Deathline

  Deathline

  Jane Aiken Hodge

  © Jane Aiken Hodge 2003 *

  *Indicates the year of first publication.

  In loving memory of

  Beatrice Taussig and Eunice Frost

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  One

  ‘Mother left the house to Frank? I don’t believe it!’ Helen Westley stared at the solicitor across his outsize office desk. ‘After all her promises! I won’t believe it!’ But her world was shaking around her.

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’ John Barnes shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘That’s why I asked you to come in. I thought you ought to know before the funeral. The will has never been changed, you see; the one she made on marriage to your father. It was a reasonable enough disposition at the time, mind you. The house to your half-brother, whose father’s it had been, and the rest of her estate to her new husband.’

  ‘But that was thirty-five years ago, when she married Father!’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked with compassion and apology across his desk at the woman who appeared, in shock, every one of her thirty-three years. ‘I did try to point out to your mother, Miss Westley, that things had changed, that she ought to rethink the basic principle of the will, but you know how she was. It was all I could do to get her to make the essential alterations when your father died.’

  ‘And she collapsed and summoned me home from college to look after her. Promised me the house when she died. Did you know that?’

  ‘Miss Westley, I was afraid that was how it was. But what could I do? She was my client.’

  And I was just a useful daughter at home, thought Helen. But she did not say it. Instead, she asked the obvious question: ‘So – the rest of the estate? What, roughly, does that mean, after all those years of comfortable invalidism. I never could get her to talk about money.’

  ‘No more could I,’ he admitted. ‘And you are absolutely right, of course. There have been drawings on her capital. Those cruises she used to take, before she became bedridden, and the extra help you had to have afterwards. It all meant capital, and I never could make her understand why her income dwindled as a result.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you could,’ with the ghost of a sympathetic grin that reminded him how much he had always liked quiet Helen Westley, and made him feel guiltier than ever. Best get it over with. It was the kindest thing to do, for both of them. ‘What I couldn’t make her see –’ he found it hard to meet her eyes – ‘was what the soaring value of the house was going to mean in taxes when she died. Frank Dobson, your half-brother, and I are joint executors as you know, and it will take a little time to work out the figures, but I devoutly hope we shall find enough capital left to produce some kind of small income for you. It’s a mercy you’ve got that good job, Miss Westley. You were so wise to get in carers for your mother and hang on to that.’

  ‘Mr Barnes.’ She was absolutely not going to cry. ‘I was made redundant yesterday.’

  ‘What? I don’t believe it!’ His turn to say that, Helen thought bleakly. ‘But you’ve done so well there. I’d always heard you were the backbone of the place, kept it together, were irreplaceable.’

  ‘We’ve been taken over. We’re going hi-tech. And no one is irreplaceable, Mr Barnes. Of course I’ve been away a lot while Mother was dying. So: three months’ pay and a glowing testimonial. And no qualifications. I went straight there, you know, not back to college, because it was local and Mother said she couldn’t manage without me. It was such fun; they were starting out too, we all learned on the job. Five of us at first, sharing everything, working things out together. Everything’s different now.’

  ‘And not necessarily better.’ He said it for her. ‘I’m truly sorry, Miss Westley. Does your brother know?’

  ‘Why should he? We’ve never been close. He’s so much older, more like an uncle.’ And not one she could ever like. There was so much she must not say.

  ‘I’m seeing him again tomorrow. Forgive me, Miss Westley, I must get this clear – what are the terms of your …’ He paused, searching for the tactful word.

  ‘Dismissal? Three months’ pay and out on my ear, there and then. The new broom’s sweeping fast. I had to borrow a plastic bag to take home my bits and pieces.’ Not home any more. Her brother’s house. Helen’s nails dug deep into the palms of her hands as she answered the next question. ‘No, no pension. It wasn’t that kind of operation.’

  ‘I suppose not. Three months’ pay is hardly generous. Perhaps we should fight it, try to get you a little more—’

  ‘No. Thanks, but no. Waste of time and money. What’s done’s done. And I mustn’t take up any more of your time, Mr Barnes.’ She picked up her bag from the floor, and made to rise.

  ‘Just a minute.’ He had read her mind. ‘I’m not charging you for this meeting, Miss Westley, don’t think so for a moment. And I must have the position clear so I can put it to your brother. He has to know how you are placed.’ He had seen her instant reaction. ‘What your plans are?’ He made it a question.

  ‘Plans?’ She looked at him bleakly. ‘They were based on the house, of course. I hadn’t decided whether to sell it and use the proceeds to get some training, or whether I could stay in it and make it support me somehow. Rent rooms or something. I loved that house.’ They both noticed the past tense. ‘Well, I’ve lived there all my life.’ She stood up. ‘Now I just have to start thinking all over again. You’ve been very kind, Mr Barnes, and I thank you for it. You’ll let me know, as soon as you can, just how small the estate is going to be, won’t you? You can see it is going to have bearing. And –’ it had only just struck her – ‘ask my brother how long I can stay in the house, please? That will have bearing too.’ Something in the quality of his silence alerted her. ‘He’s said something about that already?’

  ‘I know he means to sell,’ he told her. ‘With vacant possession and as soon as possible. He’s a little overextended in the city himself, needs the capital. But of course nothing happens at once after a death. It will take longer than your three months—’

  ‘Will he charge me rent, do you think? I wouldn’t put it past him for a minute. Ought I to make a list of things I own in that house, Mr Barnes?’

  ‘He did mention an inventory. Best to keep everything businesslike, even when it’s in the family.’

  ‘Family?’ She looked at her watch. ‘I must go. I wouldn’t want to be late for the funeral. It was good of you to fit me in. I did need to know. Before I meet them.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And I’m sorry about the funeral, too, Miss Westley. Frank Dobson insisted on Putney Vale and a cremation, the cheapest option. I told him your mother wanted to be buried in the graveyard, beside your father, but I’m afraid he dismissed that as old lady’s nonsense.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. And Mother really enjoyed planning her funeral. And the wake, back at the house, afterwards. Oh!’ Suddenly she understood. Even Frank had blanched at the thought of entertaining the mourners in the house that was to be his, should have been hers. She rather thought that Mr Barnes had come to the same conclusion. ‘Oh well,’ standing up. ‘At least Mother had fun planning it. He can’t take that away. I do thank you for being so kind, Mr Barnes.’

  ‘I wish I could do more, but I promise you, I’ll do my best. How are you going to get to Putney Vale? It’s an awkward
place without a car.’ They were both remembering that Helen’s mother had sold the car when she became bedridden.

  ‘I’ve a taxi picking me up from here. It’s about due. Frank said he’d bring me back.’ She was glad now that she had decided not to try and get back to the house first. She needed time before she faced it with the knowledge that it was not hers.

  ‘I feel guilty, not coming.’ He was showing her down the stairs.

  ‘Don’t. It’s not the funeral Mother wanted. I don’t think she will be there, somehow.’ She thought of her father’s funeral service, held in the church across the garden from the house, with all the neighbours crowding in to say goodbye to a good friend, and the choir singing for nothing because he had been such a faithful supporter. ‘And nor will anyone else,’ she told the solicitor, returning his firm handshake at the street door and noting with relief that her taxi was there, waiting.

  ‘No, I am afraid not. It’s not easy by public transport. I shall be thinking of you, Miss Westley.’

  And she thought, getting into the cab, that he really would.

  The traffic on the Upper Richmond Road was worse than usual, and she was too busy worrying about being late to think much about the shock she had just received. Her only thought was that she must not let it show; she must carry it off, whatever happened. She had been angry, but was glad now, that Frank had made no arrangement for the wake their mother had wanted.

  ‘There you are, love, just made it.’ The friendly taxi driver swooped to a halt and she paid him quickly, tipped him well, and followed the small group who were just going into the glum little chapel, finding herself, with relief, next to her niece Jan in the front pew. Beyond her, Marika Dobson was kneeling in token prayer, immensely elegant, as always, in fashionable charcoal grey. And beyond her again Frank leaned forward to give Helen a glance both relieved and reproving. But the piped music had changed; the service was starting.

  How Mother would have hated it. Standing and sitting as required, joining in the one last, ill-sung, ill-chosen hymn, Helen wondered why she should mind this after what her mother had done to her, but she did. The minister, speaking briefly about the dear departed, called her Wesley, not Westley, and Helen felt Jan’s hand close firm and warm on her own. She went on holding it until the curtains drew mercifully together and they began the awkward shuffle into the grey afternoon where the next party was waiting.

  ‘Party is hardly the word.’ Helen was surprised to realize that she had said this aloud to Jan, still close beside her, while her parents spoke their thanks to the clergyman.

  ‘No.’ Jan understood. ‘I’m sorry about the wake, Helen, but maybe …’

  ‘It’s best this way,’ Helen confirmed, as her brother turned to include the two of them in the little group around the clergyman.

  ‘My sister.’ He introduced them. ‘And my daughter.’

  ‘My deepest sympathy, Miss Wesley.’ His hand was moist.

  ‘The name is Westley.’ She looked full at him for a moment, then turned away, unable to bear his stammered apology.

  ‘You might have spared us that.’ Frank had helped his wife carefully into the front of the BMW, now opened the back door for Helen.

  ‘Yes, a pity. He made me too cross. Poor young man. I was sorry the minute I’d said it. Just drop me at the Sheen Lane lights, Frank. No need to struggle down to the house.’

  ‘Right. Seat belt, Jan.’ Did he have eyes in the back of his head? ‘Hideous time of day for a funeral, but it was the only slot I could get.’ He was now driving very fast indeed across Richmond Park. ‘Sorry to have to rush you, Helen, but Marika has this charity do at the Hurlingham Club. She’s one of the lady patronesses. Mustn’t be late. And Jan’s got a load of work this vac. Burning the midnight oil like mad, aren’t we, Jan? And back to the old grind for me. No peace for the wicked financier.’ He slowed just a little as they reached the Sheen Gate. ‘And the traffic’s going to be hell, this time of the evening, so if you really don’t mind being dropped off at the lights.’ He blasted his horn at a pedestrian who showed signs of stepping off the kerb. ‘You’ll let me know if I can do anything to help with the move, won’t you, Helen? Sooner the better, don’t you think? Get it over with, you know? It’s always easier to sell with vacant possession. And empty, of course. You must make me a list of what you would like to take. Anything within reason. I know Mother would have wanted that. This do you?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Jan had her hand again, trying to tell her something. Helen leaned towards her niece and kissed her suddenly, warmly, for the first time ever. ‘Goodbye, Jan. Thanks for the lift, Frank. Bye, Marika.’ She was safe on the pavement, shaking in every limb.

  She crossed twice on the green man, waiting for it dutifully as she seldom did, then wove her way like an automaton along the crowded pavement to where Church Path turned off illogically across later developments to take her to the church near the river and the house that was not hers. It sat cornerwise from the church, isolated in its tiny patch of garden, a high wall with no gate separating this from the graveyard. The entrance was on the other side of the house and when she reached it, she paused. When she had left it this morning she had been full of plans, for the house and for herself. Now there was nothing.

  Frank had managed to make it brutally clear that he wanted her out as soon as possible. She ought to go in, start thinking, packing, organizing. But instead she just stood there, key in hand. Not yet. Too soon to face the house that was not hers. First she needed a quick walk by the river to clear her head and take away the taste of that sad little service. To set about trying to forgive her mother and replan her life.

  She turned away from the house that held all of her past and none of her future and walked briskly through the graveyard to the path leading across the Lower Richmond Road to the river. But when she climbed the steps over the embankment wall to the towpath where she usually walked she saw floodwater lapping close below on the other side, the path itself under water. She had reckoned without the moon and the tide. No walk here today. She looked quickly around. The cars on the road behind her had their lights on against the December dusk. The wind blew cooler, ruffling dark water; lights shone out on the opposite bank. In this quiet corner by the river there was nobody else in sight. An immense temptation seized her. How easy it would be. Just walk in, slip a little, stumble a little, forget you can swim, let go. All over so easily. No more planning. Just done. Done with. She was shaking again, why? Absurd. It would be an end to shaking. An end to everything. Cowardly? Of course. But who would mind? Mr Barnes might mind a little. And so would Jan. How odd. She was remembering that firm, warm, hand, the quick, impulsive kiss. If she walked into the river now, Jan would think it her father’s fault.

  She turned away from the tempting water, returned to the road and stood for a moment hesitating, gazing at the traffic, heavier now, the rush hour in full swing. She was still not ready to go back to the empty house. The towpath upriver by the bridge would be above water, she knew, but it was almost dark. Stupid to get herself mugged by walking there, alone, in her funeral clothes, with all her bank cards in her bag. She started upriver just the same, passed the brewery, then turned on impulse back into town. That mad moment by the river had shaken things loose in her mind, a great kaleidoscopic shift had taken place and she knew what she had to do. Get away. At once. How?

  She reached the small municipal green patch by the railway line and sat for a moment on a bench, shivering a little with returning life, to reckon expedients. What could she do? Where could she go? There was no one she could invite herself to stay with, particularly now, just before Christmas, when everyone had their own family commitments. Hotels would be booked solid at this time of year, and full of pseudo-merriment. Besides, she could not afford one. It would be crazy to start spending her savings on their high Christmas rates at this time of crisis.

  Crisis. The word threw up a picture of her mother, many years ago, before she became bedridden, sitting on the sofa
and telling a caller that in a crisis she always relied on The Lady. ‘Always have, always will, and that magazine has never let me down. Furnished houses, holidays, help in the hour of need,’ she used to say. And it had been true. Helen got up from the bench and turned, with purpose now, to the level crossing by the station. At the newsagent in Sheen Lane she found that The Lady had changed, become glossy, since she had last seen it, but it still had a reassuring number of pages of small ads. She bought it and headed for home, wishing absurdly that she had managed to persuade her mother to let her have a cat. But Mother had been afraid of tripping over it. Poor Mother had been afraid of so many things, had given up so easily, dwindling into inaction, into one ailment after another, and so to dusty death.

  ‘And you’re a fine one to talk!’ Had she said it aloud? Someone on the pavement by the traffic lights had given her an odd look. She turned down the path that led to what had been home, savaging herself for cowardice. Because she had tried, or because she had failed? She had so nearly done it. She was actually blushing with shame and anger as she turned the key in the lock and threw open the front door of her brother’s house. It looked just the same. How odd. She dumped her bag, threw off her coat, turned on the gas fire, poured herself a glass of sherry and opened The Lady at the Situations Vacant column. What a lot of need: flexinannies; friendly au pairs; mother’s helps. But what am I?

  It jumped out of the column at her:

  Angry old woman with house seeks companion, with some money.

  And a telephone number. Not London. How rash, she thought, to print that, reached for the phone and dialled.

  The phone rang for a very long time and she was just thinking of hanging up, when there was a kind of clatter at the other end of the line and a shaky voice asked, ‘Is that Dr Braddock?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Helen said. ‘It’s about your advertisement in The Lady.’

  ‘Oh, that. I’d quite given up hope. When can you come?’