Short Story: 'Guilt'

Mrs Kippins’ front room, London, 1962.

“She’s a perfect innocent,” insisted Mrs Kippins.

“Oh I’m sure she is,” said the Major, “but she’s a fine looking girl all the same. Plenty of young fellows will want to step out with her.”

Mrs Kippins looked up from her knitting - her toes, squished into brown tights, warming by the three-bar electric heater, “Nonsense. She’s not the type - she’s - what’s it? Well she’s a teacher for a start. Into books and handwriting and that - no, the chaps round here they don’t - “

“Academic! That’s the word,” said Winnie Miniver with a nod before sharply sipping her tea.

“Yes, thank you Mrs Miniver," said Mrs Kippins with strained politeness, “As I was saying, the fellows around here - they don’t want a girl like that. A girl what’s academic. If she’s not in the library she’s in the church, God knows why…”

“It’s because she’s Irish,” said Mrs Miniver, “They love a church. My sister lives beside an Irish family. She can hear the father ranting and raving all week, wild as you like, and then off to church on a Sunday. I said to her - ”

Mrs Kippins ignored her and looked up from her knitting to the Major, “What was that Major?”

The Major’s mind startled a moment, went to fetch what he was saying - or wasn’t saying but perhaps would have said had he been saying anything -

“Ah - Mark my words,” he thumped the armrest “She’ll be off and married within the year.” He nodded satisfied - absolutely correct through his conviction alone.

Mrs Kippins twitched at the thought.

“You’d miss her wouldn’t you Mrs Kippins?” said Winnie Miniver, “You’d be perfectly lost without her I’m sure.”

Mrs Kippins’ jaw set, her knitting needles clacking furiously, “I’m quite sure I’d be able to cope Mrs Miniver.”

“Nah, you’d miss her alright. I said to my sister only the other day, that girl’s been like a daughter to poor Mrs Kippins.”

The needles stopped, “She’s been a lodger Mrs Miniver. A lodger. A helpful one? Yes. One that pays on time? Yes. One that minds her own beeswax and don’t go speaking all sorts of nonsense on a wet Wednesday afternoon when people are trying to relax? Yes. And it is much appreciated.”

“Oh well, excuse me I’m sure,” said Winnie Miniver with a conspiratorial turn to the Major. The Major knew better than to meet her eye.

The girl in question was twenty-two year old Marie Tynan, looking out the window across the back of the houses as the grey settled on the evening. A fox idly walked along a brick wall and dropped from view. She turned from the window, and with a hand on the bed to settle her, dropped to her knees - the floor-boards pleasingly hard and cold. She looked to the crucifix on the wall and murmured fretful prayers -

“Dear God, tell me I did the right thing…”

***

The following Monday, Marie spent the afternoon wandering. She couldn’t go back to the house yet, that would set the day in stone. Instead she wandered hoping for something, for any free exciting thing, to happen to her.

She had been to another interview for a teaching post that morning. It had gone badly. She was nervous, perhaps too brittle, too dull. The headmistress hadn’t taken to her.

She reminded Marie of her mother. The mother she would have to return to soon if she couldn’t find work. Marie could feel her stern look now - the spiteful pinching fingers - her disappointment, her disgust at self pity - “stupid girl”.

Marie walked to the park and watched the swans. Young couples strolled arm in arm, one woman laughed as she touched her partner’s chest. Marie’s stomach twisted. It was time to leave.

She walked down Tredegar Drive to Mrs Kippins’ with the weight of that house - it’s dark, locked-in dread closing in on her with every step. The old trinity were in the front room as usual, she would try to get upstairs to her room without Mrs Kippins giving her another ‘little job to do’.

‘Hello!’ she called brightly as she passed the lounge. She was three steps up when Mrs Kippins called

“Marie! Is that you?” She was the only other lodger in the house.

“Yes, Mrs Kippins,” Marie ducked her head around the door - the three were sitting in their usual high-back chairs, “If you still want me to clean up the yard I can do it this evening - “

“Oh no don’t worry about that,” said Mrs Kippins, “You can do it in a minute. Put on the kettle and make yourself some tea. We’re in need of a top-up too.”

As the kettle boiled, Marie looked out the window and watched the tree’s leaves bow and whisper in the wind.

She returned with a tray, carrying the teapot and her cup on a saucer.

As she topped up their others’ tea, Mrs Kippins asked, “Well then, how did the interview go?”

“Oh very well thank you,” said Marie.

Mrs Kippins nodded to Mrs Miniver and the Major like a proud parent, “I knew it would, didn’t I say it would?”

“You did indeed Mrs Kippins,” said the Major.

“How lovely,” said Mrs Miniver clasping her blue-veined hands together, “And I’m sure they have lots of nice young men teaching at the school too…”

Marie blushed, talk of the opposite sex much less relations with them was unheard of at home. Old Mrs Miniver in her neat little head-wrap delighted in such talk. A devil’s delight. It made Marie queasy.

“Don’t embarrass the girl,” said Mrs Kippins, “You can see she’s embarrassed, she’s gone all red look!”

Marie smiled meekly, “I’m fine.”

A car swished by outside. Silence. They watched Marie.

“Oh say!” said the Major, “Have you seen this murder case in the evening paper?”

“Ooh, it’s a good one, show her!” said Mrs Miniver. For once Mrs Miniver’s eagerness was matched by Mrs Kippins - they both sat up as the Major fished out the newspaper, which had been folded into stiff baton and shoved down the side of his chair. He unfolded it, gave it a stiff shake, then cleared his throat like a spluttering trumpet.

“Listen here now - ‘Lord arrested in Lovers Lane Murder Case’”

“Can you believe it a Lord!” said Mrs Miniver.

“Pipe down,” said Mrs Kippins.

The Major continued, “There have been swift developments in the case of Lady Caroline Bracknell, whose body, along with that of an unidentified man, was found in a car in Hampstead on Tuesday. Both parties had been fatally shot. Following evidence of a written note found at the scene, police are now questioning Lord Bracknell in relation to the case…”

“Well! What do you say to that!” said Mrs Miniver, “It’s a scandal, a proper scandal!” She was giddy with it, her tiny frame fizzing with excitement in that chair.

“And wasn’t she beautiful,” said Mrs Kippins, “Oh! A real beauty - show her!”

The Major turned the paper - underneath the stark headline was a smudgy photo of a dashing older man in a suit with a younger woman, blonde, cooly beautiful, aloof almost - those eyes - that smile - Her.

The tea cup fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Oh my!” said Marie, her hands shaking, “I - I’ll get a tea-towel.”

“Be quick dear before it goes into my nice carpet!” said Mrs Kippins.

Marie returned with a tea-towel from the kitchen and quickly dropped to the swirling patterned carpet.

“Get it quick girl,” said the Major - the tea was sitting atop the bristles in a glossy puddle, ready to sink. The tea-towel flushed brown the moment she placed it down. Her hands still a quiver. She looked up - Mrs Kippins was watching her carefully. She folded over the tea-towel and patted the rest dry - any stain would be lost in the pattern.

“I think I got the worse of it?” offered Marie.

“I think you did dear,” said Mrs Kippins, “Come, I’ll help you with the washing up.”

Marie gathered the cups and saucers onto the tray.

Mrs Kippins followed her out to the kitchen where she caught her by the elbow and lead her to the table, “Just a quiet word dear, just a quiet word…”

***

“What’s all this about then?” said Mrs Kippins examining Marie’s face. Marie daren’t look up and meet those keen sharp eyes.

“Oh I am sorry, I must be tired, I’ve had - “

“No, no,” said Mrs Kippins leaning back and lighting a cigarette, “there’s more to it than that. When you saw that photo you came over all funny…”

A plume of smoke hit Marie.

Marie searched the tablecloth, searched the moment for some escape -

“Come, come my dear,” pressed Mrs Kippins, “Tell the truth and shame the devil.”

Marie looked up, her eyes wet and desperate.

“I recognised her - “

Mrs Kippins leaned forward - “Her in the paper?”

“I didn’t know her, it was just - I need to explain. I need to explain to someone - “

Mrs Kippins sucked on her cigarette, “Yes, I think you should dear.” She looked to the open door, got up and gently closed it.

“It was last week, Wednesday,” began Marie placing each word carefully as pieces in a jigsaw, “I had been at an interview for the school in Pimlico - it didn’t go well. I ducked into a cafe to settle my nerves with a cup of tea - that’s when they came in. Oh they were so glamorous you couldn’t help but notice! And herself, the blonde, well! She made it clear this wasn’t her type of place at all - as loud as you like! I thought that very rude. Her friend - brown hair, short woman, too much makeup - she said let’s just wait until the rain clears. ‘Oh I suppose’ says the first - in that very fine voice.

“Snobby type was she?” said Mrs Kippins rolling the cigarette in her fingers.

Marie nodded - “Oh yes, but terribly beautiful too. She was like Grace Kelly from the pictures, but her teeth weren’t as nice.”

“I see,” said Mrs Kippins.

“I was minding my own business, I’m not the type to listen in to conversation you know, but they were talking as loud as you like. And the blonde says

‘Now if Charles happen to ask, he won’t of course, but if he does - say we spent all afternoon together.’

‘How delightful’ - says the brunette - ‘and what, pray tell, did we do?’

'Why we went to the gallery and had a lovely time appreciating the art.’

‘And then?’ says the brunette.

‘And then to a young, handsome, virile photographer’s studio for… further appreciation…’

‘You’re terrible! said the brunette in an excited way.

And then the blonde laughed. This throaty laugh. I didn’t care for it. But anyway it strikes me all as very odd. The blonde goes on -

‘I must find you a play-friend. No do let me, I insist. It’s for your own good dear. Husbands get both bored and deeply boring after the first child.’

‘Caroline! Keep your voice down,’ says the brunette with a laugh.

And then the blonde says ‘oh there’s nobody worth worrying about here’.

How do you like that Mrs Kippins?”

“Snob,” says Mrs Kipping flicking a cigarette into the ashtray.

“So they go on - “He must be fun - Oh he is, he’s a delight, very playful” - and all this kind of dirty talk. So I piece together that she’s talking about some young man she’s seeing - outside of her marriage."

Marie muttered this last bit shamefully. Mrs Kippins nods solemnly to match the moment.

“So, she notices the rain’s cleared off and she says she must go meet him - this fella. So they say their goodbyes. Well, I was finished my tea anyway so I paid up and I happen to walk out in the same direction as she went - I didn’t mean to now - but it just happened she was in front of me on the pavement- and I thought to myself I’ve never been to that gallery so I might stick my head in.”

Mrs Kippins nodded, suppressing a twist of a smile.

“And there he was on the steps waiting for her.”

“And what did he look like - this Valentino?” asked Mrs Kippins dryly.

“Oh - he was just a young man in a suit, nice dark coat…” blushed Marie.

“He was a handsome devil weren’t he? I can tell by you,” Mrs Kippins said, almost gloating.

“Well, they went inside,” Marie hurried on, “And I went in too. I had a look at some of the art. Now I don’t know much about that kind of thing - but I lost sight of them anyway - and then there they were by the statues laughing - with her arm in his - anyone could see! And when she was laughing she touched his chest like this - ”

Marie held her palm to her chest, it sank back to the table.

“Well, I went to the toilets - because it was shocking Mrs Kippins.”

“Shocking,” Mrs Kippins agreed.

“And I splashed my face with the cold water - and then I thought to myself. What would the husband say? The poor husband. No idea that his wife is galavanting around with other men. Well I didn’t know what to do - but I knew God put me there for a reason. You see, I was the only one there who knew - the only one who knew it was wrong. So I got out my diary and tore a page out - then I wrote a warning.”

“A warning?"

Marie’s breath caught, she’d hoped to slip by this detail. She looked to the ceiling for guidance. then swallowed -

“I lied - a white lie. For the greater good. I wrote -

‘Warning - I know what your’e doing with my wife. Stay away or else!’"

“Oh my!” said Mrs Kippins.

“I folded it up and then went back to the gallery. I walked about a bit with it tight in my hand and then I saw them again, laughing at a painting and saying all sorts no doubt. I got up close behind them - ‘Let’s get out of here’ he was saying to her - and my heart was racing Mrs Kippins - I slipped the note into his pocket.”

“Then what?”

“Well i got myself outside fast as I could - without making a fuss of course - and outside I couldn’t hardly catch my breath. An old woman asked if I was alright. I said I just had a dizzy spell. They walked out, right passed me - the pair of them all cosy together. When I got home I prayed - I prayed to God that I’d done the right thing - and I felt that I did - but now…”

“Now she’s dead,” says Mrs Kippins with a sour flatness.

“Do you think my note had anything to do with it?” said Marie.

“Hard to say dear, hard to say,” Mrs Kippins stubbing out the cigarette and toying with the ashes in the tray. A flicker in her eye. She sighed, leaned forward and took Marie’s hands in hers “Here’s what to do. You write down exactly what you told me. That way if the police come around - “

“Police!”

“Well of course dear, if they investigate that note further… well, they can twist anything in court. Could make out you were obsessed with the couple. Jealous. Did anyone see you in that cafe?”

“Well yes, I suppose but - “

“It don’t look good. You’ve mixed yourself up in something rotten here," said Mrs Kippins.

“But I had nothing to do - "

“Oh I know that dear, believe me I do, and my heart goes out to you - but still - it’s all how it looks what really matters. They twist these things to fit their story,” Mrs Kippins said moving her hand in the air as though turning a doorknob - “You write it down now while it’s fresh in your head and put the date on it. That way we’ll always have a real record of what really happened - not what they want to have happened.”

Marie nodded.

***

The boyfriend was identified the next day - a photographer called Jack Mackey. He had only been 24. He was an East End boy who had got in with the glamorous set. His mother said he’d been a good boy and would be alive today if he’d only followed his father into the welding business.

The following Tuesday, the husband was released as police found the note could not possibly be written by him.

“Oh thank God, I couldn’t have him in prison on my conscience,” said Marie.

“You think that’s good news do you?” said Mrs Kippins as she ran a dishcloth around the sink, “They’ll be looking for whoever wrote that note now my dear.”

Weeks drifted by but time wasn’t marked by Marie’s new teaching job in Leytonstone - rather it was marked by updates on the case - the evening dispatches eagerly poured over by Mrs Kippins and Marie on the kitchen table.

Marie’s stomach was gripped with dark thoughts all day only to be released and re-wrenched in an entirely new fashion by a headline that night.

‘The search for the killer continues…’, ‘Who wrote the Lovers Lane note?'

Marie felt it close in on her - the dread pressing in on the school windows, rattling any ease with every knock on the classroom door. It settled into her bones like a vicious winter chill.

Then one Monday - Jack Mackey’s girlfriend was arrested - Deborah her name was, a barmaid from Bromley-by-Bow. Not far from Mrs Kippins’. Marie might have passed her on the market a hundred times.

In court the prosecution said Deborah had found a note in Jack’s pocket leading her to suspect the affair. She’d followed them - and shot them in a jealous rage with a gun her father kept in his shop.

Deborah was found guilty. Life in prison. The note remained a mystery.

Not relief, but a resolution.

Marie started to build up some savings and looked at a flat of her own. A neat little place in the basement of a terraced house closer to the school. Mrs Kippins was eager to know all about it - but Marie insisted she’d only be looking out of politeness to a friend who was giving up the flat. She thought it best to spare Mrs Kippins’ feelings until the deal was done.

That night Mrs Kippins shared a drop of whiskey with the Major and Winnie Miniver. Marie didn’t partake in drinking. After two or three, Mrs Kippins began to get loose and talk about the murder case. She asked Winnie Miniver if she thought it all made sense.

Winnie said she expected so but the Major boomed with finger in the air- “All except the note. Mark my words, it’s all settled except for that note.”

Mrs Kippins gave Marie a sly leering look “So not all settled then is it?”

As Marie helped her up the stairs onto the landing, a wobbly Mrs Kippins thanked her - and apologised -

“Heaven knows I’m liable to say anything after a drink or two - thank God you were here to stop me!” She said with a laugh, “Imagine if you weren’t - and the scandal at your school. Still, we’ll always know what really happened won’t we? I have your note.”

Mrs Kippins patted Marie softly on the face and disappeared to her room.

It struck Marie then. The fastening of the bind. The years ahead.

“You’re like a daughter to me Marie,” cooed Mrs Kippins from the darkness, “Like a daughter.”

***

Her mother died the next year. Marie didn’t go home to see her buried. She felt nothing. Not the release she had imagined for now she had nothing to be released into. The grip of that mother had long since turned ghostly, and now…

Now she sits in the kitchen of 36 Tredegar Drive marking school-books for the next day.

It’s just Mrs Kippins now. The others have passed on. She wants her tea. Marie puts on the kettle and looks out the window as the grey settles. It is evening, the day has gone.

***

I’m on Twitter @TheRoryJohn