Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 28
Chapter Twenty Eight
Mining for Clarity
By definition, one tiny rock must, inevitably, finally dislodge an entire cliff face. In the case of Edith Moseley, one sentence had produced an emotional and psychological landslide. Once her secret was out into the open or at least, shared with Arnold Matson, the rest of the week wouldn’t have been sufficient for Edith Moseley to pour out what she had to say, never mind the remaining few hours they spent together. Sixty-three years of guilt, the subject of Edith’s mantra earlier is one heck of a time for any mental pressure cooker to bubble away with the lid screwed firmly shut and how Edith had managed to maintain her secret for such a period of time the Lord alone knows.
However, one thing occurs to me about secrets; once one appears after the bearer whispers ‘But you mustn’t tell anybody,’ it usually takes about three minutes before the smoke signals begin doing the rounds and about another five minutes before someone is banging on your door saying how sorry they are to hear what’s happened. Suffice to say, Edith’s confession had flattened Arnold Matson to such an extent that he was still having to pinch himself that the last few hours had actually taken place and there was absolutely no question that this bolt from the bluest of blues was going to go any further.
The priority at the top of the agenda was not Arnold Matson’s integrity and trust, for they are truly set in stone and can be relied upon ad infinitum; no, the first consideration must be that of Edith Moseley’s new mind-set and how she wants to move forward once she has finally stopped shaking and gathered her equilibrium.
The antidote to grief and regret cannot be plucked from the shelves like cans of processed peas. There is no label; there are no instructions on the tin. The solution, if indeed there was one, would need time to reconstruct, and for a woman of some eighty-one summers, time isn’t something Edith Moseley takes for granted.
Early November light was giving way to evening darkness by the time Arnold and Edith arrived back at her bungalow. Having consumed more than enough brandy between them, the pair had wisely agreed that Arnold would be foolish to push his luck behind the wheel of his beloved old car, if indeed he would have managed to get it to splutter into life after laying dormant during the recent cold snap, in order to return Miss Moseley to HQ as it were, and they had decided to walk the half-mile or so through the village and had clocked-in in no time at all. Other than a stroll to his favourite woodland, Arnold’s exercise regime these days was practically non-existent and the wiry sprightliness of Edith’s slightly hunched pace had somewhat surprised him. Following the adverse weather, the footpaths still concealed the occasional slippery demon but Edith, holding firmly onto Matson’s arm, appeared to be dragging her new confidant along in much the same manner as a determined terrier does when taking its labouring master for an evening constitutional.
Miss Moseley’s outside porch light is automatically triggered and breaks the descending gloom as they approach her home, enabling a simple floodlit search of her handbag for the front door key.
After the day’s events, Arnold is in no hurry to leave the old woman to her own devices and offers his services to make sure everything is alright inside her home following recent fluctuations on the weather front. ‘I’d like that. Would you mind, Arnold?’ Edith says gratefully. Once inside, Edith switches on the hall light and the obligatory kettle takes first priority. ‘You’ll stay for a cup?’ Arnold smiles and raises his eyebrows. ‘Good,’ says Edith, before busying herself with a couple of other light switches and making her way over to the kitchen sink.
‘It’s nice and warm, Edith,’ chips in Arnold.
‘Heating’s on a timer. I don’t mind living on my own but I’m buggered if I’m going to sit in the cold.’ Shades of the old Edith, thinks Matson.
He is invited to have a quick look round the place to make sure everything is in order and the pair are soon reunited in the simple comfort of the cosy living room. Antimacassar covers are in no short supply and several ornaments adorn the tasteful pastel walls. A couple of framed photographs are on display on top of a small bookcase while other larger pictures take pride of place on the hearth chimney breast. An old black and white photograph in an elaborate-looking frame grabs Arnold’s attention. The child in the picture could be no more than a couple of days old and Matson quickly averts his eyes as he realises who it must be. Edith hands Arnold his tea cup and saucer. ‘Yes, it is him,’ she says casually, before proffering a digestive biscuit. Arnold accepts one out of politeness. Feeling slightly embarrassed at having been caught out he considers for a moment.
‘You know, Edith…’ Matson began.
‘Not just now, Arnold,’ concludes Miss Moseley, as though she were placing a friendly veil of silence over his forthcoming suggestion.