Coral Glynn

by Peter Cameron

  “No,” she said.

  “A friend, perhaps? You mentioned a girl in London.”

  “No,” she said. “We’ve lost touch. There’s no one, really.”

  He reached across the table and grasped her hand, squeezed it tenderly. This contact seemed to discomfit them both, so he quickly withdrew his hand and said, “How is your fish?”

  “Very nice,” she said. “How is your chop?”

  “Adequate,” he said. “Listen, about the witnesses. Seeing as how you’ve got no one, I wonder how you’d feel about using my friends Robert and Dorothy Lofting? They’re lovely people; I was at school with Robin, and Dolly’s mother and mine were close friends. They’re both almost like family to me. They’ll do very nicely for witnesses—that is, if you’re amenable.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Oh, splendid. Splendid! They’ve invited us to dinner this evening, so you can meet them.”

  * * *

  As a result of his injuries, Major Hart had been advised to treat his burns with skin grafts, but the notion of being literally skinned alive so soon after being almost burnt alive seemed barbaric, and he had decided he would rather live with his damaged flesh. And in a sad, curious way, he realised that he even welcomed his disfigurement, for it removed him from the arena of life he most dreaded: he felt that his damaged body disqualified him as a lover and therefore as a spouse, and he felt a great relief at the prospect of thus being excused from love and marriage and all the preliminary and subsequent complications and mortifications they involved. The Major considered himself set irrevocably apart from the world of intimate relationships, and this seemed a mercy to him, for he had never felt comfortable with other people in general and women in particular, and he knew that now no one would expect him to seek a wife. He was like the lame or weak-hearted boys at school, who were excused from games, and stood on the side-lines, cheering on the healthy lads, who bungled one another in the muddy field. But the arrival of Coral at Hart House changed him, and he felt his sense of ardour—which had, he thought, been successfully and permanently repressed—welling inside him. He had exiled love—successfully, he thought—but, like an unwanted dog abandoned miles away, it had come limping home.

  Major Hart’s body was nowhere near as repellent as he imagined it to be. His right leg had withered within its metal brace, but the damaged skin was limited to his left leg and chest and upper left arm, yet, he felt the effect was total, in the way that a few prominent cracks in a ceramic vase ruin it entirely. And so the prospect of revealing his body to Coral was terrifying, almost paralyzing. He would have to find a way to turn out all the lights before undressing. But he knew that even the feel of his skin was disturbing. He often touched it himself, lying in bed alone: the dead skin on his torso that had no feeling left, that was as sensitive as linoleum. And then he would touch a patch of skin that had been spared, and the silken softness of it, the electric thrill of the feeling, seemed an even worse shock.

  * * *

  Upstairs in her little room at The Black Swan, Coral opened the silver box, peeled the tissue away, and lifted out the dress. She laid it on the bed. It looked as if a dead person lay there. She thought of Mrs Hart atop her bed, wearing one of her better dresses, waiting for the mortician to take her away.

  She took off her clothes and slipped the dress over her head. It had a zipper and many hooks up the back, which she could not reach herself. It seemed very cruel to design a dress that the wearer could not don independently. Who would help her on the day of the wedding? She wondered if she could do up the dress and then wriggle herself into it from beneath. She took it off and tried this but could not fit it down around her bust and shoulders. For a moment she felt trapped within the dress. In her panic to free herself she ripped a seam.

  * * *

  Once again the bell jangled when she opened the door and a voice from behind the beaded curtain called out a greeting. Coral stood inside the door, clutching the silver box to her chest.

  “Someone’s just come in,” she heard the voice say. “I’ll ring you back.”

  And then the woman appeared through the beaded curtain. “Oh, hallo,” she said. “It’s you. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Coral.

  “Oh, goodness. What’s wrong?”

  “The dress—”

  “But it looked lovely on you! It fit perfectly.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Coral. “But it isn’t right.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I want a dress I can put on myself. I can’t with this one.” She held out the silver box.

  “Don’t be silly,” said the woman. “It’s a lovely dress.”

  “I know,” said Coral. “But I can’t put it on.”

  “Of course you can. You just need to be done up. Surely you can find someone to do you up.”

  “I can’t,” said Coral.

  “You said you were getting married. You don’t get married alone!”

  “It wouldn’t be right for him to do it,” said Coral.

  “Well, there will be others about, surely. Your mother, perhaps.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Well, a friend, then. Your maid of honour. Or matron.”

  “Do you have a dress I can put on myself?” Coral asked.

  “Certainly not! All my dresses are fitted. But this is ridiculous. I have never heard of such a thing. I’ll come do it up for you, if it comes to that.”

  “I couldn’t ask you that. I just want a dress I can put on myself.”

  “And I tell you I haven’t got such a dress. Besides, part of being a bride is being fawned over. Surely there’s someone—”

  “I would like to return this dress,” said Coral.

  The woman strode forwards and practically grabbed the box out of her hands. “Very well,” she said. She put the box down on the pouf and opened it. She pulled the dress out of the defiled tissue paper and held it up before her. “In all my years I have never known anything so ridiculous. This dress is absolutely perfect for you. Look—it’s been torn! You’ve torn it yourself.” She thrust the dress forwards, exposing the ripped seam. “You can’t return a torn dress!”

  “It tore itself,” said Coral, “when I was trying to put it on.”

  “I beg your pardon, but my dresses don’t tear themselves! You’ve torn the seam through some fault of your own and you’re trying to return it under some ridiculous pretext.” The woman dropped the dress back in to the box, pulled the tissue round it, smashed the top back on, and held the box out to her. “I’ll not be party to such tomfoolery.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Coral.

  “Well, I’ve told you, you can’t return a dress that you’ve torn. Surely you understand that.”

  Coral said nothing.

  “Do you? Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “But I don’t want this dress. I don’t need this dress. I am not getting married.”

  “Oh,” said the woman. “Well, that is another thing entirely. Your plans have changed?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “My plans have changed.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. But you know, I would be more than happy to mend the seam for you, and you can wear the dress on another occasion. Surely you can. It is that kind of dress.”

  “You are very kind,” said Coral. “Thank you. But I don’t want the dress.” She turned and left the shop, left the woman holding the silver box, and stepped out onto the High Street.

  * * *

  On the way back to The Black Swan Coral passed the florist’s and saw the young man who had given her the flowers through the flower-filled window. She stood outside the shop window for a moment, and he looked up and saw her, and smiled at her, and waved. She pushed open the door and entered the shop.

  “Hello,” the young man said.

  Coral said hello. She stood just inside the door, once again amazed at all the flowers, the perplexing abun
dance of them. “How do you know,” she asked, “what to order?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “How do you know what flowers people will want? They don’t last long, do they—flowers?”

  “Well, there are tricks,” he said. “And people tend to want the same things, over and over, or certain things at certain times of year. But mostly they simply want what they see. Flowers are nice in that way. Would you like something?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m looking for a job. Do you need someone here?”

  “I thought you were a nurse,” said the young man.

  “I am,” said Coral. “I was. But I don’t want to nurse any longer. I can’t … I’d like to do something else. Something like this—” and she indicated the flowers around them.

  “Do you have any experience with flowers?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m good with my hands.” She held them out, as if the fact that she had hands was proof of this. “And I could learn…”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t really need anyone else at present.”

  “I could clean,” she said. “Or anything.”

  “I’ll speak with Mrs Lippincott. She’s the one who owns the shop. What’s wrong?” he asked, when he saw that she was crying.

  “Oh,” said Coral. “I’ve done something awful. I’ve been so foolish, so stupid…”

  “What have you done?” he asked. He came around from behind the counter, removing the handkerchief that crested out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to her. “Here you are,” he said.

  She felt the silkiness of it and saw its beauty, and although it featured a pattern of dogs chasing foxes, it did not seem a proper handkerchief for a man. “Oh, it’s so lovely,” she said. “I couldn’t. I’ve got my own.” She handed it back to him and opened her purse and found her own drab hankie, and dabbed at her nose and eyes.

  “Is it about marrying Major Hart?” he asked. “Is that why you’re upset?”

  “Where did you hear that?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s the talk of the town. People tend to gossip at a flower shop.”

  “But I’m not getting married,” said Coral. “I was—perhaps I was—but I’m not. It’s all a muddle, an awful, stupid muddle, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why aren’t you getting married?”

  “Do you think I should marry him?” Coral asked.

  The florist laughed. “How could I know? I couldn’t possibly know. You’re engaged to him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “Do you know him?”

  “Major Hart? No. He’s quite a bit older than you, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “I suppose he is.”

  “And he’s a rather solitary chap, by all accounts.”

  Coral agreed.

  “But I suppose you’ve fallen in love with him, and there’s no telling about that.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Coral.

  “Well, it often seems quite odd to me: who loves who. Or doesn’t. One sees the most unlikely couples.”

  “Do you think we make an unlikely couple—the Major and I?” asked Coral.

  “I couldn’t say, really. And wouldn’t if I could. And what does it matter? It only matters what you think.”

  “But he’s a good man, as far as you know? He seems very kind to me.”

  “I have never heard a bad word about him. He seems to be a perfect gentleman, so why have you changed your mind? Has he done something wrong?”

  “Oh, no,” said Coral. “It’s nothing like that. It’s so silly, so stupid, as I told you. It’s all on account of the dress.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you. What dress?”

  “I bought a dress to be married in, and I was stupid, and tore it, and brought it back to the shop and said I didn’t need it because I wasn’t to be married after all. I do things like that all the time, I don’t think things through, I’m like that with everything, and everything becomes a muddle.”

  “Well, this seems rather a silly muddle, and one that is easily fixed.”

  “How?” she asked. “I can’t possibly go back to the shop. I’d die of shame. You’ve no idea of the scene I made.”

  “Was this at Dalrymple’s? Mrs Henderson?”

  “Yes,” said Coral.

  “She is really very nice and I am sure you are not the first woman to have hysterics in her shop. I’m sure she will make everything right with the dress. You must go back at once.”

  “Are you sure? She seemed very cross with me.”

  “Yes, I am sure. Shopkeepers are never cross for long. She will greet you with open arms.”

  “You’ve been so kind to me. I am Coral Glynn,” she said, and held out her hand.

  The young man shook it. “I am John,” he said. “John Shields. I am very happy to meet you, Coral.”

  The door to the shop opened and a man in a business suit entered. He wanted a dozen yellow roses for his wife’s birthday. They had no yellow roses. Only red and cream. He took cream.

  Coral watched the entire transaction. She liked John and did not want to go away.

  “My brother’s name was John,” she told him, although this was not true. But she associated her brother with him, and her brother’s name had been James, which seemed close enough.

  “Was?” asked John.

  “He died in the war,” said Coral. “In ’42. I miss him still.”

  “I lost one of my brothers, too, but I can’t say I miss him. He was rather a brute.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  This talk of dead brothers had changed the tone of their conversation, and neither of them seemed to know what to say.

  Finally, John said, “Go see Mrs Henderson and set things right with your dress. And you must come to me for your bouquet. You will have flowers, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Coral. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “Well, you will. I shall see to it. Unless, of course, you do change your mind.”

  * * *

  The sky was still gently lit and the sidewalks were crowded with people hastening home for the evening when Coral left the flower shop. She paused at the window of the jeweller’s next door, and leant her forehead against the glass and peered in at the glittering golden wealth.

  She had not meant to steal the sapphire ring.

  The woman—the mother of the children with scarlet fever, the wife of the man with the rubber Johnny—had taken the ring off and left it on the rim of the bathtub in the nursery when she bathed the children one evening. Coral had found it and meant to return it the next morning, but the woman had not missed it, and so she thought she would keep it until its disappearance was noted and a search was announced and then she could triumphantly find it, and the woman would be beholden to her, for she wanted this older woman’s approval and love. But instead the woman searched Coral’s things and found the ring wrapped in gauze in her syringe kit.

  Curiously—or perhaps not—it was the man who saved her. He told his wife it wasn’t worth ruining anyone’s life over a sapphire ring, that all’s well that ends well. But she shouldn’t be working in people’s homes, said the wife, if she’s a common thief. She must be stopped. The man agreed and said that he would alert the agency.

  Later that night, the last night Coral spent in that house, the husband came to her bedroom and gave her the sapphire ring and told her to keep it. At first she would not, but he insisted that she must take it with her: his wife no longer wanted it and she could always sell it one day if she needed money. And he told her he would not contact her agency. She hated that he was being kind to her after what he had done, for it interfered with her loathing of him.

  She had hidden the ring behind the mirror that hung on the wall in her little bedroom in the attic of Hart House. She would have to remember to retrieve it once she returned to the house. Perhaps she would send it back to the woman—anonymously, of course, for she felt sure the husba
nd had lied when he said his wife no longer wanted the ring. Why would she not want it?

  She turned away from the jeweller’s window and saw the headline, spikily chalked onto the slate propped up against the newsagent’s across the street:

  GIRL FOUND HANGED IN SAP GREEN FOREST

  MURDERER AT LARGE

  * * *

  Because of a recent motoring accident involving a badger, Major Hart no longer drove at night, and so it was by taxi that Coral and he arrived at Eustacia Villa, which was the name given to the house where Robert and Dorothy Lofting resided. Eustacia Villa was a large rectangular house of only two stories, its façade composed of unadorned brick painted a chalky white with turquoise trim. Its walled forecourt was square; gravel surrounded a circular low mound of barren earth that was ringed by a miniature chain fence. One assumed flowers adorned it at some other season. A stone plinth marked the centre of this mound; on either side of the door, which was painted to match the turquoise trim, stood two large concrete urns, which, like the garden, were empty.

  The Loftings stood in the lighted open doorway and watched their guests get out of the taxi. Major Hart, because of his stick, needed help from the driver. Coral stood awkwardly beside the car trying to look as if she were involved somehow with the Major’s extraction. It wasn’t until he was standing beside her that anyone spoke, as if it were a scene in a play that could not begin until they had all assumed their designated marks.

  “Hallo’s!” and “Good evening’s!” were suddenly flung across the gravel, and the Loftings left their mark in the doorway and strode forwards to greet their guests.

  “Robin! Dolly!”

  “Clement!”

  “You’re looking splendid!”

  “And you must be Coral. So lovely to meet you!”

  “Please, call me Dolly.”

  “And Robin.”

  “Come in, come in, it’s chilly out, isn’t it?”

  Dolly took the Major by his arm and led him towards the house.

  “I saw you admiring my obelisk.” Robin touched Coral’s shoulder and turned her towards the aborted garden. Coral watched the taxi pass through the open gates and disappear. She felt stranded. She was not sure what she was supposed to have been admiring, but she managed to murmur, “It’s lovely.”