Another View

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Emma told me to-day at lunch.”

  “Well, I never did! Yes, Hester Ferris. That was years ago.”

  “But there was a boy. A son. Called Christopher?”

  “Don’t say he’s turned up again.”

  “Why do you sound so alarmed?”

  “You’d sound alarmed, too, if you’d lived through those eighteen months when Ben Litton was married to Hester…”

  “Tell me.”

  “Oh, they were murder. For Marcus, for Ben … I suppose for Hester, and certainly for me. If Marcus wasn’t being roped in to referee some sordid domestic fracas, then he was being showered with ridiculous little bills which Hester said Ben refused to pay. And then, you know how Ben has this phobia about telephones, and Hester put one into her house and Ben tore it out by the roots. And then Ben ran into some sort of mental block and couldn’t do any work, and spent all his time in the local pub, and Hester would get hold of Marcus and say that Marcus must come because he was the only person who could do anything with him, and so on, and so on. Marcus aged, visibly, before my eyes. Can you believe that?”

  “Yes. But I don’t see what it has to do with the boy.”

  “The boy was one of the bones of contention. Ben couldn’t bear him.”

  “Emma said he was jealous.”

  “She said that? She was always a perceptive child. I suppose in a way Ben was jealous of Christopher, but Christopher was a devil. He looked like a saint, but his mother spoiled him rotten.” She drew her pan of mushrooms away from the heat, and came back to lean her elbows on the counter. “What did Emma say about Christopher?”

  “Just that they’d met in Paris.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose having a holiday. He’s an actor. Did you know that?”

  “No, but I can well believe it. Was she looking very starry-eyed about him?”

  “I should say so, yes. Unless it was the thought of going back to live with her father.”

  “That’s the last thing in the world for her to be starry-eyed about.”

  “I know that. But when I started to say as much, I near as dammit got my head bitten off.”

  “Yes, you would. They’re as loyal as thieves to each other.” She patted his hand. “Don’t get involved, Robert; I couldn’t bear the strain.”

  “I’m not involved, simply intrigued.”

  “Well, for your own peace of mind, take my advice and keep it that way. And while we’re on the subject of involvements, Jane Marshall called at lunchtime, and she wants you to ring her up.”

  “What about, do you know?”

  “She didn’t say. Just said she’d be in any time after six o’clock. You won’t forget, will you?”

  “No, I won’t forget. But don’t you forget, either, that Jane is not an involvement.”

  “What you’re jibbing at, I cannot imagine,” said Helen, who had never, with her brother at any rate, bothered to mince words. “She is charming, attractive and efficient.”

  Robert made no comment on this, and exasperated by his silence, she went on, justifying herself. “You have everything in common, interests, friends, a way of life. Besides, a man of your age should be married. There’s nothing so pathetic as an elderly bachelor.”

  She stopped. There was a pause. Robert said politely, “Have you finished?”

  Helen sighed deeply. It was hopeless. She knew, had always known, that no words would provoke Robert into any action that he did not choose to make. He had never been talked into anything in his life. Her outburst had been a waste of breath and she already regretted it.

  “Yes, of course I’ve finished. And I apologise. It’s none of my business and I have no right to interfere. It’s just that I like Jane, and I want you to be happy. I don’t know, Robert. I can’t work out what it is you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t know either,” said Robert. He smiled at his sister, and ran a hand over his head and down the back of his neck, a familiar gesture made when he was either confused or tired. “But I think it has something to do with what exists between you and Marcus.”

  “Well, I just hope you find it before you drop dead of old age.”

  He left her to her cooking, collected his hat and the evening paper and a handful of letters, and went upstairs to his own flat. His sitting-room, which looked out over the big garden and the chestnut tree had once been the nursery. It was low-ceilinged, close-carpeted, lined with books, and furnished with as much of his father’s stuff as he had been able to get up the staircase. He dropped his hat and the paper and the letters on a chair, and went to the antique bombé cupboard where he kept his drink, and poured himself a whisky and soda. Then he took a cigarette from the box on the coffee table, lit it, and, cradling his glass, went to sit at the desk, to lift the telephone receiver and dial Jane Marshall’s number.

  She took some time to answer. While he waited, he doodled on the blotting paper with a pencil, and glanced at his watch and decided that he would have a bath, and change before he went to pick Marcus up at the Cromwell Road terminal. And, as a peace offering to Helen, he would take a bottle of wine downstairs and they would have it with their dinner, the three of them, sitting round the scrubbed table in Helen’s kitchen and, inevitably, talking shop. He discovered that he was very tired, and the prospect of such an evening was comforting.

  The double burr stopped. A cold voice said, “Jane Marshall here.”

  She always answered the telephone in this manner, and Robert still found it chilling, although he knew the reason for it. At twenty-six, Jane, with a broken marriage and a divorce behind her, had been forced to start earning her own living, and had ended up with a modest interior decorating business which she ran from her own house. Thus, a single telephone number had to do double duty, and she had long since decided it was prudent to treat an incoming call as potential business until it proved to be otherwise. She had explained this to Robert when he complained about her frigid manner.

  “You don’t understand. It might be a client ringing up. What’s he going to think if I sound all sexy and treacle-voiced?”

  “You don’t need to sound sexy. Just friendly and pleasant. Why don’t you try it? You’d be ripping out walls and running up curtains and loose covers before you knew where you were.”

  “That’s what you think. More likely to be fending him off with a curved upholstery needle.”

  Now he said, “Jane…?”

  “Oh, Robert.” Her voice was at once its normal self, warm and obviously pleased to hear him. “I am sorry, did Helen give you my message?”

  “She asked me to call you.”

  “It’s just that I wondered … Look, I’ve been given two tickets for the ballet on Friday. It’s La Fille Mal Gardée and I thought you might like to come. Unless you’re going away or something.”

  He looked down at his own hand, drawing boxes, in perfect perspective, on the blotting pad. He heard Helen’s voice. You have everything in common. Interests, friends, a way of life.

  “Robert?”

  “Yes. Sorry. No, I’m not going away, and I’d love to come.”

  “Shall we eat here first?”

  “No, we’ll go out. I’ll book a table.”

  “I’m glad you can make it.” He could tell that she was smiling. “Is Marcus back yet?”

  “No, I’m just going to meet him.”

  “Send him and Helen my love.”

  “I will.”

  “See you Friday, then. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Jane.”

  After he had replaced the receiver, he did not get up from his desk, but sat there, his chin in his hand, putting the final touches to the last box. When it was finished, he laid down the pencil and reached for his drink, and sat, looking at what he had drawn, and wondered why it should make him think of a long line of suitcases.

  Marcus Bernstein came through the glass doors of the terminal building looking, as he always looked, like a refugee or a street m
usician. His overcoat sagged, his old-fashioned black hat had somehow got turned up in the front, his long, lined face was sallow with tiredness. He carried his bulging brief-case, but his grip had travelled from the airport in the luggage compartment of the bus, and when Robert found him, he was standing, patiently, by the circular conveyor-belt, awaiting its arrival.

  He managed to look both humble and dejected, and the casual passer-by would have found it hard to believe that this modest and unassuming man was, in fact, a powerful influence in the art world on both sides of the Atlantic. An Austrian, he had left his native Vienna in 1937, and after the horrors of an alien’s war, had burst upon the post-war art world like a bright flame. His obvious knowledge and perception quickly drew attention, and his backing of young artists showed an example which other dealers were quick to follow. But his real impact upon the lay public was made in 1949, when he opened his own gallery in Kent Street with an exhibition of abstracts by Ben Litton. Ben, already famous for his pre-war landscapes and portraits, had been moving for some time towards this new medium, and the 1949 exhibition was the beginning of a working friendship which rode all personal storms and quarrels. It also marked the end of Marcus’ initial struggles, and the start of a long, slow haul to success.

  “Marcus!”

  He gave a small start, and turned and saw Robert coming towards him, and looked surprised, as though he had not expected to be met.

  “Hello, Robert. This is very kind of you.”

  After thirty years in England, his accent was still strongly marked, but Robert no longer noticed it.

  “I would have come to the airport, but we weren’t sure if you’d get on the plane. Did you have a good flight?”

  “It was snowing in Edinburgh.”

  “It’s been raining here all day. Look, there’s your bag.” He whipped it off the conveyor-belt … “Come on, now…”

  In the car, waiting for the lights in the Cromwell Road to change, he told Marcus about Mr. Lowell Cheeke returning to Bernstein’s to buy the Litton of the deer. Marcus acknowledged this with a grunt, giving the impression that he had known all along that the sale was simply a matter of time. The lights went from red to yellow to green and the car moved forward and Robert said, “And Emma Litton is home from Paris. She flew in this morning. Didn’t have any sterling, so she came to the gallery to get you to cash her a cheque. I gave her lunch and twenty pounds and sent her on her way.”

  “On her way to where?”

  “Porthkerris, and Ben.”

  “I suppose he is there.”

  “She seemed to think he would be. For the time being, at any rate.”

  “Poor child,” said Marcus.

  Robert made no answer to this, and they drove home in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Back at Milton Gardens, Marcus got out of the car, and went up the steps, feeling for his latchkey, but before he could run it to earth, the door was opened by Helen, and Marcus, in his sagging coat and comic’s hat, was silhouetted against the hall light.

  She said, “Well, how lovely!” and because he was so much smaller than she, stooped to embrace him, and Robert, extracting Marcus’ grip from the boot of the Alvis, tried to work out why it was that they never looked ridiculous.

  * * *

  It seemed to have been dark for a long time. But when the London express came to the junction where she had to change for Porthkerris, and Emma got out of the train, she found that it was not really dark at all. The sky was bright with stars, and the night blown through with a buffeting wind that smelt of the sea. When she had unloaded all her luggage, she stood waiting on the platform for the express to pull out, and above her the tattered leaves of a palm tree rattled incongruously in this restless wind.

  The train moved on, and she saw the single porter on the opposite platform, occupied, in a leisurely fashion, with a barrow-load of parcels. When at last he noticed her, he set down the handles of his barrow, and called, across the lines, “Want some help, do you?”

  “Yes please.”

  He jumped down on to the tracks and walked across to her side, and somehow gathered all her belongings into his two arms, and then Emma followed him back across the tracks, and he gave her a hand up on to the other platform.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Porthkerris.”

  “Taking the train?”

  “Yes.”

  The smaller train waited on the single line branch track that ran round the coast to Porthkerris. Emma appeared to be the only passenger. She thanked the porter and tipped him and collapsed into a seat. Exhaustion consumed her. Never had a day seemed so long. After a little she was joined by a country woman in a brown hat like a pot. Perhaps she had been shopping, for she carried a bulging, checked leather bag. Minutes passed, the only sound the wind thudding at the closed windows of the train. At last, the engine gave a single whistle and they were off.

  It was impossible not to feel excited as familiar landmarks loomed up through the darkness, and were recognised, and then fled past. There were only two small halts before Porthkerris and then, at last, the steep cutting which in spring was quilted in primroses, and then the tunnel, and then the sea was below them, dark as ink, the tide out, the wet sands like satin. Porthkerris was a nest of lights, the curve of the harbour seemed strung with a necklace, and the riding lights of fishing boats were reflected in a maze of shimmering black and gold water.

  They had begun to lose speed. The platform slid alongside. The name PORTHKERRIS passed and fell behind. They finally stopped alongside a shiny tin advertisement for boot polish which had been there ever since Emma could remember. Her companion, who had spoken not a word the entire journey, now stood up, opened the door, and stepped sedately out, disappearing into the night. Emma stood in the open door, looking for a porter, but the only visible official was up at the other end of the train, unnecessarily shouting, “Porthkerris! Porthkerris!” She saw him stop to chat to the driver, pushing his cap back off his forehead, and standing with his hands on his hips.

  There was an empty barrow by the boot polish advertisement, so she loaded her luggage on to this, and then abandoned it, carrying only a small overnight bag. She began to walk up the platform. In the stationmaster’s office, the lights were on, they shone out in warm yellow patches, and a man sat on a bench, reading a newspaper. Emma walked by him, her footsteps ringing on the stone flags, but as she passed, he put down the newspaper and said her name.

  Emma stopped, and slowly turned. He folded the newspaper and stood up, and the light seemed to turn his white hair into a halo.

  “I thought you were never going to arrive.”

  “Hello, Ben,” said Emma.

  “Is the train late, or did I get the times all wrong?”

  “I don’t think we’re late. Perhaps we were late starting from the junction. We seemed to wait there a long time. How did you know what train I’d be on?”

  “I had a telegram from Bernstein’s.” Robert Morrow, thought Emma. How kind. Ben glanced at her bag. “You haven’t much luggage.”

  “I have a barrow-load at the other end of the platform.”

  He turned to vaguely peer in the direction that Emma indicated. “Never mind. We’ll fetch it some other time. Come on, let’s get back.”

  “But someone might take it,” Emma protested. “Or it might rain. We’d better tell the porter.”

  The porter had by now finished his social chat with the engine driver. Ben attracted his attention, told him about Emma’s luggage. “Put it somewhere, would you, we’ll collect it to-morrow.” He gave him five shillings. The porter said, “Yes, Mr. Litton, don’t worry, I’ll do that,” and went off down the platform whistling, tucking the money in the pocket of his waistcoat.

  “Well,” said Ben again, “what are we waiting for? Come on, let’s get moving.”

  There was no suggestion of a car or a taxi, they were simply going to walk home. They did this by way of a series of narrow short-cuts, steep flight of stone steps, tiny s
loping alleys, always leading downhill, until finally they emerged on to the brightly lighted harbour road.

  Emma, trudging beside her father, still carrying the overnight bag which he had not thought to carry for her, took a long sideways look at Ben. It was the first time she had seen him for nearly two years, and she thought that no man changed as little as he. He was no fatter, no thinner. His hair, which had been snow-white as long as Emma could remember, was neither thinning nor receding. His face, weathered by years of working in the sun, in the outdoors, by the sea, was darkly tanned and netted with fine lines which could never be described as anything so prosaic as wrinkles. From him, Emma had inherited her strong cheekbones, and her square chin, but her pale eyes must have come from her mother, for Ben’s were deepest beneath craggy brows, and of so dark a brown that in certain lights they looked black.

  Even his clothes did not seem to have changed. The sagging corduroy jacket, the narrowly cut trousers, the suède shoes of immense elegance and age—they could have belonged to no one else. To-night his shirt was a faded orange wool, a Paisley cotton handkerchief did duty as a necktie. He had never owned a waistcoat.

  They came to his pub, the Sliding Tackle, and Emma half expected him to suggest that they should go in for a drink. She did not want a drink, but she was ravenously hungry. She wondered if there was any food in the cottage. She wondered, in fact, if they were actually going to the cottage. It was quite within the bounds of possibility that Ben had been living in his studio, and would expect Emma to shake down there with him.

  She said, tentatively, “I don’t even know where we’re heading for.”

  “The cottage, of course. Where did you imagine?”

  “I didn’t know.” They were safely past the pub. “I thought perhaps you might have been living at the studio.”

  “No, I’ve been staying at the Sliding Tackle. This is the first time I’ve been to the cottage.”

  “Oh,” said Emma, glumly.

  He caught the inflexion in her voice and reassured her. “It’s all right. When they knew at the Sliding Tackle that you were turning up there was a positive deputation of eager ladies all wanting to get the place ready for you. In the end Daniel’s wife saw to it for me.” Daniel was the barman. “She seemed to think that after all these years everything would be covered in blue mould, like Gorgonzola cheese.”