On The Cover One Present Too Many

Sylvia had been hiding a terribly sad secret – and now she was hiding a rather wicked secret too!

The case had made the headlines. Sylvia Harding, a sixty-year old pensioner, devoted wife of Robert Harding, had mistaken her husband for an intruder and had attacked him with an iron, causing his death.

It was the set of coincidences that made the story especially tragic. Robert had been away visiting his elderly father in Edinburgh, as he did once a month, and during the five days he had been away, Sylvia had had to call out the police twice, fearing that someone was trying to break into the house.

It was normal that she was nervous – not only had winter arrived, dragging long dark nights behind it, there had also been a spate of burglaries in the area and everyone was on their guard. In the event, the police hadn’t found any signs of an intruder, although there was some indication that the back door had been forced. Frightened, Sylvia had asked their neighbour Mick if he could put an extra bolt on the door, which he had done that same morning.

Robert had been due home the following day but had decided to come home a day earlier. He didn’t tell Sylvia; he had missed their fortieth wedding anniversary while in Edinburgh and must have wanted to surprise her. She had spent the evening ironing in their bedroom. At nine-thirty, she went to bed and, still feeling vulnerable, she had stacked the ironing board against the door as extra protection.

Some time later – she thought it was the early hours, but in fact it was just past eleven o’clock – she had been wakened by the sound of someone in the house. Terrified, she had dialled 999 from the landline. They said they would send someone straightaway and urged her to keep to her bedroom and to try and secure the room. She told them about the ironing board she had already wedged against the door and asked the operator to stay on the line with her.The next thing the operator heard was a terrified shout from Sylvia before the line went dead.

When the police arrived five minutes later, expecting the worst, they found Sylvia sitting on the bed in the dark, in a state of paralysis, with the iron in her hand and the body of a man lying crumpled on the floor.

She only snapped out of her trance when they turned on the light and realised that the man she had killed was Robert. Then she had begun screaming.

There would be a trial, of course, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Sylvia was already paying the price for the terrible mistake she’d made.

Jenny, Mick’s wife, would tell everyone that Sylvia was a shadow of her former self. Given that Sylvia had always been quiet and unobtrusive, this meant she was now almost obliterated.

“She sits in the sitting-room all day long,” Jenny told the other neighbours. “If I didn’t go in and open the curtains after breakfast, she’d sit in the dark. I cook for three now, I take a meal to her every evening. I’m not sure she eats it but at least my conscience is clear.”

Sylvia permits these small intrusions into her life and when Jenny tells her, a few months after Robert’s death, that some of the other neighbours would like to see her, Sylvia nods listlessly.

Jenny arranges a coffee morning at Sylvia’s and little by little, Sylvia begins to talk about Robert, about how they met, their sadness at not being able to have children, and how his father disapproved of her.

“So is that why Robert always went to visithis dad by himself?” Jenny asks gently and Sylvia nods.

Another neighbour, Cathy, points to the photo that sits on the mantelpiece, of Sylvia and Robert on their wedding day, and says that they made a very handsome couple. Sylvia flushes with pleasure and hesitantly asks them if they would like to see their wedding album.

The women are delighted at this sign that Sylvia is coming out of her shell, and their kind hearts break as she runs a gentle finger over Robert’s face.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she says. Her eyes fill with tears. “I wish now that I’d done all the things he wanted me to do.” “What do you mean?” Jenny asks.

“He wanted me to learn to drive but I never bothered because I liked him driving me around.” She touches a hand to her head. “He said that I should go to the hairdressers, but I didn’t see why I should spend the money when he was perfectly capable of cutting my hair. And all those times he wanted to take me shopping, buy me clothes, but I didn’t see the point of spending money when I already had enough.” She fishes a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and dabs at her eyes. “I wish now I had done some of the things.”

“But you can still do all of those things,” Jenny says.

Sylvia shakes her head. “It’s too late.” “It’s never too late. You’re only sixty-five, you have years ahead of you.” Jenny looks over at one of the women. “Susan, isn’t your daughter-in-law a driving instructor?”

“Yes, she is,” Susan says. “I could ask her to come and talk to you, Sylvia, about having lessons.”

Sylvia shrinks back in her chair. “No, no, I don’t think so.”

Susan pats her hand. “It would only be to talk, she wouldn’t force you into anything.”

“Why don’t I take you to the hairdressers with me on Friday?” Jenny offers. “You could maybe have some highlights done.”

“Highlights?”

Jenny laughs. “Don’t look so worried. And how about we have lunch after and

“I wish now I’d done all the things he wanted me to to do,” she said tearfully