The Keeper of Lost Things(20)
Laura closed the front door behind her and slipped out of her black court shoes. The cold tiles of the hall floor kissed her aching feet, and once again, the peace of the house enveloped her. She padded through to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine from the fridge. Her fridge. Her kitchen. Her house. She still couldn’t quite believe it. The day after Anthony had died she had telephoned his solicitor, hoping he would know if there was anyone she should contact; a distant cousin that she didn’t know about, or a designated next of kin. He sounded as though he had been expecting her call. He told her that Anthony had instructed him to inform Laura immediately after his death that she was his sole heir; everything he had owned was now hers. There was a will, and a letter for her, the details of which would be revealed after the funeral. But Anthony’s first concern had been that she shouldn’t worry. Padua would remain her home. His kindness made his death all the more unbearable. She had been unable to continue the telephone conversation, her words choked by tears. It was no longer grief alone that overwhelmed her, but relief for herself chased by guilt that she could feel such a thing at such a time.
She took her wine through to the study and sat down at the table. She felt a strange solace surrounded by Anthony’s treasures. She was now their guardian and they gave her a sense of purpose, even though she was as yet unsure as to what that might be. Perhaps Anthony’s letter would explain, and then she might find a way to deserve his extraordinary generosity toward her. The funeral had been a revelation. Laura had expected there to be only a handful of people, including herself and Anthony’s solicitor, but the church was almost full. There were people from the publishing world who had known Anthony as a writer and others who had only known him to say “good morning” to, but it seemed as though he touched the lives of everyone he met and left an indelible mark. And then, of course, there were the busybodies; stalwart members of the local residents’ association, Woman’s Institute, Amateur Dramatic Society, and general purveyors of the moral high ground, led by Marjory Wadscallop and her faithful deputy, Winnie Cripp. Their “heartfelt condolences”—offered a little too enthusiastically as Laura left the church—had been accompanied by sad, well-practiced smiles and unwelcome hugs that left Laura smelling of damp dog and hair spray.
The large, blue button that Laura had taken from the drawer on her first visit to the study was still on the table, resting on its label.
LARGE BLUE BUTTON, FROM WOMAN’S COAT?—
Found, on the pavement of Graydown Street, 11th November . . .
Margaret was wearing her dangerous new knickers. “Ruby silk with sumptuous cream lace” was how the saleswoman had described them, clearly wondering what business Margaret had buying them. They were not even distant cousins of her usual Marks & Spencer utility wear. Downstairs her husband waited expectantly. Twenty-six years they had been married, and he had done his best to let Margaret know how much he loved her for every one of those years. He loved her with his fists and his feet. His love was the color of bruises. The sound of breaking bones. The taste of blood. Of course, no one else knew. No one at the bank where he was assistant manager, no one at the golf club where he was treasurer, and certainly no one at the church, where, in the first year of their marriage, he had been born again a Baptist bedlamite. Beating the crap out of her was God’s will. Apparently. But no one else knew; just him, God, and Margaret. His respectability was like a neatly pressed suit; a uniform he wore to fool the outside world. But at home, in mufti, the monster reappeared. They never had any children. It was probably for the best. He might have loved them too. So why had she stayed? Love, at first. She had truly loved him. Then fear, weakness, desolation? All of the above. Body and spirit crushed by God and Gordon.
“Where the fuck’s my dinner!” a voice bawled from the sitting room. She could picture him, fleshy-faced and florid; rolls of fat seeping over the belt of his trousers, watching the rugby on the television and drinking his tea. Tea that Margaret had made; milk and two sugars. And six Tramadol. Not enough to kill him; not quite. God knows, she had enough. The last time she “tripped” and broke her wrist, that kind doctor in Accident & Emergency had given her a whole box. Not that she wasn’t tempted. Manslaughter with diminished responsibility thrown in seemed like a fair trade. But Margaret wanted him to know. Her left eye was almost swollen shut and the color of the Valpolicella Gordon was expecting to swill with his dinner. Touching it, she winced, but then she felt the whisper of soft silk brushing against her skin and smiled. Downstairs, Gordon wasn’t feeling quite himself. For the first time in years she looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m leaving you.”
She waited to make sure that he understood. The rage in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed.
“Get back here, you stupid bitch!”
He tried to haul himself from his chair, but Margaret had already left the room. She heard him crash to the floor. She picked up the suitcase in the hall, closed the door behind her, and walked down the drive without looking back. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care as long as it was away. The bitter November wind stung her bruised face. Margaret put down her suitcase for a moment to fasten the top button of her old, blue coat. The worn-out thread snapped and the button spun through her fingers and onto the pavement. Margaret picked up her suitcase and left the button where it was.
Sod it, she thought. I’ll buy a new coat. Happy birthday, Margaret.