CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rose unlocked the front door, parked her canvas shopping trolley against the wall in the hallway and placed her beret on the hatstand as she always did when she returned home from her shopping trips. Her hair had not been washed for weeks and it sat flat like an oily rag against her skull. She walked into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove her lace up shoes from her swollen feet. Rose had two pairs of slippers, a pink pair and a blue pair. Because her feet were so swollen today, she slipped her feet into the pink pair which was one size larger. She peered over her glasses at her swollen ankles. The hot, angry skin looked as if it was about to split like the casing on pork sausages suddenly thrown into a frying pan full of fat.
Her calloused toes were cracked and split and there was a thin line of dirt wedged under the nails. She tried to get the blood pumping through her scarred veins but Rose knew it was like trying to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together - an almost impossible task. Her circulation was shot, like everything else in her life. Rose steadied herself by holding onto the edge of the bed and stood up slowly. She shuffled across the floorboards into the kitchen, dragged the teapot down from the shelf and threw in a fist full of tea leaves. The chair scraped against the floor as she pulled it slowly out from the kitchen table. She waited for the kettle to boil and thought about Suellyn. She knew she was responsible for disconnecting the power. Who else would have done such a thing? Fortunately, she hadn’t thought to disconnect the gas. She could still make herself a cup of tea.
The kettle whistled and sang to her. The sound brought her back to the present and reminded her of what Suellyn had planned for her. Tears suddenly formed and dribbled down through the valleys and crevasses of her sagging jawline, stopping before cascading over the edge of her chin and onto the puckered skin of her neck.
Rose had always assumed that she would live out her remaining days quietly in the rundown house in Eden Street. She never imagined for a moment that Suellyn would sell the house while she was still well enough to live there. During the past few months her daughter-in-law had tried to cajole, convince and bully her into moving to a retirement village. Stubbornly, she had refused to budge, she wasn’t going anywhere. Rose decided that she would stay right where she was and make Suellyn sorry, one way or another, make her pay for her ruthless treatment of her. She hoped William would discover at last the sort of woman Suellyn really was and hold her accountable for the suffering she had caused. Perhaps he would even blame himself for his neglect of her.
It was cold inside the house and Rose didn’t bother to remove her coat. The days were becoming shorter, colder and soon it would be winter. She rubbed her hands together, poured herself another cup of tea and reached into the cupboard next to the sink. She pulled out a packet of iced biscuits and placed them on the table.
Since receiving Isabelle’s letter and learning a short time afterwards from Martin Bartholomew of her friend’s death, she knew it wouldn't be long before Tommy Dwyer came calling. She wasn’t planning to be around when he knocked on her door. She didn’t want to come face to face with Isabelle’s elder son.
She sat down and tucked herself into the kitchen table and wondered what would happen after she died. Would William and Suellyn come to the house? Would they poke around in her cupboards? They wouldn’t find anything of value of course, but Suellyn might begin to wonder if there was a family heirloom or some unknown bank account long forgotten, hidden or misplaced in the back of one of her cupboards. Rose knew that once your loved ones were dead and buried, those left behind were impatient to return things to the way they were, to restore the balance, to tie up any loose ends and pack off the deceased’s best suit or their favourite pair of ‘going out shoes’ to the local charity store. She knew this because that was exactly what she had done when her mother and father had died.
Her parents died within a week of each other, which was convenient for them and convenient for her. Her mother had kept a neat, orderly house and not having many possessions, the task had not been difficult. Rose breezed in and walked straight out again of her parent’s modest two bedroom rented house with what she thought she could use. A handful of books for William, an assortment of childhood photos and the big brown soup pot that she had always admired. It was still sitting in the same cupboard next to the stove where her mother had always kept it. The rest she sold to a second hand dealer and pocketed the money.
Mother and son had not spoken for years and now as Rose sat alone in her kitchen, she felt sorry for herself and sorry for her son. He wasn’t a bad or even an evil man, but he was a person who wasn’t able to forgive. Some people aren’t capable of forgiveness, life had taught her that. They are hurt by a selfish act and carry that hurt with them for the rest of their lives, assuming the person who hurt them was not be trusted, was not worthy of their love. They weren’t able to move on, to forget and put the past behind them. Rose had always thought this was a strange way of thinking and a cruel way to treat a fellow human being - a lapse in consideration or judgement by any person shouldn't taint their character for the rest of their lives. Rose knew William was ashamed of her working class background and her hermit like existence. She had been waiting patiently for years, hoping that he would contact her but was not surprised that he never did. William Phillips was a proud and arrogant man.
As Rose searched for a teaspoon in the cutlery drawer she found the business card that Suellyn had left on the kitchen table the day she had told her she was selling the house. She held it up to the light. Her fingers shook as she held the card and tried to read the name which was printed in embossed letters on the stark cardboard. Her eyes squinted. Ambah St John. Such a strange sounding name she thought as she laid it down on the table next to her medication.
A dark shroud suddenly enveloped her, like winter itself, it weighed heavily on her. Old age was drowning her in a river of forgetfulness, she was slowing down, years of regret and sorrow seeped into her veins and entered every cavern of her existence. Her eyesight was failing and the fact that she’d not paid the gas bill didn’t bother her anymore; nothing mattered. She stroked Astrid and put her in the laundry with a bowl of cat food and hoped that whoever found her would take her home and look after her, but then again, she was old, who would want an old incontinent cat who vomited inside the house?
Rose placed the small, round pills, one by one into her mouth. Rather than swallowing a whole mouthful of them, she flushed each one down individually with a mouthful of Earl Grey tea. She thought by doing this, she could always change her mind, but with each pill, she became more resolute. She pulled her coat around her wasted body and picked up the business card with the strange sounding name on it and closed her eyes. The card fell from her hand and floated gently to the floor.
The house was silent apart from Astrid’s occasional soft miaowing and the kitchen clock which ticked loudly as the sun slipped lower in the sky. It was five pm and it had only been a few minutes, not long enough for the pills to take effect, when Rose heard a loud knock at the front door. She didn’t move. There it was again. Her legs twitched, slowly at first and then she moved her head. Her eyes opened and for a moment she wondered if she had imagined the knock. Had she been dreaming? Her first instinct was to ignore whoever it was. Then she changed her mind. She would deal with them and send them on their way so that she could get on with the business of dying.
The kitchen table creaked from her weight as she stood up and placed her hands on the side of the table to steady herself. She looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes past five. She shuffled down the hallway towards the front door, past her shopping trolley and the hatstand where her beret with the yellow pompoms was hanging. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.
There was no answer. Rose wondered if her visitor had heard her. She called again and pulled out her spectacles from her coat pocket and with trembling hands placed them on her nose. ‘Who’s there?’ Still, there was no answer. Rose opened the door. She looked u
p at the man standing in the doorway.
He was taller than she had expected, his eyes were dark, his lips thin and his grey, wavy hair was receding from his high forehead. He was unshaven and wore a heavy overcoat. A plastic shopping bag sat at his feet.
‘Hello Mrs Phillips. We haven’t met before, but you were very good friends with my mother. My name is Tommy, Tommy Dwyer, Isabelle's son.’
Rose took a step closer and looked at the man standing in front of her. She looked at his face and into his eyes and recognised the family resemblance. She had been expecting him, but why had he decided to come now? Against her better judgement she invited him in and directed him towards the kitchen. ‘The kitchen’s through there,’ she said, pointing with a bony finger.
There was a draught coming from somewhere and the house smelt of cat piss, dust and mildew. He was surprised, this was not what he had expected, not what he had expected at all.
‘I’ll put the kettle on and we can have a cup of tea.’ Rose struck a match and held it against the gas. The match died before she had a chance to light the candle in the middle of the table. She struck another and held it to the wick and it took hold.
A broad grin appeared on Tommy’s lips. Old people and their cups of tea he thought to himself.
‘I brought a bottle of Scotch with me. I thought we could enjoy a glass while we talked over old times. I know you must have a lot to tell me about my mother, seeing you two were friends for such a long time.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t drink alcohol dear. I’m a TT, a teetotaller, always have been, always will be. I’m glad to say I never acquired the taste for wine or spirits. The devil’s work my mother used to say.’ Tommy’s demeanour suddenly changed. He realised this was going to be a lot harder than he thought. He didn’t know that Rose didn’t drink and was annoyed with Suellyn for not having told him, annoyed with himself for not having asked. Rose busied herself with the tea making. He sat down at the kitchen table on a high backed chair and looked at the paper thin slivers of paint which hung from the ceiling and at the timber window frame which was missing a pane of glass. Two packets of prescription pills lay on the table and Tommy noticed that all the blisters had been popped. Just as well he brought his own supply of Sinequan and Noctamid he thought. While they waited for the kettle to boil, their polite small talk turned from the weather to Isabelle Dwyer.
‘My mother never told me about you, Mrs Phillips. It wasn’t until after she died that your name came up on the radar so to speak. I was surprised when I learnt that she left everything to you when she died. I didn’t realise she held you in such high regard.’
‘But she told me all about you, Tommy Dwyer.’ Rose sat down at the table with the teapot, a cracked cup and a small milk jug. A sugar bowl sat on the table next to a jar filled with jelly beans. Ring mark stains from past teacups interrupted the intricate pattern of orange blossoms on the brown vinyl tablecloth.
Now that she was sitting across from him, Rose took her time to study his features. As he was Isabelle’s elder son it was natural that he would have her unruly hair, as did William. She wondered as she looked at the streaks of grey through his once dark hair, if her Billy had also begun to go grey. His dark eyes looked cruel, unlike Billy’s whose eyes were soft and kind. Tommy crossed his arms in front of his chest, leant forward and rested his elbows on the table. He was close enough to her that she could smell his aftershave. It was sickly sweet and his breath was stale and frosty.
‘I won’t have tea. Do you mind if I open this bottle of Scotch instead?’ He pulled the bottle from the plastic shopping bag which was sitting on the floor next to him, placed it on the table and twisted the lid with his right hand and held the neck of the bottle with his left. Rose noticed his gloved hands holding the bottle and was reminded of her father who had been a heavy drinker and a bully. Reminded of the lingering smell and the violence that always followed when the bottle was empty. Of the muffled sobbing that drifted into her room in the middle of the night and of her mother’s red swollen eyes the following morning.
Rose blinked. ‘Sorry, what did you say dear?’ Rose was having trouble focusing on what Tommy was saying.
‘Do you mind if I have a drink?’ he repeated.
Rose waved her hand at him dismissively. ‘No, of course not. I’ll get you a glass.’ Rose walked over to the cupboard above the kitchen sink and reached inside. She pulled out one of the dozen empty jam jars which she used as water glasses and looked inside the glass to check if it was clean before offering it to him. Tommy poured the Scotch from the tall bottle and Rose sat silently watching as the straw coloured liquid streamed into the jam jar. The house was quiet apart from the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Rose looked at Tommy’s hands again as he poured the pale yellow liquid. It was cold, but surely not cold enough to warrant gloves. It wouldn’t be winter until next month and she wondered if he suffered from a skin condition. The jam jar sat in the middle of the table. Rose poured herself a cup of tea and took a small sip from her teacup before placing it back on the saucer, next to the opened bottle of Scotch.
‘I wasn’t expecting visitors, but I have some iced biscuits if you would like one.’
Tommy ignored her and stared past her. Rose noticed his icy cold stare. He lacked the soft features of his mother and Rose thought he may have resembled his father. She had never met Charlie Dwyer so she couldn’t say, but there was something disquieting about this man who was sitting across from her.
‘Mrs Phillips, I think you should have a drink.’
‘I’m waiting for it to cool down dear, I don’t like to drink tea when it’s too hot. I always burn my tongue.’
Tommy placed his gloved hand gently on her wrist. ‘Drink the Scotch Mrs Phillips, it’s Highland Park, it’s excellent quality.’ He picked up the jam jar and placed it in front of her. ‘I insist.’
‘I told you, I don’t drink...’
‘You see Rose, I can call you Rose, can’t I?’
Rose nodded.
Tommy stood and walked over to the kitchen bench. He turned, and said quietly, ‘Rose, we can either do it the easy way or the hard way. You can drink my Scotch in a ladylike fashion, or else, I can pour it down your scrawny throat.’
As Rose looked at the glass of Scotch, Tommy reached into the cutlery drawer and selected a sharp knife. He returned to the table and waved the blade menacingly in her face, close enough to her that she smelt his breath. It was sour and she turned her head away from him.
‘Come on Rose, have a drink.’ The good humour Tommy had shown earlier had disappeared, his lips stretched back over his teeth to reveal his red, fleshy gums.
‘No, I wont you awful man, I told you, I don’t drink.’ She pushed the jam jar back across the table. Tommy straddled the chair and pressed his face into hers.
Rose winced as she looked at the knotted vein throbbing in his temple. He picked up the jar, gently held her chin and held it to her lips. Flashing lights blinked behind her eyes as she emptied the glass. Tommy refilled it. She didn’t like the taste, she didn’t like Tommy Dwyer. Her hands trembled, her eyes began to water.
‘Suellyn was right. You are a stubborn old biddy.’
The combination of the whisky and the pills was taking effect. What did he want from her anyway? Didn’t he know that she was going to die?
‘Drink up Rose, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.’
She looked at Tommy through dazed eyes, her body was swaying even though she was seated. He held the jar to her lips again and pinched her nose gently. She drank, but didn’t swallow. She coughed and the Scotch spurted from her mouth and trickled down her chin.
Tommy pulled out the packet of Sinequan from his pocket. He would start with these first. He opened the blisters and emptied the tablets onto the table. He used the flat blade of the knife to ground the tablets into a powder then added them to the glass. ‘You see Rose, I’m mighty upset my mother saw fit to leave her entir
e estate to you, especially after all the trouble I went to in order to kill her.’
The alcohol was fermenting and bubbling in her brain, her vision blurred and she had a strong desire to vomit. She looked at Tommy or was it Billy? They were so alike. ‘Dora, is that you? Look after Billy.’ Beads of sweat erupted on her skin. ‘Billy, Billy, I’m sorry.’ She looked again, but it wasn't Billy, it was Isabelle’s boy, Tommy, and what was that he just said? Did he say kill her, he killed Isabelle? ‘Oh, God I’m going to die,’ she said in a groggy voice which she didn’t recognise as her own. She watched Tommy’s lips move and tried to make sense of the words he was mouthing.
‘I don’t..., don’t…, really want to die.’
‘Come on Rose, drink up, one last drink,’ Tommy said, as he lifted her chin with his thumb. He dribbled more of Suellyn’s expensive Scotch between her thin, bloodless lips and down her throat. She swallowed and looked up at Tommy Dwyer realising he would be the last person she would see before she died. Her eyes rolled back into her head before falling forward onto the table with a loud thud. He pulled her head up by the oily roots of her hair and then let it fall back down again onto the table, and he was satisfied. She was out cold, he felt her pulse, it was weak, she would be dead soon. He wiped the table down with a dishcloth, rinsed it and emptied the remainder of the contents of the bottle down the sink. He rinsed the jam jar and the whisky bottle and left them to drain in the red plastic drainer next to the kitchen sink. He took one last look at her, smiled, and quietly left the way he had come, out through the front door, to where Suellyn was waiting for him patiently in her car. It was five-fifteen.