A Lovely Day to Die by Celia Fremlin Read Free Book Online Page A

the back end of the queue for everything !”
    Did she have to rub it in so? He hadn’t chosen to have that second heart attack just after Christmas; nor had he chosen that his recovery, this time, should have been so slow, and, to date anyway,so incomplete. From his earlier heart attack, nearly ten years ago now, he’d seemed to recover in next to no time—back at work in less than six weeks, and within three months redecorating the sitting-room, ceiling and all. But then, as his doctor had pointed out at his last checkup, he’d only been in his sixties then, and how old was he now?—seventy-six?—well, there you are, you see! At seventy-six, the young medico explained cheerfully, scribbling away on his prescription-pad, you can’t really expect …
    And so Maisie’s complaints indubitably had a basis in fact, even if they weren’t very kind. His current disability did slow him down, to a most inconvenient and often irritating degree. On this occasion, it had caused them—and this no doubt was still rankling in Maisie’s mind—to miss their tea on the train. Malcolm’s sudden attack of breathlessness and pain as they manoeuvred their way along the stifling, jam-packed corridor had brought them to a standstill, and they had had to let half the train push past and ahead of them while he recovered, so that by the time they finally reached the refreshment counter there was nothing left. Not even a dry bread roll or a packet of biscuits.
    “You should have gone on ahead, dear,” he’d remonstrated with her gently; but she gave a short, disagreeable laugh:
    “Huh! And leave you muddling about by yourself? Getting yourself lost … leaving things on seats? Remember that time in Brussels when all you had to do was get one suitcase and your raincoat from the reception desk to the Departure Lounge …”
    He did remember. How could he not, when she was at such pains to remind him of it on every possible occasion? But all the same, it didn’t mean he was getting senile, which was what her endless reiteration of the mishap seemed to imply. Everyone mislays a suitcase once in their lives, surely?
    Usually, as Maisie well knew, he was most careful about anything like this, checking over every item, making lists … a lifetime of travelling all over the world, on business as well as for holidays, had made him methodical to a fault. Even his packing had been brought to a fine art, with a list pasted inside the lid of his suitcase, together with reminders of the order in which the thingsshould go in—shoes, shaving tackle and other hard objects at the bottom; then pants, vests, socks, followed by shirts, pullovers, and—yes, he supposed they would swim, the doctor had said it wouldn’t do him any harm, indeed it might easily do some good—this time he’d added swimming trunks and towel. Everything, he knew, was in perfect order: wallet, return tickets and Bankers’ Card in his breast pocket; keys, address-book and spare bifocals in his side-pocket: he’d checked it all over once last night, and then again this morning …
    “Where for, sir?” the taxi-driver demanded, reaching off-handedly behind him to open the passenger door; and Malcolm, opening his mouth to reply, found that the name of their hotel had gone completely out of his head. But completely! Only for a second or two, of course … in another moment it would have come to him …
    “The Cliff House Hotel,” Maisie filled in, smugly and immediately; and with a tiny, patronising glance in his direction, she took his elbow and with ostentatious and unnecessary solicitude helped him into the car, just as if he was an invalid.
    Which he was, damn and blast it!
    Damn, damn, damn!
    *
    The drive through the streets of the little town was not a long one, and Malcolm, staring through the side window, felt his sense of familiarity growing. Forty-five years! It was unbelievable! Those stout, middle-aged matrons, shepherding their charges up from the beach—why,