The Day Mr Green Died

by R J Dent

It was a hot afternoon in the middle of July when Mr Green died.

          Mrs Green got off the bus carrying two heavy carrier bags. She had nearly got to her front door when she realized she hadn’t got her front door key.

          As she stood in her garden (not really looking at her tidy front garden with its neatly-trimmed, but dry hedges, its manicured but parched lawn, and its heat-wilted flowers) Mrs Green remembered that George had the keys. Just before they had left the house that morning, to catch the town bus, George had put his small bunch of keys into the left hand pocket of his waistcoat and patted the pocket, as was his habit. His action had persuaded Mrs Green not to take her own keys with her.

          On the bus, Mrs Green had talked about the shortcomings of some of the other passengers (in a not-so-low voice) to her friend, Eileen Connegar. George (showing his usual disinterest in her conversation and her continual application and reapplication of make-up) had looked out of the window of the lumbering double-decker bus, enjoying the view of the slowly passing sun-warmed fields. Mrs Green hated travelling by bus, but as neither she nor George could drive, and their finances wouldn’t stretch to paying for taxis, she endured it. To compensate, she always had something scathing to say about the people she was forced to travel with.

          Upon arriving in the town centre, she had given the key no more thought, despite seeing George give his pocket another tap. Perhaps she should have given it some thought when George announced he was going to stay in town and shop for a new pair of drill trousers. Perhaps he should have remembered too. But he hadn’t and he’d walked along to the shops with the forgotten key in his waistcoat pocket.

          And now that she was back from her excursion, Mrs Green was locked out of her own home. She was mildly irritated about the situation – and more than a little annoyed with George, despite realizing that it wasn’t all George’s fault. She was partly to blame.

          Fortunately, Mrs Green realized that she didn’t have to wait outside her house for George’s return. She could go to Eileen’s house. Eileen had travelled back with her on the lunchtime bus and would now be at home. Having made up her mind, Mrs Green set off to spend a little time in the company of her best friend. As she walked down her garden path, she envisaged Eileen’s telephone ringing within the hour, an apologetic George on the other end, telling her a pot of tea was made, awaiting her return.

          Almost happy, despite the circumstances, Mrs Green set off down the Avenue.

*

As Mrs Green turned the corner of the quiet village street, a small, faded turquoise car turned into the Avenue at the other end. It slowed then stopped outside Mr and Mrs Green’s house. A woman – aged about thirty and dressed in a rust-coloured uniform – got out of the car, walked to the Green’s front door and knocked. After about twenty seconds, she knocked again. Once it became obvious to the woman that no one was in, she looked at the flanking houses, wondering which neighbour she should call on in order to try and locate Mrs Green. She opted for the nearest house, number sixty-seven, then walked out of the Green’s garden and into the front garden of the chosen house. Reaching the front door, the woman knocked and waited. After a few moments, the door opened and a woman of about twenty-five, with long red hair and wearing clusters of ornamental metal in various places on her face, looked at her quizzically.

          “Hello,” the redhead said in a somewhat tentative voice, which struggled to be heard over the loud music that was playing from somewhere inside the house.

          “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Mrs Green,” the woman announced. “She’s not at home and I wondered if you’d perhaps know where I might find her.”

          A look of suspicion crossed the red-head’s face and the woman looking for Mrs Green suddenly felt that she was being examined very closely and very carefully by someone who had no wish for uniformed people to be a part of her life.

          “I hope you don’t think I’m being rude,” the young redhead said, “but what is it you want her for?”

          The uniformed woman felt a sudden flash of anger at what she considered to be a breach of protocol, anger that dispersed when she realized that this young metal-wearing woman might be a relative or an overly protective friend of Mrs Green’s. She decided to be diplomatic.

          “I’m afraid that I have some very bad news for her,” she said.

          The redhead suddenly looked very concerned, but also very interested. She opened her door a little wider, stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her, which cut down the volume of the music abruptly. The woman looking for Mrs Green saw that she was dressed in orange flared trousers, a multi-coloured – but predominantly purple – beaded top and was barefoot.

          “I think I saw her outside her house a few minutes ago, but I couldn’t swear to it,” she said.

          “She’s not there now. I’ve just knocked. And the company I work for asked me to find her and inform her of this rather bad news. Could she have gone to see someone – perhaps a friend or a relative?”

          “I don’t know who her friends are in the village,” the redhead said, making the last two words sound as though they had capital letters. “I’m sorry.”

          The uniformed woman realized that there was every possibility that Mrs Green might not return for several hours.

          “I have to be back at work very soon. I don’t suppose you’d tell her for me, could you? It’s about her husband.”

          “Has something happened to him?” the redhead asked, suddenly sounding a little scared.

          Yes, something has,” the uniformed woman responded. “And if you’d rather not be the bearer of bad news, I suppose I could come back later.” Her tone of voice made it very clear that the last thing she really wanted to do was ‘come back later’.

          The young redhead was visibly steeling herself for something unpleasant.

          “Okay, you’d better tell me.”

          The uniformed woman gave her a few more moments, then said: “Mrs Green’s husband has had a heart attack in the shop I work in.”

          “Oh shit!” the redhead muttered. She was silent for several seconds. “Is he dead?” she finally managed to ask.

          “Yes,” the woman answered. “He died almost instantly.”

          “Poor old Mr Green,” the redhead said.

          “And poor Mrs Green.”

          The redhead nodded.

          “Yes, true.”

          “Are you sure you don’t mind telling her?” the uniformed woman asked.

          The young woman looked at her steadily.

          “I’d rather not do it at all, but I will do it. It might be better coming from me.”

          “You’re probably right,” the uniformed woman said, the relief at having off-loaded an unpleasant task onto someone else evident in her voice. “In that case, I’d better be getting back to work. Thank you for doing this.”

          “I wish I could say it was okay, but it’s not – not really.”

          “No, I don’t suppose it is,” the uniformed woman said hastily, backing down the path, away from the redhead and her candid words. “I really must be going now. I’m late as it is.”

          “Yes, of course. Bye.”

          The uniformed woman turned and walked briskly back to her car.

          The redhead watched her get in and drives away.

*

Back inside her house, the young woman turned the music down and sat on a beanbag, thinking about what the uniformed woman had said.

          “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she said aloud. “What a horrible fucking job.”

          She opted to sit by the window and keep an eye out for Mrs Green. She was still trying to find an easy – or at least coherent – way of delivering the news, when she saw Mrs Green plod up the Avenue and go into her garden. Mentally preparing herself as best she could, the young woman went out of her front door, along the path, out of the gate, and along the path to Mrs Green’s garden gate. She saw Mrs Green standing by her front door, a puzzled expression on her face.

          Mrs Green’s expression left her face abruptly when she saw Jasmine White (the strange-looking creature from next door) hovering at her gate. Instead, Mrs Green’s features expressed hostility and revulsion. Throughout her life, Mrs Green had made it a point of the utmost importance to have as little to do with peculiar-looking people as was possible. This one, with her long, unkempt hair, her clusters of rings and studs in her face (and who knew where else), her outlandish clothes (which no decent person would purchase, not even from a second-hand shop), and her bare feet, was no exception to that rule. That such a creature (with all of her late-night and early morning parties; her refusal to have much to do with anyone from the village; and all of her wild goings-on with her current boyfriend) could be allowed to live in a house in such a beautiful village was, for Mrs Green, one of the great injustices of the world. And now the freakish creature was actually standing at her gate, looking for all the world as though she was about to come into (and sully) Mrs Green’s beautiful garden.

          “Yes, what do you want?” Mrs Green called, making sure she kept the hostility out of her voice because the pathetic creature had been helpful once or twice in the past and it wouldn’t be wise to sour the chance of any future uses she might have. Besides, she might actually have something to say, rather than her usual idiotic blather about lunar cycles, crystal healing or tarot cards.

          “Can I come in and speak to you, Mrs Green?” Jasmine called.

          Mrs Green nodded, then watched as the young woman opened the gate and advanced up the path. It annoyed her to see she had left the gate open and an old adage of her mother’s: ‘untidy garden, untidy person’ flitted fleetingly through her mind. As she thought of this, she glanced at the jungle that masqueraded as a garden at number sixty-seven. Her gaze went back to Jasmine White and she saw the pained expression (visible despite the hunks of metal) on the young woman’s face.

          “What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, satisfied that her tone was neither too inviting nor too alienating.

          “Oh, Mrs Green!” Jasmine said, “I’ve got some terrible news.”

          “News?” Mrs Green retorted. “For me?”

          Jasmine nodded.

          “Yes. And it’s bad news I’m afraid. Very bad news.”

          “What bad news?” Mrs Green demanded, a note of fear in her voice. “What about?”

          Jasmine paused to collect herself.

          “It’s about Mr Green,” she said finally. “Your husband,” she added for clarification.

          Mrs Green visibly sagged.

          “George,” she said. “Bad news about George! What’s happened to him? And how do you know something about George that I don’t?” Her tone of hostility had finally entered her voice, making her final question sound almost like an accusation.

          Jasmine was close to tears, but she held them back for Mrs Green’s sake.

          “Would you like to come into my house?” Jasmine asked, “And I’ll explain everything?”

          “No I would not!” Mrs Green snapped, shaking her head vehemently. “Just tell me what’s happened to George (and how you know about it) so I can get things sorted out.”

          Mrs Green’s hostility was too much for the over-wrought Jasmine to bear and she burst into tears.

          “It’s your husband!” she sobbed. “He’s had a heart attack. It was in town – in a shop. He died. In the shop. A woman came from the shop to tell you, but you weren’t in. She asked me to tell you, and then she went back to the shop… And–” She broke off, unable to say any more for a few moments, then she added: “I’m very sorry, Mrs Green. I really am…”

          “You’re sorry!” Mrs Green screeched. “Oh, I bet you are! My George is dead and people like you stay alive! Where’s the justice in that, that’s what I want to know? You tell me – if you can!”

          Jasmine, too emotionally overloaded to be able to deal with Mr Green’s death and Mrs Green’s harsh words, still managed to contain her pain as she tried to offer the distraught woman a small shred of comfort.

          “I really am sorry, Mrs Green. I liked Mr Green. You must know that.”

          Mrs Green didn’t seem to hear. She was staring at her feet, in particular at the concrete patterns on the garden path. She failed to notice the police car pulling up at the kerb outside her gate.

          “He was a decent man,” she said suddenly. “Good and decent. Nobody ever had a bad word to say about him…” Her gaze switched to Jasmine’s tear-stained eyes and bored into them. “How many others can truthfully say that, eh? Not many that I know.”

          Jasmine nodded.

          “He’ll be missed,” she said simply.

          Both women heard a car door slam and they turned simultaneously. P.C. Chris Millwood was striding along Mrs Green’s garden path.

          Mrs Green’s grief seemed to depart instantly. She straightened her posture, brushed the front of her coat and attempted a weak smile.

          “Good afternoon, Chris,” she called.

          “Afternoon, Mrs Green,” the policeman responded warily. “Hello, Jasmine.”

          “Hello,” Jasmine responded, her voice sounding low and drained.

          “You two ladies just having a neighbourly chat?” the policeman asked.

          “I’ve just been telling Mrs Green about her husband,” Jasmine said.

          P.C. Millwood suddenly looked solemn.

          “Yes. I was very sorry to hear about George, Mrs Green. It must be a terrible shock for you.”

          “Did you come to tell me about George?” Mrs Green asked, a note of hope audible in her voice.

          “Well, the town police did ask me to inform you of your husband’s death if you hadn’t already been notified. But I came specifically to give you George’s possessions – his wallet and his keys.”

          “Keys!” said Mrs Green. “I’m locked out, you see.”

          “How did you hear about George’s death, Jasmine?” the policeman asked, as he handed George’s possessions to Mrs Green.

          “A woman from the shop came out to tell Mrs Green, but she was out, so she told me,” Jasmine said.

          “Well, thank you for your help.”

          “Is it all right if I go home now?” Jasmine asked in a quiet voice.

          “Of course it is,” the policeman said. “Off you go. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything now.”

          Jasmine nodded, then turned and walked slowly down the path and out of the gate, closing it behind her.

          “Right then, Mrs Green,” the policeman said heartily, “let’s get you inside, shall we?” He took the bunch of keys out of Mrs Green’s unresisting hand.

          “Chris,” Mrs Green said tentatively, “is everything that… that woman said true?”

          The policeman nodded as he inserted the key into the keyhole.

          “Yes, I’m afraid it is. Sorry.”

          “What happened?” Mrs Green demanded. “I want to know the facts. How did he…?”

          “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

          Mrs Green nodded, and then shook her head, momentarily confused.

          “I can’t get in. George has the key. Mine’s inside. That’s why I’m out here.”

          The policeman turned the key and pushed the door open. He pulled the key out of the keyhole and handed the small bunch to Mrs Green. She stared at them.

          “Yes, that’s them. They were in his…” Mrs Green broke off and started to cry.

          The policeman put his arm around her shoulder.

          “Don’t upset yourself,” he said softly, as he guided Mrs Green into her house. He went out, picked up her shopping bags and brought them in, closing the front door behind him.

          Mrs Green was standing in the centre of the sombrely furnished and immaculately tidy living room. She was looking around.

          “I’m just beginning to realize that George isn’t coming home,” she said. After a short silence, she added: “It’ll be strange not having him around.”

          “Yes, it will be,” the policeman said gently. “Is there anything I can get you?”

          Mrs Green shook her head.

          “No, thank you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already. I’ll phone Eileen and get her to keep me company.”

          “That’s a good idea,” P.C. Millwood said, the relief evident in his voice.

          “Before you go,” Mrs Green said, “could you tell me exactly what happened?”

          “You know it was a heart attack, don’t you?”

          “Yes, but that’s all I know.”

          “The details aren’t all that pleasant,” the policeman warned.

          “I don’t suppose they are,” Mrs Green replied. “But I’d still like to know.”

          The policeman nodded and took a small notebook out of his tunic breast pocket and opened it.

          “It all sounds rather official,” he said.

          “Please just tell me,” Mrs Green pleaded.

          “Very well,” the policeman said, consulting a page in the notebook. “At approximately 1.30 this afternoon, Mr George Green was in Miller’s, the surplus store, trying on a pair of trousers in the changing room, when he had a heart attack. He collapsed onto the floor and one of the shop assistants, a Miss Katherine Jackson, heard the noise of his fall and went to investigate. Miss Jackson found Mr Green laying face up on the floor and immediately called an ambulance. Unfortunately, the ambulance arrived too late and Mr Green died on the shop floor. Time of death is recorded at 1.42 this afternoon.” He looked up from the notebook. “If it’s any comfort to you, Mrs Green, he didn’t suffer. The shop assistant said he was perfectly still and peaceful during his last few minutes.”

          “Poor George,” Mrs Green said.

          “Yes, I’m very sorry.”

          “Thank you.”

          “Well,” the policeman said pointedly, putting his notebook away, “if there’s nothing else…”

          “No, no. You go. I know you’re very busy. I’ll be fine. I’ll ring Eileen as soon as you’ve gone.”

          The policeman nodded.

          “In that case, good afternoon Mrs Green,” he said, curiously formal. He turned and left the house, closing the front door behind him.

          Mrs Green went to the window and watched him stride to his patrol car.

*

Mrs Green sat in an aubergine-coloured armchair and stared at the bunch of keys that the policeman had handed to her.

          “Poor George,” Mrs Green said again. This time, because she was alone, her tone was different. It was now one of anguished suffering, combined with a hint of anger. Sitting alone and hunched in her chair, Mrs Green suddenly had a mental image of George, just prior to his death: the heart attack striking as he struggled to slip the new trousers over his feet; a hammering in his chest beginning to grow from pain to agony; his balance deserting him as the pain grew too intense to stand; George falling to the floor, thrashing and writhing in agony, his trousers around his ankles, his bony white legs thrashing, but looking ridiculous sticking out of his baggy, yellowing Y-fronts.

          Wiping involuntary tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, Mrs Green studied George’s keys. She ran her fingers over the various keys, identifying the front door key, the back door key, the garden shed key, and George’s allotment shed key. There was only one key on the bunch that she didn’t recognize; a small silver key which looked as though it belonged to a cashbox or small drawer.

          Mrs Green thought she might know the lock to which the key belonged.

          Curious, she got up and went upstairs, making her way into her and George’s bedroom. As with the living room, their bedroom was also sombrely furnished and perfectly tidy. The twin beds were made, their dark green counterpanes pulled up to cover the pillows. Identical twin wardrobes stood side by side and beneath the window stood a mirrored wooden dressing table.

          Mrs Green went to the left hand top drawer of the dressing table and pulled the drawer open. Inside were George’s ‘private’ belongings. She recognized his grandfather’s cut-throat razor, some letters (held together with a rubber band) from his friends at Toc H, a sepia photograph of Audrey, George’s sister, who had died of cancer when George was twenty, a box of Toc H matches, used now and again when George had smoked, then treasured when he had stopped smoking ten years ago. In pride of place was his regimental tie, folded so that the insignia was proudly on view. Next to it was a small wooden box that held George’s items of jewellery, mostly rings, which George never wore.

          Mrs Green tried the lid, but found it wouldn’t open. She took the box out of the drawer and noticed the tiny lock on the front. She inserted the key, turned it and heard the click of the lock. She opened the lid and looked inside. Rings (most of them of the heavy signet type); a watch that had belonged to George’s grandfather; two diamond tie pins and a chunky gold bracelet were the contents that met her gaze. The only thing she hadn’t expected to see was the manila envelope that the various items of jewellery were resting on. Inside the drawer, at a glance, it would have (as it often had) appeared to be a lining for the box’s base, but out in the light it was obviously a manila envelope that contained something.

          Mrs Green took it out of the box, saw that it wasn’t sealed and tipped the contents onto her bed. She placed the box on the dressing table, and then examined the contents. Just letters and photographs, Mrs Green saw, breathing a sigh of relief, not really sure what she had been expecting. She picked up the Polaroid photographs and examined them. There were eleven of them and they were shocking.

          All of them featured George. He wasn’t alone in any of them. He was in the company of either one or two young boys, aged about eight or nine. Everyone, in every photograph, was naked. Each photograph depicted a different sexual position and act, either featuring George and one boy or George and two boys. There was only one photograph in which George’s penis was visible and Mrs Green was surprised at just how big George’s erect penis actually was. For the last twenty years he had been unable to achieve an erection with her, so all she was used to seeing was a small, flaccid, virtually useless member. Had George’s face been covered (as it was in some of the photographs) and had she been asked to identify the owner of the gargantuan, swollen sex organ that jutted arrogantly up into the air, she would never have dreamed it could have belonged to George.

          Having looked at all of the photographs (several of which made her wince), Mrs Green turned her attention to the letters. She read a few lines of the first one and very quickly began to understand the nature of the sexual games George had been playing.

          The handwriting was that of a child and began with the words: ‘Dear Daddy’. Following this was a list of perverse sexual acts, which Mrs Green realized, as she read on, were being requested and promised. The letter was signed: ‘Your Loving Son’. Neither she nor George had any children – sons or daughters. Mrs Green read another of the letters. The handwriting was different to the first one she’d read, but still child-like. The opening salutation was the same; the list of sexual acts slightly different. It was also signed in the same way. After Mrs Green had examined the dates, she realized that these examples of George’s sexual perversions spanned several years, the latest example being current.

          She stopped reading (not needing to read any more letter to know their contents) and put the letters back inside the envelope. She looked at the eleven Polaroid’s again, examining George’s face and seeing the immense sexual excitement that suffused his features in each one. She put the photographs back into the envelope, and then sat down on her bed to think about George.

          The George Green she had married had been a dashing, polite, gallant gentleman. He was an ex-military man, respected by many, liked by most and popular with almost everyone. She and George had settled in this village after his military retirement and the villagers (normally reticent, often hostile to ‘outsiders’) had accepted George as one of their own. Even the gone-to-seed flower children at number sixty-seven had gone out of their way to chat with him when they’d seen him in the garden – and they rarely spoke to anyone.

          And now this. A dark, disgusting secret that would reveal the perverse truth about the twisted life and peculiar desires of ‘good old George’ to everyone.

          Clutching the envelope, Mrs Green got up off the bed and fished the box of Toc H matches out of the drawer. She then turned and went into the bathroom, where she stood over the toilet bowl and lifted the lid. She opened the matchbox, took out one of the brown-headed matches and ran it along the side of the box. It ignited with a splutter. Very carefully, Mrs Green touched the flame to one corner of the envelope, and then dropped the match into the toilet bowl, where it hissed once, then floated blackly. She held the envelope gingerly, watching it burn slowly, black flakes of burnt paper slowly falling into the toilet bowl, sizzling as they hit the bleached water.

          Mrs Green waited until the flames began to burn her hand, and then dropped the scorched remains of the envelope into the toilet. Nothing remained of the letters or the photographs, and only one burnt corner of the envelope had survived the inferno. Satisfied, she flushed the toilet and water roared and swirled. Black flakes of burnt paper whirled and vanished.

          Mrs Green stood over the toilet, closed the lid and whispered: “Poor George,” for the third time. She turned and went back into the bedroom, replacing the box of matches in George’s drawer and closing it. She went down the stairs and made her way into her pristine kitchen. She filled the kettle and switched it on. She walked slowly into the living room, picked up the telephone and tapped out Eileen Connegar’s number. She heard it ringing at the other end.

          “Hello, Eileen,” she said when her friend answered. “George had a heart attack in town and died. Could you come and keep me company for a while? I don’t really want to be on my own at the moment.”

          Mrs Green listened to her friend offering her condolences and heard her say something nice about George. She smiled wanly, then said: “Yes, I know, Eileen. He’ll be missed by a lot of people, and I’m not just saying that because he was my husband. There wasn’t a nicer, kinder or more well-liked man than George, and that’s how I want him to be remembered.”

*

The Day Mr Green Died

© R J Dent

www.rjdent.com