Free Widows & Orphans by Michael Arditti Page A

to buying at the market. Adele, whose coolness towards her husband’s pretty young secretary had survived both his death and Sheila’s lost looks, complimented her on a hairstyle that had not changed in a decade. Alison, with the solicitude she could afford on a flying visit, asked after her mother, flinching at the vehemence of the response.
    ‘I did everything I could to keep her at home. The doctor said I’d end up being put away myself. Duncan will tell you … I’m sorry.’ Clasping her hand to her mouth, she fled from the room.
    ‘Did I miss something?’ Adele asked.
    ‘I presume she’s finally put the old witch away,’ Alison replied. ‘Not a moment too soon if you ask me.’
    ‘That’s a dreadful thing to say. I wouldn’t wish it on myworst enemy,’ Adele said, breaking off as though to evaluate the hyperbole.
    ‘She had no choice. Her mother’s behaviour grew more and more deranged. She buried all Sheila’s dolls in a flowerbed. They might still be there if her neighbour’s dog hadn’t dug up a bone. She ordered vast quantities of maternity clothes to be sent to her here at the office, although how much of that was madness and how much malice I wouldn’t like to say.’
    ‘So where is she now?’ Alison asked.
    ‘Castlemaine. The old Regis Hotel next to the golf course.’
    ‘A dreadful place,’ Adele said. ‘One of the residents fell and was found screaming in agony. But she had liver cancer, so they just upped her morphine without even bothering to give her an X-ray. It was six months before they discovered she’d broken her hip. Chris told me. I asked Duncan to put it in the paper. That was a genuine scandal – not like the filth he prints now.’ Duncan shook his head as Alison gazed at him nonplussed. ‘But no, he’s afraid of offending the staff in case they refuse to take me!’
    ‘What?’ Alison said.
    ‘Where’s all this coming from, Mother?’ Duncan asked. ‘Castlemaine is a psychiatric geriatric home. No one’s suggesting that you need psychiatric care.’
    ‘Or geriatric care, I hope,’ Alison added.
    ‘Well, she does have Chris.’
    ‘He’s my housekeeper,’ Adele said, reclassifying him to suit the occasion. ‘I can’t be expected to run Ridgemount all alone.’
    ‘I agree. Which leads us neatly to the matter in hand. You both have a copy of the accounts.’
    ‘Do we have to look at it all, dear?’ Adele asked, as reluctant as if it were a list of fatty foods.
    ‘Not unless you want to. It doesn’t make for pleasant reading. For the third year running we’ve registered a loss.’
    ‘Surely that’s just on paper?’
    ‘Well, everything’s on paper, Mother. But we owe the bank in the region of £400,000. We took out a five-year loan, which we’re due to repay in January. That won’t be possible, though I’m confident we can negotiate a deferment. Even with the slump in property prices, this building is excellent collateral.’
    ‘How could you let everything slide?’ Alison asked.
    ‘We’re hardly unique,’ Duncan said, bridling at her tone. ‘Do you have any idea how many local papers have gone under in the last few years? At least we’re still here.’
    ‘Just!’ Alison replied.
    ‘No one predicted the rise of the Internet. We thought we’d see it off the same way that we saw off local radio and the free press in the Nineties. Plus, the economic downturn has wiped out our advertising.’
    ‘I’ve always said that there are too many adverts in the paper,’ Adele interjected.
    ‘Yes, Mother, but we operate in the real world. Anyway, it’s nothing new. I was looking through the archives. In the very first issue, great-great-grandfather published a list of all the hotel and lodging-house guests in Francombe, presumably in the hope that they’d each buy a copy. I’ve been thinking of reviving the practice – although no doubt it’s in breach of some EU privacy law.’
    ‘And I don’t suppose that anyone today would choose to