Roger
Noons
A hefty half-tumbler of
scotch
He locked
the car and darted to the front door, eager to get out of the rain. It was a
struggle to put the key in the lock and hold his cue, together with the trophy.
He managed it and eager to show Betty the shield, he stepped inside, but in so
doing his cue slipped from his hand. It fell across her twisted legs and the tip
hit the wall. He stared at the crumpled body of his
wife.
‘So, Mr Adams, what time did you get
home?’
‘It would have been around a quarter to
eleven, I don’t know exactly, I didn’t look at my watch,’ Walter told the
detective.
‘And that was how you found her, at the
bottom of the stairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t touch her, or anything
else?’
‘No, well only the telephone to dial 999.’
Walter looked down at his hands. He had been squeezing his fingers so tightly
that they were aching and bright red with blood. ‘Oh and I pulled her skirt
down. You could see her underwear.’ The policeman nodded. There was a tap on the
door and a uniformed officer’s head
appeared.
‘The doctor’s finished, sir. I think he’d
like a word.’ Walter began to rise.
‘It’ll be me sir, that he wants a word with,’
the sergeant said, resting his hand on Walter’s shoulder. After he left, the
constable fully entered the room. He stood with his back to the sideboard,
looking down at Walter. He smiled but Walter looked away. Although he was six
feet tall and weighed over fifteen stone, he wanted to bawl like a baby, but he
managed to control himself. He stared at his own reflection in the grey
television screen. Why did it have to happen? On this of all
nights. He had returned home as the West Midlands
Snooker Champion, all set to celebrate with Betty. He’d been given a bottle of
fizzy wine, especially for the occasion.
The Detective Sergeant re-entered the room.
‘That’s it for tonight Mr Adams. The doctor’s gone and we might as well get
along as well. Is there someone I can ring , to come and stay with you, do you
have any children? It would perhaps be best if you‘re not on your
own.’
‘I’ll be alright. Thank you. I’m sorry you’ve
got this trouble. What will happen next?’
‘I’ll come back and see you tomorrow, sir.
Will ten o clock be OK?’
‘Yes, that’s … er … fine, tomorrow …yes.’ He
began to rise from the armchair.
‘Don’t get up
sir, we’ll see ourselves out.’ Walter nodded, but still stood up, staring after
them as they departed leaving the door just slightly ajar. He heard the front
door slam and a little later the engines of two cars were started and the
vehicles were driven away. Walter turned and gazed at his reflection in the
mirror above the fire grate.
‘Oh, Betty,’ he said out loud, ‘I’m so
terribly sorry.’
As there was no suspicion of foul play, the
official aspects of the case were quickly completed and two weeks later Walter
was advised that he could arrange the funeral. The inquest had been opened and
adjourned and when it was reconvened, the Coroner was quickly able to bring in a
verdict of accidental death. Elizabeth Adams had fallen down stairs mainly due
to imbibing an amount of alcohol, which, had she been driving, would have been
described as being three and a half times over the limit. Her sister who came to
stay with Walter was shocked, as were their friends and neighbours. As far as
anyone knew Betty did not drink, well, perhaps a sherry now and again, or a
glass of wine on special occasions.
Walter of course knew different. He was aware
of the situation. He had found the empty bottles, in strange places. A vodka
bottle in the airing cupboard, another among the Christmas decorations in the
attic and gin bottles underneath his shed and once, buried in the garden. He
knew, but didn’t know how to deal with it. He realized that he should have
sought help but who could he turn to when he didn’t have the courage to discuss
the matter with Betty. At first he tried a jokey way. ‘Steady old girl,’ he
would say if she stumbled or was a bit unsteady. Once when he found her on the
floor in the bathroom, whilst helping her up he said, ‘you’ll have to take more
water with it love.’
*
A week after the funeral, Annie was still
staying with Walter. She placed his supper on the table. ‘Would you like a glass
of beer with your meal?’ she asked him, as she had noticed several bottles in
the cupboard under the stairs.
‘No, no thanks, I can’t face a drink. I’ve
never drunk much, at snooker I’d only have a couple of shandies, usually when
I’d finished playing.’
‘Did you know, about the drinking I mean?’
She asked him as he sat down at the table. He stared at his food and after a
long drawn out sigh, he nodded.
‘Yes, but I didn’t know what to do. I suppose
I pretended that it wasn’t serious. I recognized her mood changes, heard her
being sick in the bathroom. The more she was affected the more I went out, so I
didn’t have to face it. If I played four evenings a week, it meant that when I
came home she’d either be in bed or fast asleep in the
armchair.’
‘Why didn’t you call me? I would have come I
could have talked to her.’
‘I was ashamed, that’s why. You see it was
all my fault. I should have been here not out playing snooker and ignoring her.
It was my fault she took to drink. My fault and I did nothing about
it.’
Walter began to get over the death of his
wife, time was healing, but he never played snooker again. In fact he never goes
out in the evening he sits in his chair in front of the television set and sips
his Scotch. More often than not he’s fast asleep in his armchair by ten thirty
at night.
No comments:
Post a Comment