Upstairs he sat without breath on his bed listening. Not a sound. Now he wound the two clocks, checked the alarm, and undressed. As casually as he could, for he knew he’d not sleep, he climbed into bed. Meg had squared these clothes, made sure the coverlet stretched creaseless, the pillow plumped comfortably.
From below, a shriek slewed.
He sat, straight in a strait-jacket of fear.
Now the house was thumped by heavy blows, as if someone beat a carpet violently but with lengthy rests between the thuds. He could not understand what she did, but imagined her standing with a broom thwacking the leather back of the new settee. The whole bloody neighbourhood would hear the performance; at eleven at night; through these thin walls their semi-detached privacy was small. Out of bed, dragging on his dressing-gown, he hesitated, agitating himself round the floor, not daring to go down.
She was quiet; the cannonade had done.
Cold, he wished he smoked, he made ungainly but without noise for the stairs. He opened the dining-room door.
The light burnt still, but the air smelt thick with dust. The settee and the two arm-chairs were overturned, as was the table. She’d snatched some books from one of the chimney shelves and hurled them about the floor. A mere dozen, a score, bright wrappers intact, they made a pitiful scatter. The television, the radio were untouched, as were the tradescantia in its basket, the ugly Renoir reproduction ‘La Loge’ the china cabinet, the photograph of her father and mother.
The scullery door gaped.
Meg leaned over the sink. For the minute he thought she vomited, but she did not stir.
‘Come on to bed, love,’ he’d called. She did not answer; he expected nothing, but he took her by the arm. Now, the violent wrench, the obscene abuse, the pummelling of her fists. Nothing. With docility she allowed him to lead her out into the wrecked room where she made a large, weary gesture which he understood easily.
‘When I’ve got you in bed, I’ll square it up.’ he promised.
They had difficulty mounting the narrow stairs together, but they made allowances, stumbled generously. She crept into bed, did not speak, or cry or cover her face, but lay down, easily, when he ordered it, pulled the sheets up to her face like a pampered child. He bent, kissed her, received no response and tiptoed downstairs.
The cleaning took longer than he anticipated, but he enjoyed the work, took care to sweep with the Ewbank, to dust flat surfaces. He expiated thus a guilt he ought not to feel, but when he returned purged, she was asleep, neither shifted nor sighed as he entered the bed.
Awake, untidy in his mind, he did not touch her.
Mid-morning performance at the Frankland at half-eleven. A young man on the desk phoned the Vernons’ room, asked Fisher to sit, and on appraisal of his suit mentioned the adequacy of the holiday weather.
Vernon joined his son-in-law on the out-of-the-way sofa he’d chosen. The older man had not shaved, nor brushed his hair into any shape of tidiness. He soured his mouth, glumly creased his expensive jacket. No inquiries were made about coffee or drinks.
‘What did she say?’ Fisher began.
‘Precious little.’
‘Do you mind my hearing that then?’
‘She made a start. Got as far as Grantham. Felt afraid. Turned back. Was at home sitting about, all of a shake, when I rang at four. Had had no lunch.’
‘Why,’ Fisher pressed, ‘was she so scared?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if her story’s true. She may well have realised that she’d gone further than she intended when she agreed to meet us.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘You’re just as capable as I am of guessing the answer, answers to that.’
‘Do you honestly think she set out?’ Fisher asked.
‘She said so.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘How can I be sure?’
They traversed this ground once or twice more until each felt sorry for the other. No enlightenment; that became obvious. Fisher concentrated on his father-in-law who had been cheerful earlier on the phone, and now spoke sullenly, shifted about in discomfort.
‘May I ask you something?’
Vernon looked up with a grin, a touch of devil, then, courtly, waved Fisher on.
‘Why are you so uncertain now, David?’
He rarely called the older man by his Christian name although he’d been invited often enough to do so.
‘Am I?’ He didn’t want information; he spoke like a convict recaptured.
‘Has,’ Fisher pointed up, ‘Mama been on to you?’
‘Not really. She wants to rush back. She has her little weep. No, it’s the other one I’m upset about.’
‘To the extent of not shaving?’
‘Oh, I see. You think I’ve been so busy administering sal volatile and soft soap to Irene that I’ve not had the time for this.’ He rasped his bristles. ‘No. Part of the holiday.’
‘I like Irene,’ Fisher said, off target, deliberately oblique.
‘Good, good. No, Meg sounded dull but sensible enough. That’s what I didn’t like. She had the sense to turn round.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘No. I don’t know myself. You see, I thought we might meet and speak. Nothing miraculous, but the talk would be the beginning.’
‘She sent this card. It’s an apology.’
He passed it across. Vernon spent more time on the picture than on the few words.
‘She’d realise you’d be shaken. She’s not without imagination, would you say?’
‘I never knew.’
‘No. One doesn’t. One doesn’t. She could play the bastard, I expect. But I see her as a child, still. It’s not so long ago to me since we wheeled her out in that war-time pram. On my leaves. I can remember her as a quiet dependent.’
‘She needed a dozen husbands,’ Fisher said.
‘Sexually?’
‘No. Not there. That’s one place where we were matched. Bed. No. They all say that, I suppose. Nobody admits inadequacy there.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Oh.’
‘She was sane enough, do you think?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ Fisher was unquiet.
‘Don’t know, don’t know. You ought . . . Oh, God, Edwin. She’s a monster.’ He laughed, then, as if at some recondite allusion.
‘Come on then. What d’you suggest?’
‘If I knew that I’d tell you.’
‘Shall I ring her?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Not particularly. I’m the sort to let it drift.’
‘But willing to stir the mud from time to time?’ Now Vernon was expansive.
‘Well, yes.’
Vernon reached inside his collar, scratching his hairy neck.
‘We’re not getting anywhere, Edwin, while we talk like this. We need Meg here, herself, irrational as she likes. At least she’d see us, that we haven’t smoke coming out of our ears. She lives in unreality, that girl.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Fisher said.
‘Let’s hear.’ Fisher’s yawn concealed no boredom.
‘She’s had it rough. Nothing’s come up to standard. And then, to top it, Donald dies. God knows she was unsteady enough before that. Now she must be twisted.’
‘It’s over a year. Nearly eighteen months. That’s time for recovery.’
‘Depends what form recovery takes. Hers perhaps included ditching Donnie’s father.’
‘Won’t do. Won’t do. Makes no sense. It’s as if you said she left you because she didn’t like the wallpaper in your dining-room. I don’t believe it. It fits with nothing.’
‘You don’t want to . . .’
‘Don’t, won’t, in, out. I don’t know, Edwin, but that one doesn’t satisfy.’
They sat, moving their hands, extracting handkerchiefs, feeling money, adjusting dress.
‘What’s Irene say?’ Fisher began.
‘Seems on your
side, if anything. Thinks Meg’s obstinate. But she doesn’t consider a wife should leave her husband.’
‘Even with provocation?’
Vernon nodded, deeply, as at profound truth.
‘Will she talk with Meg?’ Fisher started again.
Vernon’s head moved largely sideways.
‘She’s never been up to her, you know. When Meg was small she’d beat her mother. Irene has one or two ideas or preconceptions or prejudices to suit every situation. And she’s not to be moved from them. She can be angry, or hurt, but not convinced.’ He sighed, whistling loud, and slapped his fleshy ribs. ‘That’s a bloody daft thing to say. As if a sentence can sum a woman up. Even one’s own wife.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘More than I do.’ He acted out a coughing fit. ‘Meg once stole two pounds out of her mother’s purse. Did you . . .?’
Fisher shook his head.
‘She’d be fifteen, fourteen. I don’t know. She needed money for shopping, but there was nobody about, so she helped herself. She’d only to ask, mind you, but there was nobody in the house. And Irene’s like some little old-age pensioner with her purse. Weighed to a farthing. So she accuses our bright young lady, who’s come back in a paddy because she could not get what she wanted and she denies it.’ He coughed again. Drily, this time, near choking. ‘Classical situation.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was like that poem of Wordsworth’s about the weathercock, weathervane. Taught her to lie. They were flying at each other’s throats in no time. Meg slams out, locks herself in her bedroom, and when I get back home Irene’s broken down, near hysterics.’ Vernon took a handkerchief, shook it loose, mopped his face, blew his noise violently. ‘She screamed at me, ordered me to go upstairs and sort Meg out. Oh, I sat her down. Got the details. Then we had a cup of tea. You never heard such a ta-ta.’
‘And you were calm, man of the law?’ Fisher asked facetiously.
‘Of course. All this stuff about the cleaning woman being suspected didn’t mean anything. Nor did two pounds. She was frightened that it would be five pounds next time, then ten, then forging cheques. You see? And lying. Flat denials. Never be able to believe the girl again.’
‘What did Meg say?’
‘That she hadn’t taken anything.’
‘Did you believe her?’ Fisher asked, objectively, as if he did not know the protagonists.
‘No.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I told Meg I believed her. That did nothing. She’d buttoned herself up by then. I told Irene I’d done my best and that Meg denied it and I’d no option but to believe her. She wasn’t pleased, but she was over it in a day or two.’
‘And what’s the moral?’
‘Don’t plead guilty unless proof’s overwhelming.’ Vernon grinned, pulled his face about, rasped his chin along his collar. ‘I think Irene flew off the handle and frightened Meg, who’s obstinate. That was that. The child was bursting, I guarantee, to hand that money over. She’s very generous. I’d bet she’d give it to Oxfam or the missionary society or some charity.’
‘But?’ Fisher appeared portentous.
‘She wasn’t to be shown up by her mother. That’s why I don’t put much faith in Irene in this matter. Let’s say the relation is coloured.’
‘By this?’
‘Of course. And similar . . .’
‘This is fifteen years ago.’ Fisher sounded incredulous.
‘None the less.’
‘She was only a child.’
‘She won’t forget, Edwin, I can tell you that.’
‘You mean you won’t. You’ve not forgotten it.’
‘Your word, Edwin, your opinion against mine. But if it comes to some really serious matter I don’t think Irene and Margaret are capable of sorting it out between them.’
‘On account of one row? All that time back? Not possible?’
‘All things start. In a small way.’ Vernon spelt it out. He sounded like a parent reciting a nursery rhyme to a baby without language.
‘Well,’ Fisher chided. ‘And how did you come out of the fracas? It made no difference to your relationship with the girl?’
‘I’m sure it did. At that stage kids don’t see straight. She might have thought me a fool for believing her. Or an idiot for not seeing through her denials. But either way I was sympathetic. And that’s what counts.’
‘At the expense of her mother?’
‘Look. Irene set this up. She made the fuss in the first place.’
‘She may have been right. These things start in a small way. You said so yourself.’
‘She may well. But she made too much fuss. That’s all I’m claiming. I’m not saying that she shouldn’t have checked Meg, chided her, told her to be careful. She’d have my support in that. But to blow her top, put the child’s back up, have the whole house in hysteria seems not very sensible.’ Vernon brushed his neck along the back of his collar. ‘I don’t need to tell you that your-lady-wife needs some handling. You think I spoilt her, don’t you?’
‘She likes her own way, granted.’
‘It’s damn’ difficult for me to see this in perspective. She could be maddening, but she was generous, and helpful.’
‘And wilful.’
‘Could you trust her?’ Vernon’s accusatory finger hovered.
‘I wouldn’t know how to begin to answer that. When we were first married she had a job at which she was good. Then she was at home with Donnie. Sometimes she’d say she’d do some chore. “I’ll clean that spare room up today.” You know. But it didn’t get done. I think that was a kind of suggestion. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to clean etc. etc?” She wasn’t idle. She was always doing things. Often surprising . . .’
‘She annoyed you?’
‘Let’s say I could have been consulted. She rubbed a beautiful mahogany sideboard down and then painted it baby blue. I could have murdered her.’
‘But,’ Vernon frowned his interest, ‘did she realise how furious you’d be?’
‘That puzzled me. I thought anyone with a shred of taste would have been horrified by what she’d done. But to her, the shape of the thing was ungainly, its mirror a bit fly-blown and these defects made it worthless. The polish, the grain, the lustre of the wood meant nothing. I think now that my reaction horrified her as much as her action did me.’
‘But you were wrong?’
‘I suppose I was.’
‘You raved on at her?’
‘I suppose my few sarcasms could . . .’
‘It still annoys you, Edwin?’
‘Not about a piece of furniture. The fact that I was so stupid about how she felt.’
‘Like me, you should have given in?’
Fisher nodded so that the two sat miserably on their settee watching the constant movement of guests like princely fishes in the high glass foyer. All shone, washed in brightness; no one approached them because there was a plenitude of room. So they kept up their puzzled grief together, added to it by words which no eavesdropper inhibited.
‘Something I’d like to ask,’ Vernon said, brusquely, rubbing his hands. It was then, Fisher thought, he seemed most hypocritical. He did not wait for permission. ‘Who left whom?’
‘Technically, I walked out. But for weeks now we’ve both been threatening each other. Or inviting. It’s pretty childish, when you come to look at it.’
‘I expect you’d got on one another’s nerves. That’s serious.’
‘That’s so. But our behaviour.’ Fisher, launched, wondered at the wisdom of his confession. ‘We were snarling and scratching for the slightest verbal advantage. I feel ashamed. But if I went back it wouldn’t be long before we were at it again.’
‘The marriage is finished, you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think. After a rest we might patch it up. Have another child. I’ve nothing to compare it with. Did we quarrel more often than other couples who stay together? Or more violently? Or ef
ficiently? I haven’t got those answers.’
‘Do you love Meg, Edwin?’
‘God knows.’
They embarked on further rounds of questions. Who did, who was, who could have? Both knew the uselessness of the exchange but at least they mentioned Meg’s name freely and this comforted Fisher.
‘I think,’ he said.
‘Well?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Come on. Out with it man.’
‘I think you should invite her again. See what happens.’
‘No.’ Vernon shook his head, deepened his wrinkles. ‘No. You’re going back on Saturday. And we’ll let things ride. Let her stew.’
‘She may need help.’
‘I’ll see her next week.’
Fisher considered, jinking money in his pocket.
‘I’ll reply to her card.’
‘Yes, do that. But be careful what you say.’
Fisher nodded. Vernon stood, held out his hand.
‘Thank you Edwin. I can’t say how sorry I am about all this. It makes me feel, somehow, that I’m at fault. But many, many thanks for coming.’ They shook. ‘Now, I’ll go to get rid of these whiskers.’
At the door, the commissionaire saluted, perhaps because no Rolls was arriving that minute. Fisher felt cheered, considered stepping back in for lunch, but made rapidly for the town centre.
The beach seemed noiser, more crowded than before, brighter with bathrobes and wind-breaks. Balls were flung and kicked; families played cricket, shouting and cheating; the shallow sea was blackly dotted with people. He passed Carol and Tricia, in bathrobes, eating ice cream in the company of two young men. Though both girls smiled and spoke, they did not seem pleased to see him. Their beaux, in briefs, were flabby, hairy, on the way to paunches and thin hair. Fisher, half annoyed, wondered why he felt saddened. Mr and Mrs Hollies both jumped from their chairs to wave, to shout.
‘Going places?’ Hollies asked.
‘I’ve just come from the Frankland Towers.’
‘They say it’s lovely there,’ Lena said. ‘I’ve never been in.’
‘The booze tastes the same. It’s the price as is different.’ Hollies.
They invited him to sit down, but he refused, though he did not immediately move on.
‘Are you going for a swim?’ Lena asked.
Holiday Page 13
