The BRIGHT DAY

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Hardly,’ Lomax acknowledged.

  ‘I do not suffer injustice. If it had been another restaurant, well . . .’ He waggled his hand to indicate that this would have been a mere wobble of the scales of justice which he could have tolerated. ‘But a whole new town . . . a town on, what you call it, long sticks. . . .’

  ‘Stilts.’

  ‘Is not safe probably.’ But he did not look as though he thought Heffernan’s hill would be swept away in the first high tide. Sabotage of another kind would be necessary. ‘And Scotney is nice place without all this.’

  Lomax was not fooled. Mario believed in keeping his enterprises to a small scale because in this way he could control them himself; he had no more concern than Heffernan for Scotney as a town. It was the people without money or power, people like Lomax, who were concerned with preservation.

  They sat and smoked in silence for a little while. Signora Vicente put the yard broom against the wall and went into the kitchen, shutting the door and drawing the bolt. The Baptists had fallen silent. The air was cooling, Lomax could smell the earth in the tubs; Signora Vicente had not watered the plants, presumably the earth was still wet after the torrential rain last night. He tapped out his cigar ash carefully and said, ‘Do you know Ormerod’s wife?’

  ‘I have nothing to do with that one.’ Mario was emphatic. ‘She is crazy woman. And what is more, she drinks.’ The Baptists could scarcely have been more wholehearted in condemnation.

  Later, as he walked down the hill, Lomax thought about Mrs. Ormerod. He must have another word with her. He felt uneasy and restless. Some of the things which Mario had said had unsettled him. He never looked forward to a fight; something in his nature always pushed him relentlessly on, but it certainly wasn’t a love of conflict. He suffered from a Puritan streak of obstinacy, just as other people have an over-active thyroid. It was eleven o’clock as he drove along the coast road; the moon cast a path of dappled mercury across the dark sea. He stopped for a time and sat with the car window down; the tide was on the ebb, the water dragged softly over the pebble beach. He didn’t find it soothing. At half¬past eleven, he decided to go into the office.

  Todd was already there. Todd’s landlady objected to the sound of typing in the night. It had been suggested to Todd that a rubber mat, and a re-positioning of the typewriter away from the wall of the landlady’s bedroom would work wonders, but he refused to believe this. Lomax thought he liked to come into the office because it gave him the feeling that he was working on a Fleet Street daily.

  ‘I thought you were going to the Drama Festival.’ Lomax could tell from the mass of papers strewn over the table that Todd wasn’t working on drama.

  ‘Jenny covered that,’ Todd said.

  That would mean fewer complaints this year. Todd was never at ease with any creative work until he had found a flaw in it: last month he had spent the greater part of the space allotted to a review of The Tempest on a dissertation on ‘the maladroit opening with the tedious question and answer session between Miranda and Prospero’.

  ‘I went to the meeting of the Downland Association,’ Todd looked glum. It turned out he had failed to find a flaw in Moray’s performance. ‘You have to hand it to him, he always talks sense. You’d think he’d let up once in a way.’ Worse was to come: he nodded his head at the mound of papers on his desk. ‘I’ve been going through his speeches during the election campaign. He was very guarded in what he said about the West Front development. It didn’t amount to much more than asking that it should be considered and not condemned out of hand before detailed information was available. The trouble was, of course, that other people took up the cry. In the end some pretty extreme things were being said, but not by Moray.’

  ‘He just kicked the first stone that started the avalanche that did for Ormerod,’ Lomax murmured.

  ‘I talked to him for a few minutes before the meeting began,’ Todd said. ‘He looked exhausted and I wondered how he was going to get through the meeting. But when he started to speak, he wasn’t content to coast along; he really went into the problems, examined the conflicting claims of conservation and progress, the individual in relation to his environment, our right to mortgage the future, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Was this what they expected of him?’

  ‘No doubt they would have settled for a few quotes from Kipling and a promise to stop untreated effluent being pumped into the sea. But I think they rather respected him for giving them a bit more. But what, I ask myself,’ Todd stabbed a finger at the pile of papers, ‘does Moray hope to get out of all this? How does he see himself? Obviously he doesn’t want to become the typical politician. But has he thought what he does want to be? If not, it seems a terrible waste of energy.’ He looked at Lomax. ‘I always feel he holds back something. Doesn’t he give you that impression?’

  ‘He is elusive, certainly,’ Lomax agreed. He wondered why it was that he was never sure about Moray. The man had a certain charm, and admittedly Lomax did not much care for charming men. But it was more than that. This elusiveness was something other than reserve; it was as though Moray felt a need to keep himself apart. Why? A refusal to risk himself?

  Todd was impressed by Moray’s elusiveness. It made him feel there was something rather special about Moray; getting to know him would be important, like belonging to an exclusive club. Todd disapproved of exclusive clubs on principle, but felt they could most credibly be belittled after one had attained membership.

  ‘Have you seen Singleton?’ Lomax changed the subject.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, have a try, will you? Facts are what we need, psychological analysis will get us nowhere.’

  He was aware that in Todd’s view this statement was akin to blasphemy, but he felt a need for sobering draughts of facts and figures.

  ‘Did Mario have anything to give?’ Todd asked.

  ‘He thinks Heffernan is behind Whittaker Enterprises.’

  ‘I’d like to hear Moray explain that one away!’

  ‘I’ll like a few more facts before we ask for explanations.’

  They went out of the office together. Todd said, ‘He must be a schizo.’ His voice sounded sad. The streets were empty. It was quiet, but not the quiet of a country town or a village; there was no sense of people sleeping peacefully, only of an uneasy vacancy.

  ‘I see the crime rate has gone down,’ Lomax said to Todd as they turned into Exhibition Road.

  ‘It’ll go up again in the summer.’ Todd sounded defensive, as though he was talking about goal averages.

  They came to the junction with Marine Drive. Lomax said, ‘I’ve got my car parked on the front.’

  ‘I never park there,’ Todd said severely. ‘I have enough trouble with rust as it is.’

  They parted company. Lomax walked slowly back to his car; although the tide was going out, it was covered with a film of spray. The air was chill now. Mist formed a cone of shadow from the sea to the moon. He felt an inexplicable sense of failure; not a generalised feeling, but as though there was a specific thing he had left undone.

  Ever since his wife left him for a man who was more financially successful, he had had bouts of depression. His wife had been a dark, handsome woman; he had thought her very fierce when he first met her and had imagined they would have an exciting life together. But the magnificent wrapping had concealed a fairly ordinary package. He had made the best of things – or so he had thought. But when she left him, on the grounds that he would never ‘amount to anything’, he had been violently angry. The anger had taken a long time to drain away. It had left in its wake a feeling of failure, harder to bear.

  But that was three years ago, and he did not think about it much now. So why did he feel so bad tonight?

  He was dismayed at the realisation that there might be a bitter struggle ahead over this business of the West Front development; but this initial reluctance to do battle was familiar and would pass. There was nothing in all this to explain the feeling
of personal failure that amounted almost to panic.

  He drove home slowly. He lived in the residential area on the less expensive side of Gloucester Park. His wife had wanted a house in a ‘nice’ area and this had been the best he could provide. He would have preferred to live in the centre of the town. Now that his wife had gone the house did not seem to belong to anyone. He went into the kitchen, made himself a sandwich and had a glass of hot milk; one or other gave him indigestion and he could not get to sleep.

  About two in the morning, the dog next door began to bark; after ten minutes of this, Mrs. Pritchard (or Mr. Pritchard, but somehow Lomax did not think it was Mr. Pritchard) thumped down the polished, uncarpeted stairs. The backdoor bolts were drawn back, minutes passed, then the door shut and the bolts were clumsily put into place again. Footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs, another door slammed, another pause, then the flushing of the closet. Lomax listened to the cistern filling. When it was full, he found himself waiting for the dog to bark again. He turned on the light, found a detective story, and began to read. He dozed off about half-past six, only to be woken by the milkman.

  He got up and went to the window. The sky was a delicate egg-shell, with the faintest touch of pearl; in the distance, over the roofs of the houses, he could see the Downs, gradually taking shape as though they had just been created. All very innocent. It was hard to understand why he should have had such dark thoughts during the night.

  When he got to the office, he telephoned Pauline Ormerod. There was no answer. He tried again later in the day, but there was still no answer.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m sorry. Dr. Kearns has a patient with him at the moment,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Moray said. ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll wait here.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  Someone had to put a stop to it. He sat at the end of the row of chairs by the window. The people on either side watched him covertly.

  ‘I’ll tell him as soon as he’s free,’ the receptionist said.

  The woman to Moray’s right looked at her watch and sniffed.

  Moray said, ‘It’s quite all right. I should have made an appointment.’

  ‘It’s our busy morning, you see.’ They were now addressing each other down the length of the room.

  This seemed quite the most agonising of all the things which had happened to him recently. It drew attention to him in a situation in which he could not defend himself: he could scarcely treat the receptionist as a heckler.

  ‘Now, if it had been Tuesday . . .’ she said.

  Of all the things he had done, surely the worst that could be laid at Cope’s door was that he had not become ill on a Tuesday.

  A woman in the row of chairs flanking the long wall scooped up a small, watery-eyed child and bounced him on her knees. ‘It won’t be long now,’ she said. ‘We’re next.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the board where a light came on beside the doctor’s name when he was free. Moray hoped she wasn’t waiting for Dr. Kearns. The woman next to Moray said to the man on her right, ‘It isn’t much better now they’ve got the appointment system, is it?’

  A buzzer rang. All eyes turned to the board. The receptionist said, ‘Mrs. Franklin, will you go to Dr. Mays now. The woman with the child got up; she gave Moray a look of triumph as she went towards the inner door. The receptionist followed her out of the room. In a moment or two she returned and looked towards Moray, but before she could speak the telephone rang and she turned to answer it. Moray thought that if Dr. Kearns’ light came on now he would not have the nerve to thrust himself forward without her support. The light came on as he was thinking this. A man with a heavy grey scarf round his neck got up; the receptionist put one hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘This gentleman is before you, Mr. Spiers.’ Mr. Spiers, who was old and had a defeated look, sat down again. Moray found this acceptance of the inequalities of life more distressing than any outburst of righteous indignation. He said to Mr. Spiers, ‘I do apologise. I’m afraid this is something of an emergency.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mr. Spiers said philosophically. ‘Might as well sit here as anywhere else.’

  ‘I hope I shan’t be long.’

  ‘No hurry. It’s only my chest.’

  Moray went into the hall. There were several doors leading off it and he was afraid of going into the wrong room. It was like a school medical. His heart was thudding by the time he located the door with the plaque which bore Dr. Kearns’ name.

  Dr. Kearns rose to greet him. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t see you before.’ He sounded irritated rather than sorry. He was a short, red-faced man with a toothbrush moustache and he talked very loudly as though Moray was deaf He leant across the table to shake hands; he had a short arm and the effort nearly took him off his feet.

  ‘Sit down, sit down.’

  ‘Your receptionist explained. . . . ?’ Moray said tentatively. ‘She said you’d been to see this fellow . . . what’s his name. Cope?’

  ‘Yes. I went this morning. I only learnt that he was ill this morning. I didn’t expect to find him so bad.’

  ‘He’s got pneumonia, you know,’ the little man barked. ‘You don’t feel all that fit with pneumonia.’

  ‘Is he all right where he is?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I was only called in yesterday evening by his landlady. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to move him then. I’ll have another look at him when I’ve finished here.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have waited. . . .’

  ‘No. It’s perfectly all right, perfectly all right,’ Kearns assured him fiercely. ‘I’m glad to see you. There were one or two things I wasn’t happy about.’

  He looked down at his short, stubby hands clasped on the blotting pad. Moray was afraid he wasn’t going to say any more. Kearns took one thumb and examined it minutely as though it had only come to his attention this morning.

  ‘Some odd features,’ he said. ‘I won’t bother you with a lot of medical jargon; that wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway. Doesn’t always mean much to us, either, half the time. Tell me, as far as you know, has he ever suffered from fits, or anything like that?’

  ‘Good Heavens, no!’ Moray’s reaction expressed his own dismay at the question rather than a thoughtful attempt to answer it. He realised this and added, ‘At least, I say that, but . . .’

  ‘Well, say what you mean, say what you mean.’

  ‘I’ve only known him for just under two years.’ Moray was finding it difficult to marshal his thoughts. ‘But in that time he has always struck me as being remarkably healthy?’

  ‘What makes you decide someone is remarkably healthy?’

  ‘I realise, of course, that I’m not qualified. . . .’

  ‘No, no no! I’m not asking you for a medical opinion. That’s my job. But you probably see him in a different way. What made you feel there was something so remarkable about his health?’

  ‘For one thing, he looked physically strong to me. He had a youthful . . . no, that’s not quite it . . . his face was unmarked, no lines of worry or tension, and his eyes were very bright and clear . . . I don’t know why I’m talking about him in the past tense like this. . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about tenses. Just tell me.’

  ‘He was inexhaustible. He worked at a tremendous pace and it seemed to have absolutely no effect on him. I know for a fact he sometimes worked twenty-four hours at a stretch, and the next day he would seem as fresh as if he’d slept for ten hours. . . .’

  ‘People don’t look fresh after ten hours’ sleep, they look doped.’

  ‘That was one thing Cope never looked. Quite the opposite, he was almost abrasively wide-awake.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you that he might keep himself going on drugs?’

  ‘No, it didn’t. It seemed to me his natural pace was just that much faster than most other people’s.’

  ‘Hmmh.
You could be right about that.’ He screwed up his face and squinted as though he was threading a needle somewhere between Moray’s eyes. ‘But he’s gone down as though he had no resistance at all. Do you realise that? No resistance at all.’

  ‘He was in the army.’ This had been much in Moray’s mind ever since he saw Cope. Not that being in the army offered any explanation of Cope’s condition; it was only a reminder of how little he knew about the man. ‘I believe he had a fairly adventurous career.’

  ‘What do you mean by a fairly adventurous career? That could cover anything from the sort of nonsense medical students indulge in to James Bond activities.’

  ‘I don’t know much myself.’ Moray’s mind flinched from the nastier aspects of James Bond. ‘It wasn’t that he ever bragged about it, but his comments on some of the ones who do, led me to suppose he had been through stranger experiences.’

  ‘I see.’ Dr. Kearns frowned down at his thumb again. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about all this.’

  ‘I suppose the army might help.’

  ‘Ever know them to? And even if they wanted to, they probably couldn’t. Most army doctors wouldn’t recognise measles if they saw it. What do you want me to do?’

  Moray, who had come with the intention of asking Dr. Kearns this question, now felt as defeated as the old man in the grey scarf. He said, ‘Perhaps I could meet you at Cope’s place? You said you would be seeing him later this morning.’

  ‘Yes, all right. That’s up to you.’

  Moray arrived first. The landlady let him in with a manner which would have ensured her a job as a mortuary attendant. Standing in the stuffy room, Moray understood why he had referred to Cope in the past tense. Nothing that he had said now seemed applicable to the man on the bed.