Strange Guilt
What a peculiar little town you live in, murmured Mrs. Agnes Underwood, stepping across the threshold, her eyes narrowing in the manner of someone who suspects shes walked into the wrong house. The driver and I spent half an hour searching for your road. The satnav refused to acknowledge its existence. Imagine that!
Evelyn Abbott waited in her doorway, a gentle, knowing smile tucked in the lines of her facethe kind of smile worn by those whove seen too much and long ago ceased being surprised by unfriendly words.
And yet, you found it, she replied simply. Do come in, Mrs. Underwood. You must be tired from the journey.
I never tire in the car, sniffed the guest, but she entered all the same.
She was tall, well-dressed for a woman of sixty, her honey-toned hair clipped fashionably short, gold earrings at her lobes, and an expression that seemed set in stone. The face of someone acutely aware of her own valuea large value, too, by the look of it. Her coat was expensive, autumnal, a slate-blue with oversized buttons. Her shoes, immaculate despite the puddle-ridden lane outside, gave away her skill at keeping the worlds muck at a distance.
Following her into the house was Edward, tall as his mother, dark-haired, with a frank honest look and the air of someone who knowswithout doubtthat his mother will, at any moment, say something unfortunate.
Mum, he whispered, please, lets not.
What? Im only stating whats true. The satnav doesnt know your road. Its a fact, not a complaint.
Rosie hurried in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. She was small and round-faced, with dark eyes and a plait coiled at the back of her heada woman of about twenty-seven, her prettiness easy to miss at first, and then impossible not to spot.
Hello, Mrs. Underwood! she greeted cheerily, stretching out her hands to take the coat.
Mrs. Underwood gave up her coat, lingering a moment as if doubting the reliability of Yorkshire wall hooks.
Hello, Rosie dear. You look well. A bit rustic, but well.
Rosie didnt miss a beat.
Thank you, she replied, just as warmly, as though she hadnt noticed the comments sharp edge.
Evelyn sent a brief, cautionary glance to her daughter. Alls well, her eyes assured. I can handle it. Rosie nodded and hurried back to the kitchen. Edward shrugged, shooting a regretful look at his mothers departing coat.
Evelyns little home was unpretentious but warm. That was the first word to cross anyones mind walking in: warm. Pots of geraniums and violets crowded the sills, a rag rug woven from odds and ends sprawled across the hallway floor. From the kitchen drifted the scent of cabbage pies, and something sweetcinnamon, perhaps. The parlour walls bore faded floral wallpaper, neat and cared for. Books lined the shelves, framed photographs standing sentry.
Mrs. Underwood surveyed the room, her gaze lingering on the worn, sunlit settee, then the bookshelf, then at starched, lace-edged curtains bleached white as old bones.
Not redecorated for some time, I see?
About a decade, Id say, Evelyn answered blandly. Please, have a seat. Well have the table ready in a minute.
Im not hungry. We stopped at a service station.
At least have a cup of tea. Teas always a comfort after a drive.
Edward perched by the window, his eyes pleading silently with his mother, who ignored him in favour of her usual posturestraight-backed on the settee, unmoved by anything out of place in her world.
***
The table was laid out some twenty minutes later. Rosie and Evelyn brought through steaming pies of cabbage and egg, and smaller ones stuffed with apple. They set out pickled cabbage, brined cucumbers, buttery boiled potatoes flecked with parsley, gleaming brawn, and slices of home-cured ham. All arranged on a white cloth, simple but inviting, free of ostentation but filled with care.
Oh, Mum, you even made brawn? Rosie exclaimed, genuinely delighted.
Set it up last night, came Evelyns reply.
Mrs. Underwood gave the spread a glancing appraisal, muttering under her breath. Edward braced himself.
Did you say something? Evelyn asked.
I said, you live very well, Mrs. Underwood replied smoothlywith that peculiar tone where very well means something else entirely.
We manage, out here in the sticks. Evelyn still smiled. Try the pie while its hot. Its just not the same cold.
I dont eat pastry, declared Mrs. Underwood. I watch my figure.
Perhaps a bit of brawn, then? Its quite lean.
I dont eat fatty food.
A gherkin, maybe?
Pickles cause indigestion.
Rosie fixed her eyes on her plate. Edward set down his fork.
Mum, he said with impressive clarity, enough.
Mrs. Underwood sipped her tea. I simply take care over what I eat. My right.
Evelyn made no comment. She helped herself to potatoes and pie, eating steadilythe manner of one long immune to others opinions about her lunch.
For a while, only the kitchen tap dripping and the autumn wind tossing through the orchard broke the silence.
Rosies been at thatworks of yours long? Mrs. Underwood inquired, speaking to Evelyn as if Rosie werent at the table.
At the infants school? Four years now. She teaches Year Two.
A teacher. No mockery, no respectjust fact. Teachers salaries here in the provinces
Mum, Edward snapped.
Im just being practical. Youll both move to London after the wedding. Rosiell have to find something. Small-town degrees arent worth much in the city. Im only being honest.
Rosie looked up, her gaze calm, perhaps a touch hurt, but dry-eyed.
Ill manage, Mrs. Underwood.
Well see, her future mother-in-law replied, taking a sip of tea.
It was here that something shifted.
Evelyn set down her fork. She did so gently, no clattera poised gesture, as though concluding a long thought. She turned to Mrs. Underwood with a gaze both intent and curiously light, as if she had finally decided on a course of action, long postponed.
Tell me, Mrs. Underwood, how longs it been since you left Dapple Heath?
The guest froze, faintly.
Pardon?
Dapple Heath. A village in Wiltshire. You used to live there, before London?
An odd hush fell. Even the wind seemed to fall still.
I, Mrs. Underwood set her cup down. How do you
I grew up there, too, Evelyn answered quietly. You probably dont remember me. I was eight or so. But youll remember my mother. Martha Pearson. She did the accounts for the Rural Cooperative.
Mrs. Underwood didnt look away, but a subtle shift flickered through her expression, as though her footing had shifted, ever so slightlya sensation not unlike realising youre standing on air.
I dont remember any Martha Pearson, she replied softly.
Oh, but I do, said Evelyn, just as steady. I remember everything.
***
Edward watched his mother. Rosie stared at her hands. Evelyn spoke in low, even tonesthe way you talk of old things that ache but never vanish.
Mum worked at the Cooperative for twenty years. An honest woman, down to the last penny. Never took what wasnt hers. Then, in 89, do you recall that yearmoney went missing from the till. A large sum, for those days. Mum was in charge at the time. So they blamed her.
The investigation was abrupt. Everything crumbling then, courts in disarray, no real lawyers to speak of. She got three years. Came out after two and a half. She was a sturdy woman, full of life, but she never recovered. Prison doesnt just imprison the body, you see. It breaks something else. She lived four years more. Died at fifty-oneher heart simply stopped. I think it was sorrow killed her. That stain never washed off. Till the end, she was the one who stole.
A tense, storm-laden stillness pressed around the table.
But she never stole it, Evelyn continued. It was another womanyoung, unmarried, desperate to escape, to begin afresh in the city. She needed seed money, so she took it. And arranged the records so the shortfall fell on my mother. Wasnt hard, if you knew the bookkeeping ways.
Mrs. Underwood sat rigid, face nearly white.
What are you insinuating? she whispered, her voice alteredless arrogant, almost afraid.
Im not hinting, said Evelyn. Im saying it out loud.
You have no proof.
I do, said Evelyn, rising from her chair.
She left the dining room. Drawers opened in the next room, then she returnedbearing an ancient, yellowed envelope, knotted with string. She laid it before her guest.
This is a letter from Mrs. Edith Collins. She worked with you and my mother. She died three years ago, but just before she passed, she gave this to her daughter and asked it be delivered to me. Mrs. Collins saw the whole thing. She stayed silent for thirty yearsout of fear. But some things you cant take to the grave.
Edward turned to look at his mother. Rosie sat frozen.
Mum, he croaked.
Mrs. Underwood stared at the envelope, hands coiling and uncoiling on her knees.
Open it, Evelyn told her softly.
The guest didnt move.
I dont read peoples private letters.
Its not private. It concerns both of us. And my mother.
A long pause. Then Mrs. Underwood lifted the envelope and held it, unopened.
Youve planned all this, she said. Waited for us to come so you could
Ive been waiting thirty years, Evelyn interrupted, almost wearily. At first, I thought there was no point. The dead cant be helped. I thought speaking would only add to the pain. But then you arrived. And you started telling my daughter she wasnt good enough. Not smart enough, not refined. Like my mother wasnt enoughnot wealthy, not well-defended.
Her voice didnt waver. That, somehow, was worse than shouting.
***
Edward got up, paced to the window, pressed his forehead to the glass. Outside, autumn wind swept through apple trees, leaves tumbling down on sodden turf.
Mum, he saidnot turning. Tell me its not true.
Silence.
Mum.
Ed, I
Tell me its not true. His voice was stripped raw: no anger, just desperate pleading.
Mrs. Underwood bowed her head.
Rosie quietly stood and left. From the kitchen came the sound of running water. Evelyn stayed, hunched in her chair.
You see, she said, her voice almost a whisper, I dont want to wreck your family, nor what Rosie and Edward have. Theyre happy together, anyone can see. I said all this just so youd know. So youd thinkjust onceabout what your good fortune has cost.
Mrs. Underwood opened the envelope.
The letter was handwritten, two pages in a jagged, elderly script. She read it slowly. Then once more. At last, she set the pages on the table, gazing at them as if turning them to stone.
Edith she murmured suddenly, softly, as though transported. Edith wrote after all.
It wasnt an answer for anyone elsejust an involuntary spillage of thought.
So you knew she knew, observed Evelyn.
Mrs. Underwood did not respond.
The wind picked up outside. The violets on the sill shivered. Cooling pies and the perfume of autumn sat thick in the quiet.
***
Evening fell, slow and heavy.
Edward and Rosie went for a walk, despite drizzle and cold, needing to be alone. Both women in the house understood, without a word.
Evelyn tidied away. Mrs. Underwood remained seated. She did not offer help, and the hostess did not ask.
I was twenty-six, Mrs. Underwood said suddenly, as Evelyn came back from the kitchen. Mind, Im not justifyingI simply was. Twenty-six, stuck in that village, and I knew that if I didnt leave within a year or two, I never would. Its like a bog, isnt it? First its to your knees, then your waist, then youre sunk. I watched my friends marry locals, bear children, grow old before their time. I didnt want that.
Everyone wants a better life, murmured Evelynneutral but not harsh.
It wasnt calculated, what happened. It justhappened. Martha left the key, was gone half an hour. I went in, took the money. Then panickedif they discovered it straight away, theyd catch me. So I shifted some of the books, sketched things so the missing money appeared elsewhere. Assumed theyd audit and chalk it up to confusion. I didnt think shed go to prison.
But she worked it out in the end. Anyone could have.
When I learned shed been arrested, I was already in London. Kept telling myself it wasnt proven, maybe it would sort itself out. I persuaded myself for a long time.
How long?
A pause.
Years, admitted Mrs. Underwood. That first year was hell. Then Well, life swallows you up. Work, a flat, then Edward arrived. I didnt forget. I just learned not to think.
That in itself is a skill, Evelyn noted.
Somehow those words stung more than any curse. Mrs. Underwood seemed to flinch.
You hate me, she said.
I thought I would, replied Evelyn after a moment. When I learned about the letter, I rehearsed my speech, pictured your face going paleI was angry, truly angry. But now? I just feel sorry for you.
Sorry?
Youve lived thirty years with it. I have no idea what thats like. I dont want to know.
A clock ticked in the next roomsoft, deliberate. Seven, eight, nine times it chimed. Evelyn poured herself tea and sat again across from her guestnot to continue the talk, but simply because there was no need to stand.
Mum spoke of you, even after she was released, Evelyn said, almost surprised. I remember her saying, Agnes Underwood leftshes made a good life. Not bitter. My mother never truly mastered anger. Its not a criticism, just a fact.
Mrs. Underwood closed her eyes.
Martha, she started, and stopped, voice catching. I remember. Martha Pearson. She always brought in jamplum, I think.
Yes. Plum from our garden, every August.
That mundane memory of jam shattered something in Mrs. Underwood. She didnt break down, not a sobber by nature, but her face crumpledlike a little girl stung by lossand she turned sharply towards the window.
Evelyn averted her gaze, fetched fresh tea, placed it at Mrs. Underwoods elbow, then said nothing more.
***
Late, Edward and Rosie returned, hair damp, cheeks cherry-red from the cold. They crept in softly. Only the lamp in the parlour shone. Mrs. Underwood sat by the window; Evelyn was knitting quietly in her chair.
Still alive? Rosie joked softly.
Just about, Evelyn replied, her smile real.
Edward settled beside his mother, took her hand. She didnt pull away.
Will you go home tonight, Mum? he asked gently.
In the morning, she answered.
All right.
Rosie fetched a plate of piescold now, but golden, fruity.
Will you have one now? She asked Mrs. Underwood with natural kindness, not sarcasm.
Mrs. Underwood regarded the pies, picked out a small, apple-filled one, and bit in.
You bake well, she muttered, half to herself.
Thats Mums doing, said Rosie. She used to work at the bakery, twenty years.
Evelyn shrugged. Habit. My hands remember.
Mrs. Underwood finished her bite and stared out into the dark garden, watching the swirling leaves, her thoughts her own and unquestioned.
***
That night, Mrs. Underwood slept alone in a small roomnarrow iron bed, white cover, embroidered linen. A lace curtain veiled the window. The scent of old lavender and pine hovered.
She did not sleep, but stared at the ceiling.
Her mind circled Martha Pearson. That plum jam. The absurd moment: Martha left her keys and disappeared for half an hour. Where to? Perhaps to a colleague, maybe a cup of tea, never a cigarette (Martha didnt smoke). The pointless detail jabbed at her, refusing to fade.
She thought of her London flatspacious, three rooms, a fine district, bought with those early, tainted notes, now multiplied and muddled among honest funds. Yet the root of it all remained.
Near dawn, she drifted off at last and dreamed: a woman with buckets swung from a yoke, walking the dusty village lane. Her face shone with a quiet light, the kind found in those with nothing left to fear.
***
Breakfast the next morning passed in near silence. Evelyn fried eggs with tomatoes, sliced bread. Edward sipped coffee; Rosie tried to lighten things with chattertalk of weather, of late chrysanthemums blooming in Mrs. Taylors garden round the corner (in Octoberwasnt it a marvel?).
Mrs. Underwood ate her eggs, then accepted more bread.
Evelyn, she said quietly.
Evelyn looked up.
Is there anygroup here, in towna charity that helps folk out? The lonely or the sick, or children, perhaps?
Evelyn paused to consider.
Theres the parish fundSt. Michaels church. Reverend Collins runs it. Solid man, keeps things above board.
Very good. That was all Mrs. Underwood said.
Edward watched his mother, then glanced at Evelyn; but said nothing.
***
Three weeks later, Mrs. Underwood phoned Evelyn. Evening found Evelyn knitting in front of the telly.
Its me, Mrs. Underwood began, her tone transformed from before.
I hear you, replied Evelyn.
Ive sent money to the parish fund. To Reverend Collins. Quite a sumnot all I could give, but a good start.
Evelyn let the silence hang a moment.
All right.
Im not asking you to forgive me. It might not even be possible. I simply wanted you to know.
I know.
Andone more thing Pause. Im stepping down at work. From the directors chair. Its all above board, but Im finishing. Ive been tired for a long time. I thought perhapsthis may sound silly
Go on.
Ive arranged a place in a bakery. Small, private. They dont mind age. I used towell, you know.
I do, interrupted Evelyn. My hands remember too. Its a good thing.
Youre not laughing.
No.
A long silence. Then Mrs. Underwood, voice small:
I dont know if things can ever be put right. Perhaps not. But I cant keep living the same way. Somethings changed.
Or mended, said Evelyn.
A moments pause. Maybe, Mrs. Underwood agreed.
***
The wedding happened in December. Rosie and Edward married quietly at the local registry office, just as they wished. Afterwards, they returned to Evelyns house, set a table for maybe twentyclose family, Rosies friends, a handful of Edwards mates from London.
Mrs. Underwood travelled alone, taking the train, clutching a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, autumnal and bold, bought at the tiny station florist.
Evelyn opened the door. They looked at each other.
Good morning, Mrs. Underwood said.
Good morning. Do come in.
The house still smelled of piesthis time meat, rice, and egg. The geraniums bloomed on the windowsill, fat and pink.
At the table, Mrs. Underwood sat by Evelyn. The conversation was light, not heavy. Edward watched his mother; she seemed smaller, less imposingwithout the need to fill the room.
When the newlyweds danced their first dance, Evelyn and Mrs. Underwood stood off to one side, watching.
They look lovely together, said Evelyn.
They do, Mrs. Underwood agreed, nothing added.
Rosie spun and laughed in Edwards arms, her dress plain but edged with lace, hair loose about her shoulders. Beautiful, yesthey both glowed.
Evelyn, Mrs. Underwood said quietly, eyes ahead, I truly never thought shed go to prison. Thats not an excuseits the truth. I just didnt think.
I know. People rarely think when theyre scared and desperate.
But it doesnt undo
No, it doesnt.
Youre a frank woman.
Ive no time to be anything else, said Evelyn, with the faintest smile.
Lucky you. Ive spent my life speaking prettily, sidestepping things. Never worth looking behind those words.
Music faded. Another tune began. Someone tugged Evelyn into the circle; she gave a laugh, protested, and went.
Mrs. Underwood remained by the wall, watching the dancers, the set table, white cloth, pies, candles flickering in plain glass jars. Faces. Rosie laughing, Edwards soft gaze on his wife, as if hed found some lost treasure.
And something inside Mrs. Underwoodtight, stone-hard for yearsunclenched just a little. Not fully, perhaps never fully, but enough for breath to come easier.
***
Afterwards came the evening, the night, the departure of guests. Everyone cleaned upRosie, Edward, Evelyn, and, unexpectedly, Mrs. Underwood herself, who picked up a cloth and quietly wiped the table.
You dont have to, said Rosie.
I know, replied her mother-in-law. Let me be.
Rosie and Edward exchanged a glance; Edward shrugged, a smile glinting.
Late that night, after all the tidying and the young couple gone to their room, Evelyn stood on the porch. December was mildno snow, just raw and dark and clear. The stars, sharp as silver flecks.
Mrs. Underwood joined her. They stood together.
What times your train? Evelyn asked.
Seven. Early.
Ill see you to the station.
No need.
Ill come, Evelyn insisted, quiet as ever.
A branch snapped in the nightmaybe a cat, perhaps a bird.
Hows the baking? Evelyn asked.
Exhausting, Mrs. Underwood confessed. Im up at four. My hands couldnt manage at first. Theyre better now. The bread turns out well.
Breads a blessing.
Breads simple, she said, a little light in her voice. Thats the point. Flour, water, salt, warmth. Time. You either make it or you dont. No more empty words.
Lifes harder to keep simple, said Evelyn.
Yes. Im only learning now.
The silence returned. The dark, the stars, the small, sleeping town whose name no satnav knew.
Evelyn, Mrs. Underwood said, I wonder ifcould you ever Im not asking now. Justcould you?
Could I what?
Forgive.
A long pause. Evelyn gazed at the stars.
I dont know, she said, honest as the cold. Thats too large a word. It wouldnt be fair to say it just to ease your heart. Not fair to Mum.
No. Youre right.
But let me tell you this, Evelyn went on quietly. I dont want to carry this for the rest of my life. The sorrow, the anger. Mum died young. Thats just her heart, not this pains fault. But bitternessanger burns you away. Ive seen it. I wont let that happen.
So what do you want?
Just to live, said Evelyn, simply. Edward is a good manhell make Rosie happy, I know it. Thats what matters. Mum would be proud, I think. Her voice shook, ever so little. What matters is that the futures brighter.
It will be, said Mrs. Underwood softly. This time it was neither boast nor fact; perhaps it was a plea, perhaps a promise.
Evelyn turned. Just looked at herdirect and plain, no embellishment.
Perhaps it will, she agreed.
There they stoodtwo not-so-young women, burdens and all, beneath the December stars above the little house, holding in their silence something beyond reconciliation or forgiveness or friendship. Something simply alive. Warm. Like freshly baked bread. Like plum jam, from a tree long since gone.
***
Youll visit us again? Evelyn asked, as, at dawn, they walked the empty streets to the station, last autumns leaves crunching beneath their boots.
Mrs. Underwood considered for a moment.
If you invite me.
Ill invite you.
They walked on side by side as the slow town wokethe way such towns always rise, quiet, with soft lights in the windows, no rush, no underground rumble, no choking queues. Somewhere, a dog barked. Woodsmoke perfumed the chill.
The village station was small, two benches on the platform, ancient clock above the door. The train was waiting.
Well then, Evelyn said.
Well, echoed Mrs. Underwood.
They did not hug. They simply looked at each other. It was enough.
The train moved off, Mrs. Underwood at the window, watching as the tiny platform receded, as the dark figure in her sensible coat stood watching after her.
She closed her eyes.
Four a.m. comes early. Flour, water, salt, warmth. And time. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesnt.
But this morning, she hoped it would.
