely that henceforth all communication would be through the solicitor, and then put the phone down.

I suppose murdering his best friend
was
a pretty irreconcilable marital difference.

Miss Grinch continued to be my comfort and guide throughout this nightmare. I didn’t know what I’d have done without her, which was a far cry from the way I felt about her before she became the star witness for the defence.

She was now my bestest friend. Not so much a mother figure, as an acidulated spinster figure – everyone should have one, but they are a dying breed.

Em would have come to stay for a few days, but Father’s latest mistress was still infesting the house.

The housekeeping was, and always had been, Em’s preserve, and she wouldn’t stand interference, let alone a takeover bid. Outright war had been declared.

Normally this would all have interested me extremely, especially since one of the combatants was occupying the hallowed ground of my bedroom, but now I moved through the days like an automaton. I signed everything the solicitor sent me; Matt, true to his word, having ceased personal contact.

I’d be lucky if I even got the duck now.

Miss Grinch, like Anne, urged me to get my own solicitor and a better deal, but so far as I could see there wasn’t anything but debts and an absent husband, and I didn’t want half of either of those.

Anyway, I didn’t feel I deserved anything any more.

All I could think of was that ghastly thud as the pan connected with Greg’s head, and I was tortured with wondering whether I could have prevented it: I mean, when I hit him, I
wanted
to hit him – so was it really an accident? Was there a moment when I could have diverted the fatal downward swing?

I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. And I
felt
like a murderess – I
had
killed someone.

Miss Grinch didn’t understand that. She said God would look into my heart and judge me, but I was afraid He already had. He just hadn’t told me the outcome.

We had had several people round to view the house, though I didn’t know how many were simply motivated by the thrill of blood. Miss Grinch had been conducting the sightseeing tours with a brisk efficiency reminiscent of Anne and Em. Perhaps that was why I liked her so much.

She had also helped me pack up most of the house contents, and soon everything except a few necessities had gone to auction. I didn’t keep a lot – I felt a certain revulsion at the things that reminded me of Matt (and through him, Greg), which most things did. Anything unsaleable had gone to the nearest charity shop, or in the bin.

I sent a small van of things to Em to store for me: the driver was cheap, but he certainly wasn’t willing, especially when it came to my plants. He said he had hay fever and wouldn’t take
any
of them, so I would just have to fit as many of them as I could into my 2CV when I moved, with the roof open, even though it was pretty cold to be transporting tropical foliage. I gave a lot of the smaller ones to Miss Grinch, who was delighted, so at least they’d gone to a good home.

Eventually there was just me, Flossie, and a few vital odds and ends left. Like the survivors of a shipwreck, we were marooned until after the inquest.

Angie had made banshee late-night appearances twice more on my doorstep, but been removed much faster than the first time.

I had been buying head-sized melons.

Skint Old Gardening Tips, No. 1

Always keep margarine tubs of compost on your windowsills, and whenever you eat fruit, push the pips or stones in. Water daily, and eventually
something
will come up. The novelty of this method is that you won’t have the faintest idea what it is.

Even in my numb state – which by then seemed part of me, like permafrost – I found the inquest appalling, although but for Miss Grinch it might have been a murder trial, which would have been very much worse.

The kindly coroner treated me like a frail little flower, and Miss Grinch with respect, but was firm about having Angie removed from the room when she became hysterical and demanded the death penalty.

She was still screaming, ‘Murderess! Murderess!’ as she was escorted out.

I knew in my heart of hearts she was right, even though the coroner assured me it wasn’t my fault at all, and urged me to put it behind me. The verdict was brought in as accidental death.

The coroner added a little speech to the effect that people who succumbed to the current craze for heavy cast-iron pans would do better not to hang them from the ceiling, and I’d have to second that one.

By the time I got out of the hearing the reporters from the local paper were encouraging Angie to stage the scene of her life.

She spotted me. ‘Murderess!’ she screamed with a certain monotony, tossing her black veil over her shoulders and then lunging at me with blood-red talons like a deranged harpy. ‘Murdering harlot!’

Well, that was different – but why harlot? Surely it was because I’d resisted her leching husband that he was dead? And she knew what he was like.

Fortunately, one or two people were holding her back, since I was transfixed by all the avid stares.

‘I’ll never let this rest until my poor Greg has justice!’ Angie howled. ‘Wherever you go I’ll find you, and make sure people know the sort of woman you are!’

I wished
I
knew what sort of woman I was.

‘You’ll
never
be able to forget it.’

Well, that was certainly true.

‘Wherever you go, I’ll follow you,’ she added, sounding suddenly exhausted, and dangling limply from the hands that a moment before had been restraining her. ‘You’ll never escape.’

Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide …

‘Why, Angie?’ I asked. ‘You must realise by now I didn’t mean to kill him. Don’t you think I feel badly enough about it already?’

‘No, but I’ll make sure you know what it’s like to suffer – to be friendless and alone … like me.’ She drew a dramatic hand across her eyes and gave a broken sob.

‘But, Angie, Greg walked into my house uninvited and indecently assaulted me! And you must have known he was serially unfaithful?’

‘Yes, but none of them ever
killed
him!’

Well, there was that. And the more I protested, the guiltier I felt. Could I really not have diverted that fatal downward swing?

‘Besides, whatever his faults, he loved me,’ declaimed Angie, looking tragic.

‘Maybe he did, but he slept with anyone he could get,’ I pointed out.

‘They weren’t important.’

The voices of the listeners now rose in a babble of questions, but Miss Grinch popped up suddenly at my side, seized her chance, and hurried me through a gap to the waiting taxi.

‘How tall was Greg?’ I whispered as we climbed in. ‘Did you find out?’

‘Five feet, ten inches exactly, dear,’ she replied.

Looking back, I could see Angie still holding forth on the steps like Lady Macbeth.

‘I wish I was dead,’ I said dully. ‘There doesn’t seem any point to living any more.’

‘Clearly God still has a use for you,’ Miss Grinch said placidly.

‘Compost?’ I suggested.

‘We are all God’s compost, if you like,’ she said. ‘Interesting – I’ve never thought of it like that before. However, I am sure he has something in mind for you before that. He moves in mysterious ways.’

‘Like the frying pan,’ I agreed, and we were silent until we reached the house.

Miss Grinch bought the local papers, and thankfully I hadn’t merited the front page. Even with Angie’s theatrics I suppose they can only get so much story from a domestic accident without insinuating something libellous.

I was described throughout as Mrs Charlotte Fry (although I’ve always called myself by my maiden name), and there were several photographs of me looking very small and weird, like a glaze-eyed rabbit cowering under the menacing overhang of Angie’s bust.

My hair was now a clear white for about an inch at the roots.

‘I always wondered about that very dense blue-black shade,’ Miss Grinch said, scrutinising a particularly hideous photo.

‘It was my natural colour.’

‘Believe me, it is a mistake, once a woman reaches forty, to dye her hair a dark colour. Your skin has lost the fresh bloom of youth and the contrast is too severe.’