Simpson carried the sugar bowl and spoons through to Binny. As she stood there at the stove, the top of her tongue protruding as she concentrated on arranging chops and grilled tomatoes on a large blue plate, he thought how young she looked. Of course he knew the lighting was poor and she was no chicken, but the droop of her narrow shoulders and the little curls falling about her neck enchanted him. Muriel was tall with wide shoulders and strong as an ox. She had on two occasions moved their upright piano single-handed from one wall to another. He had refused to help, on the grounds that he might strain his back. He didn’t want to mark the parquet floor and he never dreamt she could do it alone. Putting her firm buttocks against the back of the heavy instrument and bending at the knees like Groucho Marx, she had shoved it clear across the room.
‘You mustn’t lift that,’ he said, stricken, as Binny gripped the blue plate in both hands. He took it from her, thinking she was far too fragile to carry such a load.
Edward was speaking in low tones to Muriel. He champed on the stem of his pipe and nodded his head emphatically. Binny, bringing the roast potatoes to the table, imagined he was saying that there was nothing between them, that he just felt sorry for her.
At the arrival of the meat, Edward jumped to his feet and removed his jacket. He flung it carelessly on the sofa. A comb and a fountain pen slid from his pocket and fell to the carpet. Because of his belly, which was large, he was obliged to wear braces to keep up his trousers. Finding the elastic too uncomfortable on his shoulders, he jerked the braces free and let them dangle about his thighs.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Binny. He looked a sight, with his rumpled shirt and those striped lengths of elastic hanging like two large catapults from his waist.
‘It’s damned hot in here,’ he said, forgetting that earlier he had used the coldness of the room as an excuse to close the shutters. He scooped up his belongings from the floor, lost his balance, and careered against the table. Spluttering with laughter and red in the face, he collapsed heavily on to his chair. ‘Aren’t there any greens?’ he asked.
‘Salad only,’ Binny told him.
‘Rabbit fodder,’ he said sadly, and undid the top button of his shirt.
Simpson couldn’t help admiring the man. He was definitely an eccentric. Of course he could afford to be, on his salary, but still. He asked if anybody minded if he too removed his coat.
‘Do as you please,’ said Muriel. She found the food plentiful and well cooked; the salad had the right amount of garlic in the dressing and the roast potatoes were crisp. It was obvious to her that Edward Freeman was in no danger from Binny. It was just the reverse. He was evidently using her. Some women liked that sort of thing, she knew. Binny was the right size and weight to be submissive; perhaps she had a father complex and liked some big rough man treating her in a patronising fashion and ticking her off about the vegetables. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Edward didn’t slap her now and then.
He, for his part, found Muriel very pleasant to talk to. Simpson must have been over-reacting when he’d implied she might be standoffish this evening. After all, any woman who had been involved in that X, Y and Z business must be jolly approachable; he couldn’t imagine anyone asking Helen if they could borrow the spare room. Muriel cared about gardening too, he could tell. She wasn’t lyrical over it, but she seemed knowledgeable about insecticides.
‘Of course, I was brought up in the country,’ he said. ‘So I suppose it’s in the blood. This feeling for the land. My father inherited an estate in Norfolk and I learned early to have a healthy respect for the soil. Just a small estate,’ he added hastily, hoping Binny hadn’t overheard. Whenever he’d mentioned his father’s property before, she’d doffed an imaginary cap and talked about tugging his forelock. ‘My earliest memories,’ he told Simpson’s wife, ‘are of being woken by father at dawn, and going out with the guns to shoot.’
‘How lovely,’ murmured Muriel.
‘I had to stand up to my waist in icy water for hours, waiting for the duck to fly. Couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years of age.’
‘How ghastly,’ said Muriel.
‘You’ve no idea what pleasure it gives me to see Helen in the garden, sitting in the deckchair by the fence, shelling peas that I’ve grown myself. It’s the sense of achievement. Nothing like it. Have some more wine.’
Muriel said thank you and held out her glass for him to fill.
She was a pretty woman, he realised, and fond of her food. She wore the right clothes; pale blue was a favourite colour of his. He looked across at Binny. She was wearing a severe black dress that personally he thought dowdy. She had little broken veins on her cheeks and chest. He couldn’t see them without his reading glasses but he knew they were there. When she got up from the table, as she did frequently, to fetch butter knives and salt, she waddled.
‘Does George do much in the garden?’ Edward asked.
‘No,’ said Muriel. ‘Not much. He works late most nights, and then he has trouble with his back.’
One day, thought Edward gloomily, Simpson was going to be caught out. They were all going to be caught out – Simpson, himself, those other foolish men drinking in public houses, jingling the loose change in their pockets and boasting of affairs. It was astonishing how fashionable it was to be unfaithful. He often wondered if it had anything to do with going without a hat. No sooner had the homburgs and the bowlers disappeared from the City than everyone grew their hair longer, and after that nothing was sacred.
Flushed with the wine and wanting to make amends to someone, Edward leaned towards Muriel and said softly: ‘You got me out of a hole, you know. I’m very grateful.’
Muriel didn’t quite catch what he’d said. She thought perhaps he was offering her another drink. ‘No,’ she protested. ‘I can’t take any more.’ She raised her hand and made a little gesture of refusal that Edward found charming.
‘Seriously,’ he murmured, twisting round in his chair so that Binny wouldn’t hear, ‘I can’t tell you, Miriam, how much I appreciate it. She’s a wonderful girl, but in the past she’s sneered at people. People I’ve mentioned. You know . . . friends of mine. She says I don’t know any people, not real people, not ones with flesh and blood—’
‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Muriel.
‘When she says “blood”, she sort of curls her lip back . . . over her teeth . . . like a vampire.’ Here Edward gave a facial imitation of Binny in one of her more contemptuous moments. ‘See what I mean?’ he said.
Muriel noticed that he had a fragment of watercress lodged in his teeth at the side. ‘I think I saw it on television,’ she said, but he was leaning back in his chair and watching Simpson.
How lucky, thought Edward, to have such friends. Look at the way Simpson was putting himself out to be nice to Binny – cracking jokes, taking off his jacket, talking to her quite naturally. Perhaps there was some way round that business of the office cleaning expenses. He knew Simpson probably thought Binny a bit of an oddity. He’d met Simpson’s latest woman – she was tall and brisk and called Simpson ‘sweetie’. She had a flat somewhere off the Kilburn High Road, which she shared with two men, one of whom was a Liberal party candidate. Though it wasn’t likely that Helen would know him, it was a bit of a shock when he’d first heard about it. He inclined his head and listened to what Simpson was saying.
‘. . . so she went to the surgery first thing in the morning and she said, Doctor, Doctor, is there something radically wrong? Whenever my husband makes love to me, he puts his ear to my chest and hears music. Unbutton your blouse, my good woman—’
‘Good Lord,’ cried Edward, greatly excited. ‘I heard that joke only this morning.’
‘Perhaps you should tell it then,’ said Simpson.
‘It’s jolly good,’ Edward told Muriel. ‘I’m not sure how it ends, but this woman goes to the doctor because she—’
‘I’ve lost the pudding,’ said Binny. She rose from the table and went into the ki
tchen to look inside the cupboard.
‘Won’t it be in the oven?’ asked Edward. He shambled after her, holding his trousers up with his hands.
‘I didn’t put it in the oven,’ said Binny.
Edward called loudly, ‘She’s lost the pudding,’ but Muriel was standing beside her husband with her hand resting on his shoulder. They both appeared to be discussing the picture of The Last Supper that hung on the wall.
‘Have you looked properly?’ Edward said. He bent down and peered inside the oven.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Binny. She squatted beside him and whispered, ‘I thought you said he was an ass. I think he’s attractive.’
‘Is he?’ Edward was surprised. Simpson was small and swarthy and he was losing his hair. ‘Well, I’m no judge of that,’ he said bleakly, and managed to smile. He was consumed with jealousy.
‘He played footsie with me under the table,’ hissed Binny. ‘The moment we sat down.’
Edward could think of nothing to say. He felt old and tired. He struggled upright and looked down at her, as she rocked backwards and forwards on her haunches in front of the oven. He wondered what he was doing in this dark room, suffering. ‘I simply can’t understand how you managed to lose the pudding,’ he said. Oh, how he loved her! He confessed it to himself with an anguish that he had never known before. He wanted to put on his coat and leave the house without a word, but he knew he would only succeed in punishing himself. She couldn’t run after him and he wouldn’t be able to return until tomorrow. She would remain with the Simpsons and list his deceptions and conceits. Far into the night they’d discuss the blemishes of his body and the defects of his mind. They would know he was a silly man.
Excusing himself, he walked down the dark passage to the bathroom and locked the door. He looked at his watch and saw it was five minutes after ten o’clock. Helen would be home at eleven by the latest. He wished he hadn’t gone on to that Miriam woman about his garden; describing his wife sitting on a striped deckchair in the sunshine had made him feel uncomfortable, disloyal. There were things he hadn’t said. It wasn’t only his home-grown vegetables that gave him a sense of achievement; it was having Helen there to appreciate them that counted. Not in a million years would Binny tell him the peas were firm and sweet, and economical into the bargain.
He drew the bolt on the outer door leading to the garden, and flung it wide. The rain bounced on the concrete yard below. Beyond the high wall rimmed with pieces of broken glass, there were cultivated lawns edged with trees; behind the sycamore leaves and the apple blossom, lights shone in the houses. He stepped gingerly on to the little wooden veranda and leant on the rail. The party wall was crumbling in places. The rambling rose in next door’s garden, old and fiercely stemmed, clung to the perished bricks and snaked in an impenetrable thicket along the top. He had tried to encourage Binny to see the possibilities of a town garden. It’s no good, she’d said. I can’t be bothered. He didn’t think he would have done very much himself, for all his talk – a few dwarf roses, a Climbing Caroline, some bulbs in spring. There wasn’t the scope for landscape gardening on a grand scale.
He was startled at that moment by a loud knocking on the front door. He gripped the rail of the veranda tightly and stared down at the dark pit of the yard. Who in hell’s name could it be? He felt the beat of his heart accelerate wildly. The most dreadful coincidences leapt to his mind. Helen had driven someone home from her meeting, male or female, someone taken frightfully ill – no, not frightfully, they’d have called an ambulance, just unwell. This sick person happened to live in Fulton Street, and damn and blast she hadn’t wanted to go home straight away but had decided to visit a friend. That was it . . . this female was often taken ill and this friend of hers had the right sort of medicine. Even now, Helen was on the step supporting this god-awful invalid, and Binny was insisting that both of them should come inside . . .
He looked desperately about the yard, searching for a way of escape. He couldn’t climb over the rambling rose; he’d be ripped to pieces. Nor could he manage to straddle the four foot of stout chicken wire that the neighbours on the other side had added to their wall to keep out Binny’s children.
He strained his ears listening for voices at the door, footsteps up the hall. His hair was so plastered to his head with rain that drops ran down his cheeks like tears. The house was silent. After a while he relaxed, thinking he must have imagined the sounds. The city was never quiet at night, just as it was never entirely dark. He could see the glow of light that the streets beyond the houses threw up against the sky.
He must break with Binny – the strain was becoming too much for him. He had enough to do as it was, answering phone calls, coping with clients, studying the latest changes in the tax laws. After a tiring day in the office and a visit to Binny in the evening, it was a miracle he didn’t drop dead from sheer exhaustion. Sometimes when he returned home, dark rings under the eyes and clothing sprinkled with cat hairs, his wife – allowing her cheek to be brushed by his lips – would suggest that he was doing too much.
Binny had threatened to part with him often enough. Separated from her, he would be like a ship wrenched from its moorings; rudderless, he would be engulfed by enormous waves of grief. He’d have his heart torn out in the process. Binny said No, it wouldn’t be like that at all: more like a rowing boat rocking a bit when somebody stood up too quickly. After a couple of seconds the boat would right itself and sit perfectly still: not even a ripple on the water. Of course she was arguing with him at the time – foolishly he’d mentioned some client of his who was having a rough time on twenty thousand a year – and only saying it to hurt him.
For a moment longer he stood staring out at the dripping trees. Then he stepped back inside the bathroom. He rubbed his head vigorously with a towel and, unable to find a comb, raked his hair into place with his fingers. He felt better now, less emotional, restored by the night air. He would take Simpson on one side and suggest they start making excuses about leaving. Perhaps Simpson’s back could play him up. He wanted to eavesdrop outside the kitchen door, in case Binny was discussing him, but the house was old and the floor boards creaked at his approach, so he walked straight in.
Alma Waterhouse was lying on the sofa in a deplorable condition.
7
To be fair to Alma, she hadn’t wanted to come into the house once she knew Binny had company. She only desired to look at a familiar face and then lie upon the step, quietly weeping.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Binny. ‘I can’t let you stay outside in this state.’
‘No, no, darling,’ cried Alma selflessly. ‘You go back to your party.’ She leant against the railings and slid slowly downwards.
Vexed at this dilemma and not sure what to do for the best, Binny was suddenly aware that they were not alone; she peered into the shadows of the hedge. Mrs Montague was behind the bins again with a friend.
‘No, you mustn’t,’ called Binny. ‘Go away at once.’ She seized Alma by the front of her coat and with difficulty pulled her upright. Supporting her round the waist she hauled her up the steps. Mrs Montague lived further along the street with another friend, who drank a lot; at night he fell unconscious rather than asleep. Mrs Montague was forced, as she confided to Binny, to take her pleasures where she could, and there wasn’t a hedge outside her house. As she was over sixty and far from sprightly, Binny was shocked by her behaviour.
‘I don’t want to be a burden to you,’ said Alma, once inside the hall. ‘A smile would have been enough.’
‘Don’t make a noise,’ whispered Binny. ‘These people won’t like it.’
Sniffing, but more composed, Alma entered the kitchen. The warm room, a captive audience, the sight of wine bottles on the table revived her spirits. On being introduced to the Simpsons she smiled indulgently and said, as though pacifying two small children, ‘Now, darlings. Isn’t this nice?’
‘She ought to take that coat off,’ Muriel advised. The woman looked as
if she’d been dredged up out of the river.
‘I was just passing,’ Alma said, ‘And I thought, why not pop in on poor little Binny?’ She turned to Simpson. ‘I’ve been terribly worried about her, darling.’
‘Where else have you popped?’ asked Binny. Everything depended on the mood Alma had been in before she started drinking. If she’d felt initially cheerful, and vomiting could be avoided, then she wouldn’t prove too difficult to manage.
Alma ignored her. She was wearing her old coat of mock leopard skin and a silk scarf with bedraggled fringes. A false eyelash, partially adrift on her left lid, hung at a raffish angle over one eye; she appeared to be lewdly winking. She spoke again to Simpson, who was appalled by her. He felt that at any moment she was about to say something that might incriminate him. ‘I’ve been so worried about her, darling. She’s not herself. Wouldn’t sit down, wouldn’t have a little drinkie . . . must rush off to the shops. And when we got to the shops, she never went near them—’
‘I had to go to the bank,’ said Binny crossly.
‘But you didn’t stay in the bank, darling. I saw you. You ran in and you ran out. I passed you in a taxi five minutes later and you were down a side street behaving very oddly.’
‘Take your coat off,’ snapped Binny. ‘This minute. And be quiet.’
‘You could have got run over, darling. Waving your arms about like that.’ Alma clung to Muriel’s elbow to steady herself. ‘She keeps thinking she’s on television, you know.’
‘I don’t do any such thing.’
A plaintive, almost childlike expression came over Alma’s face. She allowed her lip to tremble. She whispered loudly to Muriel. ‘She’s cross with me. You’re not cross, are you? I’m only showing concern.’
‘I’ve no reason to be cross,’ said Muriel, feeling inadequate.
Alma tottered on her feet and squinted reproachfully at Binny ‘Why didn’t you say your sister was coming? You’re so secretive, darling.’ She and Muriel, joined together at the elbow, took a few little lurching steps across the room.
Injury Time Page 6
