The Woman Died Thrice Read online

  He was sitting next to the driver, smoking a cigarette and making occasional comments on the passing landscape. He was young, though not so young that he would be deemed unsuitable for his role. He was probably around twenty-eight and handsome enough, if a little gawky. Clara found her interest wane, she wished she had brought a book, though, more than anything, she wished she could get up and stretch her legs. Next to her Tommy had his eyes shut and may, or may not, be dozing. Clara looked down at the black poodle sitting in his lap. The dog returned her gaze.

  “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” Clara told the dog. His response was to yawn at her.

  It was almost one o’clock when they paused at their next stop. This time they found themselves outside a hotel. Mr Hatton had arranged with the hotel owners that a table be set aside for his passengers in their private restaurant (reserved normally only for hotel guests) and that a cold luncheon be served. Naturally the first priority, as before, was for the travellers to avail themselves of the hotel facilities. They were then ushered into a smart restaurant that had a hint of fresh paint about it, and shown to one long table that had been set aside for them.

  Due to being in a wheelchair, Tommy was sat at the head of the table and Clara and Annie sat either side of him, facing each other. Next to Clara was sat a gentleman and his wife; he was a portly fellow with one of those continuous moustaches that sweep from the nose around to the ears, where they merged with the gentleman’s sideburns. His wife was tall and lean, with rather a hooked nose and a slight over-bite. They were the epitome of a ‘chalk and cheese’ couple. Next to Annie sat a quiet woman in her forties, who dipped her head and tried not to make eye contact. Reminding Clara of a little mouse caught out of its hole. Clara gave her a smile and the woman’s head dropped even further.

  Luncheon consisted of a cold chicken salad served with freshly cooked bread and either a cup of tea or lemonade. Clara opted for tea, it was not yet warm enough to tempt her to switch to cold drinks. The portly man next to her seemed to have the same idea. He was elated when he saw the salad placed before him, he was clearly a man who lived for his stomach.

  “I say, they are feeding us well!” he jabbed his fork into a slice of chicken. “Last charabanc trip I was on it was bring your own sandwiches or starve.”

  “Henry, that was many years ago, before you were a professional,” his wife interjected rather sharply. She didn’t want people overhearing they had been on a cheap charabanc tour.

  “Quite right, my dear. That was before I became general manager,” the portly man winked at Clara. “Back then I was just a humble supervisor in a shoe factory.”

  “Henry!” his wife scolded once again.

  “And you were just one of the girls who sewed up the inner soles,” Henry continued unabashed, grinning from ear-to-ear as he picked up a fat spring onion from his plate.

  “You are not eating that!” his wife declared, looking half prepared to swipe the onion from his hand. “You know they give you appalling wind.”

  On this Henry had to concede defeat. He did know the limits of his digestive capacity. He looked at the spring onion forlornly and then offered it to Clara.

  “Would you care for my spring onions?”

  Clara, who was rather a glutton when it came to such things, agreed at once. The portly Henry forked his three spring onions onto her plate and smiled with satisfaction.

  “Henry Wignell,” he introduced himself, deeming it appropriate since he had just shared his lunch.

  “Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara answered.

  “Is this your first charabanc excursion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Honeymoon, perhaps?” Henry Wignell had his eye on Tommy.

  “Oh no!” Clara laughed. “This is my brother, Thomas, and our friend Annie.”

  “My apologies,” Henry blushed a little at the error. “Nice to meet you all.”

  “I take it you have been on a charabanc before,” Clara said to change the subject.

  “Well, yes, though not as nice as this one. In fact, my previous experience had rather put me off the whole concept,” Henry attacked a large tomato on his plate. “However, we have several friends who said Mr Hatton’s tours were most delightful and worth the expense. So far I quite agree with them.”

  “And you get to meet new people.”

  This comment had come from the unremarkable woman next to Annie who had been trying to avoid them as much as possible. “At least, that is what mother says. She thought it would be good for me to travel on my own. I’m not very good at speaking to people.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Clara said to her gently, noting how much effort it had taken this shy creature to speak to them. “What is your name?”

  “Eleanora Smythe,” the woman said. “I must emphasise it is Smythe, not Smith. Mother is quite particular about that. She won’t even have a letter in the house that is addressed with the incorrect name.”

  Eleanora suddenly decided this was quite enough talking for the time being and became acutely absorbed in her salad, ignoring all further questions or attempts to speak to her.

  Henry Wignell rolled his eyes at Clara, signalling his puzzlement at this behaviour.

  “Have you met the other members of our travelling party?” he enquired.

  “Only a handful,” Clara admitted. “Mrs Siskin and Mrs Palmer introduced themselves at our last stop.”

  “Mrs Palmer is the prodigious knitter?”

  “That she is. We also sat with a woman who failed to introduce herself. She is down at the far end of the table,” Clara gave a slight tilt of her head to indicate where she meant. “Second up from the bottom, opposite to our side of the table.”

  Henry Wignell was not opposed to staring down a table at a stranger. Fortunately, the unpleasant woman did not notice.

  “I believe her name is Mildred Hunt,” he said after he had blatantly observed the woman for several moments. “I do recall hearing her give it to the conductor when we were boarding. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  It was a while since Mrs Wignell had been drawn into the conversation and she looked a tad startled by the sudden question.

  “Pardon?”

  “That woman down there, isn’t her name Mildred Hunt?”

  Mrs Wignell glanced down the table, a little perplexed.

  “Oh, yes, I do believe so.”

  “There you are,” Henry turned his attention back to Clara. “Now you know her name.”

  “That’s about all I know of her,” Clara noted. “She seems to be here alone.”

  Henry Wignell merely shrugged, as if that was really unimportant.

  Lunch concluded, they returned to the charabanc and resumed their seats. It was going to be another three hours before they stopped again and Clara settled herself for the tedium. Tommy seemed to noticed.

  “Charabanc travel not for you?”

  “Lengthy travel in general, I fear, is not for me,” Clara answered. “I suppose you get used to it.”

  “You have to learn to use the time productively,” Tommy observed. “That’s what we did during the war when we were stuck on troop transports for hours. Best thing was to get some sleep, since you never knew what was going to be awaiting you at the other end.”

  “In this case I rather hope that will not be necessary,” Clara said with a wry smile. “I rather imagine Mr Hatton is not sending us off to spend a week in trenches.”

  “No, probably not,” Tommy smiled with amusement. “Though it would save on costs.”

  “It crosses my mind, that it is bad enough travelling this far in the first place, but at some point we will have to travel back just as far to get home,” Clara returned to her earlier train of thought. “There is a part of me that would rather turn back now than face that long trip later on.”

  “Once we arrive this will all be worth it,” Tommy assured her. “I hear the Lakes are lovely.”

  “Well, I hope you are right.”

  There was a pause, then T
ommy said;

  “What do you make of this Mildred Hunt woman?”

  “Unkind,” Clara answered. “Bitter. A bitter soul makes people lash out at others.”

  “Doesn’t strike you as the sort to take a charabanc tour, does she?” Tommy mused.

  “Perhaps she just likes the chance to aggravate people,” Clara shrugged. “She was just awful to Mrs Palmer. It was so cruel.”

  “I know it was cruel, I would never say something like that. But, Mrs Palmer is deluded. Her grandson is dead, we both know that.”

  “And probably she knows it too, but to spare herself that crippling realisation she has created this false pillar of hope. I don’t see that any of us are in a position to deny her that.”

  “Probably not,” Tommy said after a moment. “Though, I am not convinced it is healthy.”

  Clara shrugged again.

  “Who is to say?”

  The charabanc continued on its winding route. There was to be one final stop before they reached the hotel where they would spend the night. Not all could wait that long. The copious amounts of tea drunk at Mrs Woodcock’s and then at the hotel, had weakened the resolve of a few and the charabanc had to make an impromptu stop by a remote hedge to allow some of the passengers a chance to relieve themselves. Mr Hatton had envisioned just such an emergency when arranging his long road trips. He had provided his charabanc with a folding screen that could be positioned against a convenient hedge to provide privacy to his passengers who were unfortunately caught-short. It was rather amusing, Clara found, to watch the small queue of passengers availing themselves of this rudimentary lavatory arrangement. Though she was most glad she did not have to be one of them.

  The journey continued and, in the late afternoon, they arrived at yet another teashop, this one a professional establishment run for the benefit of tourists and visitors to the little village where it was set. A husband and wife ran the shop, buying in a vast array of tasty delights for their customers, rather than baking themselves. Mrs Woodcock might have been disheartened to learn that her customers were now comparing her home-run affair to this deluxe establishment with its factory made scones and twelve types of cake. She would have been consoled to know that despite all the glitz and glamour of the place, the business owners had overlooked one vital point – they had not emptied their facilities that day.

  When Mr Hatton’s charabanc unloaded its usual cargo of passengers and they all descended on the relevant conveniences at the back of the shop, it caused a serious overflow issue and there was quite the commotion as the toilet had to be hastily emptied before anyone else could avail themselves of it. Clara had, fortunately, been at the head of the queue for the conveniences, so she could watch the drama unfold from the comfort of the outside seating before the teashop. There was quite a queue lined up on both sides of the gate that led to the back of the shop and the outside lavatories. Somewhere among them were Annie and Tommy. Clara decided it would be best to order tea and cake while she waited for them.

  She found herself a spot on an empty table, but was soon joined by Mrs Siskin, who had clearly taken a shine to her company.

  “Rather unprofessional,” Mrs Siskin nodded to the grumbling queue. “I always have thought this place was rather slapdash.”

  “You have been here before?”

  “Yes, on a previous excursion,” Mrs Siskin flagged down a waitress in a pinny and ordered tea. “I thought then this was all shine and no substance. Factory made scones, after all!”

  “Not quite Mrs Woodcock’s style,” Clara smiled.

  “Definitely not!”

  “Where is your friend?”

  “Lizzy? Oh, she is just across in the Post Office buying a postcard,” Mrs Siskin pointed across the road to a dear little shop that had ‘Post Office’ over the door and a small stand of postcards and souvenir booklets set on the broad sill of its picture window. “She will send one home every day to her daughter. It’s very sad, you know, she is a widow and so is her daughter, and her only grandson is lost as well. Three generations of the same family all stung by war.”

  Clara was about to say something more when there was a cry from behind her. Both she and Mrs Siskin turned in time to see Mrs Hunt yelling at an unfortunate waitress, who had just upended a full teapot on the woman. Luckily most of the scalding contents had hit the ground, but enough had found their way onto Mrs Hunt to make her most indignant and, indeed, rather wet.

  “I apologise, madam, I swear a rat ran over my foot!” the maid said, trying to assuage the damage.

  “A rat?” someone cried out.

  There was a panicked commotion among the teashop patrons as they began looking under their tables (and, in one case, under their plate) in search of the mystery rat. Rather than improve matters and excuse her behaviour, the girl had made things worse and now incurred the wrath of her employers.

  “You foolish girl!” snapped the woman who ran the teashop with her husband. “Of course there are no rats here! Everything is completely clean and hygienic.”

  The last statement was said loudly enough for the benefit of her customers.

  “What about the toilets?” someone pointed out rather brusquely. Clara was uncertain if it was the same person who had picked up on the word ‘rat’ earlier.

  “This is a professional establishment,” their host insisted in a clipped tone. “No rats, no mice, no vermin of any description.”

  “Then what caused her to drop that tray?” Mrs Siskin kindly pointed out, indicating the maid who was now stood looking morbidly unhappy at the predicament she was in.

  “She is a foolish girl who does not know how to carry a tea tray,” their host said crisply. “And, as of this moment, she is no longer in our employ.”

  The maid, who was probably only around sixteen, burst into tears and ran from the garden of the teashop.

  “Don’t forget to bring your uniform back tomorrow clean!” her employer yelled after her.

  “What about my skirt?” Mrs Hunt demanded. “I am soaked through!”

  With profuse apologies Mrs Hunt was led inside by both owners of the teashop. It was at that moment Clara’s scone and tea appeared. She eyed the scone with a look of uncertainty. Had there been a rat? After the debacle over the outside lavatory she was beginning to imagine it a possibility.

  Mrs Siskin had no such concerns and bit into her scone without hesitation.

  “That will be something to tell Mrs Woodcock!” she grinned.

  Clara turned her head again to look where Mrs Hunt had been sitting. To her surprise she saw Eleanora Smythe bend down by the table and seem to pick something up, before she calmly walked off. How curious?

  “Eat your scone, dear, and don’t worry about rats,” Mrs Siskin said. “I peeked in the kitchens while I was waiting to use the loo, and they looked extremely clean.”

  Mrs Palmer appeared just then.

  “What happened to Mrs Hunt?”

  “A tea drama,” Mrs Siskin laughed. “At least she won’t be bothering us this time!”

  Mrs Palmer pulled a face.

  “Wish I had had the courage to pour hot tea over her!”

  Clara had nothing to say to that.

  Chapter Three

  The charabanc rolled up to their hotel for the night at eight o’clock and the passengers were all very relieved to have finally reached their destination for the day. Clara was amazed at how exhausting sitting still and doing nothing could be.

  The hotel had laid on a three course dinner for them, and there was a bit of a rush to get to their rooms, change for dinner and reach the dining room. Clara flopped down on her bed as she changed her stockings and wondered if she could be bothered to sit for the next couple of hours eating and talking. She did not really feel hungry and all she wanted was a good night’s sleep. It still pained her to think that they had another whole day of travel tomorrow. How unbearable! Why had she ever thought this was a good idea?

  She did go down to dinner, however. Partly bec
ause she did not want to appear ungenerous to the hotel’s hospitality – the owner of the hotel was Italian and very prone to fawning over his guests as if they might abandon him at any moment – and partly because she was curious about her fellow passengers and wanted to learn a little more about them. Seeing as tomorrow was going to be spent sitting with little to do, it seemed rather a good idea to learn what she could about everyone else and give herself something to mull over on the journey. It was better than counting cows, which she had been reduced to on this last leg until it got too dark.

  Clara found Annie and Tommy in the hotel lobby. Tommy was looking smart in his dinner jacket and bowtie. Annie was busy talking to the hotel owner who she had struck up an instant and very cordial friendship with. It was rather like she had found a kindred soul; they both knew what it was like to have to deal with the whims of other people. Not that Clara or Tommy were particularly prone to whims, but Clara could be a nightmare for getting home for dinner on time. In any case, Annie had taken to the little Italian who was close to three times her age and a fount of wisdom on the subject of serving others. They were currently comparing notes on the best way of making an egg custard.

  Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Mrs Hunt swept in. She took one look at Tommy and Clara and declared;

  “Are you being ignored?”

  “Why, no,” Clara smiled at her. “We were about to go into the dining room.”

  Mrs Hunt gave a hostile look to the hotel manager, as if she did not quite believe Clara and thought she was just being polite.

  “These foreigners don’t know how to treat English guests correctly,” she said sharply. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind? Shall I push?”

  With that she had the handles of Tommy’s wheelchair and he was being propelled towards the dining room. He glanced up at Clara, who had to hasten to follow, with a look of utter outrage on his face. He hated people making assumptions about him when he was in his wheelchair and insisting on taking him places without his consent, as if he was mentally deficient too. He started to open his mouth, but Clara interceded.