Handley flushed. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
He poured a large brandy. ‘Absolutely. With my life – and that’s saying something. But I’ve got to do it this way to satisfy my financial people. It’s only a matter of days. If you’re short of a thousand I can give it you on account.’
Handley sat down. ‘I’m not that short – yet.’
‘Tell me how your work is.’
The lost cheque worried him. ‘The crack-up’s coming. But work’s all right. The community’s bursting at the seams. Four people dropping out. I was thinking of asking Daphne to join. You as well.’
‘Very kind,’ Teddy said sarcastically. ‘But I don’t like the country. Fresh air brings back my asthma. Why don’t you have lunch with me? We’ll split a bottle of good wine at “The Flayed Ox”.’
‘I’m off to Rowney’s for a stock of paints and paper. Anyway, I’ve got to look for the cheque. I’ll go back home and tear the place apart.’
‘Just do some more marvellous work,’ Teddy said.
‘I sometimes think I’ll never even paint a door again.’
‘A good sign. Something’s bubbling in you. You’re a fine artist, Albert.’
Handley stood, sick of being where he was, though he didn’t know where else he wanted to be. ‘I’d often prefer it if there wasn’t so much money coming in,’ he said, anger breaking through his pleasant humour. ‘I’ve worked half my life on begging letters and the dole, and suddenly I get swamped with ten thousand a year. I’d much rather get fifteen hundred so that I can scrape along just one notch above the bread line.’
Greensleaves didn’t like this sort of talk. ‘Your work’s the same, whatever you earn.’
‘Yes, but if I got enough to eat and nothing else I wouldn’t stick to what made me rich, but would do something different. It’d be more interesting.’
‘For God’s sake don’t change your style,’ Teddy exclaimed, and Handley noted with satisfaction that he’d never seen him so agitated. ‘It’s exactly what people want. You’re in a bad way. What’s eating you?’
Handley pushed his face to within half a foot: ‘You’re eating me – with chutney and pickle. You’ve got my liver in your fangs. And, naturally, I don’t like it.’
Teddy felt a strong impulse to kiss him, but resisted because he didn’t relish the savage punch-up that was sure to follow when his gesture of goodwill was misconstrued. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, as Handley drew away.
‘I don’t savvy myself. But I’ve always painted exactly as I liked, and the fact that I’ve made money in the last few years hasn’t changed my ideas a bit. I’m not that sort of bloke. If Enid and I had to live in a tent so that I could experiment with other styles, we’d do it. I’m not saying I’m going to, but it might come one of these years.’
Teddy smiled with relief. ‘Every artist has to develop and widen his talent: As long as he keeps on the broad road of it, and doesn’t wander into dead-ends and byways.’
‘You can leave that to me. I certainly shan’t do the sort of black melancholy crap that’s hanging in your gallery this morning. I never was one to frighten myself to death. Anyway, thanks for the invitation to lunch. I must do my shopping and get back to Enid.’
They parted on the usual good terms. Handley drove towards Percy Street, but got glued in traffic for half an hour around Oxford Circus, so that by the time he’d found a meter-bay, and bought his painting materials, it was well into lunch-time. He sat alone with a quick pizza on Charlotte Street, mulling over the fate of the fat cheque that never got to him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Saying goodbye to Maricarmen, in the cool and early morning, was like making his farewell to a woman at the end of a fiery sexual affair. She had, after all, taken a hard line on killing him, and two people couldn’t get closer to actually enlacing than that. He thought she must feel it too, when they shook hands and looked at each other. She smiled, as if to mark this closeness, but it quickly died on reaching the point when there seemed to be almost no barrier between their intimacy.
Through the frigid cant of departure Dawley knew that what they meant to each other could never die, no matter where she went – even though they might not meet again. The Rambler slid through the front gate. He watched it go up the village street and out of sight.
It was a green day, when the mind swung neither one way nor the other but simply followed any event that turned up. He sensed that the community would not now get back into its routine because Cuthbert and Maricarmen had taken whatever impetus it had. There was a heap of mail on the kitchen sideboard, but nothing for him. He poured a mug of coffee, then cut a thick slice of bread and put a lump of butter on his plate. ‘So they’ve gone.’
‘I’m fond of them both,’ Myra said, ‘but Maricarmen was like ice, as if she hardly knew what she was doing.’
He wolfed his breakfast. ‘She’ll wake up. Everyone does.’
She thought of herself: ‘I wonder if they do?’
‘That’s the way it usually goes. It’s a fair system.’
Ralph came in, hands rough as if he’d been shifting earth. He stood by the mail, and slipped a long envelope into his pocket. ‘I’ll see to him,’ he offered, taking the dish of porridge to feed Mark. She was glad to let him, and sat opposite Frank.
‘Been digging somebody’s grave?’
‘Filling one in,’ Ralph smiled. ‘Somebody else dug it. I’m keeping fit, really. Cuthbert advised me to do more physical work. He said it was good for me. It would teach me how to think.’
Dean came into the kitchen. ‘I can smell coffee.’ He looked refreshed, but worried, as if he’d already been awake for an hour. ‘Cuthbert’s gone?’
‘You didn’t say goodbye,’ Frank said, reaching for the honey.
Lines creased the skin of his low forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Do you think Cuth’s off for good?’
‘It’s hard to imagine,’ Dawley said.
He took the coffee pot from the Aga, and poured two mugs: ‘One’s for Enid,’ and went back upstairs with them.
‘He’s asking for trouble,’ Frank said.
Myra refilled their cups. ‘He is fond of Enid.’
‘I’ll say.’
The letter in Ralph’s pocket called out to be read as he went upstairs, so he opened it at the first landing. There was no sun to see by and light was dim, but as he looked at the clear typed lines, his left hand began to tremble, then the right. He leaned against the window to re-read the first paragraph, for he had gone no further. The words assaulted his senses, and his legs shook so that he was forced to sit down. He grew dizzy, and held the letter away. Then he became positively tired, as if he hadn’t been to bed all night.
With forceful tightening of the sinews and eyes, he read it from start to finish, till every word was plain, and the meaning had shot right through to his marrow. He wanted brandy, but laughed at the idea. There would be no justification any more in stealing Handley’s. The end of the world sat in his lap, coolly written on two sheets of stiff lawyer’s paper.
His lips were as dry as leaves that had been in the sun for a month, about to disintegrate at the next breath of wind. Mandy wouldn’t like to be brought out of her warm dreams and back into the disturbing world. She would want to know, of course, that they were rich, and could now grow up to any age they would like to be. Reading the letter a third time he saw that his proper upbringing had geared him for this event, but he still wondered how Mandy would take it.
He went into their room, and sat calmly on the end of the bed, folding the letter into an inside pocket. The pressure of his body disturbed the mattress under her. Or perhaps she heard the click of the door, for she drew the bedclothes over her face.
‘What time is it?’ Her voice, though normal, shocked him so that his whole body jumped.
Beginning to shake slightly, he controlled himself. ‘Time to get out of bed.’
‘It’s never time for that.’
He nudged the rise
of her haunches. ‘It is now.’
No one else could have caught the alarm in his voice. She swept the clothes free, and sat up, a violent move which unsettled him, though his heart stayed quiet. ‘What’s the bloody matter now?’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘There is. Tell me.’
‘You look adorable. I love to see you wake in the morning.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘I have a letter.’
She pulled the fine blonde hair from her face. ‘I’m dying for some coffee.’
He stood. ‘I’ll get you some.’
‘What letter?’
‘I’ll tell you over coffee,’ he smiled.
‘Tell me now. Don’t torment me.’ The familiar look of disturbance was in his eyes, the sheen of blight preceding a fit that could last for weeks. Her dream had been nondescript and pleasant, part of a wide contentment that had come after making love last night. But she had noticed before how such deep sexual delight between them contributed to his imbalance next day. The same bleak feeling of waking up to its first signs were on her. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘An aunt died, and she’s left me her house, a lot of land, and two hundred and ninety thousand pounds.’
An awful despair tore at her heart. Tears poured down. After his last long melancholy stretch she told herself that if he had another she’d be fit only for the loony-bin. Her control was snapping at this latest flight of his mad fancy. She leapt out of bed and put on her dressing gown. ‘Don’t say any more, please. Let’s just go down and have a big breakfast, then you’ll feel better.’
‘It’s true, my love.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she screamed. ‘You’re trying to kill me. You want to send me crackers! I know you do.’
It was difficult to stay calm, but the knowledge of the money made him more sure of himself than he’d ever been. Yet at the same time the sight of her weeping was the strongest assault on his self-assurance. Seeing at last what he’d done, he held her, and kissed her cheeks, taking away the salt of bitterness.
She sobbed against him, and when he was about to speak broke in: ‘Don’t say anything else about this story, please.’
His voice was quiet when he retold what was in the letter, but the cooler his voice, and the more convincing his tone, the more she knew he was lying. His worst madnesses had begun with such a sane and realistic display. He took the letter out, wondering why he hadn’t done so at first. ‘Do me the favour of looking at this, before you go off again.’
If only she hadn’t come to. It was bad enough waking up, without having such problems. He noticed how she was afraid to take the letter for fear it was just another trick, but maybe most of all in case it turned out to be true. It was difficult to hold himself into the new life of firm control, but he had to get used to it, for it was certainly here to stay.
She read the first sheet, then the second, her face turning white as she went from one to the other. She looked at Ralph, her eyes rolling with panic. They closed and she fainted clean away, bumping on to the floor like a newborn child, the letter fluttering.
Ralph felt like a hero. When your wife fainted it was something definite. Life was real. You could do something about it. The power of money was marvellous. He took a bottle of eau-de-Cologne from the dressing-table and rubbed it on her forehead, then over her nose.
Her head moved. She opened her eyes when he got her on to the bed. He went quickly downstairs, pressing through the crush of the kitchen to fill a tray with bread, butter and coffee.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It wasn’t a good day for a walk, and called for macs in case it rained. Mist lay along the main street, but thin and ready to disperse when Frank and Myra went uphill, a mobile mist spewed about by a new-born breeze.
The route they took out of the village ascended from Cuckolds’ Cross to Thieving Grove, a narrow and winding road running a short distance over a plateau of open fields, till the land descended abruptly towards the next village. They passed the housing estate, where Myra remembered canvassing at the last election with her husband George, glad to find at least a few Labour voters in the neighbourhood.
In recalling him she also thought of the book Frank had written on Algeria, and some time ago spoke of it to the publisher who had brought out George’s book on the poetry of landscape. The publisher, it seemed, was waiting eagerly for Dawley’s manuscript, hinting that anything mentioned by Myra would be a fair gamble for his up and coming firm.
He also knew she was acquainted with Albert Handley, from whom he wanted a book of engravings. Unlucky in his approaches to Teddy Greensleaves, he was willing to try a roundabout way. Myra was aware of this and, knowing Dawley’s narrative to be worth any printing risk, was quite happy to hold out some promise of a book from Albert, who had in fact agreed to a combined deal of his material with Frank Dawley’s memoirs. She explained the scheme as they walked slowly uphill.
‘You mean I’ll be a writer?’ he said, inwardly pleased.
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe I’m too old. Most writers are dead by thirty,’ he joked. ‘Still, it’ll be good to earn some money. You’ve supported me long enough.’
‘Are you worried about that?’
‘Not in the way you mean. But I believe in the equality of the sexes, so I’d like to contribute my slice.’
‘Don’t be impatient.’
‘I’m not, as long as you marry me.’
She smiled: ‘Well, I’m having our second child.’
‘You mean you don’t have much option?’
‘I don’t, do I? But I’ll still marry you. As long as I don’t lose my equality!’
‘I love you. That’ll help.’
‘So what else matters?’
‘If I thought love was the only thing that counted,’ he said, ‘I’d hang myself, or take to the road. But it’s important enough for us to stay together, which of course means getting married.’
They stood by a gate at the top of the hill, the church of the next village coming out of the mist below. Opposite was the triangle of wood known as Thieving Grove, a few acres of heavy-smelling green thickets. ‘You don’t give me much to go on,’ she said, knowing that the less ponderous they were about the future the more secure it would be for them both. But she was unable to live like that. She wanted some statement, no matter how vague, a formula of commitment no matter how uncertain – to come from his own lips. For she also knew that what he said, he stuck to. And he knew it, too, which was why he’d say very little.
‘I’m here,’ he pointed out – unnecessarily, she thought ‘I won’t run away.’
‘I don’t care whether you do or not.’
‘So that’s it,’ he started. ‘A minute ago it was equality. I’m all in favour of that, but what sort do you mean?’
This touched her rawly. ‘Together we can seem strong, and even be strong. But apart, things aren’t so firm.’
He looked at her, a woman with a light in her eyes that would take a lifetime to penetrate, but what riches would pass from one to another in the process! Last night he had relished her small breasts and firm hips, and now when she turned a gaze on him he found it hard to meet.
‘Human beings are like that,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect anything else. I’m not too proud to lean on you if you’ll do me the honour of leaning on me! I not only love you, but I like you as well, and I can’t say more than that. I never was much good at lovers’ speeches, but our love’s gone beyond that by now. It’s going into the fire of life and God knows what it’ll find there. The best love goes into it, and if it’s worth anything it never comes out because the flame won’t relax its grip. In many ways it’s a savage flame, jealous on both sides, but it holds us together in bed at night so that we feel part of the earth and each other. Can I say it’ll go on longer than that? Whether the flame lasts till we die depends on what we’ve got in us. But who can say? Who can promise or prophesy? I feel it in you, but o
nly you can tell me whether I’ve got it in me. I don’t even know whether it’s love or not, and that’s how I feel, and all I can say about it. After that it’s normal everyday humdrum life and work and care – while knowing for sure that the fire burns in us both for as long as we want it to. I’ve grown to dislike strength. I distrust it now, so I know it’s not strength. It’s something beyond. I’m not strong, and I’m not weak either, and maybe it’s the same with you, though I’ll let you say so if you like, and if you don’t I won’t mind! It’s just a rooted feeling I’ve got, because we’ve been through a lot together, and for each other, so it’s had time to get there, though I saw it first thing, when you left your husband that day and came to my room in Camden Town. If you remember it as long as I do we’re in that flame for good. The trouble with me is – and I know you’ve always felt this – that I don’t explain things. I don’t talk, I don’t say much. It’s not that I’m inarticulate, because my mind is continually talking and explaining and saying things to itself. I just don’t think many things are important, or worth bringing to my lips. It’s not even that I’m too lazy to talk, either, because I’ll often go out of my way to do things or work. Anyway, it always takes less energy to talk than it does to listen, or say nothing. While you talk you make energy to go on talking. I’m sure of that. You start to tell lies because you get carried away. You get too much energy, so you say things that don’t matter. I suppose that’s why I don’t or won’t say that I love you in so many words, because I believe that things should speak for themselves, though they hardly ever do, so I have to end up saying something. And anyway, if the comforting and tormenting flame is bright enough, there’s no need to point it out. It’s almost sacrilegious to show it for what it is, not because I’m afraid of it going away but because I feel embarrassed at stating the obvious. Maybe I’m wrong. In the beginning was the Word, and I should speak, but at the same time I know that one should not use the Word in vain, and who’s to say whether it’s vain or not till it’s finally over and we’re dead?’
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