The Burden of Proof
Page 17
Patricia came into the room, carrying a tray on which were cups, saucers, sugar, silver coffee pot and milk jug. When carrying a tray, she moved almost sideways so that her bad foot could not unexpectedly let her down. Roger hurried across the room and took the tray from her and placed it on the pie-crust table. He was sorry they’d been so civil to the newspaperman as to offer something. “Black or white?”
“White. I keep black for the shock treatment after a night on the tiles, if you know what I mean.”
Roger handed around the coffee.
“So you don’t like the sound of the idea,” said Denton loudly.
“All I like about it is the irony.”
“What irony?” asked Patricia.
Roger turned to speak to her. “Because I was found not guilty on a charge on which everyone knows I was guilty, the Sunday Globe wants me to write articles on the Chelsea Set. By rights I ought to be in jail, and that automatically makes me a literary genius.”
Denton stirred his coffee. “I admire you,” he said, and he, in turn, was being sarcastic. “You turn down ten thousand with real casualness.”
Roger swung around. “Ten thousand pounds?”
“Guineas, sir, nothing so common as a pound. The Sunday Globe takes very seriously its responsibility for bringing the news to the people.”
Roger stared at the family portraits on the wall nearest to him. Beyond them, he saw the sagging roof of the house, the bulging wall, the rotten floor, the suspected dry rot, the damaged cow sheds, the worn-out machinery, the thousand and one other things that were needed, together with those two letters from the bank manager and the insurance company… Denton drank his coffee quickly and noisily. He put the cup and saucer on his knee, fidgeted. He looked at Patricia and hesitated, then made up his mind. He spoke to Roger in a low tone of voice. “Where d’you think a bloke could get some of them pills? Friend of mine’s getting pretty desperate.” He knew the ten thousand was taken. Every man had his price. Some just came higher than others.
Chapter 19
The girl took from the plastic shopping bag two tins of sausages and beans and two of meat and spaghetti, a one-pound bag of caster sugar and a pound of rice. “The butcher’s promised two breasts of lamb for tomorrow.”
The man — in his middle twenties — refilled his glass with beer. He was good-looking in a weak way, and his expression was sullen. He had not shaved for several days. “D’you get my fags?”
“I could only buy ten, Paul.”
“Why?”
“I hadn’t enough money for twenty.”
“Money. Always bloody money.”
She opened her handbag and brought out a pack of Weights which she gave to him. He took the pack and lit a cigarette. She sat down on the unmade bed and stared glumly around the room. Three pounds a week rented only the poorest accommodation in London and the room would have been dark and inhospitable however hard they had tried to overcome the broken furniture, the peeling wallpaper, and the worn-out carpet, but because of the mess of his broken easel, the canvases and the paints, and because of the presence of the unwashed plates, cutlery and glasses on the rickety and badly stained table, and because the small electric table cooker was covered in filth, the room was a slum.
“Write to your mum and ask for some money,” he said.
“But I had to last week.”
“That doesn’t bloody prevent you writing this week, does it? She’s got plenty.”
“I’ll… I’ll try.” She wished she had the courage to leave him, but she knew she hadn’t. She had twice tried to walk out of his life since she had met him at a party just after he came to London and on both occasions she had had to return because she had become so certain he was desperately needing her. When she was with him she almost hated him, when she was away from him she knew only aching loneliness. “Shall I get lunch?” she asked wearily.
“If you like.”
“How’s the work going?”
“Going? It’s going to hell. How d’you expect it to do anything else when I’m surrounded with filth?”
“I’m sorry, Paul. I’ll try and clean the room up.”
“Moral filth. The goddamn moral filth of the uncaring.”
“Paul…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
There was a silence. He finished the contents of his glass and picked up the bottle. When he had confirmed it was empty, he dropped it onto the floor.
“Have you read the paper, Paul?”
“Why should I?”
“That chap got off.”
“What chap?”
“Ventnor.”
“That bastard.”
“You used to live in Prestry, didn’t you?”
He swung around. “No, I didn’t,” he shouted. “Why d’you ask?”
“Nothing.” She stared at him with a look of uncertainty and fright. “I just thought you once said — ”
“I was in a hovel nearby, but it wasn’t Prestry. It wasn’t there, d’you hear? I told you to forget it, anyway.”
“I forgot. I feel sorry for him,”
“Don’t make me weep. Get some grub going, can’t you?”
She stood up and the springs of the bed twanged dismally. “I don’t think he was the kind of person to give her the pills.”
“I told you to lay off. What’s the matter? That bastard owns half the countryside. He’s a millionaire and never does a drop of work. He’s got everything in the world and it was all handed to him on a plate. Doesn’t it make you want to spew?”
“It looked a lovely house.”
“Lovely? A place that size for one bloke?”
“You saw a photograph of it, then?”
“What are you getting at?” he shouted.
“Nothing, Paul, nothing. Why are you so excited?”
“Get the grub and give me half a crown. I need a beer at the pub to wash the taste of you out of my mouth.”
“But I haven’t any money. I told you that, earlier.”
“God! You haven’t any money! What bloody use are you, then? Not like that bastard. He’s got everything he wants: everything. While I have to sit here and starve in the middle of a stinking pigsty.” He kicked the empty bottle across the room and it crashed into one of his canvases — the one he had been so certain he would sell.
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