by Simon Brett
As soon as he saw it, he knew that Sea Spray Cottage was wrong. Its drab, unpainted pebble-dash made the walls look flimsy, as if constructed of egg-boxes. The blue paint on the salt-eroded window-frames was faded and sad. Sea Spray Cottage had about it an air of melancholy, but of bleak rather than romantic melancholy. It was not right.
It took him a little while to find the turning off to Winter Jasmine Cottage. There was a small white sign at the head of the farm track, but its post leant back into nettles and the surface was mottled with green. However, on his third slow drive past, he saw it and was able to decipher the overgrown lettering. He turned the car off down the track.
The surface was scarred and pitted by tractor-wheels, but the growth of grass over the ridges suggested that none had passed that way for some years. Bernard drove with care, worried for the safety of his car’s exhaust-pipe. Twice he had to get out to open gates. On marks for remoteness, Winter Jasmine Cottage scored highly.
He turned the corner of a shaggy grove of trees, and saw it.
The thatch came down low, so low that only a child could have stood upright beneath its eaves. Tiny windows in the whitewashed frontage flanked a red-painted door. Set into the thatch above this was a kind of dormer, a small leaded window, presumably from the bedroom.
The garden was an autumn wilderness, to which the sunlight imparted a spurious glow of colour. An untidy laurel hedge fronted it and grew higher and more wild round the vehicle entrance at the side.
Bernard breathed deeply. Winter Jasmine Cottage was ideal.
He rang the old lady with the London number as soon as he got back. Yes, he would like the cottage for the weekend he had mentioned.
Oh good, the old lady was delighted. It wasn’t easy living on a pension these days and every let helped. Then, with great diffidence, she apologised that, ‘due to unhappy experiences in the past’, she now had to insist on a deposit being paid. She didn’t like to sound mercenary, but so many people these days, even the nicest-seeming people, turned out not to be what they appeared that -
Don’t worry, Mr Farrar assured her, he had fully expected to pay a deposit. In fact, why didn’t he send her the full amount of the rental straight away, in cash? Then the sordid business side would all be dealt with, and she could send him the key.
Oh well, that was kind. It would certainly be a great weight off her mind to have that sorted out. Now, the key . . . Yes, she could send him one . . . Or sometimes she arranged that Mrs Rankin, the lady who came in to clean the cottage, was there to let the tenants in. . . They even sometimes – and she knew this was rather naughty, but she was a good judge of people and she could tell just from his voice that Mr Farrar was an honest sort of man – left the key under the water-butt round the back.
The last method would be fine, said Mr Farrar. Just fine. No need to trouble Mrs Rankin, just leave the key under the water-butt.
Mrs Waterstone (which was the old lady’s name) then said that she would send Mr Farrar the details about the cottage, map, terms of rental and so on. Where should she send them to?
He had prepared for this. Close by his own house was one that was empty. The owners had gone away for six months and left him a key ‘in case of emergency’. He gave that address and confirmed that his name was Mr Edward Farrar.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Waterstone as a final thought, ‘I’m afraid that, though blankets are provided, tenants are expected to bring their own sheets.’
‘That’ll be fine, Mrs Waterstone,’ said Mr Edward Farrar.
As soon as he had put the phone down, Bernard Hopkins reached for his wallet and counted out some of the notes he had drawn from his Post Office Savings Account for the purpose, placed them in an envelope, added a charming covering letter headed with his absent neighbours’ address, and took the package to the post-box on the corner.
He felt satisfied with his day’s work. A few more details must be sorted out and then all would be ready for him and Madeleine.
Sharon Wilkinson had been surprised when Tony Ashton rang again and asked her out on the Saturday night. She had expected, after their acrimonious parting earlier in the week, that she would hear no more from him.
At first she thought she should go all frosty and refuse the invitation, but when it came to it, she couldn’t see any good reason to do so. She was an equable soul who didn’t bear grudges. Besides, Tony had asked her out to a disco and she longed to see if he was as good a dancer as her friend at Boots claimed.
There was also the other factor – which she tried to deny but couldn’t – that she was very attracted to him. But if he tried any more of that funny stuff, he wasn’t going to get anywhere. She had had time to sort out her reactions since the embarrassment of their earlier encounter, and she reckoned she now had more control of herself. Tony Ashton had not got a job, he wore an ear-ring, and was therefore not Mr Right. He might be fun to be with, fun to dance with, fun to kiss even, but there was no way that he was going to make any withdrawals from the account that she was saving for marriage.
He was also in for a shock if he tried the same sort of thing on the Saturday evening. Sharon’s father would not be in the pub; he was laid up with ‘flu and would be in bed directly above the sitting-room where the previous advances had been made. But Sharon didn’t mention that to Tony at the beginning of their date. She didn’t want to spoil a nice, safe evening’s dancing.
So she was quite happy for him to put his arm round her shoulders and give her the odd kiss as they walked along from her house to the bus-stop. Sharon felt once more in control. She was pleased to be with someone who attracted her, secure in the knowledge that her virginity was not at risk.
Had Tony known what she was thinking, he might have proved a less attentive escort.
And had Paul Grigson, who saw them walking past together out of his bedroom window, known the true state of their relationship, the pain which seared across his mind might have been less acute.
Chapter 13
It had to be the same disguise. The clothes and glasses had become part of a ritual, props for his other identity. Once he had made the decision about what he had to do, he packed the clothes quickly into his old school-bag and left the empty house. Again the change of personality had to happen at Brighton Station. A pattern had been established.
Early on a Saturday evening there were inevitably more comings and goings to the gents than on his previous mid-morning visit, but no one looked twice at the tall figure with a bag who put his coin into the slot and entered one of the cubicles. Inside, he changed slowly, with meticulous care, into the brown herring-bone jacket and the dark grey flannel trousers. He donned the duffel coat, again poignantly aware of the tobacco smell of his father. Finally, he put on the glasses and once again, as the world blurred around him, felt reassuringly invisible, as if he had erased his own personality completely.
He waited for a full five minutes, sitting on the lavatory seat, breathing deeply and evenly. Then he picked up the bag, left the cubicle, went into the station, bought a ticket, and caught the next train to Victoria. Again, no one gave him a second glance.
Because it was Saturday night, Soho was busy, full of rowdy drunks and tourists in search of prurient entertainment. This time he did not go into the crowded sex-shops or join the queues for a quick flash in the peep shows. The lust in him was urgent enough without such titillation.
Just as the disguise had had to be the same, so it had to be the same prostitute. The unseen ‘Mandy’ had joined the repertory company of his fantasies and it was unthinkable that he should go to anyone else.
The alley off Wardour Street was crowded with sauntering couples having a night ‘up West’, youths spilling out of the topless bar, a few men loitering purposefully against the railings, potential customers perhaps for ‘Mandy’ or ‘Cleo’.
He ignored everyone around him and walked in through the doorway, up the bare boards of the stairs, and onto the landing. Without pausing to think, he banged on the grey fire
proofed door. Again, so quickly that he wondered whether there was some hidden warning-bell downstairs, the latch unclicked, the door opened a crack, and the maid’s shrivelled face showed.
He said nothing.
‘The young lady’s busy at the moment. Could you come back in ten minutes.’
‘I’ll wait.’
The maid shrugged and the door snapped closed again.
He was calm now. The pounding of his heart had settled down. It would be all right this time. Finally, the burden would be shed. His penis was painfully rigid. Another quarter of an hour and the great hurdle would be surmounted.
Footsteps boomed on the stairs. He turned and, through the blur of his lenses, saw a figure in a bright blue nylon anorak approaching the landing. The figure took him in at the same moment, swayed uncertainly, then vanished back into the darkness. Coward. He felt a kind of superiority at the strength of his own resolution.
There was another click from the grey door, a rattle of the chain and it opened. A man in a dark overcoat with its collar turned up sidled out and, with head averted, scuttled off down the stairs.
The maid’s wizened face looked out and took in his presence. She beckoned with her head. He followed her in.
The first small box, the maid’s room, contained a couple of ragged easy-chairs, a low table and a mobile Calor Gas heater. On one wall a gratuitous mantelpiece had been stuck (though there was no fireplace), and on top of it was a bowl with a dusty display of plastic flowers. The thin cord carpet was discoloured and lay on the uneven floorboards without underlay. From behind the interior door came the sound of water running into a sink.
‘Young lady won’t be a moment,’ said the maid. ‘Care to sit down?’
He subsided into one of the chairs; the springs dug into his buttocks. Still, he felt calm. Still, he felt randy.
The water in the next room stopped running, and the door behind him opened. He half-turned to see a sulky girl with frizzed-out black hair. Her skin was white, but the set of her features suggested West Indian ancestry. She had a shiny cream house-coat wrapped around her.
Her eyes took no notice of him, but went straight to the maid. ‘I’m out of cigarettes. Could you get some?’
The maid looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure?’
For the first time, ‘Mandy’ looked at him. A glance seemed sufficient to convince her. With an edge of contempt, she said, ‘Yes.’
Still looking doubtful, the maid reached for a handbag and moved arthritically to the exterior door.
‘Mandy’ flicked her head towards the bedroom, and he followed her in. She arranged herself on the bed in a pose of uninterested coquetry. ‘Right, what do you want?’
Her voice had a flat, Midland flavour.
‘Well, sex,’ he replied thickly.
She let out a harsh, unamused laugh. ‘I guessed that. This isn’t a chip-shop. But there are different sorts of sex and they cost differently. There’s straight or there’s –’
‘Straight,’ he interrupted.
She named the price. The money from the Post Office Savings Account would cover it. He drew out the notes. She nodded towards the bedside-table and he put the money there.
She tugged the belt of her housecoat loose and splayed her legs on the bed. He caught a glimpse of dark hair, and averted his eyes as he slipped off his father’s duffel-coat and reached to undo his tie.
‘Not the lot,’ came the girl’s voice harshly. ‘Just the trousers. You’re not here for the night.’
He released the belt of his trousers and they dropped to the floor. But as he lowered his underpants, he knew it had gone wrong. The stiff flesh, desperate for relief, had melted in an instant to nothing. He froze, trying to summon to his mind some image that would make him a man again.
‘Come on,’ said the girl’s voice. ‘We haven’t got all night.’ She was not sufficiently interested to notice his depleted state.
He moved towards her. Maybe physical contact would bring it back. Maybe he needed the stimulus of her flesh. He laid himself tentatively on top of her.
At once, her bored but practised hands were reaching out for him, reaching to feed him into her, reaching for the nothing that hung between his legs.
Her face was very close to his. He could smell a hint of garlic on her breath. He could see her lip curl as she said, ‘Not going to get far with that, are we?’
Before he knew it, his hands had closed on her throat. Her eyes widened in horror. Her hands moved to fend him off, but suddenly he was strong and he pinioned her arms with his elbows.
Her body twitched in desperation. Her legs thrashed, trying to force him off. A choking cry started from her lips, but he tightened the ring of his long fingers and the cry died in breathy gurgling.
He felt a sense of power. He had the strength. He could do it.
The twitching subsided. Her movements slowed. The eyes, formerly popping out with fear, now rolled. Her lips parted and the tongue protruded. A little froth gathered at the corners of her mouth. Hazily, through the glasses, he watched her body grow still.
He kept the grip around her throat for another minute, then slowly released it, and there was no more challenge, no more mockery.
He straightened up till he was kneeling over her, and became aware of the fiercely rigid flesh of his penis. He hardly had to touch it before the jet of semen spurted, leaving a broken snail-track across her house-coat-clad shoulder, her cheek, the black frizzed hair.
He pulled up his underpants and trousers, rezipped, and replaced his father’s duffel-coat. The glasses had stayed on throughout the three minutes of his stay.
He glanced quickly round the room. Some instinct for security made him take back his money, fearing fingerprints.
He opened the door and moved quickly, but not hurriedly, down the stairs. He darted out into the alley, turning left, and was lost in the crowd before the maid with dyed red hair had reached the doorway with her redundant supplies of cigarettes.
He kept the glasses on on the train back to Brighton. Still they seemed to insulate him, keep him apart from what had happened.
He managed almost completely to block it out of his mind. It had been so quick, he could almost convince himself that it had been a dream, another episode in the strange tangle of fantasy that at times seemed to take him over.
All he felt was the rueful sense of another failure. He had got it wrong. His approach had been wrong. Indulgently, he ticked himself off for lack of self-knowledge.
Why on earth should he have imagined it would work with a nameless whore? He was too sensitive for that. What he needed was someone gentle, someone loving, who would not rush him, who would understand his inexperience.
It would be different, he knew, with Madeleine.
Chapter 14
Paul now carried the black-handled sheath-knife with him wherever he went. He felt challenged in every aspect of his life, and the knife gave him a kind of security.
His mind was more tangled than ever. There seemed to be so many new things to worry about that the space inside was crammed to bursting. There was the public shame of what Tony Ashton and Sharon were doing, and of what they must be saying about him. In the background was a dark cloud of anxiety about his mother, whom the hospital still wished to keep in for observation. And other, darker images fought their way through from time to time to the surface of his fears.
Increasingly, the only thought which gave him any peace was that of Madeleine. He kept reliving the moment when she had held his hand, when he had been so close to her, and it seemed that that was the only occasion in the past weeks when he had felt complete, when he had felt human, not swamped with threats from everything he saw around him. He ached for the moment of their next tutorial. In her presence he felt sure he would once again be whole, healed at least for the duration of their proximity.
It was Shelley this time. Paul had battled for some days against his vagrant concentration to read some of the poet’s work, but he had found it hard
going. Most of the lines blurred as he read them, sense slipping by in a cascade of words, and the bits he could understand he didn’t much care for. With Keats, though he had found the language difficult, he had at least gotten some feeling of the opulence of the poet’s imagination. Byron, though again obscured by archaic usage, did retain a kind of romantic appeal, arising more from what he had found out of the poet’s life-style than from his writings. ‘Childe Harold’ in particular, when Paul thought about it, offered grim parallels for his own alienation. But Shelley . . . It all just seemed to be words. There was passion there, obviously, but not a kind of passion which he could identify with any of the many he had experienced himself.
It was clear from the start that Madeleine did not share his view. ‘But, Paul, can’t you see? Shelley is the most modern of poets. I mean, I would have thought, of all the Romantics, he has most to say to young people today.’
‘He doesn’t say a lot to me,’ Paul ventured a grin as he made this admission. He felt at peace, relaxed. He was with Madeleine, her perfume surrounded him. There were a lot of things still to be sorted out, but it would all be all right in the end. She would be his and his life would be transformed by her love.
‘Oh, come on. Shelley talks the language of idealism, of peace and love.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Well, those are the values of the young, aren’t they? They always have been.’
Paul projected his lower lip dubiously. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think many people I know are very idealistic. Most of them are just out for what they can get.’ The image of Tony Ashton and Sharon flashed uncomfortably across his mind.
