‘You’ll have to back me up, that’s all,’ she announced, clearly carrying on a conversation she’d been having for some time in her head.
‘Oh Lord – I suppose you want me to say I was with you somewhere or other last night.’
And the irony of the request struck Claire unpleasantly. What a devious tangle this had become! How – yes, how sordid. But for once Nola was not in search of that particular alibi.
‘The car, my dear – the car,’ she said impatiently, wondering why Claire had not understood it at once. ‘Benedict won’t like it. He’ll say if I wanted a car why didn’t I tell him, and the answer is that he’d have got me something enormous and expensive and a chauffeur to go with it. And since my particular way of life couldn’t accommodate that sort of supervision the only way was to get myself a little runabout that no self-respecting chauffeur would ever sit in. Toby found it for me, bless him, but in view of Toby’s record I’d rather not tell Benedict that either. So can we say you did?’
‘Yes – yes all right.’ She was ready to promise anything.
‘Belonged to a friend of yours – one careful owner – absolute bargain? Yes?’
‘Yes-fine.’
‘And I’ll make it up to you one way or another when my dear husband growls.’
In ten minutes, perhaps less, her husband would be here at the end of the garden, waiting – not patiently – until whatever business his wife and his mistress might choose to conduct together should be over. If he caught a glimpse of them through the long windows he would probably smile. Claire could find nothing in this situation – nothing – to amuse her at all.
‘Is that all you want me to do, Nola?’
‘For the moment, darling – yes. Unless you’d care to make: me a cup of coffee.’
‘Not desperately.’
‘Oh – I see. You’re up to something aren’t you?’ And, her eyes sharpening, looking so intently for signs of a hidden lover that she quite missed the significance of the folded black dress and the gold sandals, she said, openly inquisitive, quite ready to be pleased about it, ‘Are you expecting somebody? A man, I mean?’
‘Yes-I am.’
‘Well, there’s no need to snap my head off, darling, because I’m absolutely in favour. In fact I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. And in your case, Claire, it’s high time. Far be it from me to cramp your style. Well then? – come on. Don’t be shy. Just tell me who he is and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Nola – for heaven’s sake.’ And she was as near to squirming with humiliation as she had ever been in her life, feeling her own worth – even in the presence of this other unworthy woman – melting rapidly away.
‘Is it Kit?’
‘I’m not saying.’
‘Ha!’ Nola’s pointed face acquired a knowing look. ‘But you’re not saying it isn’t either.’
‘I’m just not saying.’
Not saying, perhaps. But, foolishly and cruelly, she had allowed it to be understood. And what was there to prevent Nola from going over to the Crown, this very afternoon if she had nothing else to do, and teasing Kit. Nothing prevented her. It would be like her. She would see no harm in it. She would enjoy it. ‘Congratulations, Hardie my man. I hear you’ve woken up our sleeping beauty at last – with rather more than a kiss I do hope and trust.’ And Kit would know that Claire had used his name to cover up an affaire with somebody else. She couldn’t do that to him. Do what, for God’s sake? It had nothing to do with Kit. Nothing to do with anybody except herself – and Dorothy.
‘It’s not Kit,’ she said too sharply, Nola’s throaty chuckle telling her at once that she had only made matters worse.
‘There – there – of course not, my pet. Even though it’s been on the cards for ages. I’ll believe you where thousands wouldn’t. Pity really, because – as I remember him – he makes strident physical harmonies – most impressive.’
‘Nola, you’re not to say anything about this – to Kit I mean.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because, for one thing, I won’t back you up about your rotten little car if you do.’
‘Goodness gracious me!’ Nola, stepping back a little, was amused, surprised, intensely curious, the wheels of her mind spinning rapidly in their own complex patterns. ‘What are you up to? Could it be that you’ve been having an affaire with Kit for quite a while and yes – tut tut – you’re being unfaithful to him, you naughty girl, aren’t you? Is that it?’
To Nola, it seemed very likely. It was a thing which Nola herself might easily have done.
‘It might be,’ Claire said sharply, unwillingly. Very well. To spare Kit’s feelings she had deliberately descended to Nola’s level, What else could she have done? And until Nola had forgotten all about it, and Kit was safe, she would have to stay there. ‘So if you say a word to him, Nola, I won’t do another thing to help you.’
Benedict had been in the lane for fifteen minutes when she finally threw her bag into the back seat of the car and got in beside him, having no more desire for his company at that moment than she had for Miriam’s.
‘I’m late,’ she said crisply, ‘because your wife came to see me.’
But he showed no sign of being disagreeable about it, negotiating the narrow tangle of Faxby’s ancient centre before remarking, as if it were a matter of casual conversation, ‘She wanted you to give her an alibi, I suppose.’
‘Yes. She wants me to say she’s spending the afternoon with me, so she can go to bed with her lover while I’m in bed with you – which makes it all rather crowded, or incestuous, or some other damned ridiculous thing.’
She had not intended to say that. But now, with the angry words spoken, the angry tears in her voice quite audible, it seemed a regrettable but perhaps appropriate, certainly a timely ending. The last thing Benedict Swanfield wanted from any woman was an emotional scene, she knew that very well, and now it would be a relief to her if he turned round and drove her back at once to Mannheim Crescent. And then, if nothing else, at least she – and Dorothy – would be safe.
He did not turn the car. Instead he drove for a while in a silence that seemed reflective rather than hostile and then, without looking at her, laid one hand on her knee, a light touch which, because he had never touched her before in this reassuring manner – had never touched her at all except as an approach to making love – had an impact far beyond reassurance, a weight far greater than any hand could reasonably possess, releasing throughout her body the dangerous, languorous impulse of yielding. She was rootless and uncertain. He was a man of fixed direction and great possessions who liked to possess. He knew – in her case at least – exactly what he wanted. She was struggling merely, and vaguely, for a kind of freedom, a kind of healing. It seemed likely, therefore, in case of conflict, that he would win.
‘Did my wife upset you?’ he said.
‘No. I did that.’
‘Of course.’
He removed his hand, her body instantly wanting it back again, although she knew quite well that she would be able to explain herself – defend herself-much better without it. And, brooding on the need for self-defence, the absolute necessity of breaking through this trance of amorous bliss he kept inducing in her to obscure her judgement, she was taken unawares by the offer he suddenly made her.
‘What would you like me to tell you, Claire?’
He had never invited her to question him before. Had he ever explained himself to anyone else? Truly – she hoped not.
‘I think – about Nola?’
‘Yes?’
‘I – oh Heavens – I don’t know what I want to say …’
‘That you rather like her and it troubles you? Is that it?’
‘I expect so – which makes me something of a hypocrite.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Thank you. I do realize that how I feel about your wife can hardly be your problem.’
‘Quite. But “my wife” as we keep on calling her knows
very well about my – what shall we say …?’
‘Impermanent relationships?’
‘If you like. After all, who suggested to you that I might have black satin sheets on my bed at Thornwick?’
‘Nola.’
‘Exactly. And if it amuses her to keep her own impermanent relationships secret then I see no harm in it. It is a game she and I play together – the only game we play – and it should be no concern of yours. We married young, to suit the convenience of our families, although neither of us objected. We might well have grown together. Many do. We did not. We had what seemed the right number of children and went our separate ways. Not an uncommon story. Perhaps not one to be proud of either but – as I said – quite usual. We do each other neither good nor harm. And why should she raise objections in your case when she has never objected in the least to anyone else? Friendship can hardly enter into the matter, can it?’
‘Can’t it? Shouldn’t it?’
He gave his dry smile. ‘My dear – in your place do you think consideration for you would make Nola hesitate?’
‘That hardly excuses –’
‘Are we really looking for excuses? I think you ought to be content with the simple assurance that whatever Nola might do or threaten to do, there would be no scandal.’
And once again she was astonished and delighted, dazed almost, by the light yet somehow decisive pressure of his hand on her knee.
‘Dear Claire – I am not much given to making promises in these matters, but there is not the slightest danger that Nola would ever tell tales to your mother you know. I do feel I can promise you that.’
She had not expected to find room or reason for laughter but now she found herself laughing, just a little weakly, with self-knowledge and a keen, disturbing pleasure that he had come to know her so well.
‘I think I am ashamed to say how much that troubles me.’
‘Why? It proves you a dutiful daughter. And I am sufficiently acquainted with Edward Lyall to understand your anxiety. But don’t you know that he would deliver you to me bound hand and foot – if I asked him. And that your mother would hold you down while he tied the cords.’
She shivered.
‘I don’t want to think that about my mother.’
‘It happens to be true.’
‘Yes. I know. I also know the reason.’
‘Does that make a difference?’
‘It seems to. Can we talk about Nola?’
‘Indeed – what else?’
‘I suppose I ought to tell you that she didn’t come to me for an alibi this afternoon.’
‘If you really feel in honour bound –’
‘Oh Lord – don’t tease me about honour. She came to show me her car …’
And once again she hesitated, floundered, unwilling to be Nola’s go-between, Benedict’s spy, carrying tales which, in this instance, might cause trouble for Toby, who had trouble enough.
‘Ah – she has bought a car has she? What about it?’
Claire drew a deep breath. ‘Yes. Quite a bargain. She got it through a friend of mine. Awfully good condition.’
‘I see. And might your friend also be a friend of Toby Hartwell’s?’
‘How can I say?’
‘How indeed?’
‘Do you object to her having a car, Benedict?’
‘No. I don’t even object to her buying it from Toby, nor even to the commission one can safely assume him to have taken. And, as to the condition of the vehicle, I imagine Parker can put that right.’
‘Then why –?’
‘A game, Claire. Nola’s game. The family game, if you like, since they all play it to one degree or another. I believe my father started it. He was a man who said no automatically to everything – except to Miriam. He knew what was best for everybody, you see, and became terribly enraged whenever one asked for something different. Nola’s father is much the same. And so she is comfortable with deceit. She enjoys it. My dear – I realize that you don’t.’
Perhaps, later on, when she had the time to analyse and pull apart exactly what he had said to her, she would find it to be very little indeed. Certainly he had said it cynically and coolly. Yet, even so, despite the crisp tone, the air of faintly amused detachment, she had been aware of effort, of the labour it had somehow cost him to say anything at all. Not from lack of fluency, not from shyness, not even from a natural coldness. What then? A simple inability to open the doors of his nature, to let himself out or someone else in? And how terrible a confinement that must be if he wanted to unlock those doors.
She returned to Faxby some hours later bearing her physical content like a warm fur around her bare-shouldered black crepe de Chine dress, having left her best knitted jumper suit and hat in his wardrobe at Thornwick; the concession she had refused to make to Miriam.
‘I didn’t mean to enjoy myself this afternoon,’ she murmured, drowsy and incautious with pleasure.
‘I know. You were on the point of telling me it had gone on long enough.’
‘Has it?’
‘I dare say. I dare say it should never have started.’
‘Benedict –?’
His hand descended once again on her knee, reassuring her, reaffirming his possession.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
They reached High Meadows and walked, not merely through a door, but into another identity. ‘Good evening, Marton,’ he said, tossing his coat to the butler as he had once tossed it to Kit Hardie. ‘I’ll need twenty minutes to change.’ And he went upstairs to a room she had never seen, leaving her to face the dreaded half-hour before dinner when, since no one else came down until the gong sounded, she would be alone with Miriam.
‘My dear, how pretty you look.’ This much was routine. ‘Do come and sit down beside me, so I can have a good look at you.’ This, too, and the plump little hand reaching out like a velvet clamp, a jewelled anchor, was just as usual.
‘Now then, dear child,’ and suddenly the blue eyes were far too full of innocence, as Euan’s often were in the moment of implanting a deadly dart, ‘There is something I must say to you.’
‘Yes –?’
‘Claire dear – I know exactly what you are getting up to.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Of course I do.’ Both small, soft hands were in action now, one holding her arm, the other stroking, kneading, smothering. ‘Of course – how could you hide anything from me? Running around at all hours as you do, wearing yourself out for that terrible man who never wore himself out for me. Your job – your nasty old job, dear – what else could I possibly mean? What else!’
‘Oh-yes.’
‘And I am about to declare war on that job, my child. Your mother and I are quite agreed. It is not good for you. What have you to say to that!’
Very little.
‘You are too pale – too thin – you need looking after, Claire.’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh – much more than that. If I cannot persuade you then I shall get Benedict – yes, Benedict – to do it. He is very fond of you. But, of course, you know that. So are we all. Ah – Eunice. You are very prompt tonight. I had expected at least another ten minutes with Claire. But never mind. I have just been begging her to take better care of herself – or give in like a good little girl and allow those of us who love her to do it. Remember, my dear, there is a room in this house with your name on the door. The blue chintz room, Eunice. You know, the one between Nola and Benedict.’
What had she said? No more than her usual artless rambling which was never, in fact, so artless as it seemed. What did she suspect? And, her blood running cold, Claire knew it was certainly something. No proof, perhaps, but it had been all there in her pretty raindrop patter of words, the slight emphasis to ‘your mother and I are quite agreed’, meaning ‘what would your mother do if she knew what I know?’, the sharp touch in her face when she had distinctly pronounced ‘but of course you know that’.
How did she
know? It made no difference. What did she want? Like Dorothy, Miriam had been brought up to believe in virginity, perfect fidelity, absolute virtue. But, unlike Dorothy, Miriam cared not a fig for any of it. And looking now, in growing alarm, at the candid blue eyes, the air of a kindly, slightly anxious tea-rose in full and stately bloom, Claire knew that Miriam, who fussed so earnestly about white gloves and dance programmes, who deplored short skirts and flushed a pretty pink at even the slightest reference to human anatomy, could not be shocked by adultery, although she could never actually bring herself to speak the word – and would happily condone it under her own roof, by the simple process of refusing to notice it, if it meant that by doing so her own aims might be satisfied. What did she want? Claire knew. And once again that day she shivered. ‘There is a room in this house with your name on the door. “Claire’s Room”. The blue chintz room between Nola and Benedict.’ Had she now found the power to force her inside it and turn the key?
Benedict came into the room looking like a man who has been at the office all day.
‘Good evening, Miriam.’
And she smiled at him sweetly, his father’s wife who had been brought up to believe she had a right to his service. How much power did he really have over her? Claire had no doubt at all of his ability to control Edward or Nola. He had set her mind at rest as to that. But if Miriam threatened to make a scandal could he prevent it? Or indeed – and the idea lashed out at her suddenly – if that blue chintz room next to his own appeared desirable to him, or convenient, would he even wish to?
‘I have been telling Claire she is not looking well,’ said Miriam.
‘Perhaps not.’
And, for a sickening moment, behind their voices she could hear
the blue chintz door gently closing, the well-oiled click of a key
in the lock.
Chapter Eleven
She had not expected Christmas to be easy and, having decided that much, she further made up her mind – as she had done in France – quite simply to get on with it. This was not the first time in her life she had had too little sleep, too many cigarettes, too much alcohol; not the first time there had been too many calls on her time, too many demands – all of them urgent to those who made them – too much to do, a constant, hectic changing of place and mood and rhythm. She had done it all before in France and, compared to that, this – she told herself – was easy, often pleasant, unlikely to be fatal. Her body adjusted. Her nerves adjusted. Like a great many others who frequented the Cocktail Bar of the Crown Hotel she embarked on this hot tide of pleasure with the bracing of her spirit, the gathering together and seasoning of her physical resources which had been necessary to endure the thunder of the guns.
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