Bitter Water

by Douglas Clark

  “I’ll stall for a bit, thanks, Robert. I’m fairly careful with the old alc these days. And with liquid volume in general, too. It’s not so easy for me to visit the loo as it is for the likes of you.”

  “Talking of loos,” said Robert, “did I tell you that verse I saw written up in one the other day? When I was over on the Suffolk coast?”

  “Not graffiti,” groaned Joanna.

  “No. Properly scribed above a lifeboat-shaped collecting box. How did it go now? Ah, yes! ‘Spend a penny, then relax. Forget about the Income Tax. But spare a thought and pennies, please, For those in peril on the seas.’ I liked it, that’s why I stayed put until I’d got it off by heart.”

  “Neat,” said Carlyle. “I hope you showed your appreciation of the artistry of the work.”

  “Not really, but I put a couple of pound coins in for the RNLI.”

  “Good. There’s no better cause. Ah! Food is beginning to appear. That’ll keep the troops quiet for a bit.”

  “Darling! How lovely to see you. And what a lovely party!”

  Mary Hamilton stooped to peck Hugh Carlyle’s cheek. They’d known each other for many years. The actress was effusive and madly overdressed with a fox fur round her shoulders on an evening such as this. But, thought Hugh, she was incredibly well-preserved if one didn’t look too closely. She was Margot’s age: had been around when he and Margot had first met. She was still playing youngish parts and getting away with it. She knew her craft, but even she should have realised that by now she should have been moving up the age scale and have altered her entry in Spotlight accordingly.

  “Glad to see you here, Mary.”

  “But I’m not in your new play, Hugh. You left me out.”

  “I didn’t cast it.”

  “Don’t tell me you had no say. He who pays the piper calls the tune.”

  “A popular misconception, particularly in the world of theatre.”

  “I know for a fact, Hugh, that you are always consulted when you back a show.”

  “A courtesy only, my dear. But in any case, there was really no part for you in Round The Barley—except the glamorous granny, and you wouldn’t have accepted that, would you now?”

  “Grandmother?”

  “To a grown-up, nubile daughter.”

  “Oh! Sanders!”

  “Quite. Two generations up from her. It would have been a big leap for you to cross that particular age gap.”

  “I see what you mean, darling. But don’t forget me next time.”

  “Even if it’s a granny?”

  “Beast, darling.”

  “Society hostess?”

  “That’s more my style now, I suppose. I’ve just turned down a farmer’s wife. They wanted me to wear gum-boots and milk a cow. Me!”

  “You should have taken it, Mary. It would have shown people what you are made of.”

  “I shall ignore that remark, Hugh, and go to say hello to Margot.”

  “Do that. She’s about.”

  As Mary Hamilton left him, the coloured lights came on. Somebody was eager, he thought. The sun was still shining even though it was low in the sky. He supposed the caterers thought the lights would enhance their food or make a more romantic ambience in which to eat it.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” said Knight, stopping beside the wheelchair. “Can I get you some food, Hugh?”

  “No, thank you, old boy. Help yourself, though.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Another drink then?”

  “Not just now, Arthur. I don’t get rid of booze as easily as you others. And I must find James Murray. I’ve not had a word with him yet.”

  Knight raised his hand in farewell and made for one of the tables.

  As Carlyle manoeuvred his chair to round the end of the pool Margot appeared at his side. “What have you been saying to Mary Hamilton, darling? She’s seething.”

  “Nothing I’ve said to her could cause that.”

  “She says you told her it was time she stopped playing glamour parts and …”

  “And what, Mags?”

  “Well, I think she said something about milking cows.”

  “Rubbish, old girl. I advised her to take a part that had been offered to her. A farmer’s wife. The script calls for a cow to be milked. As like as not they’d have shot the scene with a stand-in.”

  “She does go on,” agreed Margot. “She’s one of those who get the profession a bad name. Always talking about herself and her work.”

  “Go and calm her down,” suggested Hugh. “I’m going to look for James.”

  “You’ll find him at the deep end,” replied his wife. “Slim Piper is entertaining a few of them with a bit of sleight of hand.”

  “Really? I’ll join them. He’s good, you know. Slim. He’s always fascinated me. I’m a sucker for the three-card trick. It’s a pity he went legit.”

  “There are no halls for him to work now. He’s better off playing his bit parts.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Carlyle steered his chair in a wide loop across the close-cropped turf behind the food tables. He passed almost under the foliage of the taller flowering shrubs and small trees which carried the cable for the coloured lights and which sheltered the pool on the side away from the house. Then he jinked back towards the water at the deep end where Slim Piper was sitting on the steps of the diving board entertaining a small group of guests. Among them were James Murray and Maisie Firth, his physiotherapist.

  “You’re not tiring yourself, are you, Mr. Carlyle?” asked Maisie as he came up.

  “No, my dear. And let me say you are looking lovely.”

  “In the fading light, you mean?” Maisie Firth was an athletic young woman, tall and strongly built, with the features of a handsome youth. Carlyle had said she would make an admirable principal boy in pantomime, had she had any acting training. He had no doubts about her superb legs and figure. He’d seen quite a lot of them when, in the early days, she had gone into the pool with him to teach him his exercises.

  “The sun is going,” agreed Carlyle, “but we’re not in complete darkness yet, my dear, and I repeat, you look good enough to eat.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “Now, what’s old Slim up to?”

  “Find the thimble. He must have come prepared to give a show. He’s used a pack of cards, three little coloured balls, coins and various other bits and pieces. He was carrying them all in his pockets, except for the cups which he got from a table.”

  They watched in silence as Slim entertained the young folk closest to him, drawing them into the act, bamboozling them, getting them guessing—always wrongly—and never moving his hands more than a foot or two away from their faces, as if to challenge them to see how he did this intimate legerdemain.

  “Is he a friend of yours, Hugh?” asked Murray, and then added hurriedly, “That’s a damn silly question when he’s here at your party.”

  “Not a friend exactly, James. I’ve known him for a few years and admired his skill for many more.”

  “He baffled everybody very nicely with his three thimble trick. Ah! The show appears to be over.”

  “That’s it, folks,” announced Piper. “If I go on any longer you’ll be saying it was the darkness that deceived the eye, not the hands.”

  The little crowd clapped as Piper stood up. He gave them the bow of the old pro and then came to join Carlyle and Murray.

  “Evening, Mr. Carlyle. I’ve been paying for my party, you see.”

  “Come off it, Slim. You can’t help yourself. You do that sort of thing at the drop of a hat—even for an audience of one. I’m not sure I haven’t seen you performing for an attentive old Labrador dog, and I’ve certainly seen you doing your act backstage for a couple of cleaners.”

  “Got to keep my hand in. You never know when it could be useful. Sooner, rather than later, I might have to take up entertaining at kids’ parties.”

  “Things aren�
�t as bad as that, surely?”

  “I’m resting, Mr. Carlyle.”

  “At your age, Slim, you need the occasional rest.”

  “All I’ve got on the books at the moment is a fortnight’s stand-in at a summer show, starting a week next Monday. I’m relieving a bloke who’s been called into hospital then for some minor operation and doesn’t want to lose his place in the queue, waiting-lists being what they are.

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Slim. As soon as you get away to the seaside, offers will start pouring in. You’ll see.”

  “All for the same time. I know. Life’s like that. Start rehearsing one thing and they want you for a commercial you can’t accept.”

  “Slim, this is James Murray, a neighbour of mine. He admired your little show.”

  “Anything to do with anything that would interest me?” asked Slim, shaking hands.

  “Hardly,” said Murray with a laugh. “I’m in the City. Though come to think of it, there are a few I meet there who could give you a run for your money.”

  “The trouble is,” replied Slim, “I haven’t got any money to be given a run for. Oh, well, never mind.”

  “Go and get yourself another drink, Slim. You’ve earned it.”

  “I haven’t eaten yet. Better get a bit of sponge cake inside me to soak up what I have had already before taking more on board. Nice to have met you, Mr. Murray.”

  Piper moved away.

  “Your party is hotting up, Hugh,” said Murray. “The young are getting jolly.”

  “Jolly? I’d call it boisterous. But it isn’t out of hand yet. Nor will it be. The kids of today have a bad reputation but I’ve always found them pretty sensible and reliable.”

  “That’s my experience, too. But that glamour girl, Carla Sanders, seems to be the centre of some frivolity. I see Rosemary’s boyfriend is in constant attendance on her, with a few more like him.”

  “Lads of his age will always be attracted, for a short time at least, to somebody like her who’s always willing to bare her ample bosom in TV plays. I’d think there was something wrong with them if they weren’t interested. But I imagine Rosemary will be spitting rust at the sight of Tom fluttering round the candle flame. And not only my lass. All those young men arrived with female partners. There’ll be a bit of sour talk later.”

  Murray laughed. “T’was ever thus.”

  “Nevertheless, James, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make my way round there and gently break it up before too many hearts are broken.”

  “Politic,” agreed Murray. “See you later.”

  This time Carlyle’s progress was not so easy. There was less room at the deep end of the pool and the throng of guests seemed to be thicker in that area as though, now that night was falling, they were seeking the confines of the pool’s surround. A tall wooden fence covered with trained plants of various kinds provided the wind break here, and although there was no wind, but merely the warmth of a summer night, the two long garden tables with cushioned chairs, umbrellas and overhead lights seemed to draw the older guests into an amicable huddle.

  The side of the pool nearer the house was bathed in the overspill of light from the French window. This luminance highlighted the ramp, deserted as though left for his exclusive use. On each side of the concrete runway, however, where he and Margot had breakfasted and its twin area on the other side of the slope, was an animated group of the not-so-old. That nearer to him was the knot of young men grouped round Carla Sanders, talking to her, laughing, joking and indulging in mild horseplay. As he approached them he saw his daughter intercept Tom Chesterton who was going towards this group, carrying a plate of food. Both seemed unaware of his presence.

  “Who is that for? As if I didn’t know,” said Rosemary.

  “It’s for Carla. She’s got a bad leg, you know, and can’t get round to the tables.”

  “So you offered to get it for her.”

  “You know me. The perfect little gent.”

  “The perfect example of a blithering ass, you mean. Look at you! All of you. All gawping at her and acting the giddy goat whenever she moves a false eyelash.”

  “It’s not the movement of her eyelashes that’s so magnetic.”

  “I know, it’s her false …”

  “Nothing false about them, Roz. Take my word for it. She’s taken her jacket off and she isn’t wearing a bra.”

  “You make me sick, Tom Chesterton. And as for her, I’d like to push her into the pool.”

  “Do that, Roz, and it would be quite a sight. If that blouse got wet we’d really get an eyeful.”

  Slightly amused, Carlyle watched his daughter swing round and march away from Chesterton. He decided to follow her to say a few soothing words before joining the group round Carla Sanders.

  It was a difficult manoeuvre. He had to pass between the end of the ramp and the edge of the pool, the way that was only just wide enough to take the chair and which the builders had insisted on leaving free for him.

  By the time he got through to the other side, Rosemary had disappeared. He spoke to one or two people as he made his way slowly, trying to spot her among the groups. But she had gone. He was just acknowledging a greeting from a business colleague and his wife when all the coloured lights went out.

  “Fuse blown,” said somebody.

  “Main fuse?”

  “Depends where the coloured lights are plugged in. No, the room’s still lit, I can see there’s light elsewhere in the house.”

  Fortunately there was still a remnant of twilight to delineate the ramp and the pool, but the spaces at the ends of the pool seemed to be in total darkness. Carlyle, powerless to rush to repair the damage, did however notice that young Chesterton and another youth were being ushered indoors by Margot. It was obvious that she had sought their help to examine the fuse box. There should be no difficulty. All the ring mains were named, as indeed were the light circuits.

  After a couple of minutes or so, the lights came on again. Margot had obviously pointed out to the young men the spare fuses Hugh always kept ready wired for such emergencies. The restoration of the light seemed to be a signal for the chatter to increase again after the comparative silence induced by its absence.

  A youngish couple, near neighbours, pushed their way through to Carlyle.

  “We’ve come to say goodnight, Hugh,” said the girl prettily. “And to thank you for a lovely party, of course. We have really enjoyed ourselves, haven’t we, Tim?”

  “Too true,” said her husband. “Lapped up every minute of it.”

  “Then why go so soon? You’re the first to desert us, you know.”

  “Baby sitter,” said the girl. “We promised not to be too late. She’s mid-European and a bit nervous of being out after curfew.”

  “In that case …” Carlyle put up his arms and drew the girl’s face down for a kiss. “Thank you for coming. And don’t forget I told you to come for a dip in the pool whenever you like, Sara. Bring the baby. You can dangle him in, too. I understand that the very young like it.”

  “We shall love to do that, thank you,” said Sara Bracken.

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll make sure we do come, very soon.”

  “That’s the ticket.”

  Carlyle was soon involved with others of his guests. The more elderly, mellowed by food, drink, sweet music, soft lights and the warm evening air, were chatting quietly to him and among themselves. The stage people had foregathered elsewhere for a bit of nostalgia and the younger guests were still split into two groups, one on each side of the ramp, with Carla Sanders still holding court on one side. Carlyle noticed that she was, as he put it to James Murray, getting nicely stewed, an impression borne out by her increasingly extravagant gestures and frequent intimate droopings onto nearby male shoulders.

  One or two other guests came up to take their leave, but for the most part people seemed to want to linger. Mrs. H. and a couple of helpers were moving around unobtrusively collecting dirty crockery and carryi
ng it past the shallow end of the pool, down the side of the house to the kitchen door. Mrs. H., herself, was collecting empty glasses and dirty plates from near the ramp where they had been scattered by the youngsters who had made no attempt to return them to the tables as had most of the older people. She had a trayful of glass, crockery and debris as she made to pass the end of the ramp. As she drew close to the water’s edge there was, for some reason, a sudden upheaval among those surrounding Carla Sanders. The tray, with its pile of plates, glasses, cutlery and food debris was knocked from Mrs. Hookham’s hands by a sudden push in the back made by a body falling backwards into her. The whole load shot into the pool, closely followed by a human body.

  Mrs. H. stood where she was, mouth open and hands still held as if carrying the tray. Her scream and the other noise had silenced the chatter round the pool and all eyes were focussed on the water as Carla Sanders surfaced, spluttering and pushing back the once carefully coiffured locks before making a pathetic stroke or two to reach the side of the pool. Two or three young men were kneeling there, hands outstretched, to haul her onto dry land.

  Tom Chesterton had stood back once he was assured his assistance was not needed for the rescue. As Carla Sanders stood up on the edge of the pool, he heard a voice in his ear: “You get your wish. How does she grab you now, in spite of her big boobs? Mascara streaky, hair lank, half a meringue on one shoulder and a strip of lettuce on the other? Très chic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Tom had the grace to whisper back: “But what a spot for a glacé cherry! The one about to slide down into the Valley of the Kings, I mean.”

  “It’s not glacé, it’s maraschino,” replied Rosemary, and was about to add some further apposite remark when Margot appeared to lead Carla Sanders away. As she did so, she said to her daughter: “Bring her jacket and come and get her some dry clothes.”

  “None of mine will go anywhere near her,” whispered Rosemary to Chesterton.

  “Oh, I dunno.”

  “Cheeky beast.”

  “I was referring to that big, sloppy, roll-neck sweater of yours. The one that drapes you like an oversize bell-tent.”