sister’s tardy, how can you expect the nurses—’
‘Eileen!’
‘That’s all I can tell you. Just persuade her to go home. She’ll do no good for herself.’
‘What’s
that
supposed to—’
Cullen hung up.
It was dark outside now, and the thorns were ticking against the scullery window.
When Merrily returned to the kitchen, Barbara Buckingham was standing under a wall lamp, her silk scarf dangling from one hand as if she was wondering whether or not to leave.
‘Mrs Watkins, I don’t want to be a pain...’
‘Merrily. Don’t be silly. Sit down. There’s no—’
‘I try to be direct, you see. In my childhood, no one was direct. They’d never meet your eyes. Keep your head down, avoid direct conflict, run neither with the English nor the Welsh. Keep your head down and move quietly, in darkness.’
The woman had been too long out of it, Merrily thought, as the kettle boiled. She’d turned her spartan childhood into something Gothic. ‘Tell me about the... possession.’
‘In essence, I believe, your job is to liberate them. The possessed, I mean.’
Merrily carefully took down two mugs from the crockery shelf. ‘Milk?’ Through the open door, she could still hear that damned rosebush scratching at the scullery window.
‘A little. No sugar.’
Merrily brought milk from the fridge. She left her own tea black, and carried both mugs to the table.
‘It’s a big word, Barbara.’
‘Yes.’
‘And often abused – I have to say that.’
‘We should both be direct.’
‘And I should tell you I’ve yet to encounter a valid case of possession. But then I’ve not been doing this very long.’
‘It may be the wrong word. Perhaps I only used it to get your attention.’ Looking frustrated, Barbara tossed her scarf onto the table. ‘I’ve attended church most of my life. Much of the time out of habit, I admit; occasionally out of need. I have no time for... mysticism, that’s what I’m trying to say. I’m not fey.’
Merrily smiled. ‘No.’
‘But Menna has been possessed for years. Do you know what I mean? Weal suffocated her in life; now he won’t let her go after death.’
Cullen:
He asks for a bowl and a cloth and he washes her. Very tenderly, reverently you might say. And then he’ll wash himself: his face, his hands, in the same water.
And followed her down to the mortuary. Did Barbara know about that?
Merrily heard a key in the side door, beyond the scullery, and then footsteps on the back stairs: Jane coming in, going up to her apartment.
‘They were our family solicitors,’ Barbara said. ‘Everybody’s solicitors, in those days, it seemed. Weal and Son... the first Weal was Jeffery’s grandfather, the “and son” was Jeffery’s father R.T. Weal. Weal and Son, of Kington, and their gloomy old offices with the roll-top desks and a Victorian chair like a great dark throne. I first remember Jeffery when he was fifteen going on fifty. A lumbering, sullen boy, slow-moving, slow-thinking, single-minded, his future written in stone – Weal and Son and Son, even unto the ends of the earth. I hated them, the complete
unchangingness
of them – same chair, same desk, same dark tweed suits, same dark car creeping up the track.’
‘Eileen Cullen told me she thought he probably became a father figure,’ Merrily said. ‘After Menna had spent some years looking after her own father. Your dad was widowed, presumably.’
‘Sixteen or seventeen years ago. I had a letter from Judith – my friend in Old Hindwell. My father wouldn’t have told me; I no longer existed for him. And he was ailing, too. Later I learned that Menna never had a boyfriend or any social life, so she lost the best years of her life to her bloody father, and the rest of it to Weal. Who, of course, became the proverbial tower of strength when the old man died.’
‘He looked after her then?’
‘Seized his chance with a weak, unworldly girl. I... came to find her about two years ago. I’d
‘Eileen!’
‘That’s all I can tell you. Just persuade her to go home. She’ll do no good for herself.’
‘What’s
that
supposed to—’
Cullen hung up.
It was dark outside now, and the thorns were ticking against the scullery window.
When Merrily returned to the kitchen, Barbara Buckingham was standing under a wall lamp, her silk scarf dangling from one hand as if she was wondering whether or not to leave.
‘Mrs Watkins, I don’t want to be a pain...’
‘Merrily. Don’t be silly. Sit down. There’s no—’
‘I try to be direct, you see. In my childhood, no one was direct. They’d never meet your eyes. Keep your head down, avoid direct conflict, run neither with the English nor the Welsh. Keep your head down and move quietly, in darkness.’
The woman had been too long out of it, Merrily thought, as the kettle boiled. She’d turned her spartan childhood into something Gothic. ‘Tell me about the... possession.’
‘In essence, I believe, your job is to liberate them. The possessed, I mean.’
Merrily carefully took down two mugs from the crockery shelf. ‘Milk?’ Through the open door, she could still hear that damned rosebush scratching at the scullery window.
‘A little. No sugar.’
Merrily brought milk from the fridge. She left her own tea black, and carried both mugs to the table.
‘It’s a big word, Barbara.’
‘Yes.’
‘And often abused – I have to say that.’
‘We should both be direct.’
‘And I should tell you I’ve yet to encounter a valid case of possession. But then I’ve not been doing this very long.’
‘It may be the wrong word. Perhaps I only used it to get your attention.’ Looking frustrated, Barbara tossed her scarf onto the table. ‘I’ve attended church most of my life. Much of the time out of habit, I admit; occasionally out of need. I have no time for... mysticism, that’s what I’m trying to say. I’m not fey.’
Merrily smiled. ‘No.’
‘But Menna has been possessed for years. Do you know what I mean? Weal suffocated her in life; now he won’t let her go after death.’
Cullen:
He asks for a bowl and a cloth and he washes her. Very tenderly, reverently you might say. And then he’ll wash himself: his face, his hands, in the same water.
And followed her down to the mortuary. Did Barbara know about that?
Merrily heard a key in the side door, beyond the scullery, and then footsteps on the back stairs: Jane coming in, going up to her apartment.
‘They were our family solicitors,’ Barbara said. ‘Everybody’s solicitors, in those days, it seemed. Weal and Son... the first Weal was Jeffery’s grandfather, the “and son” was Jeffery’s father R.T. Weal. Weal and Son, of Kington, and their gloomy old offices with the roll-top desks and a Victorian chair like a great dark throne. I first remember Jeffery when he was fifteen going on fifty. A lumbering, sullen boy, slow-moving, slow-thinking, single-minded, his future written in stone – Weal and Son and Son, even unto the ends of the earth. I hated them, the complete
unchangingness
of them – same chair, same desk, same dark tweed suits, same dark car creeping up the track.’
‘Eileen Cullen told me she thought he probably became a father figure,’ Merrily said. ‘After Menna had spent some years looking after her own father. Your dad was widowed, presumably.’
‘Sixteen or seventeen years ago. I had a letter from Judith – my friend in Old Hindwell. My father wouldn’t have told me; I no longer existed for him. And he was ailing, too. Later I learned that Menna never had a boyfriend or any social life, so she lost the best years of her life to her bloody father, and the rest of it to Weal. Who, of course, became the proverbial tower of strength when the old man died.’
‘He looked after her then?’
‘Seized his chance with a weak, unworldly girl. I... came to find her about two years ago. I’d
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