‘A hatchet, Madam? Certainly. There’s this little one at six-and-nine. And a larger size at eight-and-nine. And here’s another make, which I should recommend on the whole. The edge is chromium steel, warranted not to rust or stain. Marvellous value at eight-and-six, madam.’
Mrs Clair looked at the deadly things lying on the counter where Mr Carter laid them, at their glittering edges, and cunningly curved handles. It was strange how easy they were to buy. They repelled her so that she did not want to touch them, but she forced herself to put up her hand and pick one of them off the counter. She balanced it carefully in her hand – in later years it was to be one of Mr Carter’s most vivid memories, the sight of that nice old lady standing in his shop thoughtfully testing the balance of the hatchet.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll have this one.’
‘Eight-and-six, madam? Certainly, madam. Shall I send it for you, madam?’
‘No thank you. I can take it with me.’
The hatchet, tied up in brown paper with all the old-fashioned care Mr Carter habitually employed, weighed heavy in the carrying bag on her wrist as she emerged once more into the High Street. Tomlin’s clock told her that she still had twenty minutes to spare before returning to prepare Mr Ely’s dinner. She spent those twenty minutes in walking quickly through the suburban streets completing her purchases. She turned down Marvel Lane so as to pass the police station. She walked up Simon Street, her quick, kindly eyes darting from side to side as she looked for Sergeant Hale. She did not see him.
It was, of course, as she realized, being far too optimistic to hope to encounter him in a mere twenty minutes’ walk. It might be days before she would met him apparently by chance in the street. Never mind, she would go on trying. Probably, she told herself, she had days to spare, and if she had not, if matters moved to a crisis before she met him, it was not of great importance. Her plans were complete without a meeting with Sergeant Hale. The meeting was only one more precaution, one additional embellishment, like drawing out her money from the bank – not like the purchase of the hatchet, which was an integral and essential part of her plan.
When George Ely came home he found a pleasant dinner waiting for him, of cold meat and potatoes and salad and a milk pudding, and a nice piece of cheese. On the side table in the dining room lay Mrs Clair’s leather carrying bag and two or three parcels.
‘Goodness me!’ said Mrs Clair, as his eye rested on them. ‘I shouldn’t have left these things here. I must have put them down and forgotten to take them out into the kitchen. Of course, there’s been plenty to do today, just back from the holidays.’
‘Of course,’ said Ely.
Mrs Clair began to bundle the packages together. Out of the carrying bag she took the hatchet, uncovered – she had removed the paper in which Mr Carter had so carefully tied it.
‘That’s a fierce-looking thing,’ said Ely.
‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Mrs Clair. ‘I’ve been wanting one for a long time, with all that chopping to do outside. I think it’s a good one, don’t you?’
She passed the thing over, and Ely stood weighing it in his hand, just as Mrs Clair had done in the shop.
‘It seems all right,’ said Ely, carelessly, returning it.
Consciously, he thought no more about it after Mrs Clair had achieved her aim. In future Ely would always be aware of the existence of that hatchet; its sudden appearance would not surprise him, or cause him to stop and think for a moment. Mrs Clair, in the exaltation of spirit resulting from the hatred which consumed her, was a cunning and farsighted psychologist.
When she had washed up the dinner things, and seen Ely off to the office again, and finally disposed of the washing, she put on her hat and jacket again. She would have liked to have gone to help Marjorie, but at present there was something else more urgent to be done to forward her plans – only a precautionary measure, like the withdrawal of the money from the bank, but one which she judged it preferable to carry out, rather than smooth Marjorie’s path for her. Only a few days now, and Marjorie’s path would be quite smooth; surely she could endure till then.
Neatly gloved and shod, wearing her unobtrusive little hat and coat and skirt, Mrs Clair set out to walk the suburban streets again. Up one steep street and down another; along the High Street; down Marvel Lane and past the police station; back again to the High Street; up Simon Street nearly to the corner of Harrison Way; she spent the afternoon walking demurely in constant wide sweeps through the district. She might have been engaged upon any innocent errand in the eyes of the casual passers-by – shopping or going to visit friends or to confirm a maid’s reference. By five o’clock she was woefully tired, and committed the extravagance of going into Mountain’s Café for a cup of tea, but she was out again at five-fifteen, walking swiftly along, her bright eyes searching every by-road at each corner that she passed.
At last she saw him, when she had only ten minutes left to her before she was due to go home in readiness for Ely’s return from the office. It was Sergeant Hale; walking in all his imposing burliness down Cameron Road. She saw him just in time to be able to turn naturally in that direction, as if that had been her intention before seeing him. She crossed the road diagonally on a course which brought her into his path.
Sergeant Hale saw her approaching – it was a month or more since he saw her last, but thanks to his policeman’s memory he recognized her again. He could tell as he looked at her walking towards him that she was ready and willing to talk to him – some subtle indication about her carriage showed it. She had been ready to talk to him the last time they met, too. Sergeant Hale shifted Mrs Clair from one pigeonhole to another in his mind. He put her now along with the bores and the useless time-wasters low down in their order, it is true, but one of them, nevertheless. Not so high up as to be rigorously avoided, either. Just one of the people with whom he would always have to exchange a few words, to no profit whatever, and merely consuming time amounting in the aggregate to a considerable total which might well be otherwise employed.
‘Good afternoon, madam,’ he said, with resigned politeness.
‘Good afternoon, sergeant. I hope you are quite well?’
‘Quite well, thank you, madam. And you?’
‘Very well, thank you. I’ve just had a nice holiday by the sea.’
‘That’s good,’ said Sergeant Hale.
He would have passed on with that, but Mrs Clair stood in such a position that he could only pass her with an appearance of rudeness.
‘My daughter was with me,’ said Mrs Clair, in gossipy fashion. ‘The one who had to give evidence at the inquest.’
‘I remember her, madam.’
‘I was glad she had a holiday,’ went on Mrs Clair. ‘That dreadful business pulled her down so.’
‘I’m not surprised to hear it, madam.’
‘But I do wish,’ said Mrs Clair with finality, ‘that my son-in-law had come too. He couldn’t get away, because he’s working terribly hard at the office. I’m very worried about him.’
‘Indeed, madam?’
‘Yes, his manner is quite strange sometimes. I’m afraid all this work is getting on his nerves, especially coming so soon after the inquest. But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I ought to be telling a doctor if I talk about it to anyone. Goodbye, sergeant.’
‘Good afternoon, madam.’
Sergeant Hale walked on in burly dignity. Mentally he shifted Mrs Clair several places lower down in his list of bores and time-wasters. She could stop talking of her own volition, which of itself was nearly enough to disqualify her from the classification altogether. And what she had said had at least a little interest for a police officer. It was always as well to hear about people who were ‘strange in their manner’ and whose work was ‘getting on their nerves’, even though he had to listen to irrelevant matter about holidays at the same time, and even though (as years of experience had proved) not once in a thousand ti
mes was there any sequel of interest to the police. The thousandth time a bit of gossip of that sort might well be useful.
16
On Monday evening Mrs Clair sat in her daughter’s sitting-room. Marjorie’s face was pinched with fatigue and worry, and Mrs Clair’s heart bled for her.
‘Ted’s out, I suppose,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ answered Marjorie listlessly.
‘Did you get your washing finished all right?’
‘I had to leave the ironing until tomorrow,’ replied Marjorie.
That was a postponement which was just excusable in the eyes of the good housewife if the washing had been heavy or conditions unfavourable. Today had been good washing weather, though. Marjorie must have had a busy day.
‘Were the children quite good?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You’ll notice a big difference when young Derrick is old enough to go to school, too,’ said Mrs Clair, consolatory.
‘I suppose so,’ said Marjorie.
‘I remember how it was with me when little Dot was old enough for school,’ went on Mrs Clair. ‘That was just when the war started and your dear father joined his regiment.’
Marjorie did not answer for a moment. Her head was lifted as though she was listening for something.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said hastily, at length.
Someone was whistling in the lane along the railway. Mrs Clair heard it, and yet, sharp as she was, she thought nothing of it.
‘Did you think you could hear the children, dear,’ she asked, solicitously.
‘No. Yes. No,’ said Marjorie.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Mrs Clair.
The whistling came again, and Marjorie moved restlessly in her chair. She could not think how to deal with this new situation. It was only then that her mother realized the connection between her daughter’s present abstraction and the whistling in the lane. She made a little gesture of settling herself more comfortably in her chair, as a little hint to Marjorie that she had not the least intention of leaving for a space. Marjorie eyed her uncomfortably.
‘The evenings are drawing in now,’ said Mrs Clair, in conversational tone. ‘It’s getting dark quite early this week.’
‘Yes,’ said Marjorie.
‘I suppose they’re just beginning to feel the autumn rush at the office,’ went on Mrs Clair. ‘Has Ted noticed it yet? Mr Ely hasn’t said anything to me about it.’
‘I – I think so,’ said Marjorie, desperately.
‘It’s the sensible people,’ said Mrs Clair, ‘who order their gas fires early. I’ve got no patience with the ones who leave everything to the last minute, have you?’
‘No,’ said Marjorie.
The whistling in the lane was growing more imperative and more impatient. She was positively writhing in her chair. Conversation languished in the face of her obvious distaste for it.
‘I’m feeling dreadfully tired,’ said Marjorie, at last, in sheer desperation. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘Yes, I certainly should if I were you, dear,’ said Mrs Clair, solicitously. ‘Are you going to have a bath first? Shall I come up with you and see you into bed?’
‘Oh no, I shall be all right,’ said Marjorie. She rose to her feet so as to drive her mother to rising too; the whistling outside seemed to be growing angry.
‘You’re certainly looking tired, dear,’ said Mrs Clair, making ready with maddening slowness to take her departure. ‘You must look after yourself.’
‘Yes, I will, Mother,’ said Marjorie, bustling to the door.
‘Poor lamb!’ said Mrs Clair, kissing her cheek.
Outside in the street she murmured ‘poor lamb!’ to herself again as she set off towards Dewsbury Road. Her heart was filled with sorrow for her daughter. It had hurt her to linger there so maddeningly when Marjorie’s nerves were at full stretch, but she had done it deliberately, and for her daughter’s ultimate good. She realized acutely that she must drive the two lovers into exasperation, heat them up to boiling point, cost them what it might. It was a shame to treat her daughter so, and poor Mr Ely, but it was all for the best.
Meanwhile in the darkness of the garden by the elderberry tree there were explanations, almost recriminations.
‘Dear, what a long time you’ve been! Why didn’t you come, dear? You heard me whistling.’
‘I couldn’t, darling. Mother was there.’
‘You could have said you’d got something to do in the kitchen.’
‘She’d have come out with me if I’d said that. Besides, she’d know that I didn’t have anything to do in the kitchen at this time of night. I couldn’t come, dear. In the end I had to say I was going to bed before she’d go. I’m terribly sorry, dear.’
‘Where’s Grainger?’
‘He’s out. But I don’t know when he’ll be back. I can’t stop a minute, dear. Oh my dear –’
It was all very well to kiss and cling together there in the darkness. The feeling of frustration and exasperation persisted, was intensified, if anything. Marjorie could feel her lover’s irritation, and fear was added to her bitterness.
‘Tell me you love me, dear,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me you’ll always love me.’
‘Oh – I love you, dear,’ he said, for perhaps the hundredth time since he had rescued her, but this time there was something in his voice – almost as if he had added a ‘but’ after his declaration.
‘This is beastly,’ he said, a moment or two later, in expansion of that implied ‘but.’ And then he voiced the question which Marjorie had first asked.
‘What are we going to do?’
Marjorie did her best to soothe him.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ she whispered, urgently. ‘It’ll come right. I swear it’ll come right.’
Unconsciously she was echoing the words her lover had said to her. Exactly as he had just echoed the question she had asked of him. If she lost him she would be without a friend in the world, she felt. There would be misery and doubt, danger and difficulty, and a vast emptiness in her life, the thought of which absolutely appalled her. She could foresee no sort of future even with George as her lover, but if George were to forsake her, if George’s patience were to come to an end, it would be the end of everything. She felt she would die in that case.
She strained him to her breast, and his passivity, almost resistance, warned her afresh of his discontent.
‘I love you, dear,’ she whispered.
She wanted to comfort him, to make him more reconciled to his circumstances. All that she knew of men, nearly, all that she knew of how to please and gratify them, was what Ted had taught her – Ted, the possessive, Ted, the avid of gratification, Ted the selfish, the lustful, the dirty minded.
‘I love you, dear,’ she said again. ‘All of you. And I’m all yours too, darling. You could do what you like to me. Beat me if you liked. Kill me if you wanted to. I belong to you, darling, absolutely, every bit of me.’
Her whisperings were maddening, like drink, to a boy (for temperamentally that was all he was) in the throes of first love. And they played on his possessiveness, too, as they were bound to do.
‘I hate Grainger!’ he whispered, fiercely.
‘He’s nothing to me. He never has been anything, never will be anything, darling, I swear it,’ she whispered back; nor was she being intentionally untruthful. ‘I don’t know why I married him. He’s hateful. I suppose I wanted to have children or something. Or I suppose I never thought I’d ever meet anyone like you, darling. It’s you that I love. He’ll never lay a finger on me, never again, darling, Never.’
She had three days at least still in hand before that problem would arise again with Ted. She could make promises freely when the crisis was as far off as that; and she had every intention of fulfilling them, too. It was not just to pacify George that she made those promises. She was making them to hersel
f as well, stiffening herself ready for the struggle to come. She would never be weak again – she felt nauseated when she remembered how she had prostituted herself to Ted in the past merely for fear of trouble. Never again would she do that. In mad exaltation she promised, whispering feverishly.
And as she did so there came a sudden change in the lighting of the garden – the sitting-room light had been switched on and was shining through the French window.
‘Ted’s come back!’ said Marjorie, in a panic.
She tore herself from George’s arms, consumed with a mad fear of discovery.
‘Goodbye, dear,’ she whispered – she just allowed herself time for that – and then ran tiptoe up the garden path. She opened the door into the kitchen cautiously, but as she was in the act of doing so she heard the switch of the electric light being turned on. She faced Ted across the kitchen; he had entered by one door as she had entered by the other.
‘Where the devil have you been?’ demanded Ted crossly. ‘I thought the house was empty.’
Marjorie’s wavering mind grasped at an earlier recollection of the only occasion when she had had to go out into the garden at night.
‘Cats,’ she said, and once again she had begun the lie she found that the rest came more easily. ‘They were yowling dreadfully – I was afraid in case they woke Derrick up. So I went out to shoo them away.’
‘Oh,’ said Ted, and then, grudgingly, ‘All right.’
Marjorie’s heart was beating painfully as she made herself walk quietly back into the sitting room. She wanted just to drop into her chair, but with an effort of self-control she compelled herself to lower herself down quietly and normally. She was terribly afraid in case the fluttering of her heart betrayed itself in the pallor of her cheeks. She wanted to look away from Ted for concealment, but she dare not. She had to meet his eyes.
‘Had your mother here tonight?’ asked Ted.
‘Yes,’ answered Marjorie. That was truth, anyway.
‘Thought so. She always shuts the front gate after her.’
That was a proof of how sharp Ted was, how narrow her escape had been. Marjorie knew that tonight she had used up all her margin of safety. One discovery of suspicious circumstances Ted might pass, but two, never. And her mind flinched from analysing in cold blood the possibilities of what might happen if Ted discovered her intrigue. Ted would be mad with rage, she knew – and not mad in the ordinary sense of being uncontrollably angry, either. He would be cruel, heartless, brutal. Of all the affronts that could be put upon him the unfaithfulness of his wife would be the most unbearable, the one he would avenge most savagely. For her, divorce and separation from the children; for George, dismissal and starvation – those would be the least penalties he would exact. He might beat her. She had an instant vision of herself screaming with pain under his hands – twice already in their married life he had struck her with intent to hurt, but this would be worse a hundred times.
The Pursued Page 14
