Jumping the Queue

A Novel

Mary Wesley

• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9781480450561
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A "quirky, sad, and very funny" novel about suicide, matricide, and an unlikely love, from one of England's best-loved authors ( The Guardian).
 
Determined to end it all after the death of her husband, Matilda Poliport's carefully laid plans to kill herself are derailed when she comes to the rescue of another potential bridge jumper—a notorious young man on the run for having murdered his mother.
 
Faced with the choice of either turning him in to the police or continuing on with her suicide attempt, Matilda makes the obvious decision and takes Hugh Warner home to stay with her while they both sort out what to do next.
 
As Hugh and Matilda find surprising comfort in each other, secrets about Matilda's deceased husband are revealed, leaving Matilda to face some very uncomfortable facts about her life. And as the pair plot to help Hugh escape the law, they will both need to face the truth about themselves and how far they are willing to go for each other.
 
This "virtuoso performance of guileful plotting, deft characterizations, and malicious wit" showcases the talents of Mary Wesley at her caustic and comical best ( The Times, London).

1

ALL WEEK GUS HAD been fussed by Matilda’s unusual activity. He stomped round the house peering in through the French windows, craning his neck through open doors, eyes bright, head to one side, listening. She could hear his feet slapping on the brick path as he moved from the kitchen door to the window. Soon he would leap onto the garden table, look in, try to catch her eyes. He did this inelegant jump flapping his wings, hitting them against a chair as he strained for the table. His blue eyes met hers.

‘Gus, I have to make this list, it’s important.’

The gander throttled gentle anxious noises in his throat, flapped his wings, raised his head, honked.

‘Shut up.’ She tried to ignore him, concentrating on the list: any trouble with the pump Peake’s garage they know its vagaries. For ordinary electric work Emersons in the High Street, telephone in book in kitchen table drawer.

Gus honked louder, slapping his feet on the wooden table.

‘Shut up!’ Matilda shouted without looking up. Butcher, baker, post office, garage, doctor, dentist. They won’t want those. Vet—they won’t need him, solicitor, bank, police. They would perhaps only need these. She checked the telephone numbers, put down her pen and went to the window.

‘Oh Gus.’

He nibbled her ear, making crooning noises as she stroked his cool neck sliding her hand from his head to his breast, feeling the depth of his feathers, their beauty and strength, parting them with her fingers until they touched the warm breastbone. Affected by her touch Gus excreted onto the table.

‘What a way to show love.’ Matilda moved away to the kitchen. Guessing which way she was going the bird jumped off the table and half ran, half walked to the kitchen door where he stood peering in, knowing he was not allowed inside the house.

Matilda ran water into a bucket. The telephone rang. Gus honked.

‘Hullo, hullo, I can’t hear you.’

‘This is Piers.’

‘Yes, John, how are you?’

‘Haven’t you had your phone mended yet?’

‘No.’

‘You should. It’s months since that dog bit it, broke it.’

‘What?’

‘I said it’s months since—’

‘He hated the bell, the noise hurt his ears, so he jumped at it, bit it.’

‘You should get it mended, it won’t cost you anything.’

‘Oh.’ Matilda ran a finger over the sellotape holding the machine together.

‘He’s dead anyway.’

‘I can’t hear you.’ She smiled at Gus in the doorway shifting from foot to foot.

‘I said he’s dead.’

‘I heard you. What do you want?’

‘I want to know how you are.’

‘I’m all right, John.’

‘Piers.’

‘All right, Piers. It’s awfully silly to change your name at your age.’

‘It’s always been Piers.’

‘John to me. This call’s costing you a lot. What do you want?’

‘Are you coming to London?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Do you good to have a change.’

‘I’m going to have one.’

‘Going somewhere nice?’

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Get the phone mended.’

‘What?’ She waved to Gus.

‘Heard from the children?’

‘Yes, no, fairly lately.’

‘Matilda.’

‘Yes?’

‘Get the phone mended, it’s dangerous, you might need it urgently.’

‘Mind own biz.’

‘What?’

‘Goodbye, John.’

‘Piers.’

‘All right, Piers.’ She replaced the receiver, lifted the bucket out of the sink and sloshed water over the table stained by similar previous events. The wet wood steamed in the sun.

‘Like some maize?’ She stood looking down at Gus. ‘Come on then.’ Gus followed her while she fetched the maize. She threw a little on the grass. The gander ignored it.

‘Gus, you must eat.’ She sat down and the bird climbed onto her lap. ‘Eat, you fool.’ She held the bowl. Gus ate a little, pushing the corn about with his beak while she stroked him, pressing her hand along his back then curving it round his breast. ‘You must keep up your strength for all those pretty ladies. You will like them, you know you will. You won’t be lonely with them.’

Gus got off her lap to stroll about cropping grass before coming back to stand behind her, leaning his neck over her shoulder, twisting it to peer up into her eyes.

Matilda sat looking down the valley, tired, trying to think whether there was anything left undone.

The house was scrubbed, polished, hoovered, the beds made up with the best linen. Silver, brass and copper shining. Stores in the cupboards and larder. Bills paid, desk tidy, list of the whereabouts of people and things they would need all written, every spider captured and put outside before its web was destroyed. All done. Only the picnic basket and bathing things to get now. And Gus.

‘Such a betrayal. I can’t help it, Gus. Geese can live to be thirty or more. I can’t wait. You will be all right.’

A landrover drove up the lane, stopped by the gate. A man got out. Matilda stood. Gus honked angrily, the rims of his eyes showing red. Matilda shook hands while Gus hissed and threatened the man’s ankles, his neck stretched out, head low.

‘Good afternoon. He’s a fine bird. I brought a sack.’

‘Oh yes, you said. You said that would be the best way. Would you like a drink?’

‘No thank you, I’d better not. If I get this fellow loaded up I’ll be on my way, then he’ll have time to get to know his harem before dark.’

‘They won’t hurt him?’

‘No, no, no, a gander rules his geese. They haven’t heard of women’s lib.’

‘He rules me—’ The man nodded, unsmiling, looking down at Gus.

‘Your other gander?’

She glanced away. ‘A fox got him. I think I told you.’

‘Yes, of course you did.’

‘Gus, don’t!’ The man sidestepped as Gus pecked his calf. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s all right. Thick trousers. I keep them all shut up at night now. He’ll be safe.’

‘He’s always slept in the scullery.’

‘Well yes, but he will get used to his shed, stable actually, stone floors, geese are messy birds. I hose them down, the stables.’

‘I slosh water over the scullery floor, it’s got a drain in the middle, a sort of grating.’ What a stupid conversation. Couldn’t he get on with it and go? ‘Shall we get him into the sack?’

‘Okay. You pick him up as you know him, put him in. That’s right. I’ll tie this round his neck so that he can’t hurt himself. Ouch! That was sharp.’

‘He’s frightened.’

‘Yes, of course. There we are. I’ll take him now, he’ll be all right, don’t worry. Soon he’ll be with his harem. Six of them.’

The man carried Gus to the landrover, put him over the tailboard. Gus did not stop honking as the man drove away.

‘Fucking harem. I must be mad.’ Matilda went indoors, poured herself a stiff whisky, switched on the radio for the weather report. High pressure continuing over the Atlantic, very hot, very dry.

The telephone began to peal again. Matilda went up to the instrument and pulled off a strip of cellophane, letting it ring until it tired. Now the picnic. She took a basket and put in butter, rolls, a slab of rather runny Brie, some peaches, a knife, a corkscrew, a bottle of Beaujolais.

‘Right,’ she said out loud. ‘Right, I’m ready then.’ A final look round the house, appallingly clean, strange. She shut the windows and the front door, picked up the basket. A spider of vast size scurried in at the kitchen door across the floor and under the dresser. ‘You win.’ Matilda stepped out carrying the basket, locked the door, put the key under the bootscraper where only a fool would leave it for any fool to find. Into the garage, into the car, start it up, drive off. ‘If you exist keep an eye on Gus. See that he is all right. Please.’ Matilda prayed without faith as she drove fast down the lane which led to the main road. A god with wings was a credible God but not in the guise of a man driving a landrover. Matilda trod hard on the accelerator. The noise of the engine failed to drown the sound in her mind of betrayed honking.

In the empty house the telephone rang to an audience of one spider.

2

SHE SWITCHED ON THE car radio to drown the sound in her mind. I will not think of it. I will suppress it, forget it, bury it as I have done with other things all my life. Go away Gus, go away. She turned up the sound.

For many days now she had carried her transistor about the house and listened as she scrubbed, swept, hoovered, polished, dusted. As she worked she had heard Mozart, Beethoven, Bach and Brahms, pop and pop and pop, the news. Rumours of war, violence, here, there and everywhere, only it isn’t war now, she had thought, it is Guerillas, often pronounced Gorillas, who bomb, shoot or kidnap, hijack planes and trains. An active lot these Guerillas/Gorillas, forever in the news, by no means unsympathetic, full of ideals and always on the hour every hour between quiz games or music, Woman’s Hour, Listen with Mother, the news and weather imperceptibly changing as the days passed and she startled spiders, catching them in a tumbler, putting them out of doors before destroying their webs. The weather hot, continuing hot, traffic jams on the motorways, the French industrialist kidnapped from his home, the vanished bride on her honeymoon—perhaps she had realized her error, fled—and the Matricide. The police hunt for the Matricide and the Vanished Bride followed her upstairs and down as she dusted and swept, lifting the transistor from one piece of furniture to the next.

She had considered matricide. Why was killing your mother so special? Worse than killing your wife? Your child? Worse than being a Guerilla/Gorilla? He looked quite nice in the photo they showed on the box. Six foot two, they said, brown eyes, fair hair, large nose, speaks with an educated accent. One would hope so from a person who had weathered Winchester, Cambridge and the Sorbonne. One would hope so but just as able to kill his mother as the Guerillas were able to blow people up, shoot them down. A lot of Guerillas had also been to the Sorbonne or Harvard or Oxbridge.

Matilda had thought, as she put clean sheets on the beds, that a...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• 6
• 7
• 8
• 9
• 10
• 11
• 12
• 13
• 14
• 15
• 16
• 17
• 18
• 19
• 20
• 21
• 22
• 23
• 24
• 25
• 26
• 27
• About the Author
• Copyright