The Shortest Journey by Hazel Holt Page A

were dreadful.
    The tide was out and the small sailing dinghies and
larger motor boats leaned sideways in the mud of the harbour. Early
holiday-makers sat on benches outside the Pier public house, or sat
on the sea wall eating ice-creams. Everything looked so normal – it
seemed impossible to think that somewhere Mrs Rossiter was dead.
But that’s nonsense, I told myself. If she had taken the sleeping
tablets, her body would have been found by now. And yet ... she
could have bought a bottle of whisky in Taunton, taken a bus to one
of the villages and walked up through the woods. She knew the area
well. Parts of the Quantocks are very remote; a body could remain
undiscovered for a long time.
    A family group, a young mother, father and small
child, passed me, the child scampering in front of his parents who
chased him, laughing. Why would she kill herself? She had seemed
sad when I saw her last, depressed, perhaps after her flu. It might
have been that she saw no point in going on, living at West Lodge,
gradually sinking into helplessness and dependency like the other
old people there. Whatever affection she might have had for Thelma
had been gradually eroded by her daughter’s selfishness and
indifference; her son was far away, her sister dying. Wouldn’t it
be better to go while one still had one’s faculties, before old age
took away the final pleasures that made life bearable? Had Mrs
Rossiter made the ultimate choice?
    It occurred to me that Mrs Jankiewicz must have made
the same deductions. She knew about the sleeping tablets; she knew
that Mrs Rossiter had been depressed. Perhaps that was why she had
been so moody today, hardly liking to voice such terrible thoughts,
even to me. I simply didn’t know what to do. If she had already
taken the tablets then nothing I could tell anyone would do any
good. But suppose she was still making up her mind, sitting in some
hotel room, screwing up her courage – what then?
    I stood there for a long time, seeing but not seeing
the life going on around me. Eventually I left the harbour and
walked back along the promenade. All her life Mrs Rossiter had been
subject to the will of other people. It seemed only right that she
should make this final decision for herself.
     

Chapter Four
     
    After a few days of cold and rain I woke up one
morning to brilliant sunshine and decided that I could put off no
longer the tiresome business of bathing the dogs. Tris, my West
Highland terrier, actively dislikes water so I do him first while I
still feel quite strong. Tessa, as befits a spaniel, enjoys the
water but thinks the whole thing is a delightful game and usually
contrives to soak me and everything else within reach. I had just
managed to get them both more or less rubbed down when the doorbell
rang. The dogs, half dry, broke away and rushed out from the
kitchen into the hall, barking excitedly and scattering water-drops
as they went. I pushed them to one side and half-opened the door as
best I could. Thelma was standing on the doorstep.
    I seized the dogs by their scruffs and bundled them
back into the kitchen and then came back to find Thelma standing in
the hall. One glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror made me
wish I could shut myself in the kitchen with the dogs. I was
wearing a dreadful old blouse and skirt that I keep for doing messy
jobs. As well as being old and unappealing, they were now heavily
splashed with water and dog shampoo. I had no make-up on and my
hair was hanging damply (and lankly) round my red and shiny
face.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said rather breathlessly, ‘I was
washing the dogs.’
    ‘Oh yes, you always did have animals.’
    She made it sound like some awful disease.
    I led her into the sitting room and mentally groaned.
I had embarked on the dog-washing straight after breakfast, before
I had done any tidying up and the room was just as I had left it
the night before. Then I had had a sudden fit of rearranging some
of my books and there were piles