Inkerman Writer - Hilary Midgley

Death And The Maiden Lady

All that day her pain had been exceptionally severe, but she couldn’t face swallowing any more painkillers so she’d settled before the television and prepared to distract herself with the latest Jane Austen adaptation, where enviably beautiful young women and impossibly handsome young men conducted their affairs in grammatically correct sentences. The perfect period settings were supplied courtesy of the National Trust whose properties Miss Dunning, whilst still sufficiently mobile, had enjoyed visiting although she had never been able to shake off the suspicion that traces of her previous incarnations lingered in their draughty attics and dismal sculleries. It was as the television heroine was blowing out her candle and preparing to sink gracefully into sleep that Miss Dunning heard a noise in the hall as of something scraping along the floor, punctuated by occasional bumps against the wall. She leaned forward, one hand reaching for the television handset to lower the volume while the other hand gripped the walking stick which she always had propped nearby. Contorted as they were by arthritis her hands could not grip tightly but she had every intention of defending herself to the best of her ability. She turned slowly and painfully in her high-backed chair and saw the door silently opening to reveal a long curve of metal glinting in the light from the hall, behind which lurked a dark, hooded figure. Miss Dunning screamed, losing her grip on the stick which clattered to the ground as Death - for it was he - stepped into the room gauging a piece out of the wallpaper as his scythe caught on the door handle.

“Oh I do apologise” he muttered, lowering the scythe gingerly to the floor, “I find this thing really difficult to manage. Still, I wouldn’t worry about the wallpaper - it’s not going to be worth getting it fixed.”

Miss Dunning sat rigid in her chair and watched as Death moved across to sit on the sofa, gently resting the scythe against the cushions at the back before removing his hood and crossing his bony ankles.

“That’s better; it’s so good to get the weight off my feet. You’ve no idea how tiring it is dragging that thing around all the time.”

Trembling with apprehension Miss Dunning swallowed hard and opened and shut her mouth several times; when finally her voice emerged it sounded unusually shrill.

“Oh, good heavens ….. What ever are you doing here?”

“Well, this evening I suppose it’s a sort of courtesy call – just so we can get acquainted and you can make any necessary future arrangements.”

His skull swivelled towards the television, affording her an excellent view of the hinged mechanism of his lower jaw as it opened and closed. His words whistled through the gaps between his teeth.

“I say” he said, “This is a rather good programme”

The hero was galloping off into the distance, with the heroine gazing anxiously into the cloud of dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves.

“We’ve got four splendid horses” murmured Death “apocalyptically speaking, but we are a bit short on romantic involvement”

They watched the rest of the programme in silence with Miss Dunning gradually becoming calmer and more relaxed. As it came to an end, with the screen displaying highlights from next week’s episode, Death absentmindedly trailed skeletal fingers melodiously across his ribcage. When Miss Dunning switched the television off the room seemed very quiet. Eventually, she took a very deep breath and spoke.

“You said something about making future arrangements. How long have I got?”

“You’ll have time to tie up any loose ends but I’d advise against any procrastination. Take a good look at your Will just in case you’ve overlooked anyone, and get rid of anything you’d prefer people not to know about.”

With that he rose, picked up the scythe and wrapped himself back inside the hooded cloak. At the door he turned and waggled the curved blade in farewell.

“I’ll be back” he said.

She heard the quiet click of the door handle and the scraping along the floor growing fainter before fading into silence. If it hadn’t been for the curved depression in the cushions she might have concluded he was a figment of her imagination. She slept soundly that night and when she saw the sofa again Annette, her Home Help, had plumped up the cushions so Miss Dunning was almost persuaded that the visitation was a hallucination brought on by all the pills she was taking; except that she couldn’t account for the gash in the wallpaper which certainly had nothing to do with Annette who handled all Miss Dunning’s possessions with great care.

Miss Dunning was a woman of modest means and she had drawn up a modest Will. Funeral expenses, charitable donations, and her few remaining relatives were all taken care of but she saw there were minor amendments to be made: small bequests here and there to friends and helpers. Always fiercely independent she had nevertheless grown fond of Annette, who helped her with household tasks, and also of Louise, who gave her personal assistance. Their tact was commendable and she was greatly diverted by their tales of family lives which were as thrilling as any of the soap operas. Unfaithful partners, unwanted pregnancies, wayward daughters and neglectful sons; it was all so much richer, so much more exciting than her own conventional family background had ever been. Love and betrayal, hope and despair, grief and elation; they knew all of these and best of all they shared them with her, weaving touches of vibrant colour into the thin, grey fabric of her everyday existence. So into the Will for Louise went the opal ring that had belonged to her grandmother, and for Annette the Worcester tea service the two of them used on special occasions; Miss Dunning knew it would be in good hands. For the last time she ventured into the world outside. Through the window of the taxi taking her to the solicitor’s she saw people scurrying along, busy with the immediacy of their everyday lives, and acknowledged that this material world was no longer of any significance to her though she smiled her gratitude to the driver who helped her in and out of the taxi, waving away her proffered tip.

With the Will updated she turned her attention to the last remnants of her unremarkable life. Annette had left her with the paper shredder and really it was a most cathartic experience. Consigned to oblivion went the thin slices of Harry’s last coldly regretful letter, tightly curled around photographs of that blissful holiday in Venice, together with the letter written by her father when he knew his illness was terminal, asking her to return and care for her mother after his death. Would she have done so, without that letter? And then there were all those Alternative Therapy leaflets with their lists of treatments and prices. Hypnotherapists, Nutritionists, Medical Herbalists, Reflexologists, and Homeopathic Practitioners - she had secretly consulted these over the years for her many ailments. Her mother had been horrified by their charges and dismissive of their validity, certain as she was that pulling-yourself-together would remedy most ills, but Miss Dunning had found that however hard she pulled, there were times when she found herself falling apart and at these times the kindly attentions of the Alternative Therapists were extremely helpful –no matter how deep their pockets.

He came again at exactly the same time one week later. Miss Dunning recognised the scraping and bumping sounds and made no attempt to grasp her stick as a weapon of defence but remained hunched in her chair, staring at the television. Death manoeuvred his scythe carefully through the door and stood grinning at her. Miss Dunning wondered sourly what it must be like to have only the one expression.

“How are you?”

“How do you think?” she snapped. “I’m old and ill and in great pain and I’m sick of taking pills which don’t make me feel any better. I’m growing deaf, my eyesight’s getting worse, my bowels are unreliable and I’m very, very depressed”

Really, she thought, there was no point in dissembling with Death. The skeleton sighed and turned to look at the television set where the strangest assortment of people, inadequately clad in the most bizarre items of clothing, were lolling about on hideous pieces of furniture whilst talking complete bollocks. Death had only recently added the latter word to his vocabulary but it seemed apposite, though he knew better than to utter it aloud in front of Miss Dunning.

“I’m not surprised you’re depressed” he said, jabbing the scythe’s curved blade dangerously close to the screen, “That is enough to depress anybody. I came here to watch the final episode of Miss Austen’s exquisite narrative. Why don’t you change channels – I’m sure that would make you feel much better”

His diction was impaired by lack of a tongue but apart from that he sounded just like her mother.

“I can’t reach the remote” she snapped, “it’s dropped under the table”

Vertebrae rippling to perfection Death bent and retrieved it, zapped it decisively

and settled on the sofa as before. The screen filled with images of big country houses with rain drenched window panes; of a young girl brushing lustrous hair in front of a candlelit mirror; of a young man staggering up a hillside carrying a young woman whose damp curls were plastered artfully against pale cheeks, and of death hovering over a snowy white bed – at which point Miss Dunning, irresistibly drawn to glance at her companion, saw something quicken deep within his eye sockets – and then finally, of the triumph of life and love and a good fortune, rounded off by a delightful wedding celebration where the lowliest villagers rubbed shoulders with the mightiest members of Society. It was all most satisfactory. Miss Dunning wiped away a tear and thought that she could die happy now.

“Is it time yet?” she enquired.

“Not quite; not tonight” he replied, inclining his skull towards her.

“Can you tell me what happens afterwards……..”

Before she could finish the sentence he leaned forward and breathed into her ear.

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out – but I’ve never had a dissatisfied customer return”

He handed her the television remote, cracking his knuckle bones as he did so; she wished he wouldn’t do that. As before he waved the scythe in farewell.

“See you soon”

A few days later Miss Dunning sat racked with pain trying to summon up the strength of mind and body to drag herself up to bed, recognising that she would soon have to concede to the idea of sleeping downstairs. Death entered quietly, leaving his scythe in the hall. She managed a smile.

“I’m glad you’re here” she said.

His cloak flew open as he twirled around with a little shimmy of his pelvic girdle, then he lifted her from her chair and danced her up the stairs. He was wonderfully light on his feet. She remembered her very first grown-up ball gown, white and airy as thistle down, and a compliment paid by a boy whose name she had long forgotten.

“You look like an angel” he’d said, nervously placing his hand round her waist.

Death set her gently on the bed and stretched out beside her covering them both with his cloak, so it was wrapped in Death’s bony embrace that Miss Dunning fell asleep that night. When Louise arrived next morning she knew immediately what she would find from the quality of the silence which greeted her. Miss Dunning looked very peaceful. Louise smoothed out the creases in the coverlet and shed a tear before flipping open her mobile phone, which glowed brightly in the shadowed room. Miss Dunning herself had departed and Louise must now set in motion the removal of the last traces of her earthly presence.