by Joan Lingard
‘What came over you last night?’ Rachel asked, the morning after he had frogmarched Clarinda back to her street.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Going out for a walk at that hour? Without even your coat on.’
That might have been another chance to tell her about Clarinda, had the children not been there, but they were, sitting hunched over the table yawning and complaining that they weren’t hungry and didn’t see why they should be made to eat when they weren’t. There was no chance of taking Rachel aside, either, for they would all have to get going in ten minutes, and his story was not one that could be told in a hurry. He said he’d felt restless.
‘That’s not new, is it? But you didn’t even have your coat on.’
‘I went on the spur of the moment.’
Rachel did not look convinced. She turned her attention to Davy, who was fiddling with his cereal but not eating. They heard the letter box flap snap shut announcing the arrival of the post, which gave Sophie the chance to leave the table to go and fetch it.
‘Three for you, Mum. One for Dad. Peachy paper. Wow! Who’s writing to you on that? Not Granny, though. And it smells of’ – she sniffed – ‘patchouli.’
‘It’s probably some pupil or other,’ said Cormac hurriedly, taking the envelope and shoving it half under his plate.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘I haven’t time.’ He rose, abandoning the last of his coffee and putting the envelope in his pocket. Rachel was looking furious.
He went up to the bathroom and locked the door. It reminded him of the first time a girl had sent him a Valentine. He’d been fourteen and he’d gone into the bathroom to read it without his mother’s eyes watching him. When he’d come out she’d said, ‘I’ve no time for the kind of girl that runs after a boy. She must have no pride.’ Cormac had said nothing. He’d sent the girl a Valentine himself.
‘Darling Cormac,’ Clarinda had written, ‘since I can’t see you every minute of every day and every night the only way I can talk to you is by writing to you. I can’t forget those wonderful times we had together in Paris, especially the night that you kissed me. I shall never forget The Kiss.’ ‘The Kiss’ was firmly underlined.
He took the peachy-pink letter and its matching envelope and shredded them into tiny pieces and dropped them like confetti into the toilet. Then he flushed them away. He had no chance to speak to Clarinda on her own in school that day and he had taken his bicycle to work so that he was able to make a quick getaway afterwards.
The following morning, there was another letter. This one had been delivered by hand, before the post came. He saw the pink rectangle lying on the brown doormat when he came downstairs. He had come down early, deliberately. With a quick glance up the stairs he bent down and picked up the envelope. He was somewhat surprised that Clarinda would opt for pink notepaper. A liking inherited from her mother, perhaps? Opening the door he peered cautiously round it, afraid that she might be standing on the step. But she was not. She must have slipped up the path, and slipped away again. Did her mother know that she’d left home so early in the morning? What did she know? It was time he went and talked to the woman. Clarinda was not standing under the tree across the road, either. He went as far as the gate and glanced up and down the street. There appeared to be no sign of her at all.
‘Not a bad morning,’ called over John, his next-door neighbour, who was coming down his path, freshly shaved and spruced up, the toes of his shoes glinting as he stepped smartly out. He always went to work early, walking all the way up town. He had told Cormac he liked to get into the office before anyone else to have time to settle himself in peace. Cormac found the idea attractive but somehow or other never seemed to manage it himself. Mornings in their household tended to be hassled.
‘Not bad,’ agreed Cormac automatically, suddenly becoming aware that he was out in his pyjamas and slippers and that he was clutching a pink envelope in his hand and his neighbour was eyeing it and him curiously. ‘Have a good day,’ he muttered and went back inside. He was tempted to chuck the blasted envelope and its contents down the toilet without opening it but found he could not resist reading what she had written. She had penned a long description about her room so that, she said, he would be able to envisage it.
‘I am going to do a painting of my room. I’ve started to make some sketches which I’d love to show you. I plan to make the composition simple: just a small table with a vase of brilliant dahlias (my mother is always buying flowers) and a chair by the window. I know it might seem that I am just copying Gwen John but my interpretation will be different. You would say so yourself, wouldn’t you? But I do think Gwen was right not to overcrowd her paintings.’ He groaned and started shredding.
Someone was rattling the door handle. ‘Dad, are you going to be in there all day!’ demanded Sophie.
When Cormac did come to tell Rachel about Clarinda, after he’d been suspended, she said he should have kept the letters, as evidence that the girl was pursuing him.
You say the girl wrote letters to you, Mr Aherne. Why did you not keep them? Did you think they might incriminate you?
He is convinced that the car he has just seen coming out of Rachel’s street was Archie Gibson’s, and that the man driving was the headmaster himself. He must have been to call on Rachel. What other reason would he have for being in that particular street? Perhaps it had merely been a friendly call. Just passing, thought I’d drop in, see how you were doing for old times’ sake. No, he cannot convince himself of that.
This isn’t going to be easy for me, Cormac. Thus spake his former friend and head teacher on that fateful day when he was suspended. The words ring in Cormac’s ears as he retraces his steps back to his own street; they have attained a new significance. ‘This isn’t easy for me now, Archie,’ he mutters. He remembers the day after their return from Paris, sitting in the pub with Archie, telling him about Clarinda, how enthusiastic she was about art, and Gwen John, trying to build up to finally telling him—Telling him what? Everything? Would he have told him about the kiss?
‘Funny business, isn’t it,’ he had begun, ‘what attracts one person to another? It’s not totally physical, is it?’
Archie looked startled, and guilty. Yes, guilty. But Cormac only realises that after he has seen the headmaster’s car leaving Rachel’s street. What had Archie said in response? He can’t remember. Perhaps nothing. And he himself, wrapped up in his own thoughts, might not have noticed.
‘Dad!’ He hears Davy’s voice as he unlocks the door. ‘Where have you been? I was calling for you. I thought you’d gone.’
Cormac gathers his son into his arms. ‘It’s all right, Davy, I’m here. You know I’d never go away. I just went down into the street for a breath of air. I didn’t think you’d wake.’
‘I had a horrible dream. I was coming home from school and I couldn’t find the house …’
‘There, now, it was only a dream. You know you won’t ever have to look for the house when you’re coming home from school. I’ll always be there to meet you.’ Every day at three o’clock he is committed to standing at the school gate. He resolves to be sharper in future. Sometimes Davy is there before him, frowning, peering anxiously up the street.
He gives Davy a drink of hot milk and puts him back to bed; he waits beside him until he falls asleep again.
Rachel and Archie Gibson.
He goes to the phone and presses redial. Rachel answers in her more gathered-together voice.
‘Oh, hello, Cormac. Sophie’s home, you’ll be glad to know. She came in five minutes ago. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘No, I was wondering if you could give me Archie’s number.’
‘Archie?’ Her voice has shifted a register, and sounds splintered. He is listening with intent, ready to catch every nuance.
‘Yes, Archie Gibson’s. I no longer have it on me, I think it was probably in the family book you took with you.’
‘He’s moved, act
ually. He and Sheila split up, you know. She stayed in the house.’
‘Perhaps you could give me their old number and I’ll get Archie’s new one from her.’
‘Were you wanting it for any reason in particular?’ She is trying to sound casual.
Cormac says he just thought it would be nice to meet up for a drink. Old times’ sake and all that. He and Archie go back quite a way, after all. They shared a flat when they were students. What else have they shared?
‘Oh yes, of course,’ says Rachel, ‘hang on a minute.’ She is confused at the other end of the line, is rustling through pages and can’t seem to put her finger on it. ‘It’s in an awful mess, this book, with things written in and others scored out, I’ve been meaning to get a new one and throw this out but it’s such a bother transferring all the numbers.’
He waits until she has no option but to give him the number he wants. ‘Sheila’s out a lot,’ she warns him. He can always leave a message, he says.
Sheila happens to be in and gives him Archie’s number though he has to listen to a long story before she does. She does not mention Rachel. ‘He was having it off with someone while we were still together, oh yes! He thought I didn’t know – men are such fools, sorry about that, Cormac – but how could I not know? A woman always knows. He started shaving twice a day and he bought himself a whole load of new boxer shorts. He usually hung on to his underwear until it reached the disgusting stage and I would have to throw it out myself when it came through in the wash.’ Cormac does not want to know any more of these details but Sheila is a difficult woman to stop. He half listens, then when she pauses he asks, ‘Did you ever find out who he was having the affair with?’
‘Oh, no, he was far too clever for that. He is clever, is Archie. And he had to keep up his image as the virtuous, unsullied headmaster, didn’t he?’
When Cormac has extricated himself he makes his final call of the evening. While he’s dialling and waiting he reflects what a big thing the telephone has become in his life, one of his chief lines of communication, whereas, before, he seldom answered it, if he could avoid it.
‘Archie Gibson speaking.’
‘Hi, Archie. It’s me, Cormac.’
‘Oh, hello, Cormac.’ Archie is not surprised, nor does he ask how he got hold of his number. So Rachel has phoned to warn him; she had time to do that while he was talking to Sheila. ‘Nice to hear from you,’ says Archie. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Fantastic! Sandwiches are big these days. I’ll soon be floating the business on the stock market. I’ll cut you in on the early shares if you like.’
Archie gives a relieved laugh.
Cormac suggests meeting for that drink they talked about.
‘Can you get out in the evenings? I mean, I thought you had Davy living with you?’
‘I do but I can’t sit in every evening. Rachel babysits when I want to go out. I’m sure she’d do it for us. I told her I was going to give you a call.’
‘Oh, you did?’
‘So how about it?’
Archie says he’d like to go for a drink but not right now, he’s afraid, he’s up to his eyes, working at home every evening, trying to catch up, Cormac knows what a load of paperwork he has these days, all this bloody bureaucracy, and he’s in the middle of some special reports that have to be in by next week.
‘I get the picture,’ says Cormac.
Archie promises to give him a ring once he’s managed to clear his feet a bit. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever get them totally clear,’ he remarks.
‘It’d be a lot to ask for,’ says Cormac, and puts the phone down.
Rachel and Archie Gibson.
Chapter Eleven
‘Bain,’ he read on the bell at the top of the row. He paused to take a deep breath before putting his finger to it. He would need all the wind he could muster. A prayer wouldn’t go amiss either but he couldn’t think of a suitable one. The time had come to try to take control of the situation, instead of waiting passively for the storm to pass overhead. Clarinda, he knew, would be at school, rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the school play, in which she was to play Titania. The drama teacher said she was going to be brilliant in the role, just as she had been as Ophelia last year. She had great range. A very talented girl. He thought she could go on the stage.
After what seemed a long moment the voice of Mrs Bain floated out through the grille at the side of the door.
‘Yes? Who is it, please?’
‘It’s Cormac Aherne,’ he said gruffly.
‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’ Was she trying to torment him? Her voice was clear enough to him and he thought it had sounded amused.
‘Cormac Aherne,’ he bellowed. ‘Clarinda’s art teacher.’
‘Ah, Mr Aherne! You may come up.’
‘Thank you,’ he muttered and on hearing the door buzz gave it a hard shove and he was in.
He stubbed his shins on a bicycle as he went up the ill-lit passage; he then had to skirt round a couple of pushchairs badly parked at the foot of the stairs. A pungent smell of cat made his nose wrinkle. He did not blame the Bains for wanting to move to a garden. He began his climb of the steep grey stairs. When he reached the second landing he had to pause for a second to draw a longer breath, although he had hoped not to. It would seem to put him at a disadvantage if he were to arrive short of wind and stiff-limbed.
He started on the next flight before he was fully recovered. Halfway there, he could not resist glancing up. She was waiting for him outside her door, clad in a purple and orange kimono that made a brilliant show of colour against her drab surroundings. She was looking down on him and he, unfortunately, was stuck with looking up at her. He was definitely at a disadvantage now. Making a supreme effort he went briskly up the last few steps.
‘Quite a climb, isn’t it?’ she said gaily.
‘Quite.’
‘But, Mr Aherne, this is a real surprise!’ He had the feeling that it was not an overwhelming one. She reminded him of a spider who has been awaiting her prey, confident that it would be drawn in, all in good time. The hand holding the door was barnacled with large heavy rings. Knuckledusters. She might well want to sock him in the jaw once he’d said his piece.
‘Mrs Bain,’ he said, ‘I have to talk to you. Clarinda has some ridiculous notions in her head.’
‘Ridiculous, Mr Aherne? That is not what I’ve been hearing.’
In spite of what would seem to be incriminating evidence, Cormac wonders if his suspicion about Rachel and Archie Gibson is ridiculous. Surely Archie, who was his friend for twenty years and more and whom he saw in school, day in, day out, would not have betrayed him in this way? How could he have managed to look him in the eye over their after-school half-pints and talk normally about normal things? Cormac tries to think back to that time, to conjure up the pub, the corner where they used to sit round the side of the bar. He can remember nothing of significance, no clue unintentionally dropped on Archie’s part that should have alerted him. They mostly talked shop, as far as he can remember.
He is raking his memory, too, about Rachel. Perhaps she never did go to the French conversation class, or to meet her friend Marcia. Perhaps every time she left the house in the evening she went to meet his headmaster. Whenever she was going out, even if it were to a class, she would always change out of her work clothes. She likes to be well dressed. He can see her with her dark hair brushed and gleaming, poised to leave. ‘Won’t be late,’ she’d call up. He’d come to the top of the stairs to see her. ‘Have a good time,’ he’d call complacently down and return to the piece of work that was absorbing him. There was no doubt he had allowed himself to become too absorbed.
Where did they conduct their secret meetings, Rachel and Archie Gibson? It couldn’t have been easy, with both of them having public as well as private faces, liable to be recognised by any number of people. He remembers now that she had played a lot of tennis that spring and summer; two or three nights a week, in fact.
He’d remarked on it at the time, said, ‘You must be keeping fit!’ She belonged to the same club as Archie! He’d read nothing into that at the time. When she’d come in he’d ask if she’d seen Archie and she’d say casually but quite often, ‘Actually we played a game of mixed doubles together.’ She and Archie would be well matched at tennis; both had fast serves and strong backhand returns. Did it all start in full view of the world, on the open courts, brushing hands as they passed tennis balls one to the other, exchanging covert glances? And then what? Where did they go? They couldn’t have got up to much in the clubhouse. How long did the affair actually go on? She said they’d only been together two or three times; she meant sexually, he presumed. Was it serious, this relationship, or a fling to break the boredom of their marriages? Had she been bored with her marriage?
Questions rattle in his skull like hard peas in a drum. He put those questions to Rachel on the night she made her confession but she would not reveal anything but the bare fact. She had had an affair, which was now over, and she was sorry. But was she sorry that she had hurt him or sorry that she had had an affair? He did not ask any further questions for she would not be drawn; she would not cave in eventually as he would have done in a similar situation and said, ‘All right, I’ll tell you, since you want to know.’ She could contain herself better.
