Free Death in Summer by William Trevor Page A
Authors: William Trevor
knows how many overnight commercial travellers have benefited in the past at the Beech Trees. God knows how often the handwriting that slopes in all directions succeeds in eliciting assistance, with muttered oaths.
‘I have no money of my own, Dot.’
‘You never had, love.’
‘I think I tried to explain when you wrote the first time that it felt wrong to give you my wife’s money, but I don’t think I succeeded.’
‘Isn’t it strange how things pan out? I was well set up, married to a prosperous man, you hadn’t a bean. I didn’t want presents, it never mattered.’
She unlocked the door of Room Twenty when the chambermaids had gone home. He went up the back staircase and waited for her, and sometimes – if it was easy – she came with two drinks on a tray, gin and Martini. He used to smoke in those days, but she never let him in Room Twenty because the smell of cigarettes would be a giveaway when the evening maid came on. She didn’t want talk in the hotel. She was particular about that.
‘I wouldn’t have written unless I was down.’
‘I know. I understand that.’
‘Do you, Thad? Do you really? Do you know what it is to be down?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And short when you’re getting on a bit? You weren’t much more than a boy when you were selling your garden produce. Oh, how I remember that!’
He filled the van with what he grew or picked from the fruit trees, and set off in the early morning. He supplied Fruit ‘n’ Flowers on the way and then the Beech Trees, and she was in and out of the kitchen. A grey A30 the van was, second-hand and hardly big enough.
‘I was always surprised, you know, you didn’t have a job.’
‘It was a job of a kind.’
‘Oh, heavens, yes. Anyone could see you worked. I often wish we could turn the clock back, Thad. She’s younger, is she?’
‘A few years.’
‘I must have guessed it. You wouldn’t have written that.’
‘No, I don’t think I did.’
‘You only wrote back to me the once, dear.’
‘All I could have kept on saying was that the money wasn’t really mine to give away.’
‘Money, money! What a curse it is! Extraordinary, a wife not minding though. You have to say extraordinary, Thad?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well, there you go, as they say these days.’
‘Yes.’
‘I hate them, really, these new expressions.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m all right, you know. Except for being short I’m all right. I take pills. I’ve got a few things wrong inside, youknow, but there you are. Worse at the moment is the heat. You relish the heat, Thad?’
‘Yes, actually I do.’
‘You’re weather-beaten. It suits you. I wonder if he’ll be weather-beaten? I said. He’s an outside man, I said, stands to reason it’ll show. D’you know what I’d like? I’d like to show you my little place.’
‘Oh, look, I don’t think–’
‘Old times’ sake, Thad. Five minutes for old times’ sake. I’d love to show you.’ And Mrs Ferry whispers, grimacing to make a joke of her reservation: ‘I wouldn’t want anything handed over here, dear.’
The bill comes swiftly. He pays it and stands up. She gathers together her belongings.
‘You haven’t lost your looks, Thad.’ She lowers her voice again for that, working a dimple, the way she used to. ‘A dear, dear friend,’ she whispers to a couple who nod to her as they go by, who examine Thaddeus with curiosity. ‘Oh, darling, I’ve mislaid a glove!’ she cries, and people at the nearby tables stand up to poke about on the floor for a lace glove, of sentimental value. ‘Oh, I’m so fussed today!’ Mrs Ferry apologizes when it’s discovered in the pocket of her skirt, and the Tea Cosy settles down again.
Two pounds and fourpence arrive in change. Thaddeus reaches for the coins and leaves a tip. With a plastic butcher’s bag, the
Daily Telegraph
and the
Radio Times
, her lace gloves in place, a large velvet handbag held tightly, Mrs Ferry is ready now, and on the street
‘I have no money of my own, Dot.’
‘You never had, love.’
‘I think I tried to explain when you wrote the first time that it felt wrong to give you my wife’s money, but I don’t think I succeeded.’
‘Isn’t it strange how things pan out? I was well set up, married to a prosperous man, you hadn’t a bean. I didn’t want presents, it never mattered.’
She unlocked the door of Room Twenty when the chambermaids had gone home. He went up the back staircase and waited for her, and sometimes – if it was easy – she came with two drinks on a tray, gin and Martini. He used to smoke in those days, but she never let him in Room Twenty because the smell of cigarettes would be a giveaway when the evening maid came on. She didn’t want talk in the hotel. She was particular about that.
‘I wouldn’t have written unless I was down.’
‘I know. I understand that.’
‘Do you, Thad? Do you really? Do you know what it is to be down?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And short when you’re getting on a bit? You weren’t much more than a boy when you were selling your garden produce. Oh, how I remember that!’
He filled the van with what he grew or picked from the fruit trees, and set off in the early morning. He supplied Fruit ‘n’ Flowers on the way and then the Beech Trees, and she was in and out of the kitchen. A grey A30 the van was, second-hand and hardly big enough.
‘I was always surprised, you know, you didn’t have a job.’
‘It was a job of a kind.’
‘Oh, heavens, yes. Anyone could see you worked. I often wish we could turn the clock back, Thad. She’s younger, is she?’
‘A few years.’
‘I must have guessed it. You wouldn’t have written that.’
‘No, I don’t think I did.’
‘You only wrote back to me the once, dear.’
‘All I could have kept on saying was that the money wasn’t really mine to give away.’
‘Money, money! What a curse it is! Extraordinary, a wife not minding though. You have to say extraordinary, Thad?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well, there you go, as they say these days.’
‘Yes.’
‘I hate them, really, these new expressions.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m all right, you know. Except for being short I’m all right. I take pills. I’ve got a few things wrong inside, youknow, but there you are. Worse at the moment is the heat. You relish the heat, Thad?’
‘Yes, actually I do.’
‘You’re weather-beaten. It suits you. I wonder if he’ll be weather-beaten? I said. He’s an outside man, I said, stands to reason it’ll show. D’you know what I’d like? I’d like to show you my little place.’
‘Oh, look, I don’t think–’
‘Old times’ sake, Thad. Five minutes for old times’ sake. I’d love to show you.’ And Mrs Ferry whispers, grimacing to make a joke of her reservation: ‘I wouldn’t want anything handed over here, dear.’
The bill comes swiftly. He pays it and stands up. She gathers together her belongings.
‘You haven’t lost your looks, Thad.’ She lowers her voice again for that, working a dimple, the way she used to. ‘A dear, dear friend,’ she whispers to a couple who nod to her as they go by, who examine Thaddeus with curiosity. ‘Oh, darling, I’ve mislaid a glove!’ she cries, and people at the nearby tables stand up to poke about on the floor for a lace glove, of sentimental value. ‘Oh, I’m so fussed today!’ Mrs Ferry apologizes when it’s discovered in the pocket of her skirt, and the Tea Cosy settles down again.
Two pounds and fourpence arrive in change. Thaddeus reaches for the coins and leaves a tip. With a plastic butcher’s bag, the
Daily Telegraph
and the
Radio Times
, her lace gloves in place, a large velvet handbag held tightly, Mrs Ferry is ready now, and on the street