Hannie Richards

by Hilary Bailey

  Julie looked at her mother and then at John who stood there trying to look cool. ‘You not going back to any school, boy,’ she said, in a broad West Indian accent. ‘You goin’ back home.’

  A big row followed this bit of news. Julie’s aunt Cynthia, cousin Sally and the baby arrived not long after and were followed by, in rapid succession, Julie’s agent, the drummer from her backing band, and the shifty Raymond Genevieve, who all joined in. This enabled the white neighbours in the smart block of flats in Streatham, delightedly, to call the police.

  At this moment Elizabeth Lord was in her large Surrey garden, digging a hole by the Brussels sprouts. A dead marmalade cat lay on the garden path beside the hole.

  ‘Why did Tomkins have to die, Mummy?’ asked Elizabeth’s daughter Amelia, for the ninth time.

  ‘He took some turkey bones out of the dustbin and choked on one, you know that, darling,’ said her mother patiently. ‘I know it’s sad, but he’s dead and now we must give him a decent burial in his own garden. It’s all we can do for him.’

  Amelia sniffed. Her brother asked, ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  ‘I told you, Roger, he’s at the office,’ said Elizabeth. ‘A crisis happened in a foreign country. He had to cut his holiday short to go and help. And you know we can’t keep Tomkins in the garden shed any longer. We have to bury him now, in daylight.’ Some snowflakes fell on her glove as she dug. ‘I’m sure Mrs Douglas will be pleased to let us have one of Tomkins’ daughter’s kittens, when they’re born. One of them might look like Tomkins himself.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be Tomkins, though,’ said Amelia.

  ‘It might be nearly Tomkins,’ said her brother, adding, ‘Tomkins was just exactly the same age as me.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Now, I’m going to put Tomkins in this hole and then put the earth over him. You don’t have to look, but usually it’s better if you do. When I was seven they took my old dog, Timmy, away and had him put down. He was ill. But because I never really saw what happened to him, I was never sure whether he was really dead or not. I used to go to bed every night and pretend he was alive and he’d be there in the morning. But another part of me knew he was really dead. So I think it’s better to know the truth. Is anybody going inside?’

  The children stood and stared at the hole in the ground, shaking their heads. ‘Here goes, then,’ said Elizabeth and, holding her breath, picked up the stiff body of the large marmalade cat and put it in its grave. The hole was too small. ‘Damn,’ she said, and pulled the cat out again, saying, in a practical voice, I’ll have to make the hole bigger.’ She glanced at the children. They were pale, but staunch. She brushed away a tear and, full of grief and horror, took ten more spadefuls out of the earth until the grave was large enough to take, she thought, the body of a labrador. Then she picked up the cat’s body again and put it in. ‘Right,’ she said briskly. ‘Now I’ll put the earth in on top of him.’ She flinched as clods of earth fell on the dead cat’s face. Amelia and Roger clutched each other’s hands. Elizabeth shovelled on until there was no more fur to be seen. Finally she patted the earth down on the little mound and, wiping her eyes, said, ‘Now, as soon as I’ve put the spade away, we’ll get straight in the car and go to see the new robot film. After that we’re going to MacDonald’s for a hamburger.’

  She led the way down the garden path. ‘Mummy,’ said Amelia’s voice from behind her, ‘what’s the oldest a cat’s ever lived to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’ll have to look it up in The Guinness Book of Records when we get home.’

  It was hardly surprising after these Christmas celebrations that later in the evening all the women drifted into the Hope Club. A sprinkling of women round the room indicated that the festival was wearing thin for others too. Elizabeth arrived first and sat down at the bar. She ordered a brandy from Mrs Knott’s daughter, a drama student who was helping out until the barwoman came back. She drank that and ordered another. She was due to meet her husband, detained at the Foreign Office, for a late dinner at ten-thirty. She was sipping this second drink when Margaret came in, looking wearier by far than she ever did after a day in court. She sat down, wordlessly, beside Elizabeth, who ordered her a double whisky without speaking. Her resolution had returned after yet another dinner with her husband, her lover and her mother-in-law. There had been tension at the table, and voices had been raised in the kitchen where the new nurse and the housekeeper were having their first engagement. She decided to spend the night with an old friend and go straight to work at Lincoln’s Inn in the morning. Someone after all would have to pay for all the broken crockery. ‘So much for your controlled Christmas,’ Elizabeth remarked, not without satisfaction.

  ‘Whether you win or lose, you’ve still got to try,’ said Margaret grimly.

  ‘Hullo, everybody,’ said Julie from behind them. ‘You both look relaxed after your holiday.’

  ‘You too,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You may think I can’t see dark shadows under your eyes, but I can spot them now I know your face so well.’

  In fact, Julie had been obliged to leave the row in full swing to go and sing at a club. By that time it had begun to cool off, particularly after the police had come and gone. Leona had told Julie she would leave for good if John went to Barbados and Raymond Genevieve had come back from the off-licence with several bottles of champagne paid for by Julie. They all had a drink, relaxed, and it looked now as if John would stay in Streatham but change his school, and his habits, or be shipped off to Barbados. Nevertheless, Julie had given a bad performance at the club that night.

  They were all talking when the door of the clubroom opened with a bang and Hannie Richards came in. She was wearing a long purple dress, muddy at the hem and torn at the shoulder. Her boots were covered in mud, her hair was rough and tangled; she wore no coat. She was very drunk.

  Margaret got up. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked and caught Hannie just as she swayed and half-collapsed. Elizabeth got the key to the new building from the back of the bar and opened up the double doors between the long room they were in and the new writing room. Hannie straightened up. ‘I can walk by myself,’ she said.

  ‘Could you bring in some coffee?’ Julie asked Mrs Knott’s daughter.

  ‘Pull up that chair by the wall,’ said Margaret as Hannie swayed into the middle of the freshly painted room. ‘Put a match to the fire, it’s freezing. Hannie, sit here. What’s happened? Have you been attacked?’

  ‘That’s quite right,’ said Hannie in a slurred voice. ‘That’s true—I have been attacked.’

  ‘What happened? Who did it?’ asked Margaret.

  But Julie shook her head. ‘She doesn’t mean what you mean,’ she said.

  ‘Flora and Fran can catch as they can and what will poor Robin do then, poor thing,’ Hannie said clearly.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Hannie said. ‘I’m quite all right. Don’t worry. Just leave me alone.’ She was shivering. Elizabeth went out and got her fur coat and covered her. She brought the coffee back with her. By now Hannie, lying back in the narrow chair, seemed to be asleep. She was very pale and had a bad cut over one eye. The blood had dried. Hannie groaned and said, ‘I don’t believe it. Is there a phone in this room? I must find a phone.’ She started to struggle up. ‘Must get the phone,’ she repeated.

  Julie pushed her down. ‘The lead’s too short from the bar,’ she told her. ‘You can phone later.’

  To Elizabeth she said, in a mutter, ‘That phone’s just adrenalin—she doesn’t need it—it’ll make it worse.’

  Elizabeth went up to Hannie with a tray and poured out some coffee. She handed her the cup and said, ‘Drink this, Hannie. Then you can tell us who did this to you.’

  ‘I thought Hannie was in the country with Adam and the children,’ Margaret said.

  Julie shrugged.

  ‘I’m going to get an electric fire,’ said Margaret. Meanwhile Hannie, like
a cunning junkie, sat up in the chair with her coffee cup. Then she rose, the fur coat slipping to the floor and, walking carefully to the door, said, ‘I’ll be back. Just got a call to make.’ She tried to open the doors leading to the bar. The coffee cup went sideways and the coffee spilt on the carpet.

  ‘Sit down, Hannie,’ said Julie. ‘I’ll get the phone.’

  When she came back with the phone, Margaret was on her knees plugging in the electric fire. Julie put the phone in Hannie’s lap. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Make that call but don’t blame me for what happens.’ She turned to Margaret and Elizabeth. ‘You two have got to go. You’ve got dates. I can wait here with Hannie. I can wait all night if I have to. My home will be calm in the morning. This is one woman’s job, and I’m the woman. Hannie didn’t get assaulted. Not that way. She’s just been in some rough places, that’s all. The thing is, why?’

  Margaret said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Julie replied. ‘What I have to do is try to stop her from making bad worse. You two go.’

  Margaret scribbled two numbers on a piece of paper and said, ‘Here you are—’phone any time.’

  Elizabeth pulled on her coat. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but don’t forget that there’s a doctor in the house if you need one. Judy Brown’s staying here overnight.’

  ‘Before you go, ask Judy if she can give me a couple of powerful sleeping pills,’ said Julie. ‘That’ll help a lot. I have to lay her out.’ She nodded at Hannie. Hannie was holding the receiver of the telephone to her ear. She flung it down and pushed the phone off her lap. It fell on the carpet with a clang.

  ‘All right,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘And give me my coat, will you? It’s the yellow one,’ said Julie. She looked at Hannie, who was on her feet again. ‘Oh, my,’ she said, ‘the times I been here. Sit down, Hannie!’ she said. ‘You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Get going,’ she said to the other two. ‘Just the coat and the pills, OK?’ She went over to Hannie and said, ‘Hannie, you’re tired. Rest now. You can do what you have to do in the morning. It’s late now.’

  ‘I must go now,’ said Hannie.

  Julie forced her back into the chair. ‘You can’t drive in that condition,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get a cab,’ Hannie said promptly.

  ‘You made two long-distance calls,’ said Julie. ‘You were ringing Devon. You can’t drive, and there are no more trains now.’

  ‘I’ll hire a car,’ Hannie insisted.

  ‘You’ll get there at dawn, out of your skull,’ Julie said. Hannie dropped on the floor, turned the telephone over and started dialling again.

  ‘They won’t answer this time, like they didn’t the last time,’ Julie told her.

  ‘They’re there,’ Hannie told her desperately.

  ‘Of course they’re there,’ said Julie. ‘Only they won’t answer. You rang too often before. You need some rest. Ring again in the morning. Go then.’

  There was a long silence. Julie studied the pale face, the tangled hair and the bedraggled purple dress. Hannie looked back at her. She put the phone down and said, ‘OK.’

  ‘Want to go to bed?’ asked Julie.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Hannie. The door opened and Elizabeth looked round. She handed the coat and an envelope to Julie and said, ‘All right?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Julie.

  She tucked the envelope containing the sleeping pills into her pocket and said to Hannie as she walked back, ‘I suppose the old man finally found himself another girl.’ Hannie looked at her and nodded. Julie sat down in front of the fire. ‘I’d like to say I’m surprised,’ she said. ‘Trouble is, I’m not.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ Hannie said bitterly. ‘You can’t fucking win, can you? Why not?’ she cried out. ‘Why not? Why not—that’s what I’m asking. Why can’t you win? Why do you have to choose between life and men every fucking time? Why do they want everything? Why do they want to eat your life?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Julie. ‘Who’s the woman?’

  ‘Who do you bloody think?’ asked Hannie. ‘The girl next door, that’s who. Victoria Hughes-Brown, aged twenty-eight, celebrated show jumper, housekeeper at Lanning Hall for her widowed father and dear old friend of the Richards family since the year dot. Sam Hughes-Brown’s father and Adam’s grandfather fought side by side at Mons. Adam remembers Victoria’s christening. She was at Flo and Fran’s christening. Good old Victoria,’ Hannie said viciously, ‘quite a figure in the county because of the show-jumping successes, works part-time at the local library, and her hobbies are helping out with the Brownie pack and knocking off the neighbours’ husbands. They very kindly didn’t tell me until after Christmas—mustn’t ruin Hannie’s Christmas—but fucking Adam couldn’t wait until I’d drunk my early morning tea on Boxing Day morning to tell me his little bit of news. My God, he was pleased. He looked like a dog with two tails.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Slung the lot at him—cup, saucer, milk jug, teapot. Hit him three times out of four, got up, packed and got out,’ Hannie said.

  ‘So he’s not the guy who tore the dress and brought up the bruises?’ asked Julie.

  ‘No,’ Hannie told her. ‘That was a later port of call.’

  ‘I heard from friends you were at some clubs,’ Julie said. ‘But I said it wasn’t you. I thought you were in the country.’

  ‘You bet I was in some clubs,’ Hannie declared.

  ‘That help?’ said Julie.

  Hannie smiled and shook her head. She got up, walking quite steadily and went into the bar. She came back with a whisky bottle and two glasses. ‘Want some?’ she said. Julie nodded. Hannie handed her the glass. Julie went into the bar for a jug of water. She held it out to Hannie, who shook her head. She took a big gulp of neat whisky.

  ‘Take it easy, Hannie,’ said Julie.

  ‘I took it easy,’ said Hannie. ‘I took it easy after I came back from Africa. And while I took it easy, like a stupid turd, thinking everything was all right—me, Hannie Richards, international smuggler extraordinaire—all this was going on under my nose between my husband and the lovely, well-bred Victoria Hughes-Brown—the funny phone calls, the peculiar disappearances. All the apparatus. All the usual. “I love you, but we must separate. She is, after all, my wife and the mother of my children.” “Darling—I can’t bear to lose you.” “It’s only fair to her to tell her as soon as possible.” Like turning on the radio, and it’s a play on BBC 4. Sounds of wind rising, horses’ hooves on the turf—“We can’t go on meeting like this, Victoria.” Can you imagine it—the crumminess? And I never suspected a thing. Self-indulgent, fucking sods’—Hannie finished her whisky and poured herself some more—’conducting their little deals in tweeds under the immemorial fucking oaks of their two fucking side-by-side estates. What do they know, the bastards? Suddenly it’s love—the big L—an event, something happened, wow, amazing. What do they know, the sods? Sod all.’

  Suddenly the phone rang beside her. She snatched it up, said, ‘Hullo’ in an eager voice. Then she said, ‘Hullo, Margaret. I’m OK, thanks. Thanks—no—I’m all right. OK. Talk to you tomorrow.’ She put the phone down. Her face was like a mask. Julie looked at her in despair. She was too strong, that was the problem. She couldn’t collapse. She must have been days without sleep already. She would go on, and on and on, even though her best hope was to collapse, fall apart and start thinking. Now she said, ‘So that’s it. They have their big scene and tell me to bugger off. What about my children?’

  ‘They can’t tell you to do anything,’ Julie said. ‘Stand and fight.’

  ‘I can’t,’ moaned Hannie. ‘I can’t do things like that.’

  ‘Well, what will you do when you go there?’ asked Julie. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want Adam to boot her out, tell me it was all a mistake, say he loves me. That’s what I want. It’s all I can stand.’

  ‘A lot of women would never have left,�
�� said Julie.

  ‘A lot wouldn’t go back,’ said Hannie grimly. ‘Some would go back with a machine gun under their arms. I’m just a sentimental soul—all I want is what I had before. Given freely. I’m not fighting for Adam as if he was the last crust of bread in a concentration camp.’

  ‘I don’t know where you been all your life,’ remarked Julie.

  ‘You know where I’ve been, Julie,’ said Hannie. ‘All over the place, fighting.’

  ‘Well—now you came back from the war, and there’s another man’s hat on the peg when you come in with your kitbag.’ There was a pause.

  Hannie said, ‘It must have been like being married to a commando. What did it was the summer—he asked me to stay at home and have another child. I said not yet. In a year or two, I said, when I’d done a few more jobs, built up a reserve of cash. Like a gangster film, isn’t it? The wife pleads with her husband to give up the game, and he says, “One more job, just one more. It’ll set us up for life.”’

  ‘It’s not natural—the woman going off into danger while the man stays home to mind the kids,’ Julie said.

  ‘No, Julie,’ said Hannie. ‘It’s not natural unless it’s convenient—then it’s somehow right and proper. Adam always said it was all right by him if that was what I wanted. Then when the mortgage is paid off on the old family home, the farm’s better equipped and better paying and there’s a small reserve at the bank, the orders change. It’s “Let’s get down to the real business of life, and you stay home and bear a child”—no more plane tickets, scamming around the world—what’s wanted now is a son to carry on the family name—this is serious. A son! I could have had five more daughters, one after the other. But orders are orders. First it’s risk your neck for the firm, then it’s give up this sordid business you’ve been engaged in, somehow without my knowledge, and become a proper woman. And let me tell you this,’ Hannie said, ‘it’ll go on. There’ll be more women keeping blokes from now on and getting wrong-footed the whole time because of it. Look at you—who stands out in front of the audience, who handles the agent, the record company and all that? And who stands around in a sharp suit looking cool and spending the money?’