by Nancy Carson
Damn it, this had all happened so quickly. She’d hardly had time to draw breath.
And what about that offer to lend them the cottage by the sea? It would hardly be fitting to accept now. Hopefully Will would not mention it again and, if he did, she would simply say that she had changed her mind about going; that she did not wish to be beholden to Neville. If she could avoid Neville, that would ensure that he didn’t mention it either.
No. On no account must Will know the truth. The two men had to liaise through work. There must be no animosity, no mistrust. Will must be allowed to get on with his work as though nothing had happened; with no outside influences discolouring his relationship with Neville.
With a heavy sigh, she tipped some milk into her cup and, lifting the teapot, gave it a swirl before pouring. Then she took her drink into the sitting room and flopped disconsolately onto the settee. She sipped her tea. How could she possibly be at ease knowing she was responsible for making another person unhappy? Knowing that another man was in love with her, a man she actually liked and admired, was a heavy burden. Even heavier because she could do nothing to alleviate Neville’s longing. Guilt began to permeate her conscience.
Heavy hearted, she rested her head on the back of the settee. ‘Neville! Oh, Neville,’ she sighed in frustration. ‘You damn, great fool!’
But before she could muster any further thoughts she was asleep and her cup of tea was going cold. For she found that sleep afforded a wonderful respite from reality.
Having dropped Henzey at Daisy Street at a few minutes before five o’ clock, Neville drove home to Wessex House. His feelings were mixed as he parked his car on the sweeping drive. At least Henzey now knew something of his obsessive ardour, but he was afraid that he had alienated her with his confession. In a panic, he offered a prayer to the Almighty that she would not see fit to report it all to Will. He decided that in case she did, it would be preferable to delegate any meetings with Will Parish and his department from now on. That way he would not come into direct contact with Will again which would, at a stroke, eliminate any possibility of embarrassment. He could no longer face Will when he was so obsessed with his wife. But, conversely, he was not displeased that he had almost certainly committed Will Parish, however unwittingly, to some weeks of shift-work. He had ensured Henzey had some nights alone in her bed…God in heaven! – alone in her bed. His imagination was at once fired with disturbing images of her lying naked in the sultry night, her smooth skin moist with perspiration. Suddenly his throat was dry again.
He slipped out of the car and ambled to the front door of the house. He undid the lock and, as he opened it, Roger, his young red setter bounded across the hall and began jumping up at him, panting from the heat but energetic nonetheless.
‘Get down, Roger,’ he snorted impatiently, giving the dog a token pat on the head.
‘Oh, so you’re back,’ Eunice called. ‘We’ve eaten already. At six o’ clock, Frederic and Kitty were starving so we decided not to wait any longer. Yours is in the oven. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s ruined.’
‘If it’s ruined, it’s ruined,’ he answered edgily. ‘Perhaps Lilian would be so kind as to prepare something else in that event. I’ll eat in half an hour or so. I’m going upstairs to shower first.’
He leapt up the stairs, taking off the jacket to his three-piece suit as he went. He loosened his tie and, as he walked into his bedroom, he unfastened his collar-studs placing them in a delicate china bowl on his chest of drawers. He undid his cuff-links and laid them in the same bowl. Stripped to his Aertex underpants, he walked into the luxurious bathroom which was en suite with his bedroom.
He looked at himself in the mirror over the wash-basin and fingered his features experimentally, pulling his lower eyelids down. ‘You’ve got nice, expressive eyes. I’ve always thought you’ve got nice eyes. Will’s got nice eyes, too.’ He opened his mouth and examined his teeth. He had a good set of teeth, quite even, quite white. Will Parish also had a good set of teeth, he’d noticed. Oh, damn Will Parish.
He tugged at his beard; his disguise that rendered him so old fashioned. ‘So why don’t you shave it off? I bet you’re really quite nice looking underneath all those thick black whiskers. That’s all anybody can see.’
‘Damn it, I will,’ he muttered to himself.
In the top drawer of his tallboy was a pair of nail scissors in a manicure set. He fetched them and resolutely started snipping off great clumps of whiskers, cutting as close to the skin as possible without nicking it. When he had removed as much as he could he stood back to assess the overall effect. It was awful. He reminded himself of one of those poor, scruffy kids with headlice he saw in Nechells, who had their hair shaved off or cut in steps. There was a safety razor and an old stick of shaving soap in his bathroom cabinet, together with a shaving brush; Eunice had bought them years ago as a broad hint that he should remove it then. He took them and placed them on the wash-basin. He found a crumpled paper bag from the rubbish can in his bedroom and, when he’d opened it up, he scooped all the hair out of the sink into the bag. Then he ran the hot water till it was steaming and held the shaving brush under it. This was a routine Neville was not used to, but he quickly induced the wetted shaving stick to yield a dense, white lather on his brush. He painted it over the tatty remains of the beard and moustache that had thrived on his face for seventeen – or was it eighteen – years?
It was a distinctly unusual sight, the lower part of his face covered in a thick layer of shaving soap, but a sight he would have to get used to. He held the safety razor under the scalding tap for a few seconds to make it hot, then tentatively scraped it down his right cheek. He braced himself in anticipation of the discomfort he imagined it would bring. But it was not too bad, actually. This razor must be keener than he expected. Inch by inch he scraped away all remnants of his beard and moustache, concentrating at every stroke to avoid cutting himself. By now, the bathroom was hot and steamy from the constant running of piping hot water into the wash-basin, and the mirror was misting up with condensation, despite the summer heat.
When the last bit of shaving soap had been scraped away, taking with it the last strands of his beloved beard, he rinsed out the wash-basin and filled it with lukewarm water. This he swilled over his face, washing away all traces of shaving soap. With a towel he dabbed it dry. His fingers glided sensually over his newly exposed skin. It felt almost as smooth as a baby’s bottom, though it was hot and sore from the unaccustomed friction of a razor blade. He peered into the mirror but it was all steamed up. The towel would clear it. He wiped the mirror and looked at himself intently, seeing himself like this for the first time since early manhood.
He might as well have been looking straight at Will Parish.
Henzey awoke with a start. In the grey, failing light she peered at the clock and discerned, to her horror, that it was half past nine. Will would be home soon and she hadn’t prepared his meal. As she got up from the chair to rush to the kitchen she knocked over the cup of cold tea that had been standing on the arm of the chair and she cursed herself. The cup rolled under the table but, thankfully, did not break; the tea soaked into the rug. Uttering another string of words her mother had not taught her, she picked up the cup and saucer, then dashed out to fetch the floor cloth to mop up the mess. Delays she did not need.
But in no time she had the situation under control. She lit the gas oven, found the lamb chops she had bought on her way home from work, peeled the potatoes and shelled the peas. While they were cooking she ran upstairs to change.
Neville Worthington was still preying on her mind with his irreconcilable unhappiness. How despicably cruel Eunice had been to dispossess him of his contentment when she knew so well how much he loved her. And yet, despite the fact that she had been so grossly unfaithful, despite the fact that he was no longer in love with her, Eunice was still in his tender care. He had not forsaken her. Evidently he still considered her a friend; they still shared the same house, the same
bedroom for all she knew. Evidently, they still discussed things with civility. But civility, even in the bedroom, did not constitute deep, abiding affection, and was no substitute for it. How the poor, poor man must have suffered; and him so kind and so considerate.
She was mulling this over, and confirming to herself her own inability to offer Neville any comfort, when she heard the door at the side of the house unlatch and Will call, ‘It’s only me.’
She opened the oven door and the thick, meaty aroma of lamb roasting to perfection filled her nostrils. Will stood at the kitchen door. She turned to him and smiled, then placed the meat tin on the draining board.
‘By God that smells good, love,’ he said. ‘I’m ravenous.’
‘You nearly didn’t get it,’ she answered, stooping to lift the plates that she’d put in the oven to warm. ‘I fell asleep. I didn’t wake up till half nine. I shan’t be able to sleep when it’s bedtime.’
‘No matter. I’m not tired either. I didn’t get up till late myself. We’ll just have a late night. Tell you what, I think I’ll open that bottle of wine. I just fancy a drink, don’t you?’
She placed the lamb chops onto the plates and reached over for the potatoes, to drain the water into another saucepan ready to make gravy. ‘Ooh, yes, now you mention it. A glass of wine might help me sleep as well. Would you stir the gravy for me first, while I drain the peas?’
‘All right.’
‘How was work?’
He adjusted the flame under the pan while he stirred. ‘Busy, same as ever. And one of the girls in the office has announced she’s getting married in September.’
‘Oh, who?’
‘Dilys Moy. I don’t know whether you know her. She’s a typist.’
‘ ’Course I know Dilys. I knew she was courting. I didn’t realise it was that serious. Fancy.’ Henzey doled out the potatoes, then the peas. ‘I’ll open that bottle of wine while we wait for the gravy to come to the boil. Turn it up a bit, Will, else the rest of it’ll be cold by the time you’ve finished.’
From the pantry she fetched a bottle of burgundy they’d been given ages ago. When she’d retrieved the bottle opener from the drawer and reached for two wine glasses, she drew the cork and poured. She took a slurp from one and savoured it as it assailed the back of her throat. She had not realised just how thirsty she was, and took another long swig.
‘Gravy’s done,’ Will announced.
‘Just pour it over the dinners.’ She took the bottle and the glasses to the table. Within a few seconds she was back. ‘Damn. I even forgot to lay the table. I’m so disorganised.’ She fished in another drawer for the tablecloth, then the cutlery drawer for knives and forks.
As she finished laying the table, Will entered, carrying their plates. He set them down, sat opposite her, took a drink from his glass and picked up his knife and fork.
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’ she said.
‘Forgotten what?’
‘My visit to Dudley with Neville.’
‘Blimey, yes. Gone clean out of my head…Sorry…How did it go?’
‘Oh, fine.’ She avoided his eyes and gave a half shrug, hurt that she was evidently so far from his thoughts. ‘Are you sure you’re interested?’
‘Of course I’m interested.’
‘Well, there’s no doubt that Neville’s one of those twins. He even knew the name of his real mother. Bessie Hipkiss. D’you remember, I couldn’t think of it at their house?’
He nodded, sawing at a piece of meat.
‘He knew it all along. We had the full story from Charlotte Round.’
As they ate she related the poignant tale of Bessie Hipkiss and how Charlotte had looked after Neville and his twin brother as babies. She commented on how the house reminded her of the house she’d lived in as a child in Cromwell Street.
‘So what time did you get home?’
‘About six.’ Henzey pushed her plate away, finished off the wine in her glass and refilled it.
‘You didn’t have to fend off Neville, then?’ He smiled.
She drank before formulating her answer, feeling her colour come up.
‘Fend him off? ’Course not.’
‘Well, I should hope not. I’ve got him marked down as an honourable man.’
A pause. Henzey took another drink of wine.
‘I feel sorry for Neville, you know, Will. I feel ever so sorry for him.’
‘Oh?’
‘He told me all about Eunice…their marriage and all that. He’s not happy, you know. He’s very unhappy. Eunice used to have a lover – somebody called Harris Channon…She wanted to run off with him, from what I can gather.’
‘Blimey. But she didn’t, obviously.’
Nerves and an unwarranted guilty conscience prompted Henzey to take another drink, because the glass partially hid her reddening face. Before long she had emptied it again. She refilled both glasses.
‘Steady on,’ Will said. ‘You’ll be drunk as a lord. Tell me about Neville and Eunice.’
She told him as much as she knew about Eunice’s indiscretions; how Worthington Commercials had all but had to close down and how Eunice’s money had saved the firm, but subsequently ruined her affair with Harris Channon. She told him how Neville’s devotion to his wife had since waned, leaving him empty, grossly unhappy and unfulfilled. And then, to top it all, how Eunice had fallen victim to that appalling muscular disease.
‘Oh, Will, I’m so sad,’ she said, looking into his eyes now.
‘For him?’
‘Yes, for him.’
‘Is that why you’re drinking so much? I’ve never seen you drink so much.’
‘It’s not that, I’m thirsty. I haven’t had a drink since leaving Mrs Round’s.’
‘Then have some water.’ He shoved his plate away and, with his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands, watching her. ‘He’s had an effect on you, hasn’t he? He’s moved you, I mean.’
She nodded guiltily.
‘You shouldn’t let him get to you, Henzey, my love,’ he advised gently. ‘Neville Worthington’s problems are his own, and probably of his own making if only we knew the truth of it. If Eunice saw fit to have an affair with somebody else it was probably because of some failing in him.’
‘Really? Then beware that some failing in you doesn’t drive me away, Will,’ she said, hardly aware of the wounding barbs in her words.
‘What failing in particular? I must have plenty.’
‘You know what failing.’
He winced. He knew exactly what she meant. But he had not considered that his unwillingness to put her through the pains of childbirth was a failing; even less, that such a failing might drive her away.
Then she saw Will’s hurt expression and realised what she had said. Immediately she regretted it. It was the wine. She was not used to it; how it loosened your tongue. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Will, my love. I shouldn’t have said…’
‘It would be interesting to hear Eunice’s version of events,’ he replied, immediately recovering.
She sighed. ‘Oh, but if you could have heard him today…you’d know he was being sincere.’ She sipped her wine again and put the glass down wistfully. ‘I do wish there was something I could do. Something to make him a bit happier…If I could just laugh with him a bit, talk to him, go for drives with him from time to time…’
‘And you reckon he’d be satisfied with that?’ Will sounded cynical.
‘Oh, maybe not…He’d have to be, though…In any case…Maybe it’s not such a good idea.’ She shrugged and drank again. ‘But I don’t have to see him anymore now I’ve taken him to Charlotte’s, do I? He can find his own way in future.’
‘So what about that offer he made to lend us his holiday house on the coast? You seemed so keen. Are we to forget that now?’
‘We don’t want to be beholden to him, Will.’
‘So is that what I tell him next time I see him?’
‘Say nothing. Maybe he’ll just forget
all about it.’
‘Oh, I doubt that now, Henzey. I doubt it very much.’
Eunice found Neville’s new hairless face something of an unveiling. She had never seen him before without a beard. Now she saw how handsome he really was. While he ate that evening she sat with him and watched him, fascinated. His eyes looked different in the context of his new countenance. His cheekbones were high, that she knew, but the sallowness of his cheeks had never been evident before. Nor his chin; it was proud, patrician, masculine. His mouth, too, was good on this fresh face.
‘You know, Neville, I believe I much prefer you without a beard,’ she commented, ‘even though you are the image of Will Parish – a perfect match. There’s certainly no separating you two.’
He looked up from his dinner, still chewing a piece of beef, showing no emotion. ‘Coming from you, my dear, that’s indeed a compliment. Perhaps I should have done it years ago.’
‘I have suggested it countless times,’ she said self-righteously. ‘Now, if you’ll be advised by me, first thing tomorrow morning go into town, find a decent barber and jolly well get your hair cut. It’s simply too, too awful, Neville. It makes you look so…so awfully Bohemian.’
‘Yes, I’ll do it. I fully intend to.’
‘But, it’ll be obvious both to Will and Henzey who your long lost twin brother really is. So what shall you do then? Shall you implement your original plan to lure him away from Lucas’s and offer him a seat on the board? Or is it your intention to try and lure Henzey away instead?’
