The Thin Woman (19 page)

I awoke the following morning with the knowledge that I had aged in the night. Another birthday hardly made me ecstatic and even the thought of breakfast (I lived for my three meals a day) did not cheer me as it usually did. Work was the tonic I needed. I would gobble down my cornflakes and set about peeling the wallpaper off one of the bathroom walls. Still a little downcast, I pushed open the kitchen door, and my ears were assailed by a somewhat shaky rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Dorcas was flat, Jonas gravelly, and Ben, who was conducting with a wooden spoon, added a few artistic hums here and there. I leaned against the wall, overcome with emotion, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t go all sentimental!” Ben threw the wooden spoon in the sink and clapped his hands. “Minions, bring forth the feast!” I was led to the place of honour, meaning I was the only one who got a place mat—the others had paper towels under their plates as a sign that this was an occasion. And a feast it was: grilled gammon, poached eggs, and baked tomatoes seasoned with herbs.

“You may even, as a special birthday treat,” Ben pushed the tarnished silver toast rack in my direction, “have half a piece of toast.” Bliss!

Dorcas was the tattletale. She had told Ben that this was my birthday, and yesterday afternoon while I was working in the attic (after finding Tobias), they had gone down into the village and each bought me a gift. Ben’s came in a big square box and proved to be a bathroom scale. At last I could weigh in and check my progress. Dorcas handed me a small package which contained a pretty enamelled bracelet. It was churlish to wish they could have been reversed, and I stamped on the thought. Jonas rather grandly handed me three potted geraniums which I received with delight, saying they were
what I needed to brighten up the deep tiled window-sill in the dining room, particularly when it was refurbished, which would be soon. The plasterers and carpenters were due the following week. Without moving a facial muscle the gardener graciously accepted my thanks. Reaching into the pocket of his rumpled flannel jacket, he slapped a flat narrow package wrapped in brown paper and string beside my plate.

“Jonas, you shouldn’t have!” I cried, touched. “The flowers were quite sufficient.”

“Aye, they were and all, didn’t cost nowt but a bit o’ time, and I’m not one to throw coppers away on nonsense like birthday presents.”

The table was silent, all of us intent upon the gardener as he extended the pause, savouring the anticipation of his audience.

“Aunt Sybil?” I asked.

“Nay, not her.” Jonas riveted us with his eyes. “Stranger came up hill at cockcrow this morning. I was about to tell him to his face no trespassing allowed when he handed me this here package. ‘For the lady of the house,’ he says, ‘no questions asked, no lies told,’ and off he goes quick as a weasel.”

“Damn it,” said Ben. “Open it, or I will.”

With the paper off, I looked down at two narrow books, one bound in green leather and one in brown. I opened up the green one, hands trembling slightly, and read the words on the flyleaf:
The Housekeeping Account of Abigail Grantham
.

Snatching it from me, Ben thumbed rapidly through the pages, scanned some of the entries, and tossed it down in disgust, saying, “I thought women of her era kept diaries chockful of youthful indiscretions, unspoken passion for the curate, or a tryst in the shrubbery with the captain of the cricket team. This is nothing but an expense account—how much she paid for six dozen eggs, reminders to pay the milkman for the extra jug of milk he brought on Tuesday.”

“You’ll like the brown volume better,” I said, closing it and passing it across the table. “That is Abigail’s collection of recipes, all sorts of goodies, pheasant soup and eel pie. But
I do agree with you, Ben. If this is Clue Number Two, old Merlin is sitting by the fire in his new abode laughing up his sleeve.”

“Ee,” chortled Jonas dourly, “ ’e will, at that. A prime sense of humour had Mr. Merlin. No one can say he ain’t had the last laugh on this one.”

CHAPTER
Eleven

A birthday deserved special concessions. I abandoned thoughts of scraping wallpaper and took the green-bound volume up to my bedroom. Ben wanted to peruse the recipes in the other book. I pulled the overstuffed armchair up to the window and sat down to read. Warm sunlight flooded down upon the upright, rather childlike writing on the lined pages. Ben, with typical male lack of perception, had seen only an accounting of monies paid to the butcher, the baker, and the woman who came in to sew. I caught a glimpse of another era: seven shillings and sixpence-ha’penny for a pair of buttoned boots and four pounds ten to the carpenter for an oak overmantel for the fireplace in the dining room. I began to visualize Abigail Grantham, a woman not much older than myself. She would have been about thirty at the time of these entries, a thrifty girl brought up in less-than-affluent family, bred on the premise that if one never spent more than nineteen shillings in the pound one would never be a pauper. Every penny that passed through her hands was carefully noted in clear black ink, but under the line “six linen shirts for Arthur” was another—“one smocked velvet Sunday suit for the doctor’s youngest child and one pair of
boots for the boy who delivers the milk.” What economies did Abigail practise so her husband did not discover these gifts? He certainly would not have approved them. Twopence was noted a few pages further on, for wax flowers bought from a gipsy woman. Was Abigail afraid that a curse might be put on her house if she refused? Her practical good sense made me think this unlikely. I turned another page. The first entry was “sixpence-farthing for a red and yellow kite.” Rose had said Mrs. Grantham enjoyed taking her small son outside on windy spring days. They moved before my eyes, the boy in a sailor suit and the woman in long skirts slapping about her ankles as they ran following the arching triangle across the grounds. The orderly woman with her neat bookkeeping had possessed a light-hearted side.

The next series of pages contained nothing of special interest, although I did get one idea of how Abigail might have practised economy. She seemed to buy an inordinate amount of dairy products—milk, cheese, particularly eggs—over the course of several months. I was on the point of checking to see if her butcher’s bills were lower at this time, when I came upon a significant entry: “two pounds to Mr. Miles Biddle towards payment of portrait, leaving three pounds due upon completion.” Leafing through the succeeding pages I found no further reference to the artist. It would seem Uncle Arthur had not been pleased and had booted the young gentleman off the premises. The journal did not continue through the end of the year. It ended abruptly on the September 25 with a number of payments made to tradespeople, and one final notation: “nine pounds received from Mr. Pullett for Mamma’s garnet ring.”

The Pulletts were the jewellers in the village. Why had Abigail needed money at the price of disposing of her mother’s ring? Uncle Arthur, from the amounts deposlted in his wife’s keeping, had not been overly generous, but had provided her with sufficient means to support the household. Had I stumbled upon a hidden vice on the lady’s part, a passion for dice or cards, or cream sherry? I could not accept this; Abigail
came through as too disciplined in financial matters. Perhaps she had given the money to a needy relative or friend. Was it a coincidence that this transaction was made as the journal ceased, or were the two related? Was Abigail ill and aware she was about to die, and did she feel the need to assist someone close to her while she still could? What bothered me was her handwriting. The last entry was as strong and firm as the first. Her passing must have been sudden. I remembered Rose and the suspicions she had voiced. Married to a man as truculent and obnoxious as Uncle Arthur, no woman could be faulted for sticking her head in the gas oven or taking a flying leap off a handy cliff, but reading the journal made it difficult for me to see Abigail as a suicide. Another darker suspicion came to me. More than ever it seemed vital to talk with someone who might be in touch with records from the past—old letters, journals such as this one. Mr. Pullett was a possibility; so was the vicar. The rectory and this house had stood side by side on this clifftop for generations. The parish register! That would give me the date of Abigail’s death, which I was sure was not marked on her tomb. Excitement surged within me.

Only half the book was taken up with entries. A long series of blank pages followed the last one dated September 25. Picking it up again, I inadvertently opened the volume at the wrong end. I found four or five sheets pasted with snippets of fabric and clipped corners of wallpaper samples. Underneath each item was written a description of its intended use. One such notation read:
Fabric for Queen Anne chair and sofa cushions, look for complementary damask stripe in rose and cream for the curtains and window seat covering
. Here were Abigail’s plans for redecorating the drawing room. Had they ever been completed?

Sometimes new wallpaper was applied over old. If I peeled off a small strip in the corner of the drawing room, would I find the pattern Abigail had chosen underneath? Taking the book with me, I hurried across the room, pausing to open the bedside table where I kept a pair of scissors and a nail file. Not very workmanlike tools but … Something
else waited for me inside that drawer—a large flat box of chocolates, done up in shining transparent red paper, which crackled when I touched it, and a silky green ribbon, under which was tucked a small white card. It said simply:
Happy Birthday
.

Dorcas, I thought, or Ben. Which one of them had decided I needed a little relaxation from the rigours of constant privation? The reason for secrecy was easy. Neither party would want the other to know I had been seduced from the straight and narrow. The closest I had come to cheating during the past weeks was when I had bought myself a flavoured lip gloss in Daiquiri Lime. The chocolates were a kind gesture, but a person in my situation was so vulnerable. Of late I had begun to fear that my ears might grow and I would start twitching like a rabbit if I chomped down on any more carrots and celery sticks—the fun food Ben kept on ice for me in the refrigerator. I fingered the box again.

To refuse one small nibble would be puritanical. Perhaps an orange-filled one? Doctors were always harping these days on the benefits of vitamin C. I hesitated. How typical it would be of Ben to present me with a bathroom scale with one hand and this calorie-loaded time bomb with the other! A small test to see how far I had come in terms of willpower and perseverance? Hateful man!

But what if Dorcas were the gentle giver? Under that hearty exterior she really was a very sensitive soul. To hurt such a friend would be unforgivable. Schoolteachers believed in the reward system, fair play and incentive, and I had been exemplary of late.

The first chocolate was delicious. The second was even better. But they naturally came from the top layer. What if the bottom row had grown a bit stale? If I wanted to put them out in a dish at teatime, I felt it my duty to check these out, too. Moist, succulent! I slid the wafer of paper between the layers and was just replacing the lid when I remembered that violet creams are not a general favourite. Virtuously I popped the offender into my mouth.

“Ellie,” called a voice from below stairs. Dorcas! I returned the chocolates to the drawer, grabbed the green book, the nail file and scissors and ran out into the hall as though a legion of sugar-coated demons were after me.

“Wanted to know whether we should call the chimney sweep out for this week or next?” Dorcas wore a bright yellow duster tied serviceably round her flaming hair and her ruler-thin figure was encased in a grey serge boiler suit. She stood waiting for me in the hall.

“Next week, I think.” How ridiculous to feel so culpable. As I passed the speckled mirror hanging above the trestle table, I took a furtive peek checking for telltale smears of chocolate.

All of this cloak-and-dagger stuff was unnecessary if Dorcas had put the box in my drawer. I decided to submit her to a test. “This has been a wonderful birthday.” I looked meaningfully at her and stretched out the next words. “Thanks for being so sweet to me, Dorcas.”

“Thought you would like the bracelet. Don’t go in for fandangles myself, but had the notion a pretty trinket might be a boost; something towards your new image.”

So much for that ploy! Dorcas had not looked the least conscious of any double entendre. She wanted me to look at the glass-fronted bookcase in the drawing room, afraid that this piece, like several others, might be afflicted with woodworm. I was easily diverted. We had been talking for several weeks about completely redoing this room. Now Abigail’s journal had sparked added interest in the project. After inspecting the bookcase and agreeing with Dorcas that it was too far gone to be saved, I handed her the journal. She was as interested as I had been in the patterns pasted on the back pages.

“Shocking crime the way this room has been let go. Handsome woodwork, beautiful moulded ceiling. Don’t find plaster work like that central ceiling rose these days. Frightful shame!” Dorcas gave the words almost Shakespearean anguish.