Читать книгу Death of a Dormouse - Reginald Hill - Страница 14

Frank Carter was a reasonable man; reasonably tall, reasonably tempered, reasonably good at his work in a Manchester estate agency.

He tiptoed out of the spare bedroom in which Trudi was lying with her eyes screwed up tight as if to keep out more than just the light. And he asked the reasonable question.

‘How long’s she staying?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Janet. ‘Frank, I’m sorry. I know we didn’t plan starting married life with a non-paying guest, but she’s nowhere else to go.’

‘Hospital; nursing home,’ said Carter, moistening his lips as though at the start of a long list.

‘No good. Look, she needs someone she knows, that one. Always has done, though she’s come on a bit since I first met her, I reckon. God, Frank, you should have seen her at school, little Trudi Shoesmith! She never went out at playtime, special medical permission. If it hadn’t been for her funny name, she’d have been completely invisible. It was her name first made me take notice of her. Janet Evans was so ordinary, I thought! I really envied her being called Trudi, especially when I found out it should really have been Trudi Schumacher!’

‘Schumacher? That’s German, isn’t it?’

‘Austrian. Her father was a Jew, non-practising, but that didn’t matter evidently in 1938. He got out, came to England. I gather her mother died giving birth, so her dad brought her up more or less single-handed. That was half the bother, I reckon. Lots of substitute mums, lots of moving about, and a father who never got over his suspicion that everything in uniform was a storm-trooper and every knock at the door was the Gestapo! It’s no wonder she was such a timorous little thing. Her father changed their name to Shoesmith when he was naturalized, but I reckon he never stopped thinking of himself as a refugee. Anyway, I took little Trudi in hand, didn’t I? Looked out for her at school, got her a job later on, even introduced her to Trent Adamson, though that turned out a mistake!’

‘How do you mean?’ said Carter, puzzled.

‘Well, just that if she’d not met and married Trent, she wouldn’t be here now,’ said Janet, not altogether convincingly.

Trudi, half hearing but totally unresponding to this conversation drifting through the open door, could have told Frank Carter exactly what Janet meant.

Most of what her friend said was true. Before the Evanses moved to Surrey from Cardiff, no one had paid any attention to the slight, pale, self-effacing child with the funny name. Janet Evans on the other hand was instantly the centre of interest. Voluble, impassioned, darkly attractive, she was admired or resented but never ignored. There was no shortage of applicants for the position of ‘best friend’ but to the amazement of everyone she plucked Trudi out of obscurity and gave her the job. Trudi was more taken aback than anyone. Nor was she much assured by overhearing a spiteful peer declare, ‘It didn’t surprise me. What else would a cat look to play with but a dormouse?’

Janet had exaggerated when she said she got Trudi her job. School over, Trudi had found employment as a copy typist in a council office at Staines. Janet had sought the lusher pastures of the West End, but after a couple of years, she had returned to Staines to train as an air hostess at nearby Heathrow. And it was now that, hearing of a well-paid secretarial opening in her company’s airport office, she urged Trudi to apply. How much the full beam of Janet’s charm influenced the office manager was hard to say, but Trudi got the job.

A few weeks later, Janet came into the office just as she was preparing to leave.

‘All right, girl,’ she said. ‘Glad rags on, colour in your cheeks, I’ll pick you up at eight. Be ready.’

‘What? Jan, no, I mean, what …’

‘Don’t play hard to get! I’ve got two lovely men lined up but my other lovely girl’s gone down with flu, silly cow. I need you, lovey, so don’t say no.’

‘But I can’t …’ said Trudi, panic-stricken.

‘Can’t what? You can drink orange juice, eat a chop, and laugh politely when I kick you under the table, can’t you? Trudi, I don’t ask much, do I? So, please!’

Trudi had given in. The men had been Trent Adamson and Alan Cummings. Cummings, who worked for Customs and Excise, was the younger and livelier of the two, but it was Trent that Janet had in her sights. An airline captain with the wit and the will to move profitably from air to chair when the time came, he was in Heathrow terms a great catch. It was only to be expected that he would take Jan home.

‘But all he wanted to do was talk about you!’ said Janet the next day in mock pique. ‘Perhaps he’s a secret mouse-fancier!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Trudi, flustered. She had no desire to be fancied by Trent or any man. The previous night Alan Cummings had made a token pass and she had literally run away from him. It had not been her father’s intention that his distrust of authority and uniform should have been communicated so strongly to and extended so comprehensively by his daughter, but bringing her up single-handed had made his influence paramount and given his over-anxious warnings, both political and sexual, the force of divine law.

A week later Trudi was dumbfounded when Trent came into the office and gravely asked her for a date. She refused. He wasn’t put off. Janet’s pique soon ceased to be mock, but her sense of realism eventually prevailed and she started urging her friend to grab her chance with both hands.

Trudi was simply bewildered. She did not feel she had anything to offer a man like Trent. More importantly, he had nothing to offer her. She was happy to contemplate a life living at home, looking after her father.

And then one evening everything changed. Walking home from school in the November fog, her father was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. She sat at his bedside for twenty-four hours and would not believe them when they told her he was dead. She had refused to leave the house after that, even to attend the funeral. There was talk of forcible removal to hospital, but Janet squashed that, moving in with her friend. Then Trent started calling round and it was in his company that Trudi first stepped into the open once more. Few people thought of this as courtship, attributing it to some hitherto unsuspected vein of human kindness in Trent. The question, which only Janet dared put to him direct, was what would happen if and when he withdrew his protective shadow from the little dormouse? Trent’s only reply was a faint smile.

Two months later, he and Trudi got married.

And three months after that, to further amazement, Trent gave up his prestigious job and secure future, and went to work for a Swiss-based charter company trading out of Zürich. The Adamsons moved to Switzerland, the first step in a twenty-five-year separation from England which was to see them living in some of the most glamorous cities in Europe. Not that it mattered to Trudi, not in those early years anyway. Home was where Trent said it was. That was all that mattered.

Janet, meanwhile, lovely, lively Janet for whom the sky always seemed the limit, married Alan Cummings, had a couple of quick kids, and when promotion took her husband up to Manchester’s fast-developing international airport, she settled down stoically to a life of middle-class obscurity in the depths of Cheadle Hume.

‘I think it’s time I moved out,’ said Trudi.

‘Good Lord. Why?’

A month had passed. Slowly Trudi had returned to normality. The bad dreams persisted, but she had begun to feel perfectly safe in the day. Then that same morning, lying in bed enjoying the pale gold of the autumn sunlight on her window, she had suddenly recalled in its entirety that overheard conversation of her first day here. Savage resentment of Janet’s condescending interference had rapidly cooled to a general embarrassment that required instant action.

‘I’ve been here ages. I can’t impose on you for ever.’

‘Impose! We love having you, really.’ She sounded persuasively sincere.

‘You’ve both been marvellous,’ said Trudi. ‘But when Frank married you, he didn’t expect to get landed with another fat old widow.’

‘Another?’

‘Oh God, Jan, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’

But Janet was just laughing with the confidence of one who knows that all a few extra pounds have done to her figure is add a certain sensuous roundness to its always attractive contours.

‘Forget old, girl!’ she commanded. ‘We’re in our prime, you’d better believe it. As for fat, well, I can tell what you mean by the size of those clothes of yours. But have you taken a look at yourself lately? You haven’t been eating enough to keep a dormouse healthy! Take that blouse off. It’s like a surplus parachute anyway. Now take a good look in that mirror. Not much fat there, is there?’

Trudi didn’t reply. She was regarding with fascinated horror what she must surely have seen but somehow not managed to register. Her shoulder bones stood out like a fashion model’s and against her louvred ribs hung tiny breasts like deflated balloons left over from some long-forgotten party. This was how she had looked at nineteen. A quarter of a century of crème patisserie had been stripped off her in a month.

‘Oh God, Jan, what a mess I look!’

‘That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say. Right, here’s what we do. You want to leave? OK. As soon as we get you looking like a human being again, you can go. That includes getting you back on a decent diet. We don’t want you putting up two stone overweight again, but we don’t want you anorexic either! Deal?’

‘Deal,’ said Trudi, still staring at herself. For some unfathomable reason, it occurred to her she was now as slim as Astrid Fischer.

It took another three weeks. Frank, with an end in view and perhaps some guilt in mind, was kindness itself, and when the time came Trudi hugged him tearfully in farewell.

‘It’s high time you were going,’ said Janet grimly as they drove away in her Ford Escort. ‘Another week and you’d have been giving that randy old devil ideas.’

Trudi looked down with undiminished surprise and pleasure at her new, slim body clad now in tight-fitting cords and sweater.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’ve been right so far, Jan. I’m not fat, and I’m not old, well, not so very, but …’

She felt her brief mood of happiness already slipping from her and when Janet prompted her with a ‘but what?’ she burst out, ‘Yes, that’s it. But what? But what am I? I need a new me inside as well as outside. Inside, I’m just lost. Bewildered. I feel useless. Jan, help me to stop feeling useless, then you’ll really have done me some good!’

Janet slammed on the brakes as she changed her mind about jumping some lights on amber. An old blue pick-up with a long double radio aerial almost ran into her, but the driver with surprising restraint refrained from blowing his horn.

‘For God’s sake!’ Janet exploded. ‘If you’re useless, then what does that make the rest of us? I mean, what’s the difference between your contribution to the big mad world and mine?’

Trudi said with a quiet vehemence, ‘You’ve had a real life, I’ve just lived in a kind of cocoon. You’ve brought up children, worked for a living, and I bet you didn’t need to look back twenty-five years for a friend when Alan died. You had a real life to put back together, family and friends to give it a framework. Me, I’ve been like a dormouse in an old teapot that Trent made comfortable for me. He’s gone, the teapot’s shattered, and there’s no way I can put it together again. That’s what I mean by useless. Kaput!’

Janet did not reply for a while, concentrating on her driving. But when the houses began to fall behind them and they were properly out in the country, she said quietly, ‘Trudi, I don’t want to get into any scar-trading competition with you, but just to set the record straight. All right, I had the kids, but where are they now? Eileen’s settled down in Australia, Tim’s in the merchant navy, sailing God knows where. They came back for the funeral. First time I’d seen them in ages. And I’ve not seen them since. Me and Alan before he died, we were just coasting along, just about tolerating each other. This great useful life you talk about all seemed pretty much of a waste of time, I assure you! Then Alan died. I had friends, OK. And they were kind. But what were they? Couples, mainly. Now I was half a couple. Let me tell you something. Six months go by. After that, if you show any sign of still hurting, you’re a misery guts and ought to pull yourself together. But if you go around smiling, then you’re the merry widow and a menace to all good Christian marriages! So don’t talk to me about a real life. It doesn’t matter what you were before. For most of us, I reckon, being widowed means going right back to GO!’

Trudi considered this.

‘But it was different for you,’ she said obstinately. ‘You did know people, you did have friends, you did have a social life to build on. I mean, you were able to get around and meet people, weren’t you? You met Frank! It wasn’t as if you had to advertise for him, was it?’

Janet glanced assessingly at her friend and then began to laugh.

‘I thought for a second you were being nasty there, but it’s not your style,’ she said. ‘Listen, want to know a secret? Something I’ve not even hinted at to all these so-called friends you’re so envious of? Here goes then. You’re right, I didn’t have to advertise for Frank exactly. But I did the next best thing. I met him through a dating agency, that’s how!’

Trudi regarded her incredulously.

‘What’s up, girl? Cat got your tongue?’ mocked Janet. ‘Let me spell it out. Me with my hectic social life you so envy, I went along and filled in a form, and I paid my money, and I waited!’

‘Oh, Jan.’

‘What’s that mean, disapproval? Pity? I don’t accept either. It was the best move I ever made. I got just what I needed out of it. Frank. We’re going to be very happy.’

‘Yes,’ said Trudi. ‘I can see that.’

She tried to speak brightly, approvingly, but didn’t feel that she succeeded. Janet glanced at her doubtfully, as if already regretting making the confidence.

They drove on in silence. The car was now beginning the winding uphill climb which would take them over the Snake Pass and down into Sheffield.

Behind them, the old blue pick-up drove in silence too.

The house was cold and unwelcoming and smelled of damp. There was a scattering of mail on the hall floor, mostly junk. Trudi went through it as Janet busied herself lighting the central heating boiler and making a cup of tea.

There were two letters from Austria, one from Astrid Fischer saying she had contacted Trent’s Viennese lawyers, but there was no record of a will or of any unrealized assets. She ended with affectionate good wishes and an offer to do anything else she could to help Trudi. The second letter was from the head office of Schiller-Reise. It expressed formal regret at the news of Trent’s death, so soon after the termination of his long and highly valued connection with Schiller-Reise. It made no mention of money, or the lack of it. And it was signed on behalf of Manfred Schiller, the firm’s founder and head.

Janet read it and said, ‘Bastards! I thought you said this fellow Schiller liked Trent and made a fuss of you both.’

‘That’s right,’ said Trudi. ‘But he’s ill. He probably doesn’t know anything about all this. Anyway, I never liked him and I don’t want favours.’

‘Pride is it, girl?’ murmured Janet. ‘You’ll learn.’

There was also a letter from Mr Ashburton, the solicitor. Despairing of ever getting Trudi to his office, he had set out baldly the state of her affairs as he saw them. They were not good. In Trent’s current account, there was about four thousand pounds which, unless there were insurances, bank accounts, or realty so far undisclosed, was the sum total of her inheritance. Hope House was rented on a nine-month lease, he pointed out. At the end of that time she would have to find and pay for alternative accommodation. He ended by suggesting that her main hope of improving her situation probably lay in a compensation claim against the fertilizer company whose truck was involved in the accident. He looked forward to hearing from her.

‘I bet he does!’ said Janet. ‘Leech! Are there any insurances or other accounts?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Trudi. ‘Astrid looked through his papers.’

Janet snorted her Celtic opinion of Teutonic interference and set about examining the contents of Trent’s personal files herself. In fact she soon had to admit that either Astrid or Trent himself had left everything in perfect order, except that everything meant nothing.

‘This is your life, girl,’ she joked finally, pointing at the papers neatly arranged on the dining room table.

It was an unintentioned cruelty, but Trudi’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at the papers. Here was her life, traced in bank accounts. The Midland in Staines where they had lived after their marriage; Neue Bank Schmidt-Immermann of Zürich where they had moved after Trent left his job at Heathrow; Société Générate de Banque in Brussels where they had gone when he had stopped flying and started working full time for Schiller-Reise; and the Banco di Sancto Spirito in Milan where they had been when Herr Schiller summoned Trent back to be one of his close aides in Vienna.

Janet had not noticed Trudi’s tears and she brushed them away furtively as her friend went on, ‘Everything’s in such perfect order there’s not a crack anywhere for a handful of loose change to slip into! See, account closed in Zürich, balance transferred to Brussels, and so on right through to Sheffield. Always about the same, taking inflation into account. Wasn’t much of a saver, your Trent, was he? Long as he had a few bob behind him, he clearly liked to spend the rest!’

‘Four thousand’s more than a few bob,’ said Trudi defensively.

‘Try telling that to the butcher when you can’t pay his bills in six months’ time, my girl!’ said Janet derisively. ‘You’d better go and see this lawyer fellow, Mr Bloodsucker or whatever his name is. Ring him now. No, I’ll ring him and make sure he fits you in tomorrow morning, then I can go with you.’

‘You’re staying?’ said Trudi. She hadn’t dared mention it earlier.

‘Just tonight, girl. After that, you’re on your own,’ said Janet severely.

They dined that night on tinned ham and half a bottle of Riesling which Janet had brought with her. Afterwards, though it was still early, Trudi announced, ‘I’m going to bed.’

As she started up the stairs the phone rang. She turned and looked at it. Janet came out of the lounge but halted when she saw Trudi was still there. The phone rang on.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

With a sigh, Trudi stepped back down and picked up the receiver. Her reflection looked back at her from the gilded pier glass. The peeling frame no longer seemed to fit so well. This was a stranger setting out on a long and difficult journey.

‘Hello?’ she said, and listened.

After a few moments she put the phone down.

‘Well?’ said Janet.

‘Nothing. Must have been a wrong number.’

Trudi walked past her friend with great control and began once more to climb the stairs.

To show anything more, to show her inward agitation to Janet, was impossible. Her reaction, whether of doubt or belief, would certainly be that her friend was not fit to be left alone. Eventually her irritated anxiety might even make her insist that Trudi should extend her stay in Oldham.

That was what was really impossible, the shame and embarrassment of being carried back like a sick child to spoil Frank’s sense of relief and release.

Only time would show whether it was more impossible than remaining here where the phone could ring and out of a great hollow silence like the space behind the stars a voice, faint as a false dawn yet in accents as familiar as day, could breathe, ‘Trudi … I’m watching you …’