by Susan Sallis
Marcus was not happy with her frankness and did not return the smile.
‘I thought we agreed that was our precious secret,’ he said. He forced a note of jocularity into his voice as he looked at Rosemary. ‘Seeing you flowering like a . . . flower . . .’ Maria laughed, ‘was encouraging to say the least.’ Rosemary felt her sentimental smile dying on her face; this was not funny. She glanced at Arnold. He too was looking extremely uncomfortable. She passed glasses around.
‘Maria’s favourite,’ she said. ‘I always get plenty of ginger wine for you at Christmas, don’t I, my dear? Good for the arthritis.’
She had not meant it to sound catty but Marcus, quick as a flash, said, ‘Ah, arthritis is a thing of the past. Since we have been together, Maria has also blossomed like a flower. You must have noticed.’
Rosemary knew guiltily that she had not. She had been completely involved with her own affairs.
‘That really is wonderful!’ she cried with enormous enthusiasm. ‘Love conquers all!’ She held up her glass, Arnold said something and they sipped in unison except for Maria, who drank hers like lemonade.
‘That was lovely,’ she said appreciatively. ‘Isn’t this absolutely wonderful, Rosemary? All these years we have lived next door to each other, grubbing along somehow, all alone, miserable . . . and now we have both found wonderful men to look after us.’ She turned her beatific smile on Arnold. ‘We did wonder about a double wedding. Marcus thinks he might arrange something in the cathedral – he gets on quite well with the bishop. It would be such an occasion.’
‘It would indeed,’ Arnold agreed. Rosemary said nothing.
Marcus put down his glass and reached for Maria’s hand. ‘We had better leave these good people now, my dear. We have given them a great deal to think about and we have to leave early tomorrow. Saturday jumble sale in the church hall. It seems an ideal time to introduce my dear Maria to the ladies of St Thomas’s.’
They made their farewells; Maria clung to Rosemary for longer than usual and Rosemary hung about by the open door to give them light to negotiate the descending paths. She returned to the sitting room, shivering. Arnold was standing with his back to the fire.
He said miserably, ‘I should go.’
She said, ‘Please don’t. They will see that too. Please don’t go tonight.’
‘You must not let this spoil what we have, Rosie. You must not.’
‘Of course I won’t.’ She poured more ginger wine and drank it like Maria had. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen. Maria . . . tied to Marcus Vallender.’
‘Challenger,’ he corrected automatically. ‘And she seems overjoyed by it so don’t waste your sympathy.’
‘I’m responsible. I practically foisted him on to her last July.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
He waited for her to flare up and when she did not he said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s go to bed.’
It was the first time they had slept together without making love. She lay in the crook of his arm and felt desperately unhappy. And bewildered. And knew it was not really anything to do with Maria.
They watched Marcus drive off the next morning as they ate breakfast and then she stood at the door and waved Arnold off. And found herself wondering whether she would see him again. He had been coming this morning for the weekend; she had turbot in the fridge.
It did not help when Connie telephoned that afternoon and was full of their wonderful plan for saving Mrs Heatherington from a fate worse than death.
‘Arnold’s going to see her on Monday, Mummy. Get Mr Heatherington’s name and anything else she might know about him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he was still alive and we could bring them together again?’
‘It would indeed,’ Rosemary said.
Eleven
CHRISTMAS CAME. NEITHER William nor Connie appeared to notice anything amiss. This was doubtless because Arnold and Rosemary were determined they should not. Rosemary took over the big old kitchen at Number Five and insisted that Connie should put her feet up and watch Frankie open his presents with lots of help from William and Arnold. When Connie finally succumbed to boredom and joined her mother for yet another gossip about Maria marrying Marcus Challenger, Arnold took her place in the armchair with a sigh of relief.
‘My knees aren’t what they were,’ he said apologetically.
William smiled in sympathy and rolled the wooden locomotive along the floor. Frankie yelled delight and threw himself after it.
‘Any news of Maurice Heatherington?’ William asked, pretending to come after Frankie, who yelled louder.
‘No.’ Arnold felt no need to hide his glumness on this particular matter. ‘The Far East Association have been very helpful. But nobody of that name is on their lists, dead or alive.’
‘What has Greta got to say about it?’
‘She’s not interested. Probably knows something we don’t. He may well have been a bigamist. Or a murderer. She simply says we’re making up a story in the hope that it will come true. That’s probably exactly what we’re doing.’
William put his son’s chubby hand on the cab of the locomotive, covered it with his own and pushed and pulled the little engine back and forth. ‘Choo-choo!’ he cried. ‘Choo-choo!’
The child looked up at him and echoed his words clearly. William turned an astonished face towards Arnold.
‘Did you hear that, Arnold? He said choo-choo. Perfectly. A whole word – two words, in fact. My God. Nip to the kitchen and tell the girls, will you?’
Arnold dragged himself out of the comfortable chair and went down the hall reluctantly. It hurt him physically to watch Rosemary busying herself domestically now; it had been such a thoughtless pleasure at first. He had liked to muscle in, wrestling a tea towel from her to dry the dishes, coming behind her when she was at the sink and sliding his arms around her while he kissed the nape of her neck; laying the table while he watched her straining vegetables. Everything about her had been a delight. Now he imagined himself watching her yet quite unable to help her in any way; watching her while she cooked his meals and looked after him. Would he become a kind of voyeur like Marcus Challenger? He told himself what a fool he was; that no one knew what awaited them in the future and Rosemary might well need him to look after her. But the cynical business of Greta Heatherington and Archie Fielding had disturbed him first of all and then the sheer awfulness of Marcus Challenger and Rosemary’s neighbour had – as he said to himself – put the lid on it. When he began the foolish and fruitless search for Maurice Heatherington, it was in a crazy effort to protect Greta. He knew it was hopeless and it would be much better to give in to his schoolboy urge to take Archie into the garden of Greta’s flat and punch him hard on the nose. The whole thing was ridiculous, a wild goose chase. But Marcus Challenger was very much present and was one of the many complex reasons for seeing Rosemary only twice since that momentous night in November. Marcus would certainly sue him if he punched him on the nose. He wondered whether it would be worth it. If it somehow solved the problem with Rosemary it would definitely be worth it.
He stood in the kitchen doorway watching her yet again. She had found an apron with a frilled bib that strained across her breasts and had crossover straps at the back. She was making custard, whipping eggs as if her life depended on it. Connie was loading the three-tiered trolley with cutlery, napiery, a tureen of bread sauce, another of cranberry, water glasses and a dish and spoon for Frankie, both shaped like a Santa Claus. They stopped talking and looked at him. Rosemary’s face flooded with colour.
He said, ‘Connie. William wants you to go and listen to Frankie. He said his first word just now. Two words, in fact.’
She gasped and was gone. He went on watching Rosemary; he could not stop. She stared back at him. The colour left her face and she held on to the edge of the sink as if she might fall over at any moment. There was a hissing noise and then a terrible smell and the milk for the custard boiled over.
He leaped forward and grabbe
d the saucepan off the hob. A mini-second behind him Rosemary did the same and missed. The handle of the saucepan was red-hot. He dropped the lot. They both took a step back as scalding milk splashed everywhere.
Rosemary’s whisper was more of a hiss. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘Darling, I’m so sorry.’ He nursed his damaged hand. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Of course I’m not bloody well hurt!’ Her hiss was practically a scream of fury. ‘But what on earth will Connie say? Look at the mess on her floor! And the hob! And I bet you a fiver she hasn’t got another pint she can spare!’
‘I’d offer to clear up but if I get down on my knees again I’ll never get up.’
‘Best place for you!’ She picked up the empty saucepan and felt its heat. ‘Oh my God! Let me see that hand! Come here – get it under this cold tap – stop being such a stiff upper lip – hold it there – don’t move.’ She whipped to a cupboard at the end of the kitchen and withdrew a first-aid box. ‘Connie was always brilliant about keeping this kind of thing at the ready. First aid was the first badge she got when she was in the Girl Guides.’ She withdrew a bright yellow dressing from its packet. ‘Put your hand here, I’m just going to dab it dry with a tissue so that the dressing will hold.’ She was not particularly gentle and he flinched several times. ‘How does that feel?’
‘Fine.’ He stared at her. She was so . . . so . . . perfect. She had almost fainted before the wretched milk had boiled over. He imagined himself kissing and kissing her until she fainted in his arms.
William came in and absorbed the scene in stages; the mess on the floor, the open first-aid box, Arnold’s outstretched hand.
He said, ‘Oh Lord. What happened?’
Rosemary closed the box with a snap and replaced it. Arnold said miserably, ‘I picked up the saucepan and it was hot and I dropped it. I am sorry. Such a mess.’
William ignored the mess. ‘Is it a bad burn?’
Rosemary said, ‘No.’
Arnold said, ‘Don’t know. Hurts like hell.’
William said, ‘Go in and talk to Connie. She’s doing nappies and things. We’ll see to this.’ For some reason he sounded annoyed. Arnold felt very hard done by. Connie was sitting in a low chair with a big basket of nappies and ointments by her side; Frank was flat on his back on her lap.
She said, ‘Everything OK, Arnold?’
‘Yes, thanks. I burned my hand on the saucepan and your mother has put a dressing on it.’ He displayed the dressing. She smiled as if congratulating him.
‘Mummy is super at first aid. When I was a Guide I had to take a test to get my badge and she would show me how to do everything. We used to laugh our heads off.’
‘Good.’ He settled in the chair opposite her and felt her knitting needles behind the cushion. ‘Ouch!’ He extracted them. ‘Gosh, they’re sharp.’
She said urgently, ‘Don’t move any more, Arnold. Please. All the stitches have pulled off and I’m in the middle of a pattern. If you could stay absolutely still until I’ve finished Frank I might be able to get them back on.’
He hardly dared breathe. ‘I seem to be accident-prone today,’ he said, his voice full of self-pity.
She smiled as she fixed safety pins. ‘If it only happens on Christmas Day we might be able to take it,’ she said. She put Frank on the floor and he went after his choo-choo. She did not stand up.
‘Arnold, will you try to be honest with me, please.’
It wasn’t a question, rather a command. But he said, ‘I’ve never been anything else, Connie.’
‘I think you have. However . . . are you sleeping with Mrs Heatherington?’
‘None of your business,’ he snapped, thoroughly fed up with the way things were going.
‘It is very much my business. But I suppose that answers the question. In which case you owe my mother an apology and then you need to get out of her sight pretty damned quickly.’
It was such an untypical speech from Connie he just stared for a moment. Then he moved his throbbing hand and rested it on the arm of the chair.
‘Yes, it is your business. Of course it is. I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . well, it is now unthinkable, Connie. You must know that I would not be in love with your mother and still sleep with Greta Heatherington.’
She visibly relaxed but all she said was ‘You’ve now run out at least one line of my knitting. It will take me ages to get that right.’
‘Oh Connie . . .’ He was in despair. ‘I’m so sorry. I really am. I feel I cannot do anything right. As for the romantic notion of finding Greta’s twenty-four-hour husband – well, it’s ridiculous.’
‘I saw the photograph. Same age as his wife and she is still going strong. Let me take the wool . . . now the needles . . . Oh honestly, Arnold!’ She sat down again and looked helplessly at the muddle of wool, then picked up a needle and began to thread stitches back on to it. ‘He’s got to be somewhere. After all, he wasn’t in the forces so there was no immediate danger.’
‘How do you know he wasn’t in the forces? I’ve always assumed . . .’
‘I saw the wedding snap, remember. He wasn’t the sort of chap who would have worn mufti for his wedding day. He would have worn full dress uniform and borrowed a few medals. Mummy would have called him a wide boy.’
Arnold smiled. ‘She would, wouldn’t she? Oh Connie, can’t you make things right for us? I know the thought of that wretched man and her own neighbour practically spying on her is poisoning our – our friendship . . . Some of the things they said . . . But she is changing, retreating into becoming a professional countrywoman again.’
Connie glanced up momentarily, surprised. ‘Mummy can weather all that, for goodness’ sake. She didn’t enjoy it but she got over it. It’s when you’re not there to be spied on – that’s what she doesn’t enjoy. One bit.’
‘Well, that can be remedied. It’s just . . . it’s not the same, Connie. I think she’s gone off me. If I could do something . . . special, like find Maurice bloody Heatherington, it might improve.’
‘She’s just done a Florence Nightingale on you. What more do you want?’ She threaded on the final stitch and put the whole thing in a bag. ‘Just don’t go anywhere near this bag. All right?’
She stood up. ‘William and I are now going to take over the kitchen. Mummy and you will play with Frank.’ She went to the door and turned. ‘For a clever and sensitive man, you are being so – so obtuse! I will just say this to you. Maria and Marcus are getting married.’
She left the room.
They gathered around the rosewood table in the little-used dining room; Arnold thought it was unbearably festive, like a scene from A Christmas Carol. There were tureens surrounding the holly and fir cone arrangement at the foot of the tall red candle which was burning steadily – ‘That draught excluder really does work,’ said William proudly. Rosemary had popped upstairs for her cultured pearls, thereby skilfully avoiding Arnold again, while Connie sat by the high chair and pointed out the glittering tinsel bells looped from the cornice and Frankie clapped his small fat hands with his usual delight.
Arnold felt outside all of it; perhaps not outside – he was recognizing his own self-pity, which quickly changed into self-disgust – but certainly not wholly part of it. He realized that he was used to being in control: he had inherited the practice from his father just before it had died on its feet and he had made it into a good family firm and sought work from the university but kept it well under his own hand. Taking on William after the war had been a gamble, yet he knew it would work. And it had. And he had spotted Connie and taken her on in the face of tight-lipped disapproval from Mrs Flowers, and that had worked too. He had kept a professional and caring eye on Greta, comforting her in the only way she knew. And then had seen Rosemary at Frank’s christening. There had never been a doubt in his mind that she would fall for him as he had fallen for her. He simply assumed that she would fall into his arms and – quite literally – she had. And it had been wonderful. The
very best time of his life. But somehow, inexplicably, things were starting to fall apart. Greta was going to marry the ghastly Archie, Rosemary was moving away from him, Connie’s anger had hit him for six, and William . . . William was the man in charge. Without saying much, he had simply taken Rosemary gently into his family circle. The big bedroom in the front was Rosemary’s room and she kept spare clothes and hairbrushes there. Last week when Arnold had taken her to see the Ballets Russes – he did not enjoy ballet but she had said once how she had always wanted to be a ballet dancer – she had said, ‘Drop me at Number Five, Arnie. I’ve got my key. It will save you having to drive all the way out to Barnt Green.’ And of course that had meant he left her at the front door; no nightcap, no discussion about the performance . . . nothing.
Her voice interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
‘Arnie! You’re in another world – pull this cracker with me, for goodness’ sake!’ Her face, beautiful yet ordinary, full of laughter, was close to his. Without a second thought he leaned towards her and put his lips to hers and just for a wonderful moment she responded. Then she moved back very naturally and he saw she had a sprig of mistletoe in her hair. ‘Come on, Arnie! Everyone else has got a hat!’ And he realized it had meant nothing at all.
The short afternoon drifted away with pudding and trifle and games with the choo-choo and carols round the tree. Then Rosemary and Connie put Frank to bed and William and Arnold washed up. Arnold was frightened he was going to cry at any moment. He cleared his throat and tried to express his gratitude for – for – for – for—
William grinned. ‘For everything, old man?’ He was doing the drying because he knew where things lived and his grin was because Arnold looked ridiculous in Connie’s bright yellow gloves with the paper hat from his cracker falling over one ear.
‘For everything. Yes. And just because I’m going to be retiring in five years it does not mean I’m old, William. Fifty-five is nothing in this day and age.’
‘When I called you old man it was an endearment.’ William returned a plate still streaked with gravy. ‘Though it does rather look as if your standard of cleanliness is deteriorating!’ He was teasing, of course, but Arnold chose to take him seriously and snatched the plate from him. The slippery gloves did not hold it and they both looked down as it lay on the floor in two neat pieces. And then William started to laugh and could not stop and after a startled moment Arnold smiled and then grinned and then punched William’s shoulder with his sudsy glove and then they held each other by the arms to stop themselves falling over.
