by Angela Huth
‘How would you feel about that? I thought you were in love with Joshua, anyway? So it wouldn’t matter to you very much, would it? I’m sure he’d have you back.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Don’t be silly, Soo. I do worry about you. I still care about you, you fool. It’s just that living with Rosie did the trick. It made me see all the things that were missing in our marriage. It made me realise that I was looking for something in you that didn’t exist, and making do with all the things you thought I minded about. And it also dawned on me that I was absolutely the wrong man for you. I drove you mad, remember? I don’t wonder, really, when I think back on it.’
‘You’ve got it all nicely worked out.’
‘Oh, my love. Forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. Does Rosie make you happy?’
‘Very. She’s a marvellous girl. So – organised.’ He looked suddenly hopeful. ‘Do you think we could all be friends?’
‘I expect we probably could.’
‘Are you going to make a fight for me? Try to get me back?’
‘I don’t see any point, if you want to go.’
‘Quite.’ He smiled again. ‘The trouble with you, darling, is that you’re so bloody reasonable you’d drive any man to despair. Let me give you one bit of advice. If ever you fall in love with anyone again, be unreasonable.’ He stood up and hitched up his trousers. ‘You’ve taken so much trouble. Those lovely roses, and I saw there was veal in the fridge. It could have been a marvellous homecoming.’
‘Don’t put off your solicitor,’ I said. ‘And you might recommend one to me.’
‘Are you sure? I’m sorry, darling.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of a fact, what I had planned to do was to fly back to Rome to-night and settle a few things over there, then come back again next week. But I could go later.’
‘No. Go to-night. You might as well.’ I stood up and picked up the tray. He took it from me. ‘How’s the writing?’ I asked.
‘Going rather well, actually. I’m working on a little play called Back to Front. Rosie’s keen to play the lead, so we’re going to try to organise that. I showed part of it to David, and he’s really enthusiastic. He says he knows a new young manager who might like it.’ He smiled wryly. ‘So nothing’s changed.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I hope it gets put on.’
We went into the kitchen. A light rain sprayed against the window.
‘Bloody English weather,’ said Jonathan. ‘It looks nice in here, though, darling. I always thought this kitchen was my pièce de resistance, didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can keep the house if you like. I mean, I don’t want any of my money back.’
‘You’re very generous. Thank you.’
‘And you can cite Rosie, of course.’
‘All right, if that’s easiest.’
‘But we could talk about all those sort of arrangements when I get back next week. I don’t really feel much like going into them now. I mean, I’m bloody happy and all that, I really am. But it’s always nasty, having to make the actual break.’
‘Quite.’ He came and stood very near me. There was a long thin scratch on his chin where he had cut himself shaving. It was covered by a delicate scab of barely dried blood.
‘You must think I’m a terrible shit,’ he said.
‘Oh no. It was my fault just as much as yours. More, probably.’
‘But I don’t think, feeling like I do about Rosie, and you feeling like I suppose you do about Joshua, that there’s any point in our trying to make a go of it any more, do you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Besides, six months apart kills a lot of things.’ He kissed me on the cheek again. ‘Oh darling. What a confounded mess. I think I’m going to cry.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Well, there’s not much point in my hanging around any more, is there? It’ll only upset both of us. I’ll call you next week.’
‘I’ll be here.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t think you really mind.’ He took the clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose very loudly. ‘What fools we are.’ We went to the front door. ‘You must put on some weight,’ he said. ‘You’re too thin.’
Outside, his old blue Vauxhall was covered with a million drops of rain that weren’t heavy enough to run down. A leopard printed scarf lay on the back seat.
‘Bloody English weather,’ Jonathan said again. ‘Always the same in this country.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Well, darling, I’ll be off, then.’
‘See you next week.’ We kissed each other on the cheek once more.
‘I was so convinced you wouldn’t want me. Funny how wrong you can be, even about someone you’ve been married to for six years.’
‘Go on,’ I said, ‘I’m getting wet.’
He got into the car and started the engine. Its muffled rumble was horribly familiar. Jonathan’s thumbs met at the top of the steering wheel. He had often said he thought it was the most comfortable way to drive. He raised one hand to wave. I waved back. The car drew slowly away. Puddles spluttered beneath the wheels for a moment, then were still again. I shut the front door.
*
It was definitely cold in the sitting-room now. I sat on the sofa again and wondered how to get warm. I had forgotten to ask Jonathan to turn on the central heating.
I blew on my hands. The crayon drawing of Richard Storm smiled down at me. Later, I would take it down. Jonathan smiled from a silver frame, too. It was his favourite picture of himself, taken when he was in the Coldstream Guards by a Bond Street photographer who had touched up his pale eyebrows. I would take that down as well.
I thought how I had felt quite proud when Jonathan had walked into the bathroom this morning. He had looked so agreeable. I was pleased he was back.
I wondered what to do with the veal and the roses.
I listened to the clocks ticking, sometimes together, sometimes one just a little ahead of the other.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
But after a while I went to the kitchen and turned on the cold tap. The water pattered on to the zinc bottom of the sink, louder as I turned the tap faster. I held my hands so that the fingers drooped under the cascade of water. It was so cold, they soon felt quite numb. I turned the tap off with the palm of my hand.
A walk, I thought. If I walked fast I would get warm.
I put on my mackintosh and left the house, slamming the door behind me.
It was raining harder now. I walked carelessly, not bothering to avoid the puddles, so that water splashed up my legs. Soon my hair was soaked and drips kept on running into my eyes.
It took about half an hour to get to Mrs Fox. Surprisingly, the downstairs front door was ajar. I pushed it open and went in. The landlady was coming downstairs, her huge slack breasts rolling about under a pink jersey.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Another of her friends.’ She slapped the banisters with a fat hand and heaved herself down the last few steps.
‘Is she in?’ I asked.
‘No dear, she’s out. Out for good. Didn’t you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Oh, I see. You didn’t know.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Fox passed away Sunday night, they reckon.’
‘She’s dead?’ I said. The landlady’s eyes hardened with power.
‘Dead as a doornail, dear. Heart attack. She might have been there for days if yours truly hadn’t noticed her milk still outside her door yesterday dinner time. She always took her milk in, regular. So I thought, I thought to myself: my, something funny’s up. I banged on the door, noisy as you like, but not a cheep. So I phoned the police. They come up, of course, and break the lock. They found her on the bed. Hat still on and all.’
I leant against the wall. A bit of plaster crumbled behind my shoulder and fell to the stone floor. The landlady’s fa
ce erupted into a huge sun of crumbling white flesh that sprouted from the grey stone stairs rising behind her.
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘They took her away, ambulance men, not long after. They asked me if I knew any of her relations. Course, I couldn’t help them.’
‘Where did they take her to?’
‘Blow me if I didn’t ask. Fulham, I should imagine. The hospital.’ More plaster broke and fell away from the wall behind my shoulder. ‘Careful,’ she said, ‘that wall’s coming down.’
‘So it is,’ I said. The landlady opened the front door. She looked at the rain, diminished to a drizzle now.
‘Ooh, it isn’t half coming down cats and dogs, isn’t it? Well, I must be getting back to work. See that other man shuts the door behind him when he leaves, will you? You know what men are.’
‘What man?’
‘There’s another of her friends upstairs. Don’t know for the life of me what he expects to find, poking about up there. The door’s locked, but he asked me to leave him on his own – I don’t know.’
She went out, shutting the front door. I went to the well of the staircase, held on to the banisters and looked up at the regular flights of stairs. Quietly, a man was coming down from the top, his footfall clacking gently on the stone. As he came nearer I saw that it was Cedric Plummer. The man from the R.S.P.C.A.
‘Hello,’ he said, as he saw me.
‘Hello.’
He came down the last flight, leaning heavily on the banisters. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but the dark suit and plum tie he had worn at Mrs Fox’s party.
When he reached the bottom he stopped beside me. We stood looking at each other in the dim light of the drab hallway. There were rims of yellow crust at the roots of his eyelashes. The eyelids themselves were red and puffy.
‘The landlady told me she was dead,’ I said.
Mr Plummer shrugged his shoulders, unclenched his hands, and held them up like two heavy white flags.
‘Who could conceive such sadness?’ he replied. ‘Who could conceive such sadness?’ He moved away from me, towards the front door. ‘I’d just come up to take her home to us for the day. She had always wanted to see Epsom. Nancy had baked her special sponge cake, and we had the place all looking spick and span.’ He paused. ‘She always said she wanted to see Epsom, Mrs Fox did, you know.’ He paused again. ‘To think, she never saw it.’
He turned his face quickly from me, pulled the door open, and went down the steps.
Alone in the hall I listened to the silence. For the first time, no music came from the top floor. The Japanese mobile that hung from the naked light bulb swung a little in the draught, faintly patterning the dingy walls.
It was cold and damp. Rain from my wet hair ran down the inside of my mackintosh collar.
I went on holding the clammy banisters, until a moment of dizziness passed, and then I followed Mr Plummer through the front door.
Outside, the rain had almost stopped. The sky was brightening. I began to run in the direction of Fulham. Somehow, I had to find a brass band.
For Various People
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain by Collins, 1970
Copyright © Angela Huth 1970
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved
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make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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ISBN: 9781448200320
eISBN: 9781448201648
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