That Terrible Woman

It was twenty years to the day since Don had choked on a chicken bone and had the audacity to leave Edna all alone.

Standing in her bathroom, the walls of which were a hideous shade of salmon pink, she vigorously brushed her teeth and saw a strange old lady scowling back at her. Baggy eyes, turkey neck, grey hair grown coarse and wild. She studied the face and mused about what had happened so that she now cared so little about her appearance.

What indeed!

She was distracted, thinking about how she would celebrate the memory of Don’s passing this year. Announcing to the empty room as if her beloved Don was still there:

‘I think I’ll start with a fry-up with runny eggs, perfectly browned tomatoes and super moist mushrooms. Two slices of sourdough toast and lashings of butter and apricot jam, just like you always liked, my dear.’ Edna was almost drooling at the thought. ‘After that we should go to Frimlington Woods; the bluebells should be out now. That was one of our favourite walks, wasn’t it? Then let’s…’

Edna suddenly became aware that her telephone was ringing. She made her way into the bedroom, irritated that the caller was intruding on her thoughts. She half-expected whomever it was to have hung up before she got to the phone, but no, it kept on ringing, refusing to be ignored. ‘Well, whoever you are, you’re really persistent. I’ll give you that.’ Then, thinking of her two daughters, she muttered angrily, ‘What do those girls want now?’

‘4742,’ she enunciated clearly.

‘Hello, Edna, it’s Felicity,’ the whiny voice declared. ‘Sorry to tell you that my daddy passed away last night.’

Silence. Edna couldn’t stand her cousin, Felicity, who represented everything that irritated her and far more. Even stronger was her dislike, in fact, her hatred for Felicity’s father, who was Edna’s Uncle Harold, and she couldn’t stand his wife, Betty, either. They were the people Edna held responsible for all the insecurities and unhappiness that had dogged her throughout her life.

When they were children, Edna was always expected to play second fiddle to Felicity, her younger cousin by only nine months. She was never allowed to have her own way, and the list of her complaints was long. Edna resented the fact that she never got to decide anything. It was always: ‘Let Felicity choose, she’s only little! Let Felicity have the bus ticket, the last sweet, the choice of TV programme,’ and a host of other things that Edna felt were grossly unfair. If there was one chocolate left in the box, it was given to Felicity. She repeatedly complained to her mother, Iris, about why everything had to be what Felicity wanted. When Edna passed her eleven-plus there was weak applause, yet if Felicity came first in the egg and spoon race it was cause for a great celebration party. To compound it, Felicity was their paternal grandmother’s favourite. When she and Edna’s grandfather arrived home from a holiday trip her grandmother would hand Felicity a package. Edna would stand biting her lip, watching her cousin excitedly ripping open the beautifully wrapped gift containing a doll, a dress, or suchlike, whilst Edna could only stare with disappointment and, yes, resentment. The horrid woman would then turn to Edna and say, ‘Sorry, Edna, they just didn’t have anything for a little girl of your age!’

No one ever pointed out that they were almost identical in age. What could possibly have been construed as inappropriate for a child only nine months older? At other times, her grandmother would come back from a trip and say, ‘There was nothing for Felicity, so I could hardly buy for you and not for her, could I, Edna?’

Why not? Edna wanted to scream. She hated playing poor relation to Felicity, the wonder child. It was hardly Felicity’s fault, but over the years, Edna had built up an inexplicable resentment toward the poor girl. This call was stirring up all kinds of unpleasant feelings. She especially didn’t want to think about ‘the incident’ that had occurred when she was only five years old and which had haunted her ever since. Sadly, any action, like an innocent call from her cousin, managed to bring it immediately to mind, drawing it quite firmly into the headlights again.

‘Hello, Edna, are you there? Did you hear me?’

‘Yes, I heard you. Harold is dead, and you will let me know about the funeral arrangements. I think that’s about it, isn’t it?’

‘I thought…’ Edna could hear the woman clearing her throat nervously as she tried again. ‘Oh, never mind. I will send you the arrangements as soon as the funeral has been organised.’

Felicity sounded close to tears. Edna knew that her cousin couldn’t have any idea why she disliked her so much because Harold and Betty had insisted on protecting Felicity, not wanting to frighten her. In fact, the incident had long since been forgotten by everyone. That is, everyone but Edna. She desperately wanted to tell the pathetic woman, whose demeanour was always as pitiful as her appearance, that she had no intention of attending her ghastly father’s funeral but decided not to. After all, none of it was Felicity’s fault, so best not to be rude. As difficult as Edna could be, she was nothing if not fair.

‘Well, thank you, Felicity, for the update on your father’s demise. As you know, your parents and I were not close, but I do thank you for bringing it to my attention.’ Oh dear, even for me that was harsh!

Without giving her stunned cousin a chance to respond, Edna mumbled a weak apology, excusing herself to answer a non-existent caller at the front door.

She was angry with Felicity for disturbing her because the mere sound of Felicity’s voice had the power to drag up the horrific details of that fateful day. That moment in time invaded her thoughts and just would not let go.

Feeling ravenous, Edna made her way gingerly down the stairs. Whenever Edna was anxious, two things happened. Her enormous appetite intensified, and so would the need to take a therapeutic bath in order to calm her nerves. She wandered into her once-glossy Wrighton kitchen with Hotpoint stove and Electrolux fridge, all of which had definitely seen better days. She opened the tap and poured water into her whistling kettle. Other than the Americans, most people in the UK had thrown them out years ago, but Edna couldn’t see the point in spending money on a new-fangled electric one when hers worked perfectly well. Now in a really bad mood, she reluctantly abandoned the idea of the fry-up to honour her husband’s passing and poured a generous portion of bran into a Denby bowl, not noticing that the paint around the rim was worn and the colour more a dirty grey now than the original cornflower blue. She sliced a banana on top of the crisp flakes, sprinkled brown sugar liberally over the top, and finished off with a copious amount of whole milk, which was delivered daily by Bert, the local ‘milkie’. She detested supermarket cartons; in fact, she abhorred all of today’s modern packaging, preferring to go back to her childhood of brown paper bags and glass bottles. Now that there was a worldwide attempt to protect the environment, Edna was more than slightly smug about her long-held attitude.

Slowly, a thought began to dawn on her. I wonder if I shouldn’t just take the opportunity of the old man’s death to wreak my revenge. I shall go to the funeral, if only to tell that horrid wife of his what she and her husband did to me. I will shame her into admitting what they did.

She hesitated, her resolve weakening.

‘What do you think, Don?’ she asked of the empty room. After all these years, it never failed to upset her that there was no response.

Small-boned and just over five foot tall, but weighing in at around 140 pounds due to her overblown stomach, she appeared much bigger than she actually was. Having smoked sixty cigarettes a day from the age of fifteen, she had a very throaty voice, and people were generally disappointed when they met the person associated with the sexy voice on the end of the telephone. Rude to neighbours and delivery people with her barbed tongue, she wasn’t popular and, in fact, was quite often disliked. With age and life’s knocks, Edna believed that she had earned the right to be dry and sarcastic and would often articulate what many people thought but were not brave enough to say out loud. She could be very intolerant, particularly struggling to hide her frustration and immense irritation at people she saw as stupid.

She had a sour face and ate with her mouth open. The milk from her cereal dripped down her chin in a most undignified way. Her manners were incongruous for a woman so well-spoken, a reflection of the privileged life that she had once enjoyed. Every now and then, she wiped the milk carelessly away with the back of her hand, rubbing it on her flannelette dressing gown. The gown bore the faint scent of Estee Lauder Youth Dew, a throwback from her childhood. With one whiff, in an instant she was a little girl again, sitting on Hampstead Heath with a whole world in front of her…

As she sat at the breakfast table rubbing her arthritic legs, she wondered when her knees had become ninety years old, and where it had all gone wrong.

Her mind wandered back to her father’s mother, and how Edna used to wish that the horrid woman would go away and leave them alone, but then the object of her resentment suddenly died, and Edna cried for weeks, causing confusion for everyone, with her refusing to divulge the source of her sadness.

Edna remembered how her mother had tried, without success, to get at the truth; to understand why Edna was affected so badly by her grandmother’s death.

‘Edna, darling, why are you sad?’ Iris had asked her. ‘I didn’t realise that you were so attached to your grandmother. Tell us, please. What’s the matter?’ Iris and Richard, her father, had tried and tried to get her to talk, but the sad little girl would say nothing. Then finally, one day:

‘I killed her,’ Edna cried, the anguish and shame spilling in a torrent of tears.

‘What? Edna, why on earth would you think that?’

‘Because I wanted her to go away,’ she wailed. ‘It’s all my fault and I’m a bad person.’

‘Listen, my angel. You are not a bad person. You are a lovely, adorable, sweet, and kind little girl. You cannot wish anyone dead. It’s just not possible. You can’t make me Queen just because you wish it for me. Likewise, you can’t cause me to win the Premium Bonds tomorrow. Life just doesn’t work that way. You can want and hope all you like, but things like that are beyond our control and happen because they are part of life’s grand plan. Nothing any of us say or do will change that. Your grandmother died because it was her time to go and not because of anything that you wished or said.’

Edna remembered sitting there watching her beautiful mother with her ash blonde hair and large blue eyes. She was just full of wonder and love that Iris, her amazing mummy, always had the ability to make things better.

‘Could you make me a cheese and tomato sauce sandwich, please, Mummy?’ Edna had found her appetite again, and although this strange concoction was normally reserved for Richard to make when he was left in sole charge, today she didn’t care who made it. She was a complete mix of happy and hungry.

The silence in the house was suddenly disturbed by yet another flipping telephone call bringing Edna back to the present. Apart from her bi-weekly calls from her two daughters, Olivia and Viola, Edna hardly ever received phone calls these days, yet this morning she was being plagued with them. She hobbled out into the hall.

‘Yes?’ Edna barked rudely down the phone. She didn’t even bother to say ‘4742’ this time.

‘Good morning, Mrs Watson. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Edward Clitheroe. My wife and I have admired your house with its gorgeous gardens for many years and would like to talk to you about it. I wonder if I could make an appointment to come and see you.’

‘How do you know my name, and where did you get my number from?’ Edna was irritated but, at the same time, intrigued.

‘I looked you up on the internet,’ he bumbled.

‘The internet! What could the internet possibly know about my personal information, and what is it that you actually want to discuss, other than perhaps admiring my roses?’

‘I want to talk to you about the possibility of making you a handsome offer to buy your house.’

Not bloody likely! she mumbled under her breath. Edna was just about to refuse when her insatiable curiosity got the better of her. There was that strange note left outside her door yesterday morning: DON’T LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH! GRAB OPPORTUNITIES WITH BOTH HANDS. She had found it inside her Daily Mail, and, whilst she had dismissed it as complete nonsense, something had made her keep it. She had placed it inside the dresser drawer and had completely forgotten about it until now.

‘You can come at eleven o’clock tomorrow. Not a moment earlier, as I have my routine, which must not be disturbed.’

‘Yes, of course, I will be there at eleven on the dot. Should you wish to contact me my number is….’ But before he could utter another word, the line had gone dead. As far as Edna was concerned, the conversation was most definitely over.