I found Helen much changed. She had always been quiet; now she was withdrawn and remote, except when she played with the chuckling baby.
After his release at the end of the war Dick remained in the RAF. He was posted to the Far East and I joined him there. We had some good years, until one day I came home early from a wives’ committee meeting and found him in bed with Valerie Fenton.
‘You might at least have gone somewhere else,’ I hurled at them both before rushing from the house again.
It turned out that Valerie wasn’t Dick’s first. Perhaps it was my fault: I’d become tough and independent during my time alone, while he’d had all those wasted years in the prison camp. Maybe if I’d been willing to forgive him we could have put it behind us and started again, but I was too hurt to try. As it was, Dick resigned from the service, we divorced, and within a year he married a girl of twenty-three. As far as I know they’re still living happily ever after.
If we’d had children, it might have been different.
After the divorce I went back to Speyton. Where else should I have gone? I opened a fashion boutique geared to the needs of women of my own age, thus far not catered for in the town, and I’m doing very well. Since Wednesday is early closing day in Speyton and I don’t open the shop at all that day, that’s why I was at home when Edmund telephoned.
While I was abroad Helen’s father had died. She and her mother and Edmund continued to live in the old house. Helen still gardened in most of her spare time, but she grew flowers now, and from her I learned about dahlias and delphiniums. Slowly, over the months we picked up and re-wove the threads of our friendship, and I got to know Edmund.
He had grown into a quiet boy, well-mannered, solemn, and tall for his age; he had knobbly knees, and wrists that were always sticking out of his too-short sleeves. He was interested in butterflies and moths and had a collection to which he constantly added, but I didn’t like his habit of keeping specimens alive for hours in a preserving jar, often until suffocation point was reached, before mercifully gassing them. Only if their wings were threatened with damage as they beat against the glass did this budding lepidopterist hurry their dispatch. Then he stretched them out and mounted them on pins in a glass case, for display.
Just before Edmund took his GCE exams, Helen fell ill. She made light of it, but after the first operation she gave up her work at the clinic and spent more time than ever in the garden. I saw her every weekend and often on Wednesdays too. She was much happier in these last years and talked about the past, breaking the silence of more than a decade. To her, her dead husband was still a young, vigorous man; I sometimes wondered whether, if he had lived, he might have found her dull after so long. How much had she changed because of his death? How much of her quietness was inherent?
Anyway, when Edmund was twenty-one, she died.
He had done well at school, and could have gone on to university, but he had insisted on staying at home to help his grandmother, Mrs Rossiter, look after Helen. Meanwhile, he started work in a solicitor’s office in Speyton as an articled clerk.
The fiction that Helen would recover was staunchly maintained, but only Mrs Rossiter really believed it, and perhaps that was because she was too frightened to admit the truth to herself.
‘Look after Edmund for me, Phyllis, please,’ Helen implored, on a good day just before the end. And of course I agreed.
After her death I suggested to Edmund that he might now take up his university career, but he told me that it was too late: he could not face the thought of student life after nearly three years in the tranquil office of Tresswell and Geddes. Besides, in two years he would qualify. I pointed out that he had done none of the things most young men of his age considered part of the normal pattern: for instance, he had never crossed the Channel. Why didn’t he take a year off from Tresswell and Geddes and hitch his way round the world? His mother had left him her little estate and he could afford it.
Humouring me, he did consent at least to take a holiday.
He came back with Louisa.
It seems that they’d met in Penzance, where he’d gone instead of to Greece, as I’d suggested.
Like Edmund, Louisa was an orphan; she lived with an aunt who ran the small private hotel where he stayed. He found her weeping one evening because she saw no escape from the round of waiting at table and housework that was her lot. She loathed the summer visitors, with their noisy, mannerless children, and she hated the winter commercials, who tried to flirt with her.
Of course, I did not learn all this at once, but by degrees after Louisa arrived. Since Helen’s death I’d formed the habit of going to see Mrs Rossiter once a week or so; this kept me in touch with Edmund indirectly, in accordance with my promise, and I liked the old lady, who had astonished me by her fortitude. On the first occasion after Edmund’s return from his holiday she led me to the window and showed me Louisa reclining in a swing seat. In fact, all I saw was a large, shady hat, some long ash-blonde hair, and a pair of slender legs; the face was hidden behind a fashion magazine.
Mrs Rossiter hastened to tell me as much as she knew.
The child was deeply unhappy. It seems she was a sort of Cinderella, helping her aunt run the hotel and getting no time to herself.
‘Edmund was the first young man to show her any respect,’ she said. Mrs Rossiter sighed. ‘He was always such a gentleman, even as a little chap.’
We were both silent, remembering Edmund’s unfailing courtesies, so much a part of him that perhaps we took them too much for granted.
‘They’re married,’ Mrs Rossiter went on. ‘They got a special licence, down there. It was the only way the aunt would let her go.’
It seemed a drastic method of escape. Couldn’t the girl have got some other job? I said so, aloud.
‘Yes, dear. I thought that too. It seems so hasty,’ Mrs Rossiter said. ‘But she hasn’t any qualifications. You know what Edmund is, Phyllis. She must have appealed to the chivalrous side of his nature.’
‘Maybe,’ I said dubiously.
‘She’s very pretty, too,’ said Mrs Rossiter.
Edmund had never shown much interest in girls. He’d spent most of his free time with his mother.
‘She hasn’t much to say for herself,’ Mrs Rossiter continued. ‘But I expect she’s shy. Well,’ she heaved a sigh. ‘I’d better introduce you.’
The young couple remained in the old house with Mrs Rossiter for some time, during which local surprise over their whirlwind romance died down. Edmund continued in the usual way in the office, and Louisa was often to be seen in Speyton wearing trendy new clothes and pushing Mrs Rossiter’s laden shopping trolley. She spent a good deal of time in the hairdresser’s and was sometimes difficult to recognise in her newest style or colour; indeed, it was hard to decide what was her natural hue, since it was certainly not the ash-grey blonde she had been at first. She had a lot of leisure, for Mrs Rossiter continued to run the house with the help of a daily woman as before, and Edmund looked after the garden.
I found it impossible to get to know Louisa. She was always polite but made small conversational effort herself and I was forced to communicate by the question-and-answer method I find works with children.
Six months after the wedding Edmund and Louisa moved to a new bungalow on the other side of Speyton and I saw much less of them. It was clearly sensible of them to move to a place of their own, and Louisa would now have plenty to do. Mrs Rossiter perked up after they left, and began to play bridge again.
The years passed. In time Mrs Rossiter died and the old house was sold.
Edmund always remembered my birthday and would come round in the evening with a bottle of sherry. We’d open it, drink a glass together, and then he’d hurry away, back to his Louisa. Once or twice a year they both came to dinner with me, occasions I regarded as rather a chore but which were essential if I was to remain in contact with my godson, as I had promised. Punctiliously, they would invite me back, Edmund telephoning from his
office to say that Louisa had asked him to fix a mutually convenient date. The bungalow was always spotless and the dinner perfect. While Edmund served the meal from an expensive hotplate, Louisa talked to me about my shop. She was interested in fashion, but she never came in; our style was not hers.
One evening, the last time I had dinner there, Louisa was more talkative than usual and told me that they were going to Rome the following week. I had never seen her so animated. She took me into the bedroom and showed me several new dresses she had bought, and a glamorous nightdress with a matching negligée. I expressed due admiration, pleased to find her, after all, capable of some enthusiasm, and looked with interest at their bedroom, which I had never seen before. It was painted all in white, the fashion then, with an off-white carpet and mushroom-pink curtains. The large bed was covered with a white spread. On a shelf below the window was arranged a collection of small china animals, and there was a bowl of roses on the dressing-table beside Louisa’s silver-backed brushes. With a shock, I realised that they had been Helen’s: but why not, after all?
No one could criticise Louisa’s housekeeping; all was immaculate, perhaps too perfect. It was sad that there were no children; Edmund’s grandmother, Mrs Rossiter, and I had often speculated about it, but of course only to each other.
We went into the sitting-room. Edmund was seated on the sofa with the coffee tray on a table in front of him. He was holding one hand over his eyes, as if he were exhausted; he had not heard us enter. As soon as he saw us he rose quickly to his feet, smiling his gentle smile: suddenly I saw him as he would appear to a stranger, tired, harassed, nearly middle-aged. But Edmund was not yet thirty. I took my coffee and looked at him again; he had grown a moustache in the last year and it drooped over his upper lip, adding more lines of sadness to his face. He was sad, I realised, appalled: sad, and defeated. How long had this been so?
We talked about Rome and all they would see there. Last year they had been to Paris, the year before to Amsterdam, but Louisa had not cared for either place; not warm enough, she said, though there was plenty to see in both. It was difficult to imagine Louisa happy in a museum or art gallery, though Edmund would be. They both talked a lot, but I suddenly noticed that they rarely addressed each other directly, only me.
Well, they’d been married some time. At the start the dice had not seemed to be loaded in their favour, but they hadn’t broken up after six months as people had expected. Doubtless they were just in a doldrum patch now.
They went to Rome ten years ago, and it was on the Wednesday after their return that Edmund telephoned asking me to come.
I reached the bungalow about twenty minutes after his call. The gate was closed so I parked in the road and walked up the path. Bright dahlias, like my own, flanked the side of it; they had grown a lot in the recent wet weather and the dead blooms needed cutting. The lawn was overgrown, too, and I was surprised, for Edmund was meticulous about its weekly trim. Of course, they’d been away and he hadn’t caught up yet with the arrears. But I’d have expected him to get the mower out immediately he came home.
He had seen me coming, for the front door opened before I could ring the bell. A bottle of milk still stood on the step and automatically I picked it up before entering.
‘Well, Edmund?’ I said briskly, giving him the customary peck on the cheek.
‘It’s good of you to come, Phyllis,’ he said. We’d dropped the ‘Aunt’ as soon as he grew taller than me.
‘Did you enjoy your holiday?’ I asked. ‘How’s Louisa?’
‘She’s gone away,’ he said.
So that was it. She’d left him. After a moment I rallied, thinking that worse things than this could happen, and that Edmund was, by the calendar, still a young man, even if he did look fifty.
As he did.
‘You look awful. What happened?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you go to Rome?’
‘Oh yes. We went.’ Edmund said.
‘You look as if you could do with a brandy. Have you got any?’ I said abruptly.
‘I’ve had too much already,’ Edmund said, with a faint smile. ‘It’s in the kitchen.’
Without waiting to hear more, I went out to the kitchen. The brandy bottle, half empty, stood on the table with a dirty glass beside it. There was another glass, broken, on the floor; my shoes crunched as I stepped on a fragment. On the draining board were heaped some plates with the remains of half-eaten meals stuck to them: scrambled egg, a piece of cheese, and half a tomato. Clearly, Louisa was not at home.
I poured out a stiff drink for Edmund, found a clean glass, and poured another for myself; I was going to need it. Then I went back to Edmund.
‘I loved her, you know,’ he said, and took the glass.
‘Of course, Edmund. I know that,’ I said, in a hospital-nurse voice. ‘Now, are you going to tell me about it?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘There isn’t much time.’ He began to pluck at the cover of the sofa and I longed to tell him not to fidget. ‘I want you to understand, even though no one else will.’
‘I’ll do my best, Edmund,’ I said.
‘She was so pretty,’ he said. ‘When I met her, that first summer, she was like a butterfly in a cage. I had to set her free.’
He lapsed into silence, meditating, for some seconds. Then he spoke again.
‘I thought it would be all right in the end. She was so very young, you see. I could wait. In time it would come right. She thought so too. She kept telling me so. “Just wait, Eddie, till I’ve known you longer,” she said at first.’ He paused again and I waited, still baffled.
‘Later she said other things,’ he continued. ‘”Don’t frighten me.” Or “How can you be so cruel? I thought you loved me.” And I did love her. So I waited. I kept on waiting.’
Bit by painful bit the story was disclosed. For eight long years she kept him waiting, an untouched bride, feeding him on hope alone. I could not believe my ears, but as he went on talking it slotted into place: her little-girl clothes; her remote manner; Edmund’s drawn features; the way they spoke to each other, as if they were strangers.
She’d been attacked and almost raped by a lodger in her aunt’s hotel, it seemed: enough to terrify any young girl, though she had escaped the final outrage. Of course Edmund must rescue her from a place where such a thing could happen, and of course he must wait chivalrously for her to recover. Meanwhile, he cherished her in every way, giving her everything she asked for and waiting on her hand and foot. For it was Edmund who had kept the bungalow so speckless: housework was anathema to Louisa. He got up early and did the cleaning before he went to work; in the evening, when he came home, he cooked the dinner.
‘But I used to meet her at the butcher’s,’ I said, stupidly. ‘She did the shopping.’
‘Oh yes, she was good at that,’ he said with pride.
He’d failed his final exams, he told me now. He’d studied at night, and done housework with the dawn; in the intervals he’d kept the garden bright and tidy, but that he had enjoyed. Not surprisingly something had suffered, and it was his work. In the end though, he’d managed to devise a better routine and finally he’d qualified; he had to, for keeping Louisa contented was expensive. Often he thought the moment had come when at last he might claim some reward, but though she sometimes let him kiss her, she remained like a marble block, or so I understood.
‘But you could have got a divorce,’ I said, almost too horrified to speak. ‘An annulment, I mean.’ Of all people, he, a lawyer, must have known that.
‘Oh yes, I know. But what would have happened to her then? She couldn’t possibly look after herself. Besides, I loved her,’ he said.
‘Oh Edmund!’ I exclaimed. I wanted to shake him, and I wanted to weep. ‘Well, couldn’t you have found a girlfriend, then?’ It seemed the only other thing to do.
‘I tried it,’ he said, bleakly. ‘But it was cheating, you see. Besides, I couldn’t really spare the time.’
But in Rome all was to have been diffe
rent. Louisa was sure that the warm climate and the romantic aura would affect her favourably.
‘And did it?’ But I’d no need to ask, looking at him now.
I thought of the new nightdress I’d been shown. She’d put it on, he said, and twirled about in front of him, wearing it. Then she had blown him a kiss and said, ‘I’m nearly ready, Eddie. Just a little longer.’
He sat there with his head held in his hands, his elbows on his knees.
‘She needed a doctor, Edmund,’ I said.
He’d thought of that, and consulted several. All had told him that nothing could be done without Louisa’s co-operation. The advice columnist of a woman’s magazine, to whom in desperation he’d written, had supplied some useful addresses and several booklets, but whenever he suggested any positive steps to Louisa she wept and said, ‘But Eddie, I thought you loved me, and if you do you’ll wait until I’m ready.’
‘She’d had that awful experience, when she was so young, you see,’ he said. ‘And I did love her.’
‘Edmund, where is she now?’ I asked at last.
He looked at me, and nodded his head; then he smiled, and I was suddenly terrified.
‘She’s free,’ he said. ‘She always wanted to be free.’
‘Edmund, where is she? Tell me!’ I said, laying my hand on his knee.
‘She’s waiting in the car,’ he said. ‘I was going to take her out to some peaceful spot and free her there, but in the end I did it differently. The car’s in the garage,’ he added helpfully.
I got up at once and left the room. A door from the hall led into the garage, and I opened it.
Louisa lay on the back seat of the car, covered with the white eiderdown from her own bed. Her head was placed carefully on a pillow in a clean white case. She had been strangled.
I waited with Edmund until the police arrived. He had sent them a letter asking them to call at midday, and they did.
Pieces of Justice Page 6
