This Is Midnight: Stories

by Bernard Taylor

  Letting him go, she stepped back from the bed. Now all she had to do was wait. Smiling, she turned and left the room.

  Taking the morning paper into the sitting room, she settled in her favourite chair. It was impossible to concentrate, though, and in the end she just gave in to the warm, sparkling thoughts that crowded her mind and, closing her eyes, she laid back her head and let the thoughts take over.

  A sudden sound brought her head toward the door, and she realized that she had been sleeping.

  Arthur was standing there in his dressing gown. He smiled at her. ‘You should have gone to bed and had a real nap, like I did,’ he said. ‘You look as if you could do with it.’

  She gaped at him, speechless. When she had found her voice she said, ‘How do you feel?’

  He nodded, smiling. ‘Oh, much better now after my rest.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she murmured. ‘You look better.’

  She gazed at him, realizing that her words were true – he did look better. So much better. For one thing his colour was better than it had been for years – and also he seemed to be holding himself so much straighter – and she saw too an unaccustomed suppleness in his movement as he turned, stepped toward the window, opened it and breathed in the fresh air.

  ‘Now,’ he said, turning to smile back at her, ‘I could really eat some breakfast.’

  She nodded and, almost in a daze, got up and started off toward the kitchen, Arthur walking behind her. ‘I’ve already mixed the eggs,’ he said. ‘I just have to finish them off.’

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ she retorted quickly.

  ‘I really don’t mind, Doris. Honestly.’

  She had reached the kitchen table now and she turned back to face him. She had never hated him so much. Scathingly she said, ‘You’ll do it, Arthur? You?’ She laughed. ‘Dear Hell, the most inefficient, incompetent man this side of the English Channel. I should let you loose in my kitchen? That’ll be the day.’

  Ten minutes later she moved to the breakfast table, where she placed before him a plate of scrambled eggs. Then, setting down in her own place the two lightly boiled eggs she had prepared so perfectly, she sat and began to eat.

  As she ate – without looking at him – she waited for him to complain. There was silence, though, and at last she lifted her head and gazed at him. He sat there, very still, just looking down at his plate. And, dear Satan, he looked better than he had for ages. Nothing had worked – not the clay image, nor the coffin nail nor the stone. But how could it be? She had done everything exactly according to the book. Or at least she had tried to. Then what had gone wrong? Was it that the name on the stone hadn’t quite disappeared in the fire? Was it that the nail she had bought hadn’t come from a coffin? Was it that the clay model hadn’t been quite faithful enough in its likeness? Or was it perhaps because there had been no live chickens at the festival and therefore no blood had been spilled . . . ? The questions went on churning through her mind. Whatever had happened, though, it hadn’t worked. He was still here.

  Thrusting the thoughts, the questions from her mind, she waited for him to speak, to say something about the eggs. Yet still he said nothing. That wasn’t like him; and this time she had truly excelled herself; there was no way that anyone could eat the food she had put before him. Every bit of her seething hatred and frustration had gone into its preparation. He had to react soon.

  And then, as she watched him he gave a little sigh, pushed the empty plate away from him, got up from the table and moved toward the kitchen. ‘What’s the matter?’ she called after him. ‘You feel sick?’

  When he came back a few seconds later she turned to him as he approached. He had a weird, calm look about him that she had never seen before. And suddenly she was afraid. ‘Arthur,’ she said, ‘don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Doris,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I’ve told you over and over again – I don’t like my eggs like that.’

  Calmly, he raised the hatchet in his right hand and brought it down. Very efficiently, more than competently, and without an ounce of wasted effort, he split her skull from crown to jaw with one clean downward blow. Then, aiming the ax from the side, he struck a second time and severed her head from her neck.

  Later, when he had cleaned up the mess, he beat up more eggs and scrambled them the way he liked.

  PEACE OFFERING

  Greg got to the station a good while before the train was due, and for the next twenty-five minutes kicked his cold heels on the dreary platform. But he didn’t mind the wait.

  Eventually the train drew in and he climbed aboard. Later, when he reached London, he dismissed the idea of a tube or a bus – though he knew the route perfectly well – and instead flagged down a taxi. Giving the address to the driver, he settled back in the comfortable seat, stretching his legs before him.

  He tried to relax, but found it was utterly impossible. How could he relax? How could he – today of all days? This grey, miserable-looking, snow-bound day was one of the happiest – and certainly one of the most important – days of his whole life.

  Lighting a cigarette he mentally urged the taxi to move faster, muttering soft, impatient oaths at any of the other vehicles that momentarily impeded his own progress. He wanted to be there now – now, without delay. The sooner he got there, the sooner they could both leave.

  After the longest forty-five minutes he had ever known, he was at last deposited outside the dingy house in the shabby, dilapidated East London Street. He paid the driver – adding a larger tip than was necessary – then turned and, with a firm, light tread, strode up the short path to the front door. Reaching for the bell with Maureen’s name, he pressed it. Waiting for her to answer, he found himself suddenly aware of his own heartbeat; it was due partly to his excitement at the thought of having Jeannie back, he realised, and, partly due to a slight feeling of anxiety at the prospect of meeting Maureen again. But it had to be got through, and besides, it wouldn’t take long. He rang the bell again. He knew she was in; she was expecting him. His ungloved hand holding the box of chocolates was cold; his breath vaporous on the December air.

  And then Maureen was at the door.

  She stood there smiling at him across the threshold, her smile a little forced, perhaps, a trifle nervous, but nevertheless a smile. At once Greg felt a fraction more secure, felt a little of the tension start to drain away. Thank God, he thought, she’s not going to create a scene.

  ‘Come in.’ Maureen stepped aside and he moved into the small, dismal hallway. He waited while she closed the front door and went past him, then followed her up the two flights of stairs and into the top-floor flat that she had acquired since their separation.

  ‘Give me your coat . . .’

  He took off his overcoat and handed it to her, and she went from him and hung it on a peg in the hall. When she came back he gave her the chocolates.

  ‘Well – thank you.’ Drawing the box from inside the paper bag she looked at the well-known design on the lid. ‘My favourites, too. You remembered. But you shouldn’t have – really.’

  Greg shrugged away her thanks. The chocolates had been the result of a last-minute whim that had come to him while he was buying his cigarettes. Now he was glad; she seemed pleased with the gift.

  Still looking at the box of chocolates, Maureen said with a little laugh:

  ‘Beware geeks when they come bearing gifts, right?’

  At her words Greg felt his own smile slip a little, and said quickly, ‘Oh, no, please, Maureen, don’t say that.’

  ‘I’m only joking,’ she said. ‘It’s very sweet of you.’ She paused, then added, ‘A token?’

  He shrugged, awkwardly. ‘Sort of, I suppose.’

  She was silent for a moment, then, ‘Good,’ she said, ‘ – I accept.’

  She turned away and he followed her trim, blue-clad figure into the small
lounge, with its even smaller dining recess off to the left. He looked around and saw at once that they were alone. He was about to ask, ‘Where is – ?’ but stopped himself, deciding that there would be time enough for such questions a little later. It was best not to appear too eager. With an attempt at casualness he sat down in the chair Maureen indicated, then looked up at her as she stood with her head bent over the choco­late box. Her blonde hair fell forward on either side of her face, momentarily masking her features. Jeannie’s hair was the same colour and texture. He listened for some noise, some sign of Jeannie, but the only sound was the crinkling of the cellophane wrapping as Maureen removed it from the chocolate box. ‘Lovely,’ she said, smiling. ‘We’ll have some after lunch.’

  ‘After lunch?’ he said. ‘Oh – oh, I didn’t know you were expecting me to stay on for lunch.’

  As he spoke he was aware that his eagerness to be away again was transparently clear in his voice and face. And quickly he admonished himself, telling himself to make an effort, to relax and let things take their course. After all, he reasoned, the whole thing was far more difficult for her than it was for him.

  ‘Don’t you want to stay for lunch?’ Maureen said, having picked up the note of dismay in his tone. ‘I should think it’s the least you could do.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course – that would be – be very nice. It’s just that I – I wasn’t expecting it.’ He was aware that his words sounded stiff and awkward, and to cover the moment he took out his cigarettes and offered her one – and then remembered that she had stopped smoking.

  ‘Have you forgotten so soon?’ Maureen said.

  She moved away from him then into the kitchen, and he put the cigarettes back in his pocket and followed her. Standing in the doorway, he watched as she expertly chopped and prepared the various vegetables. After carefully adding salt to a pan of carrots, she turned to him, smiling.

  ‘You’re dying to know when Jeannie’s getting back, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Well, why don’t you ask, you big silly?’

  But then before he could reply, she went on:

  ‘Mother’s here for a few days. I asked her to come down. I felt I – I needed somebody at this time.’

  He nodded while he inwardly groaned. He didn’t look forward to spending any time in the company of Maureen’s mother. He and Mrs Cavendish had never seen eye to eye. From the early days of their marriage she had made it clear how much she resented him. And he had never been able to get through that resentment. But she would feel that way about anyone, he reflected. It just so happened that he was the one who had dared break into the almost unnaturally close relationship that existed between the woman and her daughter­­.

  He saw that Maureen was crying. Quite suddenly she was crying. He took a step towards her, but managed to resist the impulse to reach out, to soothe, to offer comfort.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she said in a broken, little-girl’s voice. ‘It’s just not fair.’

  ‘Maureen, please don’t . . .’ He knew it was probably better that he should say nothing, but it was impossible just to stand there.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right for you,’ she said. ‘You won.’ She glared at him for a few seconds, then, with a dismissive shrug, swung back to her pots and pans.

  When a little time had gone by he said, ‘Jeannie will have enjoyed having your mother here as well.’ And then, casually he asked: ‘Where did they go?’

  Maureen reached out for the oven-cloth. Her eyes were dry now, he noticed, thankfully. She even managed something of a smile as she spoke.

  ‘Well, you know Mum – always a fresh air fanatic. I think she mentioned something about the park.’

  ‘On a day like this?’ he said. He was about to add, You know how Jeannie feels the cold, but stopped himself in time.

  ‘Oh, stop worrying, for God’s sake,’ Maureen said sharply. ‘She’s well wrapped up. She’s warm enough.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sure she is . . .’ He was anxious to avoid any dissension, no matter how trivial it might be. He watched as she opened the oven door to check on the roast. Her face was set.

  ‘How long will they be?’ he asked.

  ‘Not long now. They’ll be here for lunch. I told Mum to be sure not to be late. Anyway,’ she added, ‘when there’s food on the table you can bet Jeannie won’t be far away.’

  Inwardly Greg sighed. He felt sure that Maureen had purposely allowed Jeannie to go out to the park – to be away from the flat when he arrived. It was probably her way of making him suffer. ‘It’s just that – that I expected her to be here,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Maureen said witheringly, ‘I’ve inconvenienced you – so sorry about that.’ She shook her head. ‘Listen,’ she added bitterly, ‘you’ve already got everything, and you stand there complaining because your schedule’s at risk of being put out a bit. What’s the matter with you? What more do you want?’

  ‘Maureen, please – ’ he began, but she went on, undeterred:

  ‘She’s yours. Yours. Legally. I’ve lost all rights – all claim to her – thanks to you. You made sure of that.’

  With her words the ugly scenes in the courtroom came back to him. He forced the pictures aside as she continued:

  ‘Yes, and I’ve got nothing now. Nothing. But that’s all you’re entitled to expect when some stupid, doddering old bastard decides that you’re not a fit mother!’ She slammed down the oven-cloth amongst the meat and vegetable trimmings, her voice growing louder in her anger. ‘What right had they to sit in judgment of me?’

  Greg kept silent, while through his mind flashed a series of memories, all having in common instances of Maureen’s behaviour during their few years together – her violence towards him, her capriciousness, her quiet rages when she failed to get her way. Even now the memories had the power to shake his equilibrium. All were best left undisturbed – like the courtroom scenes – which were much too recent and too raw.

  Cutting into his thoughts, Maureen went on with her tirade of blame and resentment. ‘And now,’ she said through tight, grim lips, ‘I’m told I can only see my daughter once a month.’

  Greg, saying nothing, lowered his glance, unable to face the hostility and hatred in her eyes. But she was not to be halted.

  ‘Once a month,’ she said. ‘Twelve visits a year. And for just two days at a time. And then only with the visits supervised. Who would believe it? A mother never allowed to be alone with her own daughter. Nice, eh? And whose doing was that, eh?’ She was glaring at him. ‘And you – look at you – standing there as cool as you like. You give her up to me for just a couple of days, then take her away again – for another month. And you’ve got the nerve to go whining just because she’s not on the doorstep to greet you with open arms!’

  There was a cold, charged silence, then Greg said, ‘Maureen – let’s not do this. I know it’s hard for you. And I do understand how you feel. I do – believe me. And you must know that I didn’t want it to come to this. But I had no choice. We couldn’t have gone on as we were – none of us . . .’

  She stared at him for a moment or two longer, then, seeming almost to sag slightly, she said,

  ‘Ah, what does it matter now, anyway? It’s too late to change anything now.’

  He said nothing to this. There was nothing to say. He couldn’t keep up with her mercurial moods, that much was certain; but then, he had never been able to. There had been so many times during their marriage when she had appeared almost as a stranger to him.

  With an effort to bring the situation onto calmer ground, he said lightly, gesturing to the pots and pans on the stove: ‘You know, you shouldn’t have done all this – gone to all this trouble. And it looks as if you’ve got enough for an army.’

  ‘Mum helped me,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you always have a good appetite – like Jeannie. After a cold, bracing hour in the park she’d come back ra
venous – remember?’ The flicker of a smile suddenly appeared on her face. ‘Listen, you go and sit down. Let me get on.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No, you go and sit down and relax.’

  Greg moved back into the lounge, sat down in an easy chair, picked up a newspaper and began to glance through it. As he did so Maureen bustled back and forth setting the dining table. Greg took in almost nothing of what he was trying to read, conscious always of the tension in the place. And the worst part was yet to come, he knew. This was the first of Jeannie’s visits to her mother since the ruling, and he dreaded the moment when he would be leaving the house with her. Still, he told himself, he’d face that moment when it arrived.

  After a time he put the paper aside, got up and looked in on the kitchen again. Maureen was mixing gravy, and he watched her as she tasted it, eyes screwed up in anticipation of the heat, the wooden spoon held fastidiously in her small, capable hand. She nodded, satisfied.

  ‘I think we’re about ready here,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to go sit at the table we can eat.’

  ‘But the others aren’t here yet.’

  Maureen consulted the kitchen clock. ‘They ought to be here by now,’ she said, frowning. ‘I told Mum not later than one.’

  Greg went over to the window and looked down onto the snow-bound street below. There was no sign of his ex-mother-in-law or of his two-year-old daughter. It really was too bad of Mrs Cavendish to stay out so long, he thought. She knew that he would be anxious to get away, to get home.

  Home. Home was the little house just on the outskirts of Salisbury in Wiltshire. Greg thought of the decorating he had lately been doing there – of Jeannie’s room – the care and the love he had lavished on it. And it was finished now. In Jeannie’s absence he got the rest of it done, added the finishing touches. He could hardly wait for her to see it, to see the look on her round, baby-face when she saw it all – the pink linen flowers he had pasted on the walls, the pink curtains, the pink bedspread. Pink, everything pink – the exact same shade as the ribbons that she loved to wear in her hair.