Old Grumpy

"Dad's right you know. Forbidden fruit does taste sweetest."
Kirsty and her brother, sitting under Arthur Grundy's trees scoffing
his peaches, grinned at each other, juice running down their chins. Old
Grumpy didn't scare them: they could outrun him with ease.
Kirsty reached for another peach but paused, frowning. Something about
the garden didn't look right. Then the reason struck her: the grass
needed mowing. In fact, everything was starting to look neglected. And
Dad said old Grumpy was so addicted to gardening he worked in the rain
and at night.
"Maybe they've gone on holiday," was Steve's answer to Kirsty's
criticism.
"They can't. Dad says Mrs Grumpy's housebound."
Steve looked puzzled. "How can a house bind anyone?"
Kirsty sighed in exasperation at Steve's slowness in outgrowing the
habit of taking everything literally. "Dad called it ...
ag-agrophobia--;well something sounding like agrophobia, anyway."
"What's that?"
"Fear of open spaces."
"Maybe old Grumpy's caught it too?" Steve sounded unashamedly hopeful.
It was so unfair that a house without children had all this garden
while theirs had none.
Kirsty snorted. "Idiot! It's like heart attacks. You can't catch it."
And she threw a peach at him.
Within seconds a mock fight was in progress. It developed into a real
one when something hit Steve's shoulder so hard he yelped, and he
returned it, hollering. But each soon realised the stones were coming
too thick and fast for the other to be throwing them.
Then they saw him--old Grumpy--and knew he had to be the culprit. They
dodged behind a large camellia. The rain of stones stopped. Kirsty
peered out. And her mouth dropped open.
Old Grumpy was standing staring at the camellia, empty-handed and
looking distraught rather than angry. On sighting Kirsty he spoke. But
it wasn't his usual tirade.
"You haven't come for weeks." His voice held a hint of accusation.
"Elizabeth's ill. Your noise upsets her--and I can't manage her. You'll
have to calm her and apologise."
Kirsty blinked in shock. Trespassing and pinching fruit was one thing.
Worsening an old lady's illness was another matter. Usually they took
care to be quiet. Meekly they stepped out, ready to flee at the least
threat from the old man. However, he just turned and walked up the
lawn.
Inside the big old house Kirsty glimpsed a large, messy kitchen. And
for such a posh home it smelled foul.
Mr Grundy led them to a downstairs bedroom. That too was messy. With
the velvet drapes closed it was also dim. The stench here made Kirsty
gag.
Amongst discarded clothing, Mrs Grundy was crouched over someone
sprawled on the floor. With her silk nightgown inside-out,
back-to-front and unbuttoned as well as unclean, she was an astonishing
sight. She looked up and they saw, with further shock, that she had no
teeth, her hair was matted and dirty, and stale food and grease smeared
her face.
"It's Arthur. He won't wake up." Tears trembled in her voice. Leaning
on the dressing-table, she hauled herself up and stumbled towards them.
"Please help me."
Kirsty's first instinct was to flee. But old Grumpy was behind her.
Having caught them, he would block their escape. Besides, the old woman
had asked for help--piteously, with a dignity undiminished by her
bizarre appearance.
Kirsty snapped on the light. Now that Mrs Grundy no longer hid the
fallen man's face, it was obvious he would never wake up: his eyes
stared vacantly; blood clotted his forehead. Beside him lay the poker
that had dealt his deathblow.
Shock made Kirsty giddy. She swallowed hard. She mustn't faint at her
first sight and smell of death, she scolded herself.
Reluctantly she approached the corpse--and received a second shock.
The dead man was a replica of old Grumpy.
But old Grumpy was behind her. They'd just been speaking to him. And
if the dead man was Arthur Grundy then who was the other? His identical
twin? If so, how come nobody knew old Grumpy had a twin? But that would
explain the behaviour of the man outside. It was the twin who'd thrown
the stones. What was wrong with him that he'd allowed things to reach
this state? Had he killed his brother?
Kirsty swung round to challenge him. But only Steve stood there,
white-faced, wide-eyed, his fist in his mouth.
Then Mrs Grundy plucked her sleeve. Kirsty turned back to her.
"Where's your husband's brother gone?"
Mrs Grundy looked at her blankly. "Arthur's got no relatives. Neither
have I. Not any more." She looked from Kirsty to Steve. "Is it dinner
time yet? Could someone please tell Arthur I'm hungry."
Kirsty could see no way to avoid telling the poor woman the truth. She
later realised that this moment was when she grew up. "I'm sorry, Mrs
Grundy, your husband's dead. And we'll have to ring the police. Would
you like to shower and dress before they arrive? Then you can have
dinner."
Only Kirsty's last two sentences seemed to register with Mrs Grundy,
who beamed and nodded. "I'll wear my best gown. I do like visitors. Is
Arthur coming?"
Kirsty bit her lip. It seemed pointless repeating that Arthur was
dead.
"We'll see about that later," she said with forced brightness. "First
we must get you ready." She turned to Steve and lowered her voice.
"D'you think you could find some food--preferably something you can
heat up? I don't think she's eaten properly since ... it happened. But
ring the cops first--and a doctor."
Steve left with obvious relief. Just her luck to get the difficult,
unpleasant chores, Kirsty reflected. Well, at least she could ignore
the bedroom. The police would regard cleaning that up as interfering
with evidence.
But what about the twin? How stupid of them to let him get away! And
why had he chosen one of their visits to Old Grumpy's garden to make
his crime known? A little longer and Mrs Grundy would also have been
dead, and it would have been ages before the bodies were discovered.
Did he not want her dead? Had he wiped his fingerprints from the poker
and tricked her into putting hers there? Did he hate his twin's wife so
much he wanted her accused of murder?
But surely someone as obviously gaga as Elizabeth Grundy couldn't be
tried for murder?
Or could she?
Oh, what a muddle everything was!
Kirsty, you're letting your imagination run wild. There HAS to be a
simple explanation.
By the time the police arrived Kirsty had managed to get Mrs Grundy
reasonably clean and into the only unsoiled garment available--a
dressing gown--and had unearthed her dentures. And Steve had found some
canned food so that the old woman was tucking into
warmed corned beef and vegetables in a less filthy kitchen when the
police took over.
But they didn't have a simple explanation. Neither did Kirsty and
Mark's father.
"Mr Grundy was a very proud man," he explained later to his puzzled,
distressed children. "Although he didn't seem to mind people knowing of
his wife's agoraphobia, her increasingly odd behaviour must have shamed
him. Maybe he didn't understand what was happening. Even today there's
a lot of ignorance of Alzheimer's disease.
"Unfortunately not seeking help was the worst thing he could have
done. Alzheimer sufferers get very muddled and eventually don't even
recognise their loved ones. The police seem to think that while Mr
Grundy was dressing or undressing his wife she confused him with
someone trying to take advantage of her and hit him with the poker she
kept by her bed. Fingerprints on it suggested she was the last to
handle it. But the doctor says it wasn't the blow that killed Mr
Grundy. He had a heart attack, probably brought on by the stress of
looking after her alone and in secret. It must have been horrifying for
you finding him, especially as he'd been dead a week. But Mrs Grundy's
going to be all right. She's just thin and dehydrated."
"And what about the twin--the man who threw stones at us?"
Kirsty's father shrugged. "The police can't account for the
stones--there wasn't anywhere on the property they could have come
from--and insist that yours and Steve's were the only
footprints."
"But we didn't throw any stones," Kirsty protested. "And we'd never
have entered the house unasked. Old Gr... Mr Grundy always came out
with a large stick--and I'm sure he would've used it if he'd caught us.
But this man didn't have a stick."
Her father put an arm around her shoulders. "If you say you didn't
throw stones then I believe you. But the police say that their
enquiries at the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages drew a blank,
and records at the hospital where Arthur Grundy was born confirmed he
had no twin. And nobody else saw a man answering his description on the
day you discovered him."
"But we both saw him!" Steve insisted.
"Just as well for Mrs Grundy," his father said. "As for the rest, well
I suppose it'll always be a mystery."

That afternoon Kirsty went to enquire after Mrs Grundy and offer to
help clean the house.
"She's lucid today, but she'll have to go into a home: she needs
full-time care," the temporary nurse said, ushering Kirsty into the now
clean and tidy bedroom where Elizabeth Grundy, serenely regal, sat
staring into space.
She looked up at Kirsty's entrance and smiled--a sweetly sad smile
that made Kirsty's chest tighten. "Ah, my dear! How nice to see you.
Arthur's just been. It seems I owe you and your brother my life. I'd
like to reward you--but only if you stop trespassing and stealing
Arthur's fruit."
"But we don't want a reward--except permission to play in your garden.
We don't do any harm. Apart from eating some fruit we only play
there."
Mrs Grundy cocked her head like a bird, her smile slyly arch.
"Wouldn't you rather have something you're not allowed? Surely you know
forbidden fruit tastes sweetest?"
Kirsty blinked. Good heavens! She's teasing me!
Elizabeth Grundy cackled merrily. But before Kirsty could answer, a
figure started materialising behind Elizabeth, fist raised--Arthur
Grundy.
Kirsty gasped. Although the fist was empty, habit made her flee.
"Don't go, Kirsty--please! Arthur won't hurt you."
Kirsty, already half-way to the door, paused at this desperate,
crestfallen plea. But the apparition was now coming towards her. She
leapt for the door--only to pull up short when Arthur, eyes blazing,
reached it first.
"Stupid girl! Stupid heartless girl!" he hissed. "Abandon Elizabeth
now and they'll shove her in an institution."
"But I can't stop them. I'm only a kid. And besides, she's--she's
..."
"Well, go on, say it! Gaga's the usual term. She's also a wealthy
woman. I'm sure that nice nurse would love to stay on, with staff to
boss and a good salary. Instead they'll take Elizabeth's money and dump
her somewhere more like a hospital than a home."
"But I can't stop them!"
"Well, you could at least try. After the way you handled things I
thought you a bright, spirited girl, not a lily-livered twit."
His sarcasm made Kirsty feel as though her insides shrivelled. Was she
really such a coward? Remembering how she and Steve had always run from
the living Arthur, she supposed she must be.
"But what can I do?"
"For a start, deliver my new will to my solicitors. I didn't get time
to send it to them. It's properly signed and witnessed."
Kirsty took the envelope from the drawer he indicated. Its flap was
fastened with a blob of red wax imprinted with a seal. She turned the
envelope over. It was addressed in writing that looked as old-fashioned
as the seal.
"Now!" Arthur barked.
Kirsty glared at him. "Only on one condition--that I never see you
again."
He gave a snort of humourless laughter. "If Elizabeth ever goes into a
home I'll haunt you till your dying day. You have my word on
that."
Bridling, Kirsty replied with chilling dignity, "For your poor wife's
sake--not because of your bullying threats--I'll do my best. You have
MY word on that."
As she swept out, Kirsty's last impression of Arthur, hovering behind
his wife, was uncannily that of a guardian angel. But the smile
lighting his normally dour face wasn't for Kirsty. He had eyes for only
Elizabeth. The sight of such devotion from a man whose personality had
always been otherwise unpleasant brought a lump to Kirsty's
throat.
Years later, pondering why she and Steve hadn't returned to the Grundy
garden, she was sorry she would never see Arthur again--if only to
thank him for the legacy he had left on his wife's death "to the girl
who trespasses in my garden and steals my fruit, on condition that she
takes my will to my solicitor, with seal unbroken, and ensures my
dearest Elizabeth spends the rest of her life in her own home".