They left the Ashford road and, after one or two wrong turnings because of the fog, they reached Lower Brakebourne Farm. As her husband stopped the car, Belinda said: “I hope Evadne doesn’t throw five fits at us turning up.”
“She’ll get over it,” he replied, with the easy conscience of a man who had never suddenly had to provide a meal for two extra people.
They left the car and walked round the house to the front door (O’Connell, an accountant, was always annoyed that it was at the back), and as he rang the bell they heard the bubbling yowls of the dogs. “God knows why they keep those repulsive animals,” he said.
“You’re going the right way about being sent home with neither food nor drink,” replied his wife. “You ought to know by now that the way to Evadne’s heart is through her most beautiful dogs.”
He made a rude comment.
Mrs. Andrews opened the door and smiled as she recognised them.
“We’re stranded travellers,” said Belinda.
“’T’ain’t right for man nor beast to be around in this weather. Come on in and I’ll tell Mr. Leithan you’re here.” Mrs. Andrews did everything quickly, including speaking.
They went into the sitting-room and Belinda looked round at the writing-desk without stands, the carved oak corner cupboard and settle table, the very ornate square Chinese lacquered cabinet, the Dutch gable bookcase which housed a small collection of Jacobite snuff-boxes, and the modern conservatively styled armchairs, all of which lived in harmony with one another and the overhead shaped oak beams and the large inglenook fireplace. She also studied the thick pile of the fitted carpet, the hand-painted lampshades on the wrought-iron standard lamps, and the hand-painted French curtains, and felt pure envy for anyone who could live amongst such beauty.
Leithan came in.
“Sorry and all that,” said O’Connell, with little sign of apology in his voice, “but we’re stranded travellers and Belinda said she was certain you wouldn’t object too much if we dropped in.”
“I said it?” protested his wife.
“Certainly. I’d never have the nerve to interrupt a famous author at his work.”
Leithan smiled. “Now I know who’s lying. Have a drink?”
“Isn’t Evadne in?” asked Belinda.
“She went up to London earlier on. It’s the annual general meeting of the Cuenca Club in a couple of days and she’s got some organising to do.”
“I hope she gets there in this fog. We wondered about training it, but decided not.”
Leithan asked them what they would have to drink and then poured out Cinzano for Belinda and himself and a whisky for O’Connell.
“Here’s cheers,” said Leithan, as he raised his glass.
They drank. “You look as if you’ve been on the tiles for weeks,” said O’Connell breezily. “Life’s one long dissipation.”
“The work isn’t going too well,” answered Leithan shortly.
“You call it work? I wish you could have my job for a week just to discover what the word really means.”
“Presumably, sitting in someone else’s chair, drinking his drink?”
Belinda smiled. “You asked for that,” she said to her husband.
Mrs. Andrews came into the room and said she had taken two steaks from the deep freeze and how did the visitors like them? Leithan observed dryly that he was glad to hear he had guests for luncheon.
O’Connell drank more than his share of the two bottles of Chateau Cheval Blanc and as a consequence his laughter was loud and frequent, and he told three stories that almost brought a blush to his wife’s checks. When they had finished eating, they went through to the sitting-room for coffee.
“How about a liqueur?” asked Leithan.
“Bill’s had quite enough,” said Belinda. “He’s smiling with his eyes shut and that’s always a bad sign.”
“Nonsense,” retorted O’Connell, “you’re just wilfully misinterpreting the visible enjoyment of a gastronome. I’ll have a very large cognac, Charles.”
“You’re a pig,” she said.
Leithan went through to the dining-room and returned with a bottle of Otard and three glasses. “You’d better hang on here until the fog clears.”
“Thanks,” replied Belinda, “but if we’re not going to London, there’s a mound of work to do at home and once we’ve digested the marvellous meal and I think Bill’s fit to drive, we’ll battle back.”
O’Connell was about to protest when the telephone rang. Leithan went into the hall, leaving the door open behind him. He picked up the receiver. “Hallo.”
“Is that you, Charles?”
“Yes.” He was annoyed by people who did not say who they were, but in the present instance there was no mistaking the soapy, northern accents of Alan Marsh.
“Charles, Evadne wasn’t on the train. Judy had prepared a special meal and bought a right lovely Dover sole for Evadne.”
“She caught the right train, but it’ll have been late because of the fog.”
“You don’t understand. We didn’t want her to have to struggle with luggage and such like, so me and Judy drove to Charing Cross. Her train weren’t no more than fifteen minutes late, but she weren’t on it.”
“She must have been.”
“I keep telling you, she weren’t. I even bought a platform ticket to help carry the luggage.”
“Then she…”
“When people had finished getting off, I went along looking to see if she were waiting in one of the compartments. She weren’t there.”
“She may have got by you without your seeing her, even though she had Stymie.”
“Judy stayed at the barrier. Where is she?”
“How the devil should I know?”
“You must do.”
“I dropped her at the station to catch the 11.42.”
“But she wasn’t on it when it arrived. We waited for the next one and she wasn’t on that either, so we drove back here, and she isn’t here. Hadn’t we better tell someone?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
There was a pause. “Why not?” said Marsh.
“She can’t be missing.”
“But she wasn’t on the train.”
“It stopped all along the line because it’s Sunday; she may have got off at one of the intervening stations.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t tell someone?”
“Use some common sense.”
“All right.” Another, and longer pause. “She will be at the A.G.M., won’t she?”
“For God’s sake, why shouldn’t she be?”
“I…I don’t know. Are you coming up?”
“Yes.”
“It was a lovely Dover sole. Judy bought just the one, specially for her, and now it’s spoiled.”
“I’ll read the memorial service,” said Leithan harshly.
“I…I’ll let you know when she comes, Charlie.” Marsh rang off.
Leithan replaced the telephone receiver. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow as he stared through the window at the fog. From the right, came the dimmed sounds of the dogs.
He returned to the sitting-room and was immediately aware of the regard the other two gave him. “Evadne is going to stay with some people in Town and hasn’t turned up on the train she was going to catch.”
“Then she can’t have caught it,” said Belinda, with a down-to-earth practicality. “Presumably, you didn’t actually see her on to it at this end?”
“Didn’t what?”
“See her on to the train at Ashford station?”
Leithan shook his head. “I was going to, but she told me not to stop and fuss round her.”
“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” said O’Connell uneasily. “Nothing can have happened to her.”
“No,” said Leithan, “nothing.” He brushed back a stray hair that had curled over his forehead. “What about the cognac?” He poured out the three drinks and handed the glasses round. He drank quickl
y.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you treat such precious liquid so cavalierly,” said O’Connell, in an ill-advised attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
Leithan offered cigarettes. He lit his own and could not conceal the fact that his right hand was shaking.
Mrs. Andrews knocked on the door — a formality, since Leithan had left it open, but she worshipped formalities — and carried in the large square silver salver on which were black basalt cups and saucers, Queen Anne silver coffee-pot, and milk jug. She had a reverence for the trappings of luxury and never missed an opportunity of producing them. “Did you enjoy lunch?” she asked anxiously. “I’m sorry I didn’t have no time to do anything proper.”
“It was excellent,” Belinda assured her. “There isn’t anyone between here and the coast who can cook like you do.”
Mrs. Andrews beamed with pleasure and retired from the room. Not for the first time, she wished that her husband, who laboured on the railway, had a quarter of the taste of the people of Lower Brakebourne Farm. She was a complete snob, and very proud of the fact.
Leithan poured himself out another drink.
“We must be off very soon,” said Belinda. She gave her husband a look which said that he had better agree.
Ten minutes later, the O’Connells left and began their slow drive home. Leithan returned to the sitting-room and poured himself out his third cognac. He drank it, lit a cigarette, and then as he heard Mrs. Andrews approach he hurriedly made his way into the study through the doorway between the two rooms — a reminder of the days when the outshut had been beyond.
He looked down at his typewriter. For days, he had not written a word that was worthwhile, which was why he had been trying to work on a Sunday. But to continue the attempt would be ridiculous and he decided to go for a walk.
He heard a yowling and was certain it was Stymie. He drew in his breath sharply, then hurried through to the hall. Forgetting the need of a coat, he ran into the garden and called out “Stymie.” The cold, damp atmosphere, a striking contrast with the centrally heated air inside, made him shiver.
The world lay under an unnatural silence as the fog, lifting slowly, rendered both men and animals almost immobile.
“Stymie,” he shouted. The dogs in the kennels broke into cacophonous greeting, but there was no Stymie.
Chapter VI
As Leithan returned to the house, still searching for Stymie, a voice from behind him startled him. “D’you know what’s happened?”
He swung round and saw Sarah Pochard.
“I’ve been bitten.” She held out her right hand so that he could see the drops of blood on her forefinger. “I was trying to comb one of ’em and the bloody thing turned round and savaged me.”
“Have you seen Stymie?” he demanded.
She allowed her anger to surface. “You don’t care if it bleeding well took my head off, do you?”
“I rather gather it hasn’t.”
“You don’t worry yourself what’s happened. I’m quittin’. I hate the bloody smelly things. If they was mine I’d drown ’em all. So you can get someone else to look after ’em and I want three quid for the half week.”
“We require a week’s notice,” he said, as he forced himself to consider this new problem. “You can’t leave just like this.”
She put her hands on her ample hips. “And who’s bloody well going to stop me?”
He took his wallet from his coat pocket and counted out three pounds. If he was buying peace, he was prepared to pay the price.
She grabbed the money. “Who’ll take me into the station?”
“I’ll arrange for a taxi.”
“Tell ’em I want it soon.”
“Do you think you could possibly manage to feed the dogs before you leave?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess so. But what if it bites me again?”
He muttered something she did not catch, which was as well, and walked past her and towards the kennels.
She stared after him. Proper crazy, she thought.
*
Pamela Breslow joined the fingers of her hands together and “cracked” the joints. She disliked the noise, but the action helped to ease away some of the tiredness that came from having typed since seven-thirty that morning.
She looked at the untidy mound of letters on her left. In an average week, four hundred people wrote to the magazine and ripped back the covers from their hidden lives as they asked for help. She was one of a team of four who gave advice and were paid at the rate of two shillings for letters of one page, or three shillings for two pages. Good advice was measured by the yard.
She stared at the large patch of damp in the curved wall immediately opposite her. The local builder had diagnosed the trouble as lack of a damp course and had said that either one must be put in or else the floor must be concreted. She had saved enough to have the job done, but was not spending that money in case Charles left Evadne. If he did, they would need every penny they could find. Sometimes, she proudly thought he would find the courage; sometimes, she was dully certain he wouldn’t. If he didn’t, would she force the break between them as she had promised? She shivered.
It was strange to think back to the cocktail party at which they’d met. It had been held in an old Victorian house, since pulled down by a speculative builder who had replaced quaint pomposity with commercial ugliness. She had not wanted to go because the people at the average cocktail party made her either angry or sad, or both.
She had been introduced to Leithan as “Someone else who scribbles for a living” and before he had smiled, apologetically, she had decided that of all the people in the room, this tall, nearing middle-aged, somewhat sardonic-looking man was the last person she would willingly have met. When, casually, he had pointed out his wife to her, she had been certain he had married the fat and obviously pushful woman for her money: it had been a shock to discover that it was he who had the money.
Of course, life had to hit her hard a second time. She was over the tragedy of the death of her husband and had settled into a peaceful routine that suited her and in which there was no room for emotional involvement, when she had to fall in love with a married man; moreover, a married man who was eager for a divorce but who was unable to petition for one and who did not dare allow himself to be named the guilty party.
She wished to God there had never been a fortune. She was no talent scout, but she was ready to bet that if Charles were forced into the main stream of life his writing would improve until it was very good. He had an intellectual and sardonic approach to life which pleased the critics, and his work had the readability which was so essential. But his literary life was the life of many years ago, and it lacked any sense of wonder, misery, hope, or fear.
She jerked her mind back to the present and read through the next letter. Jean, aged fourteen, wanted to know what she could do to get her steady back who had promised always to be faithful and had given her a ring from a Xmas cracker, but who was now going out with Liz. It was easy to sneer, but Pamela never had. She was only too aware of the terror of private misery, which could never be absurd.
Into the typewriter she inserted a sheet of paper headed with the name of the magazine, a carbon and the copy paper. “Dear Jean, first of all you must realise that if your boy friend wishes to go out with Liz there is nothing…” She stopped typing. Once or twice she had been traitor enough to herself to wonder what Charles wanted from their love.
She lit a cigarette and as she blew out the match, she heard a car come to a halt outside. Presumably one of her friends, none of whom ever really seemed able to understand that working hours were working hours, even when not passed in a town office. She stood up and looked out of the window and drew in her breath sharply. It was Charles.
She watched him climb out of the car. As always, he was dressed in a suit that looked every penny of its sixty-five guineas. She liked men to be smart. She felt all warm inside because it was Charles, and then s
he suffered a sense of shock as she studied his face. He looked as though something terrible had happened.
She opened the door. He came in, kicked the door shut behind him, and then kissed her with a passion that held in it a hint of desperation. His hands caressed her back and pressed her against him as if he were scared she was about to run away.
“Charles — what on earth’s the matter?”
He hesitated for a second, then said: “I’m hungry.”
“I thought Mrs. Andrews was going to turn up and cook lunch for you even if it is Sunday?”
“She did, and I ate too much.”
She understood. “God, you men!” she whispered. “There’s only one thing you’re ever interested in.”
“What else is there?”
She drew his face down until she could kiss him hard and long, then she broke free and led the way into the sitting-room. “Find a seat and throw everything out of the way, just so long as you don’t upset the letters. That lot have been answered, this lot have to be answered by midday to-morrow.”
He lifted a number of copies of The Saturday Evening Post out of the arm-chair, which was suffering from a prolapse of the springs, and sat down.
She studied his face again. “What’s wrong, Charles?”
“Nothing, apart from the famine.”
“Something’s wrong, or you wouldn’t have looked like that.”
“How was I looking?”
“As if… I don’t know how to describe it.”
He tried to smile. “As an eminent novelist, you shouldn’t have any difficulty in finding the necessary words.”
“You know damn’ well I’m nothing but a hack writer who lives on other people’s words.” She saw that his face had lost some of the expression of strain. “Has…has Evadne been very trying?” For once, she deliberately trod on forbidden ground.
“You might say so. Have you drink and food in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Will you promise to keep me well supplied with both?”
“Are you by any chance asking to stay the night?”
“Only if I’m satisfied that the cuisine’s suitable.”
The Benefits of Death Page 5
