by J F Straker
A week after Karen’s return home Derek Foley invited himself for the weekend, on the plea that there were several Book Club, foreign and serial rights to be discussed. Robin was pleased to note that on his arrival Karen offered her cheek to be kissed, and that after a momentary hesitation Derek accepted the offer. The hesitation, however, seemed to confirm Robin’s suspicion that it had been a letter from Maria Foley that had caused Derek to hold back on his previous visit. Now, it seemed, all was well again.
They were at dinner on the Saturday evening when Karen said gaily, ‘You’re putting on too much weight, Derek. You need someone to keep that appetite of yours in check. It’s time you got married.’
‘I know.’ Derek glanced ruefully down at his bulging stomach. ‘Unfortunately the few coloured girls I meet who are both beautiful and intelligent — and I insist on both — are already married.’
‘Rubbish!’ Robin said. ‘That’s a lousy excuse. Anyway, what’s wrong with white girls? They’re plentiful enough, aren’t they?’
‘Plentiful, yes. Interested, no.’
‘Because you’re black? Come off it, Derek! Plenty of white girls fall for blacks.’ Robin grinned. ‘It may have some connection with the widely held but probably erroneous belief that you fellows’ equipment —’
He stopped abruptly, arrested by the look on his wife’s face. It was a look he could not recall having seen there before. Not merely disapproving, as the thoughtless insensitivity of his remark deserved, but angry almost to the point of hostility.
‘Sorry, darling,’ he muttered. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
He wondered what Derek would make of that.
It was during the following week that Polly had a surprise telephone call from Simon Mallett, inviting her to have dinner with him. It was the first time he had shown interest in her, and her pleasure in accepting was tinged with curiosity. Did it mark the end of his Karen period? The condolences of the other members of the Mallett family over the loss of the baby had obviously been sincere — even the inimical Adele had shown unexpected warmth — but it had seemed to Polly that Simon’s words of sympathy had been more conventional than convincing, his attitude towards Karen reserved, almost hostile. Why? Polly wondered. Had the idea of Karen as a mother, even though she had lost the child, dulled his admiration? It seemed an unlikely explanation, for throughout her pregnancy, even during the final months when she had grown huge and ungainly, there had been no apparent diminution of his devotion. So did this invitation to dinner suggest that after all these months of casual friendship she, Polly, had finally managed to capture his admiration to the exclusion of Karen? Even though it did not explain everything, the possibility filled her with a warm glow. She was currently enamoured of the proprietor of the garage which serviced her car, but the prospect of an evening out with the handsome Simon still excited her.
Although, being Simon, he was courteously attentive to her comfort, nothing in his attitude suggested that an amatory flame might be burning inside him; but he had booked a discreet corner table in one of the smaller and less fashionable restaurants where their conversation was unlikely to be overheard, and that at least was promising. There was no early indication, however, that the promise was to be fulfilled. The soup was despatched with scarcely a word, and as they waited for the main course — steak tartare for him, a Dover sole for her — he nervously crumbled a bread roll while inquiring into her plans for Christmas and then lapsed into silence. He couldn’t be overcome by her attractions, could he? Certainly she had endeavoured to make the best of them. But then she had made the best of them before and he had had eyes only for Karen. Deciding that if the evening were not to deteriorate into a silent display of gluttony and nothing more she searched her mind for a topic of conversation that was not too banal. And presently she said, ‘That leather handbag you said Karen had left in your car — months ago, before they went to Barbados — remember?’
That caught his attention. ‘What of it?’ he asked.
‘When I gave it to her she said it wasn’t hers. Then she changed her mind and said it was, that she’d bought it that afternoon. But —’
‘She said that?’ he interrupted.
‘Yes. But it wasn’t true, was it? It was a present from you.’
He did not deny it. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, for one thing, you were so anxious not to leave it. Wanted to give it her in person.’ She paused to finish her sherry. ‘But it wasn’t until Karen said it wasn’t hers and then changed her mind that the penny dropped. I mean, it’s such a lovely bag. She couldn’t possibly not have recognised it.’
‘So why did she say she’d bought it?’
‘Because the penny dropped for her too, that’s why. She didn’t want to embarrass you.’ There was another pause while the waiter took their plates. ‘Why didn’t you say right out that it was a present? When you brought it, I mean.’
He shrugged. ‘I thought Mr Granger might disapprove. It wasn’t her birthday or anything. And he seemed a bit edgy that morning.’
You can say that again, Polly thought. ‘Was it made in your factory?’ she asked.
‘Workshop,’ he said. ‘Not factory. Yes, it was. An export order — for Italy, of all unlikely places. I kept one back for her.’
‘You admire her a lot, don’t you?’ Polly said.
‘I did.’
‘Did? You mean you don’t now?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
Intuition came to Polly. ‘And that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Something’s bothering you — something to do with Karen, though I can’t think what — and you need a confidante. Right?’
He was quick — too quick, Polly thought — to deny it. He had asked her, he said, because he enjoyed her company. But it was true that he was worried about Karen. ‘You see, I’m pretty sure she’s been cheating on Mr Granger.’ He took a deep breath. ‘With a bloody wog!’
‘What?’ Polly was too astonished to be shocked. ‘Karen? You’re out of your mind, Simon! What gave you that idea?’
The waiter was back before he could answer. Polly waited impatiently as food was deftly ladled on to their plates. ‘Well?’ she demanded, as the man turned away.
‘You know Dilys Armstrong?’ he asked. ‘My tennis partner?’
‘I’ve heard you speak of her. I don’t know her. What’s she got to do with it?’
A fortnight previously, he said, while he and Dilys were having a drink after a game of tennis at the Leisure Centre, the conversation had turned to the National Front and Dilys had accused him of being a member. ‘Well, I’m not, and I said so. But I admit I sympathise with some of their aims. For one thing, there are far too many damned blacks over here. God knows why we let them come; the majority are lazy, good-for-nothing trouble-makers. And seeing them married to white girls makes me sick. It’s an unnatural relationship that’s almost certain to come unstuck eventually. Don’t you agree?’
He had been tucking into his steak as he spoke, the sentences interspersed between mouthfuls. Ignoring the question, Polly said impatiently, ‘I thought you were going to tell me about Karen.’
‘Yes. Well, Dilys said she thought poverty could do more to damage a marriage than colour, although she admitted she knew of one mixed marriage that looked like coming unstuck. She’s a nurse at the Emsley Clinic, and she said that while on duty the previous Saturday night a young white woman had given birth to a baby boy whose father was obviously black. The woman rejected it on sight, Dilys said, presumably because it reminded her of a husband she no longer loved.’ His blue eyes challenged her. ‘You see?’
‘No,’ Polly said. ‘I don’t.’
‘No? That was the night Karen had her baby.’
Polly stared at him. ‘And you think the woman was Karen?’ Mouth full, he nodded. ‘Oh, come off it, Simon! Jumping to a conclusion like that just because —’ She paused. ‘Was that the only birth at the clinic that night?’
S
imon didn’t know. Dilys had volunteered no more information, and because at the time he wasn’t particularly interested he had not asked for any. And he certainly hadn’t jumped to a conclusion, he said. It had come to him gradually.
‘How?’ Polly asked.
‘Well, for a start, not many blacks could afford the Emsley. Not around here, anyway.’
‘Not many, perhaps. But some. Did Dilys mention whether the baby lived or died?’
‘Well, she said it was a fine, healthy boy. That was what made it so sad, she said. The mother rejecting it, I mean.’
Karen’s baby had been healthy at birth, Polly reflected. ‘So presumably it’s still alive?’ she said.
‘Presumably.’
‘That makes nonsense of your theory, then, doesn’t it?’ Relieved, Polly started to catch up on the sole. ‘Karen’s baby died.’
That had been his initial reaction too, Simon said. But doubt had persisted and he had felt impelled to check further. He discovered that neither the national nor the local Press had carried notices of the baby’s birth or death, and that none of the town’s leading undertakers, including Felton’s, had officiated at its funeral. ‘The Grangers would almost certainly have employed Felton’s,’ he said. ‘Felton’s practically furnished the Hall, and according to Karen they do the bulk of their shopping there.’
‘That’s not conclusive,’ Polly said. But with less conviction. She knew he was right about Felton’s.
‘No. But why choose Lincolnshire for the funeral? Because her father died there? I doubt it. More likely because it was far enough away to deter anyone from visiting it.’ He laid his knife and fork tidily down on the empty plate. ‘When was it, anyway? Or rather, when did they say it was?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You his secretary and you don’t know?’ Simon looked his incredulity.
‘He doesn’t always tell me where he’s going,’ she said. Who was she trying to convince, she wondered, Simon or her-self?
‘Maybe not. But surely he’d have told you that.’
Polly took a final mouthful of sole, looked at the remainder and put down her fork. Her appetite had vanished.
‘So what?’ she said. As if she didn’t know!
Just over nine months ago, he reminded her — a significant period of time — on an evening when Robin was in London, Karen had mysteriously disappeared for a couple of days. ‘They pretended later she had been visiting her mother, but it’s my opinion she was with this wog.’ Normally Polly would have repudiated the crude racist word. Now she let it pass. ‘What’s more, I think Mr Granger suspected. He was terribly het up when he rang to ask if she was at the party. But I suppose she confessed when he taxed her with it, and he forgave her. I mean, he really loves her, doesn’t he?’ Polly nodded. ‘When Karen became pregnant she would naturally assume he was the father — she’d have been more careful with her lover, wouldn’t she? — so it must have given them a hell of a shock when the kid turned out to be black and she realised she hadn’t been careful enough.’ He paused while the waiter served the caramel custard both had ordered. ‘How could she do it, Polly? How could she? And with a damned wog! It’s — it’s —’ He shuddered and dug a fork viciously into the custard. ‘Ugh!’
Polly shook her head and tackled the sweet in silence. Karen hadn’t spent those two days with a lover, she had been held captive by kidnappers. She would have liked to explain this to Simon and so restore his faith in Karen; though he had not allowed disgust to curb his appetite she knew from his expression and the occasional break in his voice that he was deeply distressed. But Robin had commanded her silence, and loyalty forbade her to break it.
Black lover apart, however, Simon’s theory carried conviction. Much as she longed to refute it, the facts he had uncovered formed a formidable argument. Karen claimed to have been kept under drugs during captivity and to remember practically nothing of what had occurred. But if she were indeed the woman who had given birth to a black child in the clinic, then it was during her captivity that the child had almost certainly been conceived. Had a negro member of the gang forced her into sex? To Polly it seemed inconceivable that she could have had no knowledge of it, drugged or not. So had she deliberately withheld the information, aware of the pain its disclosure would inflict on Robin?
‘Well?’ Simon demanded. ‘What do you think, Polly? Am I right?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I intend to find out.’
Twelve
For Polly, bed that night was not synonymous with sleep. For hours she lay awake, twisting and turning, everlastingly revolving in her mind the things that Simon had said, looking for flaws and finding none. The coincidence of the dates of birth, the unlikely sudden death of a healthy baby, the absence of any announcements in the Press, the fact that Felton’s had not handled the funeral, the strange choice of cemetery, added up to an impressive total — one that, despite the depth of her pity for those involved, herself and Simon included, it was impossible to ignore. A brief investigation at the clinic could, of course, resolve the matter beyond doubt, but that was a step she had no authority to take. Nor would she if she could, it would be a betrayal of the Grangers’ trust in her. Would misrepresentation of the child’s condition be a crime? she wondered. If it were, then presumably the police would be entitled to investigate. Martin could, if his detective’s mind should run on similar lines to Simon’s. Or was Martin a party to the deception?
The possibility infuriated her. She had never felt entirely at ease with Martin, they were friends only inasmuch as both were friends of the Grangers. Their incompatibility was perhaps as much her fault as his for, however unreasonably, she was jealous of the bond that existed between Martin and Robin and, to a lesser extent, between Martin and Karen. How could the few months she had known Robin hope to equate with thirty years? The kidnapping should have provided a step towards it; it had seemed to demonstrate that his trust in her was equal to his trust in Martin. Or so she had thought. But where was his trust now? Assuming Simon’s theory to be correct — and by the morning she had convinced herself that it was — why had Robin deceived her about the child? To Polly the answer was uncomfortably obvious. In the first instance he had had little choice, she had become involved from the start. This time the choice was there and he had chosen to reject her. But almost certainly he would have taken his precious Martin into his confidence.
She arrived at the Hall in a bitter and angry mood, and the fact that Robin’s mail that morning contained letters of condolence on the baby’s death did nothing to abate it. Neither did Robin’s manner. He was clearly under strain, and she suspected this was not because of any sadness but because he hated the deception into which circumstances had forced him. Presently she could bear it no longer. She dropped pad and pencil on the floor, folded her arms and looked at him with a challenging expression on her pretty face.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Not going too fast, am I?’
‘Oh, no, it’s not that.’ She sounded breathless. ‘It’s just that I don’t like being deceived.’
‘Deceived?’ His tone suggested bewilderment rather than annoyance. ‘How do you mean, Polly?’
She swallowed. ‘The baby didn’t die, did it?’ she said rapidly. ‘These letters — they’re all lies, aren’t they?’
‘Oh!’ He had been dictating from by the window. Now he came to perch on his desk, facing her. ‘I think you’d better explain that.’
‘I know,’ she said. She saw the lines on his face, the droop of his shoulders, the tired eyes, and resentment was replaced by pity. ‘I know the baby isn’t yours and — and — Oh, Robin, I’m so sorry!’
Tears welled in her eyes and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. He slid off the desk and put an arm round her shoulders and held her close until the tears ceased. As she bent to reach her handbag he gave her his handkerchief and waited while she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.
‘How did you find out?’ he asked
.
She sniffed. ‘From Simon. Simon Mallett.’
‘But how on earth—’
She repeated what Simon had told her. When she had finished he said drily, ‘H’m! Quite the detective, our Simon. Although his girlfriend had no right to discuss the clinic’s patients.’
‘She didn’t mention Karen by name. And Simon said she had no idea he knew you both.’
‘Maybe. But she was still out of order. Did you believe what he told you?’
‘Not about Karen taking a lover. I knew that wasn’t true. I wanted to tell him so, only I couldn’t, could I? But the rest — I didn’t want to believe it, Robin, really I didn’t. Only it sounded so convincing I couldn’t see how not to.’ He started to move away. She caught his hand and held it. ‘Is it true?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s true. The bastard must have raped her while she was unconscious.’ Gently but firmly he removed his hand. ‘We’re hoping to get the child adopted.’
He spoke quietly, but she could sense his anger. ‘Are you cross with me?’ she asked.
‘With you? Good Lord, no! Why should I be? Sorry for you, perhaps, but certainly not cross.’
That puzzled her, but she did not seek an explanation. ‘Does Martin know?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
So she had been right! Bitterness crept into her voice as she said, ‘You told him but you didn’t tell me. Why? Don’t you trust me?’
‘Ah! So that’s it. I thought I detected a certain atmosphere earlier.’ He managed a smile. ‘Lack of trust has nothing to do with it, Polly. He put me under pressure — policemen do — and because I couldn’t find the necessary lies I had no alternative but to tell him the truth. With you it was different. There was no need to tell you. So why should I burden you unnecessarily? It would put a strain on your relationship with Karen, make life even more tricky for you than it was already.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve been looking the wrong way, my dear. It never entered my head that you couldn’t be trusted. It just didn’t seem fair to involve you in yet another deception.’
