Memento Mori

  “I had an unpleasant experience this morning.”

  Charmian took refuge in a vague expression. She was terrified lest Godfrey was about to make some embarrassing confession concerning Mrs. Pettigrew.

  “Are you listening, Charmian?” said Godfrey.

  “Yes, oh yes. Anything you like.”

  “There was a telephone call from Lettie’s man.”

  “Poor Lettie, I wonder he isn’t tired of tormenting her.”

  “The call was for me. He said, ‘The message is for you, Mr. Colston.’ I am not imagining anything, mind you. I heard it with my ears.”

  “Really? What message?”

  “You know what message,” he said.

  “Well, I should treat it as it deserves to be treated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Neither more nor less,” said Charmian.

  “I’d like to know who the fellow is. I’d like to know why the police haven’t got him. It’s preposterous when we pay our rates and taxes to be threatened like that by a stranger.”

  “What did he threaten to do?” said Charmian. “I thought he merely always said—”

  “It’s upsetting,” said Godfrey. “One might easily take a stroke in consequence. If it occurs again I shall write to The Times.”

  “Why not consult Mrs. Pettigrew,” said Charmian. “She is a tower of strength.”

  Then she felt suddenly sorry for him, huddled among his bones. She left him and climbed the stairs slowly, clinging to the banister, to take her afternoon rest. She considered whether she could bring herself to leave Godfrey in his plight with Mrs. Pettigrew. After all, she herself might have been in an awkward situation, if she had not taken care, long before her old age, to destroy all possibly embarrassing documents. She smiled as she looked at her little bureau with its secretive appearance, in which Mrs. Pettigrew had found no secret, although Charmian knew she had penetrated behind those locks. But Godfrey, after all, was not a clever man.

  In the end Godfrey submitted, and agreed to keep the appointment with his lawyer. Mrs. Pettigrew would not absolutely have refused to let him put it off for another day, had she not been frightened by his report of the telephone call. Obviously, his mind was going funny. She had not looked for this. He had better see the lawyer before anyone could say he had been talked into anything.

  He got out the car and drove off. About ten minutes later Mrs. Pettigrew got a taxi at the end of the street and followed him. She wanted just to make sure he was at the lawyer’s, and she merely intended to drive past the offices to satisfy herself that Godfrey’s car was outside.

  His car was not outside. She made the driver take her round Sloane Square. There was still no sign of Godfrey’s car. She got out and went into a café opposite the offices and sat where she could see him arrive. But by quarter to four there was still no sign of his car. It occurred to her that his memory had escaped him while on his way to the lawyer. He had sometimes remarked that his oculist and his chiropodist were in Chelsea. Perhaps he had gone, by mistake, to have his eyes tested or his feet done. She had trusted his faculties; he had always seemed all right until this morning; but after his silly talk this morning about that phone call anything could happen. It was to be remembered he was nearly eighty-eight.

  Or was he cunning? Could the phone call have come from the lawyer, perhaps to confirm the appointment, and Godfrey have cancelled it? After all, how could he have suddenly gone crazy like his sister without showing preliminary signs? Possibly he had decided to feign feebleness of mind merely to evade his obligations.

  Mrs. Pettigrew paid for her coffee, resumed her brown squirrel coat, and set off along the King’s Road. She saw no sign of his car outside the chiropodist. Anyway, he had probably gone home. She glanced up a side turning and thought she saw Godfrey’s car in the blue half-light parked outside a bombed building. Yes indeed, on investigation, it proved to be Godfrey’s Vauxhall.

  Mrs. Pettigrew looked expertly around her. The houses opposite the bombed building were all occupied and afforded no concealment. The bombed building itself seemed to demand investigation. She walked up the dusty steps on which strangely there stood a collection of grimy milk bottles. The broken door was partly open. She creaked it further open and looked inside. She could see right through, over the decayed brick and plaster, to the windows at the back of the house. She heard a noise as of rustling paper—or could it be rats? She stepped back and stood once more outside the door considering whether and how long she could bear to stand in that desolate doorway and see, without being seen, from which direction Godfrey should return to his car.

  Charmian woke at four and sensed the emptiness of the house. Mrs. Anthony now went home at two in the afternoons. Both Godfrey and Mrs. Pettigrew must be out. Charmian lay listening, to confirm her feeling of being alone in the house. She heard no sound. She rose slowly, tidied herself and, groping for one after another banister rail, descended the stairs. She had reached the first half-landing when the telephone rang. She did not hurry, but it was still ringing when she reached it.

  “Is that Mrs. Colston?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Charmian Piper—that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Are you a reporter?”

  “Remember,” he said, “you must die.”

  “Oh, as to that,” she said, “for the past thirty years and more I have thought of it from time to time. My memory is failing in certain respects. I am gone eighty-six. But somehow I do not forget my death, whenever that will be.”

  “Delighted to hear it,” he said. “Goodbye for now.”

  “Goodbye,” she said. “What paper do you represent?”

  But he had rung off.

  Charmian made her way to the library and cautiously built up the fire which had burnt low. The effort of stooping tired her and she sat for a moment in the big chair. After a while it was tea-time. She thought, for a space, about tea. Then she made her way to the kitchen where the tray had been set by Mrs. Anthony in readiness for Mrs. Pettigrew to make the tea. But Mrs. Pettigrew had gone out. Charmian felt overwhelmed suddenly with trepidation and pleasure. Could she make tea herself? Yes, she would try. The kettle was heavy as she held it under the tap. It was heavier still when it was half-filled with water. It rocked in her hand and her skinny, large-freckled wrist ached and wobbled with the strain. At last she had lifted the kettle safely on to the gas ring. She had seen Mrs. Anthony use the automatic lighter. She tried it but could not make it work. Matches. She looked everywhere for matches but could not find any. She went back to the library and took from a jar one of Godfrey’s homemade tapers. She stooped dangerously and lit the taper at the fire. Then, cautiously, she bore the little quivering flame to the kitchen, holding it in one shaking hand, and holding that hand with her other hand to keep it as steady as possible. At last the gas was lit under the kettle. Charmian put the teapot on the stove to warm. She then sat down in Mrs. Anthony’s chair to wait for the kettle to boil. She felt strong and fearless.

  When the kettle had boiled she spooned tea into the pot and knew that the difficult part had come. She lifted the kettle a little and tilted its spout over the tea-pot. She stood as far back as she could. In went the hot water, and though it splashed quite a bit on the stove, she did not get any over her dress or her feet. She bore the tea-pot to the tray. It wafted to and fro, but she managed to place it down gently after all.

  She looked at the hot-water jug. Should she bother with hot water? She had done so well up to now, it would be a pity to make any mistake and have an accident. But she felt strong and fearless. A pot of tea without the hot-water jug beside it was nonsense. She filled the jug, this time splashing her foot a little, but not enough to burn.

  When all was set on the tray she was tempted to have her tea in the kitchen there in Mrs. Anthony’s chair.

  But she thought of her bright fire in the library. She looked at the tray. Plainly she could never carry it. She would take in the tea-things one
by one, even if it took half-an-hour.

  She did this, resting only once between her journeys. First the tea-pot, which she placed on the library hearth. Then the hot-water jug. These were the dangerous objects. Cup and saucer; another cup and saucer in case Godfrey or Mrs. Pettigrew should return and want tea; the buttered scones; jam; two plates, two knives, and two spoons. Another journey for the plate of Garibaldi biscuits which Charmian loved to dip in her tea. She could well remember, as she looked at them, the fuss about Garibaldi in her childhood, and her father’s eloquent letters to The Times which were read aloud after morning prayers. Three of the Garibaldi biscuits slid off the plate and broke on the floor in the hall. She proceeded with the plate, laid it on a table, and then returned to pick up the broken biscuits, even the crumbs. It would be a pity if anyone said she had been careless. Still, she felt fearless that afternoon. Last of all she went to fetch the tray itself, with its pretty cloth. She stopped to mop up the water she had spilt by the stove. When she had brought everything into the room she closed the door, placed the tray on a low table by her chair and arranged her tea-things neatly upon it. The performance had taken twenty minutes. She dozed with gratitude in her chair for five more minutes, then carefully poured out her tea, splashing very little into the saucer. Even that little she eventually poured back into the cup. All was as usual, save that she was blissfully alone, and the tea was not altogether hot. She started to enjoy her tea.

  Mrs. Pettigrew stood under the chipped stucco of the porch and looked at her watch. She could not see the dial in the gloom. She walked down the steps and consulted her watch under a lamp-post. It was twenty to five. She turned to resume her station in the bombed porch. She had mounted two steps when, from nowhere, a policeman appeared.

  “Anything you wanted, madam?”

  “Oh, I’m waiting for a friend.”

  He went up the steps and pushing open the creaking door flashed his torch all over the interior, as if expecting her friend to be there. He gave her a curious look and walked away.

  Mrs. Pettigrew thought, It’s too bad, it really is, me being put in a predicament like this, standing in the cold, questioned by policemen; and I’m nearly seventy-four. Something rustled on the ground behind the door. She looked; she could see nothing. But then she felt something, like the stroke of a hand over her instep. She shuffled backwards, and catching the last glimpse of a rat slithering through the railings down the area, screamed.

  The policeman crossed over the street towards her, having apparently been watching her from some doorway on the other side.

  “Anything wrong?” he said.

  “A rat,” she said, “ran across my feet.”

  “I shouldn’t stand here, madam, please.”

  “I’m waiting for my friend. Go away.”

  “What’s your name, madam?”

  She thought he said, “What’s your game?” and it occurred to her, too, that she probably looked years younger than she thought. “You can have three guesses,” she replied pertly.

  “I must ask you to move along, madam. Where do you live?”

  “Suppose you mind your own business?”

  “Got anyone to look after you?” he said; and she realised he had not much underestimated her years, but probably suspected she was dotty.

  “I’m waiting for my friend,” she said.

  The policeman stood uncertainly before her, considering her face, and possibly what to do about her. There was a slight stir behind the door. Mrs. Pettigrew jumped nervously. “Oh, is that a rat?”

  Just then a car door slammed behind the policeman’s bulk.

  “That’s my friend,” she said, trying to slip past him. “Let me pass, please.”

  The policeman turned to scrutinise the car. Godfrey was already driving off.

  “Godfrey! Godfrey!” she called. But he was away.

  “Your friend didn’t stop long,” he observed.

  “I’ve missed him through you talking to me.”

  She started off down the steps.

  “Think you’ll get home all right?” The policeman seemed relieved to see her moving off.

  She did not reply but got a taxi at King’s Road, thinking how hard used she was.

  Godfrey, on her arrival, was expostulating with Charmian. “I say you couldn’t have made the tea and brought it in here. How could you? Mrs. Pettigrew brought in your tea. Now think. You’ve been dreaming.”

  Charmian turned to Mrs. Pettigrew. “You have been out all afternoon, haven’t you, Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  “Mabel,” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  “Haven’t you, Mabel? I made my tea myself and brought it in. Godfrey won’t believe me, he’s absurd.”

  “I brought in your tea,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “before I went out for an airing. I must say I feel the need of it these days since Mrs. Anthony started leaving early.”

  “You see what I mean?” said Godfrey to Charmian.

  Charmian was silent.

  “A whole long story,” said Godfrey, “about getting up and making your own tea. I knew it was impossible.”

  Charmian said, “I am getting feeble in mind as well as body, Godfrey. I shall go to the nursing home in Surrey. I am quite decided.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “that would be the best.”

  “There’s no need, my dear, for you to go into a home,” said Godfrey. “No one is suggesting it. All I was saying—”

  “I’m going to bed, Godfrey.”

  “Oh, dear, a supper tray,” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  “I don’t want supper, thank you,” said Charmian. “I enjoyed my tea.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew moved towards Charmian as if to take her arm.

  “I can manage quite well, thank you.”

  “Come now, don’t get into a tantrum. You must get your beauty sleep for the photographer to-morrow,” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  Charmian made her slow way out of the room and upstairs.

  “See the lawyer?” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  “It’s damn cold,” said Godfrey.

  “You saw the solicitor?”

  “No, in fact, he’d been called away on an urgent case. Have to see him some other time. I say I’ll see him tomorrow, Mabel.”

  “Urgent case,” she said. “It was the lawyer you had an appointment with, not the doctor. You’re worse than Charmian.”

  “Yes, yes, Mabel, the lawyer. Don’t let Mrs. Anthony hear you.”

  “Mrs. Anthony has gone. And, anyway, she’s deaf. Where have you been all afternoon?”

  “Well, I called in,” he said, “at the police.”

  “What?”

  “The police station. Kept me waiting a long time.”

  “Look here, Godfrey, you have no evidence against me, you understand? You need proof. Just you try. What did you tell them? Come on, what did you say?”

  “Can’t remember exact words. Time they did something about it. I said, ‘My sister has been suffering from this man for over six months.’ I said, ‘Now he has started on me,’ I said, ‘and it’s high time you did something about it,’ I said. I said—”

  “Oh, your phone call. Is that all you have to think about? I ask you, Godfrey, is that all…?”

  He huddled in his chair. “Damn cold,” he said. “Have we got any whisky there?”

  “No,” she said, “we haven’t.”

  He silently opened Charmian’s door on his way to bed.

  “Still awake?” he said in a whisper.

  “Yes,” she said, waking up.

  “Feeling all right? Want anything?”

  “Nothing, thank you, Godfrey.”

  “Don’t go to the nursing home,” he said in a whisper.

  “Godfrey, I made my own tea this afternoon.”

  “All right,” he said, “you did. But don’t go—”

  “Godfrey,” she said. “If you will take my advice you will write to Eric. You will make it up with Eric.”

  “Why? What makes you say that?”
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  But she would not say what made her say this, and he was puzzled by it, for he himself had been thinking of writing to Eric; he was uncertain whether Charmian knew more about him and his plight than he thought, or whether her words represented merely a stray idea.

  “You must promise,” said Olive Mannering, “that this is to be treated as a strictly professional matter.”

  “I promise,” said Alec Warner.

  “Because,” said Olive, “it’s dangerous stuff, and I got it in strictest confidence. And I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “Nor I,” said Alec.

  “It’s only for purposes of research,” said Olive.

  “Quite.”

  “How do you make your notes?” Olive enquired. “Because there mustn’t be names mentioned anywhere.”

  “All documents referring to real names are to be destroyed at my death. No one could possibly identify my case-histories.”

  “O.K.,” said Olive. “Well, goodness, he was in a terrible state this afternoon. I was really sorry for him. It’s Mrs. Pettigrew, you see.”

  “Garters and all that lark?”

  “No, oh no. He’s finished with that.”

  “Blackmail.”

  “That’s right. She has apparently discovered a lot about his past life.”

  “The affair with Lisa Brooke.”

  “That and a lot more. Then there was some money scandal at the Colston Breweries which was hushed up at the time. Mrs. Pettigrew knows it all. She got at his private papers.”

  “Has he been to the police?”

  “No, he’s afraid.”

  “They would protect him. What is he afraid of? Did you ask?”

  “His wife, mostly. He doesn’t want his wife to know. It’s his pride, I think. Of course, I haven’t met her but it sounds to me that she’s always been the religious one, and being famous as an author off and on, she gets all the sympathy for being more sensitive than him.”

  Alec Warner wrote in his book.

  “Charmian,” he remarked, “would not be put out by anything she learnt about Godfrey. Now, you say he’s afraid of her knowing?”