by Laura Wilson
‘Hold on.’ Pete was pawing at his top pocket. ‘Lemme get a fag going.’
Not wishing to witness the owlish fumbling with matches that was bound to ensue from this, Stratton lit two of his own and passed one across. ‘There you are.’
Pete sucked in the smoke hungrily, then leant back and shut his eyes. ‘Go on, then, Dad. Once upon a time …’
Stratton began to talk. He spoke for some time, trying as best he could to relate the events in chronological order and as objectively as possible. All the while, at the back of his mind, he was conscious that he was looking for things to salvage from the mess in order to reassure himself … of what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The possibility that Davies might, after all, be guilty, that he’d done his job to the best of his ability, that … he didn’t know. A leaden numbness had settled on him, burying all his previous reactions beneath its weight. ‘So,’ he finished, ‘that’s why I wasn’t there tonight.’
Pete’s eyes remained closed and, for a moment, Stratton thought that he must have fallen asleep. He lit another cigarette and sat staring into the empty grate. Why had Pete asked him about it all, anyway? He was about to suggest going to bed, when Pete opened his eyes. ‘Looks like you hanged the wrong man, then.’
‘Well, the investigation’s barely started, but—’
‘But you hanged an innocent man.’
‘We don’t actually know that he was—’
‘Don’t you?’ Pete leant forward. ‘Don’t you, Dad? After all, two stranglers in one house – taking coincidence a bit far, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, I would, but—’
‘But what, Dad?’
‘But it’s not that simple.’ Aware of how feeble that sounded, and aware, too, that Pete was staring at him with an intensity of scorn he’d only ever seen him direct at Reg, he struggled for something to say that might redeem him in his son’s eyes. What? I’m not perfect? Pete was only too well aware of that, and, in any case, he was of a generation who, given the events of the last sixty years, had every right to condemn both parents and grandparents. It was bad enough having colleagues at work solicitously monitoring his failure, without attacks from his own family as well. ‘We all make mistakes, I’m afraid.’
‘As mistakes go, Dad,’ said Pete with heavy sarcasm, ‘I’d say this one rather takes the biscuit.’ This was said in a derisive parody of an upper-class accent – the voice, Stratton imagined, that he used for mocking officers behind their backs. Before he could reply, Pete continued, switching back to his normal voice, ‘When you felt so sure that Davies was guilty, was that because of Mum?’
Stratton stiffened. This was almost the first time his son had mentioned Jenny in his hearing since she’d died. There was an almost demonic shrewdness in his eyes. He’d meant the question to strike home, and it had. In as calm a voice as he could manage, Stratton said, ‘One tries to keep one’s emotions out of these things, but I suppose that might have had a bearing on it. With that sort of crime – a mother and child – it’s hard not to think of your own family. And usually, with a case like that, it is the husband who’s responsible.’
There was a moment’s silence – Pete was tipsy enough for it to slow his reactions – before his son said, quietly, ‘Yes. Isn’t it just?’
Stratton took a deep breath, biting back his instinctive reaction – you’re drunk and you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. There was no ducking this. Useless to pretend he hadn’t understood, because he could see from Pete’s expression that his own face had already betrayed him. In any case, he told himself, Pete doesn’t know Jenny was pregnant. He’s angry, and he’s lashing out: don’t rise to it.
‘I do feel guilty about your mother,’ he said evenly. ‘I should have been there to protect her. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about that … and when I don’t miss her. I loved her very much. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Pete. ‘I know that. But perhaps,’ he leant forward, gripping the arms of the chair, and Stratton saw a flash of malicious triumph in his eyes, ‘if you’d been thinking a bit less about that and a bit more about a few other things that are under your nose …’ He stopped, jerking backwards as if tugged by an invisible thread, a flush of guilty confusion flooding his face, cockiness evaporating so that he seemed like a small boy conscious of blurting out more than he’d meant to say.
‘What do you mean, under my nose?’
‘It’s nothing.’ The tone was sullen, defensive. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘It obviously does, or you wouldn’t have said it.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
Pete was looking furtive now, seeking a way out. Sensing that he was about to get up, Stratton rose and took a step towards him. ‘If it’s happening in this house, then it is my business. Tell me.’
Shrinking back in his chair, Pete stared up at him, wide-eyed, shocked into sobriety by fear. Stratton placed his hands on the arms of Pete’s chair and glared at him. ‘Just bloody tell me!’ he roared.
‘All right.’ Pete reared back even further, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘But stop shouting. Sit down, for God’s sake.’
Stratton, backing off, complied. ‘I’m sitting down. Now, what’s going on?’
With a visible effort, Pete gathered himself together. ‘It’s Monica.’
‘What about her?’
Now he’d made the decision to speak, Stratton saw Pete’s former bravado returning in leaps and bounds. ‘You really have no idea, have you? Well, let me enlighten you.’ The officer-mocking tone was there, and then, in the next second, gone. The look in his son’s eyes was a challenge, brutal and direct. ‘She’s pregnant.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
Dressed in borrowed finery and bejewelled at wrists and neck, Diana fiddled with her fork and wished she felt like eating. She’d already had two glasses of wine on top of quite a lot of champagne and she knew she ought to attempt to soak it up with food, but she was far too jittery to be able to do more than toy with what was on her plate. Lally and Jock had taken her to Ciro’s in an attempt to cheer her up, and she was trying her best to be cheered up, but it wasn’t working. All the shining silver and glassware sparkling in the light cast by the rows of chandeliers, the dazzling white napery, the bright music and the alcohol could not dispel her heavy, dull despair, and knowing that she was worrying Lally and boring Jock didn’t help.
Jock’s manner had been brusque the previous day, when they’d driven over to pay her landlady the arrears on the rent. The wild hope she’d had of finding James waiting for her on the steps outside had crystallised into an almost-certainty on the journey, so that finding that he wasn’t there plunged her more deeply into gloom even than before. Jock had insisted that she stayed in the car while he sorted things out, and, hating herself for her passivity, she’d waited miserably until he returned with a new key to the second-floor flat.
Jock hadn’t been able to disguise his disgust as they walked into the cheerless sitting room. ‘It’s not normally as bad as this,’ Diana said, defensively. ‘She’s packed away all our things.’ They’d been stacked in the hall, in suitcases and wooden boxes.
‘Is this everything?’ Jock had asked incredulously, surveying the small pile. ‘Or has she taken some away? She told me she hadn’t, but …’
‘I think so,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll check later.’ She knew she wouldn’t have to check – one or the other of them had already pawned all the larger or more expensive items.
‘Well,’ said Jock awkwardly, ‘if there’s nothing else, I’d better be going.’
‘Yes … Thank you, Jock. For everything.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. No need to make a fuss.’
When he’d gone, Diana opened the first suitcase and, finding that it contained her clothes, began unpacking in a mechanical fashion. The second suitcase contained what was left of James’s wardrobe. She was about to lift out a pile of shirts and underclothes when
it occurred to her that it was pointless to go through the charade of hanging them up or folding them away in drawers if he wasn’t coming back.
He must come back, she thought. Surely, he would. He couldn’t leave her like this, so alone. Then with agonising clarity came the image of him as she’d last seen him, grovelling at her feet on the beach, the poached eyes staring past her to the bottle she’d been holding in her hand. He’s not coming back, she thought. He’s not capable of it. She closed the suitcase, snapped the locks, and pushed it into the hall cupboard, closing the door.
The books and ornaments – those that were left – would keep until tomorrow. She went into the kitchen where she found a tin of soup and a bottle of sherry with half an inch left that must, somehow, have escaped James’s notice. She placed them side by side on the draining board and got as far as putting a saucepan on the stove before realising that she had neither the energy, nor the desire, to cook or eat even this simple meal.
Wandering into the bedroom, she glanced at herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. The face that looked back from behind the light coating of dust was dazed and cloudy. Turning away, she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed with all her clothes on, including her fur coat, which she hadn’t felt warm enough to remove. As she closed her eyes, she thought detachedly, I ought to be afraid, but I’m not. I’m too tired, even for that. It seemed to her that somewhere, somehow, she had lost the instinct for self-preservation. Had she ever thought that her life would, at some point, turn out right, and she would be happy? Or had she always known this would happen? She couldn’t remember.
She’d remained in bed, getting up sometime in the middle of the night to undress to her underclothes, for over twenty-four hours, until a sharp tapping on the door compelled her to rise. Pulling back the curtain, she saw that it was dark outside and the streets were lit. Dressing hastily, she found Jock and Lally, dressed in evening clothes, waiting on the landing.
‘Surprise, darling!’ Lally’s voice seemed excruciatingly bright. It’s started already, thought Diana bleakly: the pity. ‘We’re taking you out to dinner, darling. I thought you needed a bit of a cheer-up. I’ve brought you some things to wear,’ she indicated a suitcase held by Jock, who looked markedly less enthusiastic, ‘so you can’t use that as an excuse, and there’s jewellery and things in there.’ She pushed a dressing case into Diana’s arms. ‘Aren’t you going to let us in?’
Diana blinked at her, bleary-eyed. ‘I don’t think … I mean, I’m not …’
‘We know you’re not, darling,’ said Lally, ‘and that’s why you need some fun. Now, come on …’ She advanced towards the sitting room and, looking round at its dusty anonymity, said, ‘Heavens, this is all very … bijou, isn’t it?’
‘I think,’ said Diana, ‘that “small” is the word you’re looking for. And “dismal”.’
‘Nonsense. Once you’ve got your things sorted out it’ll be fine. Smaller places are so much easier than great barns like ours, anyway. You can make it really modern.’
She meant well, but the vehement optimism was more than Diana could bear. ‘I haven’t anything to offer you,’ she said, ungraciously.
‘Doesn’t matter, darling. Why don’t I come and chat to you while you get ready? Jock can wait here.’
Jock was standing in the middle of the room, a look of detached politeness on his face. Clearly, thought Diana, all this was Lally’s idea, and she had a strong suspicion that Jock had tried to talk her out of it. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I really don’t feel … As you can see, there’s an awful lot to do here, and I don’t suppose I’d be terribly good company, so …’ But Lally had overridden all her protests and borne her into the bedroom to change and dress her hair, and now, an hour and a half hour later, they were all three sitting in sumptuous surroundings like strangers in a railway carriage who have started a conversation out of politeness and exhausted all subjects of mutual interest. Jock wore an expression of thin-lipped endurance, and Lally, who was facing the door, had begun discreetly searching the room for anyone they might know who could be persuaded to come over and enliven things. Laughter and chatter rippled the air all around them, and Diana felt lonelier and more hopeless than ever. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when Jock excused himself, ‘but honestly, everything just feels like a dream at the moment. Everything since the war, really … No, since I went back to Hampshire. None of it seems real – as if I’d … I don’t know … died or something, somewhere along the line. Or part of me has.’
‘I know, darling.’ Lally reached across the table and patted Diana’s hand. ‘But things will get better.’
‘Will they?’
‘Of course they will!’
Diana sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have come out,’ she said. ‘This is all so kind of you, but I feel like the ghost at the feast.’
‘There’ll be dancing soon,’ said Lally. ‘That’s bound to cheer you up. Do you know, I’m sure I spotted Phyllis Garton-Smith just now. You remember she was at Bletchley Park during the war – of course, you told me you’d seen her when you went there with F-J. Well, she’s engaged to the strangest man – his family are something to do with shipping, but apparently he didn’t want any part of it, so he went off and became an explorer.’
About halfway through this speech, the focus of Lally’s gaze had switched to somewhere past Diana’s left shoulder. When she stopped talking – clearly too distracted by whatever she’d seen to keep up the flow of chatter – Diana turned to see what had caught her friend’s eye and, almost immediately, caught her breath. Lounging long-limbed and elegant in the doorway, louche in immaculate evening dress and, nine years on, more absurdly handsome than ever, was Claude Ventriss.
‘Diana …’ Lally’s voice was low, warning. ‘Diana. . .’
Diana caught her breath. Claude was scanning the room. She couldn’t work out from his expression whether or not he was looking for someone in particular. The arrogant tilt of his lazy, half-closed eyes suggested that every woman in the room was available to him and he was just deciding which one to snap his fingers at … Presumptuous as ever. Smiling involuntarily, Diana shook her head.
‘Diana …’ said Lally, again. ‘For God’s sake! Stop staring at him.’
Claude’s gaze swept past Diana and, for a second, she thought he hadn’t noticed her. Just as she was wondering if this was genuine or deliberate, his face seemed to break open in recognition, and his glowing, velvet-brown eyes looked directly into hers.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Unable to sleep, Monica leant over and fumbled for her bedside lamp. Turning it on, she saw, from her alarm clock, that it was quarter past three in the morning. All her nights had been like this recently – lying awake, her thoughts going fruitlessly round in circles, the imagined outcomes growing worse each time. At first, it hadn’t been too bad, because she’d been able to tell herself it would be all right in the morning, or, if not then, during the day, or the following morning – that her period would come, must come, soon. Now, such wishful thinking was impossible.
It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to have intercourse with Raymond. They’d seen each other a lot over the past months, always travelling miles from the studio to spend evenings at little, faraway places because – or so he’d told her – he didn’t like being recognised by fans. He never had been, although he’d made plenty of nervous jokes about it. She’d thought, then, that it was just the inconvenience of people asking for autographs or gushing over him when he wanted to be alone with her. She was so taken up in playing the part of his girlfriend that she’d never even considered that there might be another reason.
The really idiotic thing was that she could see it would be a whole lot worse if she’d been in love with him. She’d found that she quite enjoyed his company – it didn’t matter that he talked mostly about himself, because it was interesting, and he had lots of funny stories to tell about the plays and films he’d done. He’d had an off-screen romance with Patri
cia Regal, who was one of her favourite stars, and she’d wanted to know so much about it that he’d teased her for being jealous. Which she was, of course – just not in the way he’d thought …
When he’d suggested that they spend a night together somewhere, she’d agreed. Not immediately, of course, but when she considered the matter, she’d come to regard it in the same heroic, desperate light as Tilly’s action in the film, when she’d pretended to be drowning in order to show her husband that he wasn’t really crippled at all. It would be like a cure for her, because if she could bring herself to do that, then perhaps there would be a normal future for her, after all. Following a couple of days’ consideration, she’d come to regard it as a perfectly sensible – in fact, an almost scientific – course of action.
They’d only done it three times, and she must have made the right noises, or done something right, anyway, because he’d seemed very pleased afterwards. The odd thing was, it hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared – more uncomfortable than anything. She’d kept her eyes tight shut all the time so as not to have to look at him, but he had been gentle, especially the first time. He’d probably had heaps of practice because he wasn’t at all awkward about it, and he hadn’t seemed to mind her shyness one bit. When he’d told her that intelligent, sophisticated women didn’t believe in saving themselves for marriage, because it was vulgar to use virginity as a bargaining chip, she’d seen his point immediately, because women ought to be equal with men.
Except that it was obviously more for men than for women – she really didn’t see how they could get any fun out of it – and men didn’t have babies, did they? He’d said he’d take care of that side of things – and obviously thought he had done so, because he’d been appalled and furious when she’d told him. That was when he’d told her he was married.
