Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

But she'd finally realised it was something more than a sprain--that's why she'd eventually gone to her GP, who in mm had referred her to a specialist. And now she was hearing all about it: about the meta-something between the wrist and the fingers. She'd u'y to look it up in that big dark-blue Grey Ly Atmtomy she'd often dusted on one of Mrs. Stevens's bookshelves. Not too difficult to remember: she'd just have to think of "inet a couple"--that's what it sounded like.

"And you'll be very. sensible, if you can, to stop using your fight hand completely. No housework. Rest! That's what it needs. The big thing for the time being is to give it a bit of support. So before you leave, the nurse here'll let you have one of those 'Tubigrips'--fits over your hand like a glove. And, as I say, we'll get you in just as soon as, er... are you a member of BUPA, by the wa),?"

"Pardon?"

"Doesn't matter. We'll get you in just as soon as we can. Only twenty-four hours, with a bit of luck. Just a little op to set the bone and plaster you up for a week or two."

"It's not quite so easy as that, Doctor. My husband's been in hospital for a few days. He's had a bit of a heart attack and he's only just home this morning, so..."

"We can put you in touch with a home-help."

"I can do a little bit of housework, can't I?"

"Not if you're sensible. Can't you get a cleaning-lady in for a couple of days a week?"

"I am a cleaning-lady," she replied, at last feeling that she'd rediscovered her bearings; reestablished her identity in life.

She'd hurried home that morning, inserting and turning the Yale key with her left hand, since it was becoming too painful to perform such an operation with her fight.

"I'm back, Ted!"

Walking straight through into the living-room, she found her husband, fully dressed, lounging in front of the TV, his fingers on the black control-panel.

"Christ! Where the 'ell a' you bin, woman?"

Brenda bit her lip. "There was an emergency--just be-fore my turn. It held everything up."

"I thought you were the bloody emergency from all the fuss you've bin making."

"Baked beans all right for lunch?"

"Baked beans?"

"I've got something nice in for tea."

A few minutes later she took a tin of baked beans from a pantry shelf; and holding it in her right hand beneath a tin-opener fixed beside the kitchen door, she slowly turned the handle with her left. Slowly--yes, very slowly, like the worm that was finally tuming...

And why?

If ever Brenda Brooks could be gin to contemplate the murder of her husband, she would surely acknowledge as her primary, her abiding motive, the ways in which men tally and verbally he had so cruelly abused her for so long.

But no!

Belittlement had been her regular lot in life; and on that score he was, in reality, robbing her at most of a dignity that she had never known.

Would the underlying motive then be found in the knowledge of her husband's sexual abuse of an adolescent and increasingly attractive step-daughter?

Perhaps.

But it was all so much simpler than that. One thing there had been in her life---just the one thing--in which she could rejoice, in which until so very recently she had re-joiced: the skills she had acquired with her hands. And Edward Brooks had robbed her of them; had robbed her even of the little that she had, which was her all.

And for that she cou M never forgive him.

Brenda decided she needn't replay all that last bit to Mrs. Stevens; but she did need to explain what had gone wrong the day before. Not that there was much to say, really. What was it he'd said when she'd told him she'd been invited out to lunch with Mrs. S?

"Well if you think you're going to leave me this lunch-time, you bloody ain't, see? Not while I'm feeling groggy like this."

Why had she ever married the man?

She'd known it was a mistake even before that ghastly wedding--as she'd prayed for God to boom down some unanswerable objection from the hammer-beam roof when the vicar had invited any just cause or impediment. But the Voice had been silent; and the invited guests were seated quietly on each side of the nave; and the son of Brenda's only sister (a sub-postmistress in Inverness), a spotty but mellifluous young soprano, was all rehearsed to render the "Pie Jesu" from the Faur Requiem.

Often in life it was difficult enough to gird up one's loins and go through with one's commitments. On this occasion, though, it had been far more difficult not to do so....

But at least Ted Brooks had relented somewhat, that previous evening--and she knew why. He'd decided he was feeling a whole lot better. He thought he might venture out---would venture out--into the big wide world again: the big wide world in this case being the East Oxford Conserv-ative Club, well within gentle walking distance, where (he said) he'd be glad to meet the lads again, have a pint--even try a frame of snooker, perhaps. And he'd have a bite to eat in the club there; so she needn't bother 'erself about any more bloody baked beans.