***sighs*** So many people read this story and nobody comments! Would love to know what you think, good or bad, and if anyone else remembers the Follyfoot series? (If you do, you'll have realised ninety per cent of this story is from my own imagination.)
***chapter 43***
***1962***
It is a sad fact of life that none of us will live forever. And although some may dread the prospect of their own demise while others welcome the Grim Reaper, I suspect most of us, for a multitude of different reasons, on a multitude of different days, have mixed feelings regarding the inevitable.
But for loved ones left behind, nothing can ever be the same.
Jimmy passed away, quietly in his sleep, as the first snows fell on what would prove to be the harshest winter for over two hundred years. The bitterly cold Friday evening preceding his death, he had, as usual, politely accepted the Maddocks' formal breakfast invitation. When he failed to appear at the table next day, an amused Arthur despatched a boy, who had himself been on his way to the staff's hearty kitchen breakfast, to "rouse the sleepyhead", adding with a smile "rap hard and fast as you can, Matt, for we all need a full breakfast in our bellies on a day such as this".
But the youth returned alone to report, try as he might, he'd been unable to obtain any answer. Arthur and Prudence sprang up as one from the table, the normally fastidious Prudence not caring that her sleeve dipped in marmalade as she caught hold of her husband's elbow and exclaimed, "Oh, dearest, no! Don't let anything have happened to him!"
"I pray not, Prudence, but we must stay calm." Arthur, white as the falling snow, struggled to keep his own composure and twice almost dropped a bunch of keys he'd pulled out of his waistcoat pocket. "Telephone Dr Moorcroft, my sweet, and have him meet me at the cottage immediately. Matt, my boy, come with me."
Matthew Mark Luke John Doyle (his doting mother had hoped, in vain, that her precious only son would become a priest) nodded, alarm flooding through his veins. He was new to the Maddocks household, having been appointed General Help only a month ago, but he was already well aware that Jimmy, the chauffeur, was held in very high esteem. At least, Jimmy was referred to as the chauffeur although, from what Matt could see, Jack Stanford chauffeured, Jimmy looked after little Dora, little Dora's Nurse, curiously enough the vastly wealthy Duchess of Hunterwood, took no notice of her charge and instead shopped and dined out, and little Dora, the golden child, with the exception of private tutoring, was ignored by her family (unless some special occasion deemed her presence necessary) and casually mixed with the lower classes as naturally and happily as though she were the daughter of some passing labourer.
Confusing though the household was, Matt was determined to "make a go" of it. He had only known Jimmy Turner a handful of weeks but he was pleasant enough despite being a Christian (having felt as though religion had been rammed down his throat, both at home and at school, Matt hated religion with a vengeance) and had apparently put in a good word for him, which secured him the job.
And it was a blessing that Lord Maddocks had company. Poor Arthur tried to pretend, even to himself, that he was shivering because of the icy outdoors, but his legs looked distinctly shaky and his gloved hands trembled so much that, in the end, Matt drew a deep breath and, without a word, gently plucked the keys from his master's grasp and took it upon himself to unlock the door.
They stumbled inside a cottage cold, quiet and dark, its curtains closed, a crumpled rug left unstraightened, cold, grey ashes piled in the grate. On the drawer of an old hall stand that had once graced the Maddocks' residence, and which now bore Jimmy's and Dora's hats, coats and wellington boots, an animal picture book lay face down, forgotten by its young owner when called home last night. Next to a half-eaten piece of toast on the draining board, yesterday's dishes had been left unwashed in the kitchen sink and next to a child-size desk and chair, where crayons and childish drawings still lay scattered, yesterday's newspaper had been left unopened on the arm of his favourite fireside chair. A lump rose in Arthur's throat. It did not bode well. Jimmy never would have retired to bed without ensuring everywhere was spick and span.
Their feet thundered up the narrow staircase, Lord Maddocks calling out his name, although he knew in his heart there would be no answer and there would be no answer ever again.
He pushed open the bedroom door, so quickly that a dressing gown on the hook behind swung briefly against his face. A loudly ticking bedside clock was the only sound, a flicker of growing daylight the only brightness. A bronze crucifix, a gift from the Maddocks, hung above the bed where Jimmy lay fully clothed, his eyes shut tight, a small smile on his lips, as if he had merely popped upstairs for forty winks and drifted away into a deep, agreeable sleep. He must have been dead some hours, but the winter weather chilled the room and only a light floral scent from an unlit candle permeated the air.
Arthur shook his friend, he checked his pulse, he checked his forehead, he looked wildly around, and then did exactly the same, over and over and over, as though everything might suddenly right itself if he repeated the ritual often enough. But it was no use. Jimmy's head still slumped forward and his body still flopped like a rag doll.
A sudden "hallooing" from downstairs announced the arrival of Dr Moorcroft and Lord Maddocks finally tore himself away as far as the door frame.
"He's gone, Tim. Come up, come up." Lord Maddocks' voice was trapped somewhere between a croak and a whisper and it was fortunate the front door was situated directly at the bottom of the stairs or the good doctor never would have heard. "Matt." Arthur turned to the boy, thankful for the dark morning he imagined hid his tears, unaware that they glistened ever more brightly in the half light. "Please wait outside while I speak in confidence with the physician."
Matt, frightened and upset by the death, was glad to do so. He hadn't been able to make up his mind which made him most uneasy: the corpse or the crucifix, rosary beads and two holy ornaments. It was something of a relief to be out on the landing, frowning at the painting of the Sacred Heart that adorned the stair wall, contemplating on the existence or otherwise of ghosts, and watching and listening warily in case the late Jimmy Turner, rather illogically considering the pair never had any disagreement or dislike of one another, should swear vengeance and haunt him.
"His death would appear to have been mercifully swift, sir." Timothy Moorcroft had completed the medical examination and scrubbed his hands in the tiny en suite bathroom that Arthur and Prudence had had added to the cottage when Jimmy's health began to deteriorate with age. A tall, thin man with silver hair and a hook nose, Dr Moorcroft had been acquainted with the Maddocks and Jimmy a great many years. He finished his ablutions, but still he kept his back to Arthur, whom he could see through the shaving mirror. Let the poor fellow weep in peace, he thought, wiping imaginary spots of snow from spectacles that had already been thoroughly cleansed. But inwardly the doctor sighed. He too was distressed by the loss, but this evening, when he and his wife discussed their day, he would drink a tot of rum to toast Jimmy's memory and no doubt shed a few tears then. He dealt with death often in his work and it was only professionalism that prevented him from breaking down. Lord and Lady Maddocks abhorred showing tears in public however because they feared it a "weakness" that might damage their political reputations. One of the very last conversations he had shared with Jimmy had been about how nobody should be ashamed of showing emotions, but, they'd concluded, shaking their heads, it was frequently the way of the aristocracy and the world was a sadder place for it.
"Indeed, indeed. Mercifully swift, as you say. We must be thankful his suffering was short." Arthur spoke at last after a long pause. He had broken the heartbreaking news to Prudence via the bedside telephone that they had long ago installed despite Jimmy's protests that telephones, especially telephones in bedrooms, were for "toffs" and he could "get ideas above his station". He blew his nose loudly, dried his eyes with thumb and forefinger, and pulled himself together enough to request young Mr Doyle's return.
"Matt, I have several errands for you. First, if Jack Stanford is back from his urgent leave of absence, have him drive Lady Maddocks to join me here. If he has not yet returned, you are to seek out Wilson to fetch the car. Then I wish you to go to the House and explain matters to both Sweeney and Mrs Geraghty. They are to inform the House staff only essential work need be done today and that everybody goes about their business as silently as possible this morning as a mark of respect. You may then go for the breakfast I so rudely interrupted you from (Arthur gave a wry smile at the irony of his own earlier words) and my deepest apologies for it. I realise this has been a most distressing experience for you and you are granted the rest of the day off, for that then will be everybody told."
No. Lord Maddocks was mistaken. Not quite everybody. Nobody had told Dora. Blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama, the little girl snapped suddenly awake…