A Different Kind of Summer

by Jennie Melville

  The next day, Ralph Smith stayed home too. He was in the house all day because it was Sunday.

  On that day, though, Leonard Chapman learnt exactly how his wife had died. Until that moment he thought he knew. He thought he had killed her. She hadn’t died from his blow but from the sudden rupturing of a cerebral aneurism which had existed from birth. It might have happened any time. This was what had lain hidden for Rose in the pack of cards.

  Chris Quinn too made a discovery, but this was a discovery about herself. She found out she was jealous. This was something in herself she had never believed possible because, of course, in a life and a half, you cannot afford jealousy. Although she had never experienced it before she recognised it immediately. An adventurer learns quickly to recognise a threat to his way of life.

  “Bad Sunday,’’ she said gloomily.

  Bad Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, too. Charmian went home, slept, worked, and waited for a telephone call from New York. She observed her neighbours William and Ella Burton and their friend John Customer; they were much together. To her they seemed happy, unimportant people. The woman remained unidentified; Ralph Smith still made no move. The girl did not appear and there were no more trips to the field. Once Charmian made a lonely drive out to it herself, but it meant nothing to her, it was just a field.

  “Why doesn’t he do something?’’ she muttered irritably on her return. “ Why is he suddenly acting foxy?’’

  “Oh, is that what it is?’’ It had been a bad Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday for Chris too. She had followed her policy, cut herself off from the man of whom she was jealous, and her heart was broken. Genuinely she feared it was broken. For the time being, anyway.

  “I wonder if we ought to shake him up a bit?’’ mused Charmian.

  “Yes, let’s.’’

  “I’m asking for a lead, not a vote of confidence,’’ said Charmian sharply, as if it had been bad Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday for her too. “What’s he up to? He’s leading a blameless life. Why?’’

  “He’s discovered something about himself,’’ said Chris, giving her face a stare in the mirror. “ It’s like discovering the source of the Nile. Once you’ve done that—kaput,’’ she gave a little snap with her fingers, “ nothing’s ever the same again.’’

  On the next day there was a report that Ralph Smith had set out in his car, and picked up the girl in the road by the fruit market, and was heading towards the countryside south of the town.

  Charmian Daniels and Chris prepared to follow in the former’s car. It was early on Thursday evening and Grizel, who had been at work, was just preparing to go home. She watched the other two depart. Alone among the three of them she knew Ralph Smith personally.

  Ralph Smith and the girl met as they usually did without much talk. They had nothing in common except one thing. In fact, as far as possible, they avoided even looking at each other. All the same, no one who saw Ralph sitting there could doubt that he was deeply preoccupied with the girl. She shifted restlessly in her seat, he sat there immobile, staring rigidly ahead, only a nerve twitching a muscle in his throat. His hands on the wheel were thick, red and dirty.

  “We are doing no good,’’ said the girl, as the car pushed its way over the bridge at Abbot’s End.

  “I haven’t shown you anything yet.’’

  “I am frightened.’’

  “So you should be.’’

  The traffic was heavy on the bridge: he was forced to go slowly.

  “I want to get out.’’ She beat on the side of the car. “ Stop, I will get out.’’

  He slowed down, drew in to the kerb, then sat back watching her. “Go on then.’’ She did not move. “Aren’t you going to go, then?’’

  “No, I have decided. I am frightened of you. What we will do does not frighten me. We will go on.’’

  “You talk too much. Think yourself a boss figure, eh?’’ He drove on rapidly. “I gave you your chance. All you do is be rude to me.’’

  “I am not anything to you.’’

  Ralph laughed. It was an unpleasing sound. Full of a sort of knowledge she felt she did not share.

  “Now, I’m not clever,’’ he said, “but that’s something I know’s not true.’’

  The girl pressed her lips together.

  “I suppose you wondered why we didn’t go driving these last few nights?’’ he went on, steering rapidly through the traffic. He was not looking at her.

  “I was sick,’’ she said sullenly.

  “T ch, tch,’’ he said sympathetically. “ Well, the reason I couldn’t come … you’re not listening.’’

  “I didn’t care.’’

  “Try. Try to care.’’

  “I am not interested.’’

  “That’s it, that’s it again,’’ he complained. “You act as if you and I were two different animals. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’’

  She was silent.

  “Wait till you’ve seen what I can show you. You’ll think differently.’’ He moved towards her on the seat and tapped her arm, still without looking at her. “I’ll show you that we’re all made of the same sort of stuff. The reason I could not come was that I was thinking. I was thinking.’’ He spoke very seriously.

  “Be careful how you drive the car,’’ she said sharply as they swerved. He never took his eyes off the road but either he was a very bad driver or he didn’t care. She had no means of knowing.

  “I know what I’m doing. You’re surprised I should spend time thinking, I suppose? You didn’t know I could think?’’

  “I need your help to find my sister. That is all I think. You say you can help.’’

  “Oh, I’ll help all right. Thanks for the vote of confidence.’’ He drove negligently on.

  “You are going too close to the kerb,’’ she shrieked as they bumped and scraped. A cycle propped up against a lamppost fell down as they tore on. “Stop.’’ But he seemed to go faster, if anything.

  “And what I had to think about was …’’

  “Please,’’ she grabbed his arm as they scraped past a lorry.

  “Touch me again,’’ he said, and the car sped on.

  She saw that she was only exciting him more.

  “What I was thinking about was why women get themselves killed.’’

  “What? What is that you said?’’

  “You don’t think your sister is alive, do you?’’ Absorbed in what he was saying he did slacken speed a little and then went faster again. She clung on to the side.

  “You are mad.’’

  “I’m not, you know.’’ He was using the car as a weapon. He knew and now she knew it.

  “Ask me why women get killed.’’ He drove faster. “Go on, ask me.’’

  “Why? I am asking. Why?’’ she gasped.

  “Because they’re against men. All women are against men.’’

  “No, I’m not.’’ She tried to speak coherently.

  “You’re against me.’’

  “No. No. I like you.’’

  “Try and make me believe that.’’ He stole a sideways glance at her. “I might get you to try and make me believe you.’’

  The car had left the main road now and was going down a side road which led into the quiet countryside still surrounding Deerham Hills. The fields were bare and empty of people. She understood with desperation that a field of cabbages was no help to her at all. A baker’s van approached. She waved and shouted at the driver. He waved back cheerfully.

  “That was a lovely sound,’’ said Ralph Smith. “Real wild. Did he call back?’’

  “He saw us,’’ she panted.

  “Blind, if he hadn’t.’’ He lit a cigarette deftly while still driving. “He could be blind. I sometimes think all the people round here must be blind.’’

  “He wasn’t blind.’’

  “The things they don’t see …’’

  “He wasn’t blind.’’

  “You know your conversation isn’t as intellectual as
it was. Perhaps I’m dragging you down to my level. It could be. Am I dragging you down to my level?’’

  He looked at her sadly. “We all do it, you know, it’s up or down, one or the other.’’

  “I want to get out,’’ she muttered.

  “It’s too late now. We’re miles from anywhere. Be a good girl.’’

  “I feel sick.’’

  “I shouldn’t dwell on that thought, if I were you, it’s liable to make you feel much worse.’’ He gave the advice seriously. “I know all about sickness. I’ve felt quite sick myself the last few days. I suppose you could say I was frightened. Just like you are now.’’ He stared straight ahead. “I suppose it never occurred to you that I could be scared too? No, you wouldn’t think of that.’’

  The car swerved and bucked wildly round a corner.

  “I have a dream sometimes that I’m frightfully strong. I can break a table with my hand, that sort of thing. I’ve got that sort of feeling of strength now.’’ He took a deep breath. “Of course it won’t last.’’

  Something fell off the back of the car, and banged and clattered behind them. She heard it but he did not appear to. It increased the nightmare feeling.

  “I did hear, really,’’ he said, not taking his eyes off the road. “But it’s not important. Just a bit of ironmongery of my brother-in-law’s. I’ve got a rich brother-in-law, you know. Not that he’s ever done me any good. He lets me wash down his car for him. John Customer, he’s called.’’ He gave her a quick sideways glance.

  “I know that.’’

  “So you do. Sorry. I forgot where you came in. Silly of me.’’ Then he switched his attention from her and for a moment concentrated on the road ahead. To the girl it was comfortless and empty. The car went faster, skimming along between the thick hedges.

  “Nearly there now,’’ he said. The car scraped the hedge and swerved towards the middle of the road. The girl screamed loudly.

  “Oh, stop it,’’ he said sadly. “ I’m not going to enjoy this. It’s going to upset me. Can’t you be quiet?’’ The car slowly stopped and he closed his eyes, and folded his hands over them, like an animal that wanted to shut out the light.

  “You really are sad.’’ There was wonder in her voice.

  “Yes. I really am sad,’’ he said, viciously. “Don’t you think a person in a state like me has a right to feel sad?’’

  He gripped her arm and shook his head as if to clear it. “ Come on, out of the car.’’

  “No.’’

  “Yes. We’re there now.’’

  “No, I won’t.’’ She held on to the car seat.

  “What did you come for if you didn’t mean to get out?’’ He sounded both puzzled and impatient. “ That was always the idea.’’ He gave her a jerk as if he meant business.

  Charmian and Chris Quinn, following the couple in Charmian’s car, soon lost them.

  “He ought to be arrested the way he’s driving,’’ said Chris. “Which way now?’’

  “If he’s going out to the field again, then we know which way he’s going.’’

  “He’s taking a rather different route,’’ pointed out Chris.

  “Nevertheless, I think that’s where he’s going. We’ll go there and wait for him.’’

  “Intuition, eh?’’ said Chris, but she sat back in her seat and let Charmian drive to the field, and park in the hedge-fringed lane, beside it. Her own intuitions (and especially about men) were always wrong; perhaps Charmian had better luck.

  They sat in the car and waited. He seemed a long time coming.

  “What’s he going to do?’’ asked Chris.

  “What do you think?’’

  They stared into the dusk. It was still possible to see into the field with the line of lonely trees beyond.

  “So far he’s taken her to have a look at I don’t know what,’’ said Chris. “This seems to me the night he might go further.’’

  “It does to me, too.’’

  They sat quietly in the car.

  “He’ll never stop when he sees us,’’ said Chris suddenly.

  “Yes, he will,’’ Charmian was calm. “ He’s here now.’’

  They watched in silence as the car approached and stopped. They saw the girl and the man get out of the car. The girl seemed to be supported by the man. He had his arm round her.

  “He’s mad, you know,’’ said Chris, scrambling out of the car. “ I don’t like the way they’re walking.’’

  Charmian followed more slowly. She had seen what Chris had not seen, that the man was dragging a spade. She was asking herself what Ralph Smith wanted with a spade. He was pulling the girl with one hand and the spade with the other. He looked as though he could do with three hands. With his two burdens he had got to the gate of the field before he looked round and saw them coming. He stared at them defiantly, letting them walk right up without speaking.

  “Get back into your car and we’ll talk about this,’’ said Charmian. “Both of you.’’ She looked at the girl, who was shaking.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.’’

  “Get in the car.’’ She pushed them in front of her and got in beside them. Chris sat at the wheel. “What are you doing out here? What did you come for?’’

  He sighed but kept silent.

  “What did you come here for?’’ She turned her attack on the girl.

  “I thought he was going to kill me.’’

  “That’s not telling me why you came.’’

  “Oh, don’t waste time on her,’’ said Ralph Smith, impatiently. “Can’t you see the way she is. Don’t blame me for that.’’

  “I wanted to find my sister,’’ said the girl.

  “Nuts,’’ muttered Chris from her seat by the wheel.

  Charmian left the car and went over to the gate. She stood staring out over the field.

  “There’s a lot of water in that field,’’ she said, eyeing it thoughtfully.

  “And what else?’’ called Chris from the car.

  “Mud and grass and trees,’’ said Charmian, looking at the field from end to end. “Mud and grass and trees.’’

  At the far end of the field was a young oak tree. At the foot of the tree was a round patch of grass that looked sick and yellow.

  Charmian looked at it with the increasing conviction that she knew what she was looking at.

  She went back to the car. “Back into town,’’ she ordered Chris. “We need help.’’ Then she stopped, and looked at Ralph Smith. “No, stop. I have help.’’

  She persuaded him to get out of the car and bring his spade. Together they walked across the field towards the oak.

  “Now dig,’’ she said, glancing back at the car where Chris had her face pressed against the window. “There, where the grass is paler.’’ She pointed. “ Come on, you’ve come to look at it often enough. Now turn it up.’’

  He turned the turf slowly at first, staring at each spadeful with doubt. Then, perhaps without realising it, he began to work faster. The spade struck something hard. He looked up at Charmian, his face pale.

  “This is it,’’ he said.

  At the bottom of the little pit was a square wooden box. It might have been a hat-box.

  Charmian knelt down and slowly hauled it up on to the turf. It was heavy. She wrenched and wrenched until the lid came off with a rending, splitting noise.

  Inside was a roll of clothing, stained and dirty.

  This was what she expected to find. But there was more. She stared.

  As well as the clothes there was a round solid object wrapped up in newspaper. She knelt on the grass and delicately moved the paper. At first she thought she must be mistaken and that what she had expected to see was not there after all.

  “No. No. That can’t be a head.’’

  She looked again and this time she was sure. She could trace a feature, see the pits that had been eyes. Carefully, unhappily she replaced the paper. Or tried to, because the wind caught and lifted the paper, re
vealing the features in a horrifying way.

  “Look underneath,’’ said Ralph Smith. “ I bet there’s something else.’’

  Charmian put her hand inside the box. At once it touched another round solid object wrapped up in paper. She stared at Smith in horror.

  “Two heads are better than one,’’ said Ralph Smith in a high voice. He began to laugh and shake. Then Charmian saw the girl, followed by Chris, racing across

  the field.

  “Keep her away,’’ she shouted.

  But it was too late. The girl had seen, she had looked at the

  head with the fair discoloured hair moving in the wind, she had

  knelt by the box and stared into the face.

  She began to scream, high, sick, piercing yells.

  “That’s her sister,’’ said Ralph Smith. He seemed to be in control

  of himself again.

  “I’m going to take you in,’’ said Charmian. “ I’m going to be the

  one that hands you over and no one else.’’ She was filled with

  arrogant, destructive anger.

  And it was all against Ralph Smith.

  The girl went on screaming.

  “That’s my sister. My sister. You killed her. You killed her.’’

  The girl Brigitta told her story. Once started she couldn’t stop telling it. She told it badly, repeating herself, saying at once too much and too little. Charmian listened; at this stage it was the best thing to do. Chris Quinn was driving and Charmian was seated between the two, Ralph Smith and Brigitta, in the back of Smith’s car. It was a crush but she wanted them all close together. She wanted a confrontation.

  “Someone ought to stop her talking,’’ said Ralph Smith suddenly. “Someone just ought. She’s going to drive herself mad.’’

  For a murderer, he had a strange way of putting things.

  Charmian studied him. Thin, scruffy, boyish-looking and yet old-featured, he seemed already well known to her. For so many days now she had thought about him and studied him. She knew where he worked, and that he wasn’t much liked there, she knew he had two married sisters, one rich, one poor, and that he had recently quarrelled with his mother. Mrs. Smith was a fantasy figure too: she read teacups and consulted crystal balls. The neighbours said she frightened them. Charmian wondered what her crystal ball had shown her yesterday and the day before that? Perhaps what she had seen there had moved her out of the house. Someone had once told Charmian that the reason people searched for omens in balls and tea-cups and the stars was that they were really looking out for a disaster. It wasn’t the future they wanted to know about, but death; their own death. Fortune telling was a death wish in disguise.