The Office of the Dead. Andrew Taylor
the Dark Hostelry was good for keeping people apart, it was not an easy house to run. A charwoman came in three mornings a week to ‘do the rough’. Otherwise Janet had to do the work herself. And there was a lot of it – this was 1958, and the nearest thing Janet had to a labour-saving device was a twin-tub washing machine with a hand mangle attached. The last time the place had had a serious overhaul was at the turn of the century when the occupants could probably have afforded two or three servants.
In some ways I think Janet would have preferred to be a paid servant. She loathed the work but at least she would have been getting a wage for it. A simple commercial transaction has a beginning and end. It implies that both parties to it have freedom of choice.
Janet had the worst of both worlds. There was a dark irony in the fact that as well as running that ridiculous old house she also had to pretend to be its mistress, not its slave. Janet was expected to be a lady. When the Byfields came to Rosington she had visiting cards engraved. I’ve still got one of them – yellowing pasteboard, dog-eared at the corners, the typeface small and discreet.
Mrs David Byfield
The Dark Hostelry
The Close
Rosington
Telephone: Rosington 2114
When the Byfields arrived at the Dark Hostelry, the ladies of the Close and the ladies of the town called and left their cards. Janet called on them and left hers. It was a secular equivalent to what David was doing every day in that echoing stone mountain in the middle of the Close. A ritualistic procedure which might once have had a purpose.
I doubt if David knew what a burden he’d placed on her shoulders. Not then, at any rate. It’s not that he wasn’t a sensitive man. But his sensitivity was like a torch beam. It had to be directed at you before it became effective. But it wasn’t just a question of him being sensitive or not being sensitive. Everyone thought differently. This was more than forty years ago, remember, and in the Cathedral Close of Rosington.
Nowadays I think David and Janet were both in prison. But neither of them could see the bars.
It became increasingly obvious that something would have to be done about Mr Treevor.
He and I, a pair of emotional vampires, arrived on the same February afternoon and more than three weeks later we were still at the Dark Hostelry. I flattered myself there was a difference, that at least I did some of the housework and cooking. I sold my engagement ring, too. I’d never liked the beastly thing. It turned out to be worth much less than Henry had led me to expect, which shouldn’t have surprised me.
Mr Treevor did less and less. He took it for granted that we were there to supply his needs – regular meals, clean clothes, bed-making, warm rooms and a daily copy of The Times, which for some reason he liked to have ironed before he would open it.
‘He never used to be like that,’ Janet said to me on Thursday morning as we were snatching a cup of coffee. ‘He hardly ever read a paper, and as for this ironing business, I’ve no idea where that came from.’
‘Isn’t it the sort of thing they used to do in the homes of the aristocracy?’
‘He can’t have picked it up there.’
‘Perhaps he saw it in a film.’
‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, actually.’
‘A bit of a nuisance? It’s a bloody imposition. I think you should go on stroke.’
‘I think his memory’s improving. That’s something, isn’t it?’
I wondered whether it would ever improve to the point where he would be able to remember who I was from one day to the next.
‘He told me all about how he won a prize at school the other day,’ Janet went on, sounding as proud as she did when describing one of Rosie’s triumphs at St Tumwulf’s. ‘For Greek verses. He could even remember the name of the boy he beat.’
‘He’s getting old,’ I said, responding to her anxiety, not what she’d said. ‘That’s all. It’ll happen to us one day.’
Janet bit her lip. ‘Yesterday he asked me when Mummy was coming. He seems to think she’d gone away for the weekend or something.’
‘When’s he going home?’
‘On Saturday,’ Janet said brightly. ‘David’s offered to drive him back.’
Early on Friday morning all of us realized that this would have to be postponed. Even on the top floor I heard the shouting. By the time I got downstairs everyone else was in the kitchen. Even Rosie was huddled in the corner between the wall and the dresser, crouching to make herself as small as possible.
Mr Treevor was standing beside the table. He was in his pyjamas, but without his teeth, his slippers and his dressing gown. He was sobbing. Janet was patting his right arm with a tea towel. David, also in pyjamas, was frowning at them both. There was a puddle of water on the table, and the front of Janet’s nightdress was soaked. The room smelled of singed hair and burning cloth.
Afterwards we reconstructed what had happened. Mr Treevor had woken early and with a rare burst of initiative decided to make himself some tea. He went downstairs, lit the gas and put the kettle on the ring. It was unfortunate that he forgot you had to put water in the kettle as well. After a while, the kettle started to make uncharacteristically agitated noises so he lifted it off the ring. At this point he forgot two other things – to turn off the gas, and to cover the metal handle of the kettle with a cloth. The first scream must have been caused when the metal of the handle burnt into his fingers and the palm of his hand.
David stared at me. ‘We must have a first-aid box somewhere, mustn’t we?’
‘Phone the doctor,’ I said to him. ‘Quickly.’
‘But surely it’s not a –’
‘Quickly. Mr Treevor’s had a bad shock.’
He blinked, nodded and left the room.
I pulled a chair towards the sink, and with Janet’s help drew Mr Treevor down on to it. I turned on the tap and ran cold water over his hand and arm.
‘Janet, why don’t you take Rosie back to bed and fetch a blanket? Have you got any lint?’
‘Yes, it’s –’
‘You’d better bring that as well. And then what about some tea?’
There’s a side of me that derives huge pleasure from telling people what to do. No one seemed to mind. Gradually, Mr Treevor’s sobs subsided to whimpers and then to silence. By the time the doctor arrived, all four adults were huddled round the kitchen boiler drinking very sweet tea.
The doctor was Flaxman. I recognized his name from Janet’s letters – he had been helpful when she was pregnant. Later I came to know him quite well. He had a long, freckled face, flaking skin and red hair. He examined Mr Treevor, told us to put him to bed and said he would call later in the day.
In the afternoon, Flaxman returned. He spent twenty minutes alone with Mr Treevor and then came down and talked to us in the sitting room. David was still at the Theological College.
‘How is he?’ Janet asked.
‘Well, the bums aren’t a problem. He’ll get over those. It could have been worse if you hadn’t acted promptly.’
‘We’ve Mrs Appleyard to thank for that.’ Janet smiled at me.
Flaxman sat down. He didn’t look at me. He began to write a prescription.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or some sherry? It’s not too early for sherry, is it?’
‘No, thanks.’ He tore off the prescription and handed it to Janet. These will help Mr