‘If you like,’ he said, ‘if you like.’
I felt a bit exposed, unwanted somehow, at breakfast, a buffet affair, all silver covers and a big pot of porridge over a flame. I went and sat down by Roger, who was dealing with a kipper, and explained that Geoffrey wasn’t feeling very well.
‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ Roger said.
‘He’s working very hard,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he needs a good general check up. Do you know anybody?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I usually go to the local GP.’
‘We don’t get out of London enough,’ I told him. ‘I’ve been wondering about a cottage – if ever you’re selling anything on the estate, do give us first refusal.’ This idea had occurred to me the day before. I thought it would be nice to have somewhere to go to and no harm in having it close to Roger’s place either, or paying a family price, with no house agents involved.
‘Don’t do it,’ said the actress, Susanna. ‘It’s no formula for relaxation, believe me. You’ll spend your whole time thinking about sheets and the garden –’
‘Always freezing and costs more than two holidays a year in Barbados,’ Tony Leighton broke in. ‘Sell you ours – any time.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ I said, obviously flirting, but still a bit annoyed that Roger, still working on his kipper, had let my enquiry about the cottage drop, so I turned and ate my scrambled eggs – these breakfasts are all very well, but you can’t say they’re much help to people who want to stay in shape. I got up and went down into the old cellars, where Roger had put in a pool, and swam and swam, all alone and not knowing what to do. I felt hollow. There was a splash, and Cassie Tompkinson, an old actress who’d turned up late that night, landed beside me, looking cheerful. She said, ‘You don’t want to do too much swimming. You’re thin as a pin. I should float for a bit, try to put on a pound or two.’ I was pretty revolted by her bulges in her schoolgirl swimming suit. ‘That’s the last thing I want,’ I said, thinking she could do with some diet and exercise. After all, she earned her living by looking good – a comedy actress has to, until she gets to Thora Hird’s age. Sure enough, she began to labour up and down the baths, while I hung on the rail doing kicks, but she soon got fed up and said, ‘Let’s go and whistle up a coffee.’ She was one of those rapid dressers, still back in the school changing rooms, where they used to shout ‘Hurry up, Jessica – Tania, you’re going to be last again.’
I found her in the window seat in the small drawing-room, looking out over the flat, wet fields. A middle-aged woman, something to do with the National Theatre, was also there. It seemed she’d just arrived.
‘It’s rather Jane Austen, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t we be writing letters and wondering if it’ll clear up in time for a walk? All this chintz.’
‘Could be Agatha Christie,’ said Cassie. ‘We while away the time discussing the other people in the house until someone comes in to say there’s been a murder.’
I was wondering where Geoffrey was – still in bed, I thought. I supposed he’d come down for lunch. Now here I was with two aging theatrical women. So where was Tony Leighton? Roger came in and said, ‘Anyone fancy a trip round the ruins? I think the archaeologists have knocked off for Christmas, but they won’t mind if we go and look.’ It seemed that near the village they’d come across a Saxon settlement, built on a Roman villa, and underneath, what looked like some Bronze Age encampment. ‘Funny spot to be so popular,’ Roger remarked, as we tramped across the fields in our macs. ‘They’re toying with the idea that there was once a tributary of the Steen running near the site, but it somehow disappeared. Trouble is, they can’t work out how.’
I didn’t care. I used to be interested in these things. Andrew Thwaite and I once cycled thirty miles, fifteen there and back, to look at a Roman villa. Now I started to think about whether Julie would get out of my basement, and how Pauline Lombard, sitting there in Bromley drawing extra money, my money, was plotting how to wedge her fat daughter into my house. The site, when we got there, was a sea of mud. There was a hole with a few muddy bits of pot at the bottom; some bits and pieces, including bones, were laid out in a hut.
On the way back I kept on seeing those bits of skull, neatly pieced together, lying on a shelf, except for one side of the head, where there was a gap. Meanwhile, the rain poured down, the trees were rattling, I kept on seeing the old skull. No wonder I fainted in the hall as I was taking off my boots. They got Geoffrey up and I ended up there in bed, resting until lunchtime, while he sat reading on a chair by the window. ‘Poor little pussy,’ he said, at one point. I didn’t like his pity, though it was better than nothing. What’s wrong, I thought. I knew I was Anna Lombard, lecturer in fine arts at the Simpson Institute, wife of Geoffrey Lombard, the clever civil servant, but none of it made any sense. I lay there, thinking that Christmas in this big house, surrounded by strangers – because more people kept arriving who all seemed to have their lives under control – wasn’t doing any good. And the size of the house and the number of guests made it easier for Geoffrey to drift further away. And Roger’s influence over him was no help – if he could, he’d have sat up all night with him, playing snooker and drinking whisky, in the sort of chummy masculine environment I really didn’t like. The poor man hardly knew what he was doing. He suggested bringing me lunch on a tray, but I got up and went down. By now there were fifteen guests and the leaves had been pulled out of the long dining-table, full of flowers and silver. A log fire burned in the big fireplace. The food was delicious, boeuf en croûte, chocolate mousse, six wonderful cheeses. I had a little of everything, knowing I had fainted partly from lack of food. It put some heart in me. After lunch I found Geoffrey and Roger in the library with two other men, brandy circulating, then picked a book and went upstairs to read. ‘Have a rest, darling,’ Geoffrey told me, ‘ready for the dance.’
Nevertheless, he didn’t join me in the room until six and the rain came down outside the windows and I began desperately to plan leaving, because I was ill, and having a cosy Christmas together in London. But I knew Geoffrey wanted to stay and it would have been difficult to persuade him to drive back to London.
It was the 28th by the time we did get back. Geoffrey had driven us silently down the motorway, after parting with Roger outside the house in what I thought was a peculiar way – ‘Hang on, Geoffrey,’ Roger had muttered, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Nothing stays the same for ever.’ ‘That’s a fact,’ Geoffrey had said, half smiling. ‘Thanks, Roger.’ It was sleeting. I wanted to get in the car. ‘Don’t forget – any time you feel like a break – place is always here.’ ‘I’ll remember, thanks.’ Geoffrey said. Roger hadn’t looked at me while he said goodbye to Geoffrey, or while he was offering Geoffrey a stay there, though I was standing beside him all the time. Later, he kissed my cheek after I said what a lovely Christmas we’d had, but it was obvious something intimate was going on between them. Roger was offering Geoffrey some kind of private sympathy and support. So we left the big house and the wonderful life-style. On the way home I tried to find out what was happening between Roger and Geoffrey but Geoffrey didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about. ‘Why did he say “nothing goes on being the same for ever” to you?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Some kind of parting shot – I don’t know.’
‘It seems a funny thing to say.’
‘People say anything at these times,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Keep taking the tablets, love to the twins, see you Friday, see you in court, kiss the dog for me, if you can’t be good, be careful – you know – if anyone collected what people blither out when they’re saying goodbye nobody would believe it.’
I didn’t know whether he was fobbing me off or he just didn’t know what I was talking about. Mummy always said men had no sense of the nuances of things and I must say on the whole I agree, but the trouble is that sometimes they trade on it, and pretend they haven’t seen what’s going on when they have, if it makes
it easier for them.
At any rate, it wasn’t a friendly drive home and when we got back something rather horrible happened.
Obviously the postman had been; Mrs Adams, my daily, had popped in and put the letters on the hall table. I can’t even remember what happened to them – all I remember is standing in the sitting-room, pouring some drinks after Geoffrey carried the bags upstairs, and then him arriving in the room with a letter in his hand. His face was quite blank when he looked at me. He said, ‘I can’t quite believe this, Anna. Will you look at it and tell me what it’s all about?’
‘What on earth …?’ I said. Then, while I was just working out the things I hadn’t told Geoffrey about the past – the abortion when I was seventeen, the reason why I’d quarrelled with Abbie, my cousin, because, just a week after I met Geoffrey, she accused me of an affair of some sort with her husband, all sorts of stupid things from the past – I took the letter. I was thinking if Abbie had dragged it all up and written some drunk’s letter of accusation on Christmas Eve (she knew about the abortion too), I knew exactly what I’d say, Abbie was a drunk. As she was – and is. Or, perhaps it was something awful from Pauline, about Harriet – but when I took the letter the first thing I noticed was that it was typed, which Abbie wouldn’t have done – or Pauline. I turned it over to read the signature and even as I looked I knew I’d made a mistake just by turning it over so quickly. It looked guilty, it looked too masculine, too quick, thinking, that quick flip-over to check who the writer was – it wasn’t me, it wasn’t an Anna Lombard thing to do. Not that the signature told me very much. Henry Bedford (Mr) was typed at the bottom below the signature; Henry Bedford, written in uneducated handwriting. I sat down calmly and read the letter.
Dear Mr Lombard, I am writing to you because my daughter Julie is here for Christmas with her two children in a very upset state. She tells me your wife has made two offers of money to her recently to try to persuade her to move out of her flat in the basement area of your house. She wants me to tell you she does not want to go. I would like to remind you she is a legal tenant and you cannot force her to go. It is my understanding that you should not send your wife down to do business without any proper appointment and I would prefer it if in future you would go through me, as she has quite enough worry without this sort of thing. Julie also tells me she thinks your wife may have communicated with the DHSS telling them she has been doing a few hours housework for a lady in the neighbourhood known to your wife. Julie was so upset when she arrived here that I am dealing with this matter myself, but I should like to say that if your wife has taken any action with regard to the DHSS I think she has been in serious error. I hope it is not true, but in the meanwhile I should like to appeal to you to stop your harassment of my daughter. As a businessman I am sure you will agree she has a perfect right to live peacefully in her flat.
I read the letter twice, to give myself time to think, but even so I couldn’t see it was serious. Still, Geoffrey’s face was frightening. I said, ‘I did go and see her about moving out. What was wrong with that? I offered her a bit of money – £10,000 – what’s her father grumbling about?’
‘You didn’t ask me, Anna. I can’t understand it.’
‘I thought it would be a nice surprise if I could arrange it.’
‘Not such a nice surprise as it turns out,’ he said. He was treating me like another civil servant. I dropped my head. I said, ‘I thought – I thought – if you didn’t want to pay I could use Auntie’s money, and Daddy would let me have the rest. We could have paid him back gradually. You’ve said hundreds of times it would be nice to have the flat, and the garden – and think how much more the house would be worth. You know we’ve always wanted Julie to move out. I only wanted to please you, so you could have a garden.’
‘It wasn’t a very good idea, Anna. You can see perfectly well you should have asked me. You don’t know that I have £10,000 to spare, and you didn’t ask me if I wanted to borrow your inheritance, or from your father. And this man’s perfectly right that the approach shouldn’t have been made this way. Anyway, judging from the letter, he’s taken some legal advice somewhere. I don’t like his use of the word ‘harassment’ – from now on he’s on our tail. If he’s some kind of a barrack-room lawyer, he’ll pester us incessantly from now on – repairs, noise, general behaviour, almost anything serves as a complaint against a landlord these days. Your motives may have been of the best, but I sincerely wish you’d consulted me first.’
He was standing up looking serious. I didn’t challenge him. I just sat in my chair looking a bit crushed. I knew perfectly well that if Julie had agreed, he would have been only too keen to get hold of the £10,000. And he wouldn’t have worried about me going to Julie – he’d have been delighted. As it was, her bloody father’s letter had upset him. Just like a man, he was prepared to let a woman do the dirty work, and be pleased if it worked out all right, but if it went wrong – well, she’d get the blame. Specially, he didn’t like getting a letter of complaint from another man. But at least he didn’t know a thing about the DHSS. As far as he knew, I was trying to help. I said, ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t want to upset anyone, least of all Julie. She seemed all right when I spoke to her. It’s awful – I had no idea –’
‘The other part – about the DHSS – I don’t have to believe that, do I?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Geoffrey,’ I said in reproach, ‘of course not. I don’t even understand the regulations. I wouldn’t know where to start – does it mean she’s been earning money and not declaring it to the people who pay her social security?’
‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I suppose he’s offered to pay the money back.’
I thought Henry Bedford hadn’t. I was fairly sure he’d rung up Jacquie Eberhardt to check the details – Julie would have the number – and she’d said if the DHSS asked her if she’d paid Julie any money she’d deny it. A woman like Jacquie Eberhardt, who wears smart but sensible clothes and votes for the SDP, will always do something like that. If the DHSS had caught her unexpectedly she might have told the truth to the authorities as a public duty, that’s another thing people like the Eberhardts do. But once she’d spoken to the father and heard about a distressed single parent getting picked on – well, what else would she do? Just as well I’d phoned the DHSS anonymously, or I’d have been involved. Basically, Julie would never believe I hadn’t done it – but who cared? – and Geoffrey, I could see, would never believe I had.
‘You can’t think I’d deliberately get her into trouble,’ I told him. ‘He’s just saying that to be nasty. Otherwise all I’ve done is offer Julie some money to get out. She’s obviously got very upset – she’s having a difficult time, two children, no husband, she’s bound to get a bit hysterical from time to time. I mean, really Geoffrey, we both know she’d be better off taking the money and buying a little place near her parents.’
I felt him yielding – he couldn’t bear the idea of hysterical women – and I held his drink out to him. ‘I’m very sorry, Geoffrey. I only did it for the best, for us. I had no idea it would cause all this trouble.’
He half-smiled. ‘Never mind. I’ll write to him. I’ll have to tell him we got it a bit wrong, it won’t happen again, he’ll be included if any other problems occur.’
We were quite cheerful over dinner but afterwards he insisted on staying in and listening to records. I wanted us to go to the cinema to take Geoffrey’s mind off that letter, but he told me he had two days’ paperwork to do before he was due back at the Treasury and wanted a quiet evening at home. Although it sounded all right, there was something about the way he listened to the Mahler which made me wonder if he was listening properly and, if he wasn’t, what was he thinking, and why didn’t he tell me his thoughts? I caught his eyes at one point on the card from his children, a big collage organised, I thought, by Harriet. I’d stuck it, half concealed, propped against the window behind the large blue vase, but obviously it was there, with Geoffrey’s eyes drifting to i
t. Roll on Twelfth Night and the New Year, I thought, and farewell to Christmas cards and the holiday season, which had been awful and disappointing, really.
Christmas at the Kopses’ passed off fairly well. Times being hard, the festival seemed to have fulfilled some of its old function of providing a short break between hardships. By the 27th Polly was again getting fed up with the gangs sitting round the kitchen table eating pot noodles, was again fearing the arrival of even more bills, with the last lot still disputed, and unpaid. She also feared a determined attack by her ex-husband’s solicitors. The thought of the New Year did not bring her much joy, although she could not restrain sneaky hopes of something better, ‘Otherwise, I’d hang myself,’ she told Kate Mulvaney. Kate, too, was not very happy. Dermot’s wife, who had spent the last fifteen years hoping he would stay away as much as possible, had heard about her. Now she wrote to her husband from Ireland appealing to him to come home. Dermot had felt unable to refuse, so agreed to go there for his last fortnight, before returning to Africa. Kate had expected to have the last two weeks of his leave with him, now it would only be the last two days. She could not rage at Dermot’s wife for capriciously deciding she wanted him, even if it was only because another woman seemed to desire him. She, Kate, was herself a Catholic, now divorced according to the state, but still married according to the church. Dermot was a married Catholic, his wife was his wife. She and Dermot were therefore both adulterers and always would be. Her duty was to hope that Dermot and his wife would be reconciled but she could not really hope that, or even persuade herself to wish she could hope it – she wanted Dermot back, parted from his wife. She told her priest this. There was little he, dealing with the mangled Catholicisms of an inner London parish, could say. Others in his parish were troubled by domestic violence, black magic, unemployment, delayed rights and rapidly punished wrongs; he dealt daily with woes on an epidemic scale. With the best will in the world, he could only see Kate and Dermot’s sin as an attack of corns in a typhoid outbreak. At least as a result of it no one would die, or starve or go to prison. Father Harrison should not have felt like this, but he did, because he was tired, and Kate understood this perfectly well, so could not impose too strong a claim for spiritual help. ‘In any case,’ she’d told Polly, ‘there’s not much to say. I’m supposed to give up Dermot, and presumably try to get Julian to come back. Much good that would do – he’s re-married and had a child. What’s supposed to happen if he did return to me?’
As Time Goes By Page 14
