The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,71

get the impression she had many visitors.’ She hesitated, her eyes on mine. ‘She always struck me as rather solitary, here at school.’

You mean she didn’t have a friend to her name, I thought, taking the paper and pushing it into my pocket.

Miss Abbott managed a smile. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

I opened my mouth to say, you’re wrong. I’m not going to see that woman, however desperate she is. Let her rot.

I found my mouth closing again. Miss Abbott knew as well as I did that, however much I resented the cry for help, I would do the decent thing. I would respond to it.

Forty-Five

I went round to her flat the following morning. She buzzed me in downstairs without speaking. When I reached her landing, two floors up, her front door was ajar. The paintwork was chipped where shiny new locks had been fitted.

‘Hello? Miss Dixon?’ I pushed the door open and went through into a narrow hall. ‘You there? It’s Mrs Wilson.’

I hesitated. The flat had a stale, musty smell as if she had sealed herself off from the sunshine outside. I called again, ‘Miss Dixon?’

A weak voice called from towards the front of the building. ‘Come in.’

I closed the door behind me and headed through. The hallway gave onto a sitting room, bright with sunlight. She was sitting in an armchair with her back to the door, positioned in front of the window. She had the vacant air of someone who sat alone all day, looking out for someone or something to arrive.

A small table sat by her side, cluttered with used glasses and mugs, an empty plate, soiled with crumbs, a pile of closed books.

I sighed to myself. It was sad. She was in a sorry state, clearly. But I wouldn’t be drawn into it. I’d stay for a brief chat, then make my excuses and leave. That would be it. Whatever state she was in, I’d never come back.

I crept round to the side of the chair to see her properly. She was dressed, but her shirt looked crumpled and her feet were bare, pushed into faded slippers. Her hands rested on the yellowed pages of a book which lay open in her lap. I blinked, feeling a memory stir as I looked and struggling to place it. A leather-bound book. Poetry, judging by the layout.

She turned her head very slowly to meet my eye, as if movement were difficult for her. Her hair looked unkempt, sticking together in clumps. Her face was bare of make-up, the lips chapped as if she’d fallen into the habit of licking them.

‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ Her eyes looked rheumy. ‘Thank you.’

I considered. ‘Shall I make us both a cup of tea?’

She didn’t answer. I gathered up the dirty things on her table and bustled through to the kitchen. It was small but bright and could have been pretty if it had been clean. In fact, dirty plates and bowls were stacked haphazardly in the sink and on the nearby counter, giving off the sour stink of rancid milk.

I did my best to clean out two mugs with washing-up liquid and a scrubber, found teabags and kettle and made us both tea. I’d only pretend to sip mine, I decided. I didn’t want to swallow anything that came out of this kitchen.

By the time I came back, she’d moved from the armchair to the settee down one side of the room. I set her tea on the coffee table, drew up a straight-backed chair and sat across from her with my own mug.

‘So,’ I said. ‘You wanted to see me?’

She didn’t answer. We sat there, suspended. Distant sounds drifted up from the street, muffled. A bus or lorry beeped as it reversed. A man’s voice shouted instructions.

Finally, she lifted her eyes and looked directly at me.

‘He came for me. Ralph.’ Her voice was calm. ‘He’s been sending me messages. I know it’s him. He summoned me to the beach where, you know. Where we took him.’

I swallowed, then shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.’

She frowned. ‘I’m not mad. My memory isn’t clear, but I remember that night.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Are you talking about my husband?’

She gave me a canny look. ‘Your husband. Oh yes, that’s right. As if I could ever forget that.’

I felt myself flush. It had been a mistake, coming here. I was a fool to think I was