by John Bingham
That summer we planned to spend our two weeks’ holiday at a little seaside place about thirty miles from Palesby called Whitney Bay. Her mother had agreed to this, only stipulating that for the sake of Cynthia’s reputation we should occupy separate hotels.
The weather was fine and warm, and I think that during those summer days I felt nearer to falling in love with her than ever before or afterwards. I had bought a small second-hand car for £40, the only extravagance I allowed myself on hearing of the bequest, and we piled our suitcases into the back and went by road.
In the mornings we bathed and lazed on the little beach among the sand dunes; in the afternoons we usually went for a run in the car, returning in time for a drink before dinner. After dinner we went to the cinema, or danced at a local dance hall, or strolled along the sea front.
Naturally, when Mrs. Martin heard of my holiday plans she winked at Phyllis and said archly that she had a feeling that before long she would be losing one of her lodgers. Even Mr. Martin, knitting and cursing in bed, put forward the view that before long I’d be “bringing up a family of dam’ brats,” if all he heard was correct. And it was generally assumed at the office that in due course Cynthia and I would take the plunge.
On the whole, their guesses were not so very far out. As one sunny day followed another, I became very conscious of how much I liked being with Cynthia. It was largely a physical attraction. The sunshine had browned her face and body, and the sea air had made her eyes sparkle. She was gay and passionate, and if I had not had occasionally the feeling of being organized, I might have proposed to her of my own free will. As it was, it turned out somewhat differently.
We had just finished lunch on the eighth day of our stay when the hall porter came into the little dining room and said I was wanted on the telephone.
“The gentleman says it’s your office, sir.”
I looked at the porter in dismay.
“What on earth do they want?” said Cynthia casually.
“I’ll find out,” I said. I got up. I had a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. The great cloud that hangs over the head of every reporter when he is young is the threat of a libel action, or of perpetrating some inaccuracy which will involve the paper in the payment of damages.
Something had gone seriously wrong, I thought, something that could not wait until I got back from my holidays. I visualized myself driving hurriedly into Palesby to examine the shorthand notes of some court case I had reported. I recalled one or two of the more recent and complicated ones. I wondered if I had somehow mixed up the names of the prosecutor and the defendant, as one unfortunate reporter had done on the Gazette and thereby earned a species of immortality.
I picked up the receiver and was not at all reassured to hear Grimshaw, the Chief Reporter, at the other end.
“Is that you, lad?”
“Yes, Sibley speaking. Anything the matter?”
“Did I disturb your lunch?”
“I was having lunch, yes, but it doesn’t matter. Anything wrong?”
“London’s been on the phone about you, lad.”
My heart sank. If London was telephoning Palesby about me, it must be serious. Our head legal department was in London.
“Oh, yes?”
Grimshaw cleared his throat. “Would you like a transfer to the London office, Sibley? They’ve got a vacancy. As you’re a Londoner and have had a bit of experience in the provinces, they’ve offered you the job.”
Through the glass door of the telephone box I could see Cynthia sitting at our table sipping her coffee. My thoughts were confused. When I had come to Palesby I had dreamed of Fleet Street, like most other newspapermen. But with the passing of the years I had settled down, I had made many friends, I was well thought of at the office, I had Cynthia. It would mean uprooting everything, starting all over again in London among strange colleagues. It would mean leaving Cynthia, at least for a while. I suppose I had an instinct that if I left her it would be the end of everything between us. The idea gave me a little feeling of pain. I was trying to think quickly, but I could not sort out my emotions. There was Cynthia, pouring herself another cup of coffee, and at the other end of the line was Grimshaw, waiting for the answer. I temporized.
“It’s a big step. Can I think it over?”
I heard him snort with surprise. “Of course you can’t think it over, lad. They want an answer right away. If you don’t want to go, say so, and they’ll have to find somebody else. What do you think I’m wasting the firm’s bloody money for on a toll call?”
Beyond Cynthia’s head I could see the line of the blue sea. I knew that if I opened the telephone box I would hear the sound of it through the open hall door, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the sunshine glinting on the parchment wings of a gull. Although I was a southerner, I felt the tug of dirty old Palesby, the warm comradeship, the reasonably assured future, Cynthia, and all the social friendliness which you rarely find in London. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I would rather stay in Palesby.
But I thought of Prosset, still toiling away as a bank clerk. I remembered his sneers and air of superiority. He was still in the ruck. Here was my chance to soar up in my profession, to earn twice, perhaps three times as much as he was earning. Here was a chance to get a bit of my own back next time we met. It was the decisive factor.
“All right, then,” I said.
“What the hell does that mean? Do you want to go, or don’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll go.”
“You don’t sound any too bloody keen.”
“I’m not. I like the Gazette. When do I start?”
“Monday, 9:30 in the morning, sharp. You’ll have to come back here on Saturday, and travel down on Sunday. They’ll bump your salary up, of course. All right, then. I’ll say you accept. Having a good holiday?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“How’s the girl?”
“She’s fine.”
“She won’t be too pleased, I suppose. Well, better make the most of your time. Bye-bye. Don’t forget—Monday, 9:30, sharp.”
He rang off. Monday. Nine thirty, sharp. I was reminded of my first talk with Grimshaw. He wouldn’t want me till next day, he’d said—nine o’clock, sharp; it was always “sharp” with Grimshaw.
I went back to the table. Cynthia looked up as I sat down.
“Well?”
I said nothing for a moment, wondering how I should break it to her, and finally decided it was no use trying to wrap it up.
“They want me to go to London.” She did not at once understand the significance of it.
“When?”
“Next Monday. Actually, I’ll have to travel down on Sunday. I’ll have to leave here on Saturday morning.”
“How long are you going for?”
“For good,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “I’m going to work in the head London office, which serves all the provincial papers in the group.”
She looked at me wide-eyed for about five seconds.
“But what about me? What about us?”
I shrugged. “It’s going to be tough. Of course I’ll come up at weekends pretty often. And maybe you can come down to London now and again,” I went on, feeling her unhappiness. “I could fix a room for you, and all that. We’ll still see a lot of each other.”
She shook her head slowly and tried to smile.
“We won’t see much of each other. You know that as well as I do. I wonder how it is all going to turn out.”
I think that she, too, was nearly in love, but not quite.
The evening before we left we walked along the sands after dinner. It was a still, close night, but down by the water’s edge there was a little breeze. We did not speak much, but walked arm in arm until we came to the sand dunes at the end of the beach, and here we sat down and lit cigarettes.
I knew that the following day would be one of hustle and confusion, of handing over of work and clearing my desk, drawing such salary as was due to me, making ou
t my current expense sheet, and packing; of farewells and drinks and all the business inseparable from a departure. And just as at school when I had gone to the dormitory windows and gazed out half sadly at the moonlit buildings during the summer nights of the last term, so now I was suddenly loath to leave Palesby, and gazed at the moonlight on the waters of the bay with a strange illogical dejection.
If anybody had told me when I first arrived at Palesby and saw its dreary houses and damp pavements that I should ever be sorry to leave the place, I would have considered him to be joking. But I have heard it said that it is not so much the work you do, or where you do it, which makes for happiness, but rather the people you do it with. There is much truth in this. Palesby, with its blunt but friendly people, who had at once accepted me as a comrade, had in due course become a safe haven, like my school had been. Inside the haven, the waters were sometimes choppy and disturbed, but at least you could fathom their depths. Outside, who could tell?
And once again I thought of Ackersley, who had shot himself because his wife, his refuge from the torments of schoolboys and from the realization of his failure, had sickened and died; and of how Geoffries, the Lascar, faced with the threat real or imagined of the loss of poor, tawdry Mary O’Brien, in a few wild moments of atavistic desperation had hurled the woman to destruction and placed a noose about his own neck.
Or did I have some premonition, as I sat with Cynthia by that calm sea, of the crisis which lay ahead, and was my spirit even then, as perhaps earlier at school, pulling hopelessly against the stream of events which were now to carry me, and Cynthia, and Prosset, and the almost forgotten Kate, to the climactic struggle? It is a tempting enough theory, but I doubt it.
Cynthia had been sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, her face averted, watching, as I thought, the lighthouse winking in the distance. I put my arm round her shoulders and felt her body quivering. She turned her face to me and I saw she was crying. I tightened my arm round her, and drew her face to mine and kissed her.
I told her not to cry, because I would often write to her and telephone her, and would see her quite frequently, too. I even sketched out an impromptu plan whereby I would come to Palesby, and she would come to London, alternately. This seemed to cheer her and she smiled and wiped her eyes.
But suddenly she said, “You remember that night we met at the dance? You remember what you said?”
“I said a good many things.”
“You said one particular thing.”
“Well, go on, tell me.”
She hesitated for a couple of seconds.
“Well, I said something about you not getting any funny ideas, Mike, and you replied, ‘My ideas are never anything but serious,’ or something like that.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.” I did remember, but I wished her to declare herself.
“Well, you did say that. I have never forgotten it. I have often thought about it from time to time. I thought it kind of set you apart from other men. Sort of made me feel I could rely on you.”
“I hope you can.”
She must have noted the careful wording of the phrase. She looked at me quickly and keenly.
“You haven’t been leading me up the garden path, have you, love?”
“Of course I haven’t. What on earth do you mean?”
She put her arm round my neck and kissed me full on the mouth, and whispered, “We’ve been a lot to each other, haven’t we, love? I’ve given you a lot, haven’t I, love?”
“Of course, darling. You’ve been marvellous. You’re my sweetheart, Cynthia. You know that.”
I pressed her closer, but she pulled herself away.
“Why can’t we get married now, Mike? Or in a month or two, anyway?”
To gain time to think, I replied, “Why, darling, I didn’t know you wanted to get married. Only a little while ago you were saying you wanted to see life a bit first. That’s why you chucked Harry, wasn’t it? Because he was too possessive and jealous and wanted to rush things.”
She shook her head slightly, impatiently. “Well, I’ve changed my mind, what with you going away, and everything.”
“Look, I’m not earning nearly enough, Cynthia.”
“They’ll give you a rise when you go to London. They must.”
“Living is much more expensive in London.”
“We could manage. I know we could.”
She watched me intently as I stubbed my cigarette out on a stone. I took another one out of my case and lit it. I remember how thankful I felt that I had never told her about Aunt Nell’s bequest to me.
I said, “Look, we’ve got to be a bit patient, sweetheart. I’m not going to get married until I’ve got a home for you.”
“We could live in a flat, love. And save money to put down a deposit for a house.”
“With the salary I’ll be getting, we could never afford to save anything for the house. We’d just go on wasting money paying rent for years. I want to start married life with a home and all debts paid. Then when the children come, and have to be educated—”
“Who said there’d be any children?”
“There would. A couple, anyway.”
“There might not be. You can’t tell.”
I said nothing to that. She lay on the soft, dry sand, looking up at the stars, plucking at a tuft of coarse grass. After a while, she put out her arm and drew me down. She put both her arms round my neck again, and pulled me closer. As we had been walking along, I had taken off my jacket because the night was hot. I could feel the soft warmth of her body through my tennis shirt.
“You do really want to marry me, don’t you, love?”
I thought of nothing but the warmth of her and the closeness of her.
“Of course I do,” I lied.
Try as I might, I still could not remember what it was that had occurred at Palesby which could cause me worry. Yet the idea grew in my mind until it became a certainty that in the kaleidoscope of events which had occurred during those years something had indeed happened which would interest the police.
I had a notion that it was connected with the stuffed birds on the piano. So far my memory went, but no further. My inability to recall what it was, and my feeling that it would be better if the police did not know about it, increased my uneasiness over the Prosset case. A horrid fear was tapping at the back of my mind that before the affair was over, the whole story was going to come out, of Kate and Prosset and me, since I came to London; and nobody was going to be spared, not even poor little Kate, who had not harmed a soul.
CHAPTER 9
I came to London from Palesby in August, 1938, and stayed for a few days in a hotel near Paddington until I could find myself some lodgings. My Aunt Edith suggested that I should return and live with her in Earl’s Court. But I had had enough to last me a lifetime of the dreary house and garden.
Moreover, the necessity of explaining my comings and goings if Cynthia should come to town was in itself a barrier. I therefore told her that, as the life of a newspaperman was one of irregular hours and mealtimes, I felt it would be better for both of us if I took a room elsewhere. She did not press the point, being by now far too busy with her own affairs to care a great deal one way or the other.
I found a room in Harrington Gardens, South Kensington. It was a ground-floor room, barely furnished and cheerless, with a high ceiling, mass-produced furniture, and the inevitable shilling-in-the-slot gas meter. I paid 30s for bed and breakfast, and dinner in the evening was 2s extra. The place was clean, the staff obliging enough, and I was reasonably content with it.
I would have liked a basement flatlet, like Prosset’s, and my first instincts were to go along to Oxford Terrace to have a look round; but though I now felt myself every whit capable of holding my own with him, I thought that on the whole it would be as well not to live too near to him or I would have him continually popping into my digs, just as he used to be always popping into my study at school.
Technically, work in the
London office was easier than in Palesby, for there was not the overwhelming attention to detail which is required of a reporter on a provincial paper. Our task in London was mainly to follow up stories appearing in the national newspapers with a view to developing some slant on them which would be of interest to the provincial papers we served.
The work was less arduous than in Palesby, the hours easier, the pay better. There was little or no night work, so that for the first time since I started work I found myself with plenty of time on my hands after six o’clock. I devoted two or three evenings a week to short stories, which were now selling more easily, the income they brought in being equivalent, on an average, to some £3 a week.
So the position was that I had about £1,300 in the bank, an income of about £13 a week, and a reasonable and interesting job. It seemed to me then that after a shaky start the course of my life was favourably set. I was aware that a reporter’s position is rarely completely secure, and that I might find myself suddenly without a job; but even if this occurred, I reckoned that by devoting myself entirely to fiction I could make enough to keep myself until I could get another newspaper job, even if that should take a long time.
Then, as if to consolidate my finances still further, I had not been in London more than a few weeks when I received a cable stating briefly that my father had died in Delhi after a car accident. The news affected me emotionally but little, for we had known each other so slightly that I felt no more than I would have done had I heard that a friend whom I had known for many years, but seen very little, had suddenly died abroad.
Upon his death I became the recipient, after payment of estate duties, of an annual income from trust investments of £200 a year.
No wonder that at that period my position seemed impregnable. I had a profession, private money and good health. I contemplated writing novels, and if I was as successful with them as with short stories I thought I would retire from the newspaper game. Perhaps I would travel, gathering material for my work, which in turn would improve it, leading to wider sales and further and more ambitious travels. But I would not retire from newspapers until I was sure how my novels would be received. I was going to act sensibly.
