by Nina Bawden
I rubbed my dirty hands over my face and chewed at my finger-tips.
James called me from downstairs. I stood up sharply, the tin of silver polish clattered to the floor.
I was half-way down the stairs when the lights went out. The darkness was total.
Someone moved beside me on the stair, someone who breathed lightly and quickly and pushed me between the shoulder-blades. Unprepared, I fell into the darkness, slipping on the smooth stair, twisting to save myself. My spine jarred against the wood, I clutched at the banister, sick and shaken, and pulled myself upright.
James said, “Harriet, Harriet, are you all right?”
He must be near the bottom of the stairs, his voice sounded quite close to me.
I drew breath, sobbing, into my lungs. I screamed into the darkness. “Put on the lights. Put on the lights.”
James swore. He struck a match and I saw his face, briefly, in the flame.
“Fuse must have blown,” he muttered. I heard his footsteps on the stone floor. My legs were trembling. I sat down on the stair. I wondered how long he would take to mend the fuse, he would insist on doing it himself, he always did, though he was clumsier and slower at mechanical jobs than anyone I had ever known.
Then the lights went on. Janet stood in the doorway of the big kitchen, pulling off her gloves. I was at the bottom of the flight of stairs. She smiled at me.
“Someone’s playing the fool, ducky. Turned off the main switch.” She looked at me. “You look awful. Did you get a fright?”
I wondered wildly what would have happened if she hadn’t come in through the dairy just at that moment. I got to my feet.
“I’m all right. I slipped.”
“Sure? Well, I’ll go and tell Mum she can go home now. Charlie won’t be no more trouble, he’s gone to sleep.”
She climbed the stairs, humming under her breath. James was peering at the fuse-box. He frowned.
“Can’t understand why it should have slipped.” He turned to me, dusting his hands on his trousers. “Darling, did you hurt yourself?”
I said dully, “Someone pushed me.” It was very cold in the hall.
“Pushed you?” His face cleared. “Poor love, you’ve had a scare, haven’t you? But you mustn’t imagine things. Why on earth should anyone push you?”
I asked him flatly, “Why did you call me?”
He looked puzzled. “Blest if I remember. I wanted to tell you something or other and then the lights went out. Does it matter?” He smiled at me indulgently. “Go along upstairs and get warm.”
As I turned away he said, “There’s a letter for you.” He sounded surprised.
I knew what it was before he gave it to me. The second letter had come two days ago; this was the third.
There was a silence. He said curiously, “What is it?”
When the second letter came, I had meant to tell him. But it had been abusive and obscene; I had been too ashamed to show it to him.
“It’s nothing important,” I said.
He grinned. “All right, love, keep your secret.” He glanced at the letter in my hand. “Looks like the ink Ann always uses. Same filthy colour.…”
I bathed and changed, rather too early and waited, alone in the
drawing-room, watching the firelight on the silk of my dress.
Unreality lay like a thin mist over the day; I felt the weary ache in the small of my back and wished the party over.
Maggie came in, a Burne Jones beauty in a green dress, and said the first of the guests had arrived. She seemed shy and nervous with me as if she were afraid I was still angry with her.
The room filled with people. I became a grinning puppet, moved by unseen strings. There was no need for introductions; I was the only stranger.
I noticed that everyone smiled too much. They all said the same things. They welcomed me, they were delighted to meet me at last. The women exclaimed over the pretty room; they said that they liked my dress. Had we enjoyed Switzerland? How lucky we were to have had such glorious weather. Always such a gamble at this time of the year. James toured the room with me, his hand on my arm. This is my wife, Harriet. Harriet, my wife. Always with a faint challenge in his voice, warning them to be tactful. There were so many things that must not be said. Sometimes, when a voice stumbled, you were aware of the care behind the sentence, the wary nervousness. Faces became blurred, wreathed in cigarette smoke, skins glowed with warmth. The room was too hot; I wondered if I should open a window. But some of the women were wearing light dresses; they would feel a draught.…
James introduced me to a weathered man, tall as a bean pole.
“Colonel Langley, an old friend of mine.”
He wore a stiff moustache like a military decoration; his hand was big and warm. One large, blue eye regarded me through a monocle, the other was small and seemed of less consequence, it had a dispirited appearance as if its owner paid no attention to what it saw.
James said, “You’d better talk to him quickly, Harriet. He’s Mrs. Dennison’s favourite. She likes soldierly success.”
“Lord, is she here?” His eye raked the room with comical alarm. He smiled beneath the moustache. “She tried to convert me to culture.”
James said, “She’s an institution. You can’t avoid her.”
“Lord, I know. Here she comes. Waylay her, there’s a good chap.”
She approached us, cloudy in pink chiffon, baby blue eyes enlarged with mascara. James bore her off to a group of farmers in breeches and gleaming boots; she sank into them like a cat into a cushion.
The colonel lit my cigarette. “Enjoying your party? No, don’t tell me. Know what it’s like to be a host myself.” He rumbled at his own joke and fixed me in the beam of his eye. “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Take no notice of the tabbies. That husband of yours looks a different chap.”
“How did he look before?”
“Lord, I don’t know. Like a damned soul, maybe.” He grinned boyishly. “Shouldn’t say that sort of thing. M’wife told me not to. Come and meet her. She’s a nice woman. Known her for years.”
He steered me across the room. James, standing by the fireplace, was laughing.
He was saying, “Have you heard the one about Madame Auriol?”
It was our favourite joke. I knew how he would tell it, knew where he would pause for laughter.…
We stood by the two women sitting on the sofa and waited for an opportunity to break into their conversation. Grey hair shone silver under the lamp, their dresses shimmered, as like schoolgirls they moved intimately together.
“Is that the girl?”
The other woman said something in a lowered voice.
“An extraordinary likeness. I wonder how he stands it, poor fellow.”
“She’s grown into a beauty.”
The colonel cleared his throat. The women moved apart, discomforted.
Mrs. Langley believed in seeing things through. She said, more loudly than she need have done, “Mrs. Random, we were talking about Maggie. She’s lovely, isn’t she? I remember her when she was a skinny little creature with freckles all over her nose.”
The other woman giggled pinkly. “Won’t you sit with us for a minute? You must be tired.”
They made room for me on the sofa between them and looked at me kindly. People had collected in small groups about the room; talk had become private. I wondered how many conversations would falter into silence if I joined them. I shrank against the cushions. My back had been aching for the last hour. Now the pains had become sharp and regular; I held myself stiff and still until they passed.
Mrs. Langley had recently been to a psychiatrist. She was big and frank and placid. She said, “It is quite extraordinary, but when I came out of his consulting room I felt I had been presented with an entirely new moral system. Nothing mattered, he told me, except me. I must fulfil myself. Eventually I decided that it would be better to go on getting up in the middle of the night to make sure the gas was turned off—the ult
imate effects seemed to be less disastrous.”
She waited for me to laugh, anxious to amuse me. I smiled foolishly and said I must see if anyone needed a drink.
“Must you? They all seem very happy.”
Her eyes were suddenly very kind, for a moment they held a hint of compassion. I got up abruptly, a lump in my throat.
Mrs. Dennison came up to me as I was pouring a double Scotch for the bank manager. She waved a long, ivory cigarette holder, the bangles tinkled on her plump, white arm. Her face was flushed, the whites of her eyes were netted with tiny scarlet lines.
“Such a lovely, lovely party, dear. And so brave of you to give it.” She smiled hazily and swayed close to my shoulder. She whispered hoarsely, “I hear you met my Archie. Isn’t he a handsome thing? He thought you were sweet.” She giggled. “I’ve got my hands full, just now. He’s got a friend staying with him. Such a nice boy and so clever. Not much to look at but such a lovely personality. William.” She hiccoughed gently. “William—that’s his name—works on a paper but just now he’s on holiday and writing a novel. It’s quite exciting, having a writer in the house.…”
“It must be,” I said savagely. “I hope he gets some excellent copy locally.”
I collected the empty glasses on the silver tray. No one wanted another drink. One man looked at his watch and said they really must be going. His wife agreed; it had been a delightful party. They were hoping to have one next month, not quite on this scale, just a few friends. She would be so pleased if we could come. There was a general move towards departure.
Then a man’s voice, high and rather drunk. “We’re all too damned tolerant. No sense of right and wrong. What about the poor, bloody victims? Don’t they deserve pity? You put a criminal in the dock and the whole bloody country cries their eyes out. Get rid of the cat, give’em a new start. We’re too soft, that’s our trouble, too soft.”
It wasn’t what he said that mattered. It was the stricken silence that followed his words. His small, angry eyes shifted and fell. He muttered, “These bloody robbery with violence cases” to nobody in particular, and made his way awkwardly to the door.
James was standing alone. The moment had caught him off his guard and vulnerable. His face was stricken, everyone had turned to look at him. I thought: they all believe him guilty. He should be standing in an alcove at Madame Tussaud’s, lit by scarlet lights. I heard the embarrassed whispering roar around me like a river in my ears.
I dropped the tray and grovelled on the floor among the fragments. People stooped to help me and said, be careful of the glass, get a damp cloth. I ran a piece of glass into my finger and put it to my mouth.
James was there. He said, not because I had broken the glasses, but because he had seen my tears, “My dear girl, you should be more careful.”
I stumbled to my feet and ran from the room, from the excited voices and the kind, knowing faces. I went to my room and crouched on the floor beside the bed, stuffing the coverlet in my mouth.
Chapter Eight
Someone switched on the light and Ann was there, kneeling beside me, dragging at my shoulders so I had to turn and face her. She craned above me, red-faced and staring. She was wearing a low-necked dress. I saw the damage the years had done to her throat.
“Whatever is the matter? Are you ill? Pull yourself together.” There was alarm in her voice. “He can’t stand this sort of hysterical nonsense. Don’t you know he can’t stand it?”
I cried out in despair, “What about me? How much am I expected to stand? I love him, I think I can bear anything if only I know the truth. But no one tells me anything, you leave me in the dark. All those people. They think he killed her, don’t they? Oh—they’re sorry for him because they think she was a bitch—but they think he killed her all the same.”
She repeated stupidly, “He can’t stand it.”
“I feel awful. I want a doctor.”
“You’re over-tired. It’s been a long day.”
James said, “Harriet.” He closed the door behind him and came over to the bed. He was very white.
“Ann, is she ill?”
She shook her head. “Just upset. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
They whispered. I heard him say, “Tell them she’s not well—tell them anything you like. I’ll come in a minute.”
She left us alone. I looked up at James. He was very tall and strange. I thought: I’m not afraid of him. How could I be? He’s my husband. I love him.
I said, “I’m not hysterical. Will you get the doctor?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you mustn’t be silly, my darling. Pull yourself together.”
“I can’t.” I began to laugh, a stupid, braying laugh that wouldn’t stop. My legs stuck out from the crushed, silk dress like someone else’s legs.
He was shaking me. “Stop it. Stop it, do you hear?”
“It doesn’t help if you shout. Will they all go away and say I’m as bad as she was?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Oh yes, I do. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”
He moved away as if I had struck him. His mouth was pinched with pain.
I stopped laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m dreadfully sorry. You can touch me as much as you like. I love you. I love you dreadfully. I don’t care what you do to me. You can put your hands round my neck and choke me if you like. I don’t care. Only don’t go away from me. Don’t go away.”
My face felt soggy with tears. He knelt beside me and wiped them away.
He said gently, “It’s my fault. I’ve driven you to this, haven’t I?”
“No, I’m driving myself. Was it like this before?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“She was like this, wasn’t she? An awful, hysterical, screaming woman. You couldn’t bear it, could you?”
He squatted on his haunches and put his face in his hands.
I said, “I hate myself. Whatever she did to you it couldn’t be as bad as this. You can kill me if you like.”
“I treated her badly,” he said. “I didn’t try to understand. It was always my fault. One doesn’t change. I’m treating you the same way, aren’t I? I can’t bear to see you grow angry and bitter. I wanted to be a good husband.”
“You are. You are. Please get the doctor.”
“In a little while, perhaps. Not when you’re like this. There’s nothing wrong. You’re over-wrought.”
He helped me on to the bed. The pain swept over me and I cried with it. He went to the basin and poured a glass of water. He shook two aspirins out of a bottle.
“Swallow these, dear. I must go and help Ann.”
“Please. Oh, please. Fetch the doctor.”
His hands were shaking. “You’re not ill, my love. Get undressed and into bed. When they’ve gone I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
He shut the door. He waited on the other side of it for a moment or two and then he went away. I heard his footsteps going down the passage. The pain came so badly that I buried my face in the pillow. My face was hot and dry. I splashed myself with some of the water out of the glass and dragged myself off the bed.
I thought: he wants me to die. Did he push me downstairs? He’s leaving me alone, he won’t fetch anyone. Perhaps he’s locked the door. If he has, I must push a piece of paper under it and then poke at the key until it falls on to the paper. Then I can pull it under the door. I will have to be gentle, otherwise the key won’t stay on the paper. I laughed a little to myself. I’m clever, aren’t I? Clever and cunning. Perhaps I’m going mad. Mad people are supposed to be cunning.
I tried the handle gently and the door opened. There was no key in the lock. I remembered he had taken the keys away and put them in the Buhl desk because Charlie was always playing with them. Of course, that was what he was going to do. He was going to get the key and come back and lock me in. But with luck he wouldn’t open the door to see if
I was still there. He knew I was ill; perhaps he thought I wouldn’t be able to move. Perhaps the pills he’d given me weren’t aspirins at all.
The passage was empty. I crept along by the wall. The drawing-room door was open and I could hear voices. They wouldn’t leave straight away; they would stay a little because they would want to seem easy and natural. They wouldn’t want him to think they knew he had killed his wife.
The stairs were difficult to manage. Half-way down the pain came again, so badly that I couldn’t move. I held on to the banisters. If anyone came I wouldn’t be able to run away, I would be trapped like a hurt animal. Then the pain went, I managed the rest of the stairs and reached the telephone. It had a long lead, I dragged it off the table and into the doorway of the big kitchen. It wouldn’t go any farther, but no one could see me from the staircase unless they were trying to find me.
The local exchange worked quickly at night. The telephone rang three times and the doctor answered it. I was glad of that, it saved time. I told him what was happening and he was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “I think you had better go into hospital. Will your husband drive you or would you like an ambulance?”
I lied. “Something’s gone wrong with the car. I’d like an ambulance.”
“All right. I’ll get on to the hospital straight away. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”
“Yes.” I wanted to ask him if he would come to the hospital, but I heard people at the top of the stairs and put the telephone down. I stood in the kitchen behind the door while they came down the stairs and crossed the hall. I heard their voices, clear as church bells in the frosty air. I slipped out from behind the door.
No one saw me. Back in my room, I took my suitcase out of the cupboard and packed it with the things I would need at the hospital. I opened drawers methodically, packed a nightdress, a toothbrush, including, not frivolously, but in deadly earnest, a lipstick and a satin bed-jacket. I closed the suitcase and waited. I felt quite calm.
The ambulance came while he was seeing off our guests. What he felt when he saw it, I did not know. There was no time, as I had feared there would be, for protests and recriminations. I saw his astonished face, clouding swiftly with fright and fear, his hands outstretched, not in comfort, but seeking reassurance. I pushed aside his arm and went downstairs leaning on the ambulance men. He hesitated on the step of the ambulance.
