Coral Glynn

by Peter Cameron

  “Well, perhaps she sent him a letter breaking things off, and he is only keeping up the pretence.”

  “No,” said Dolly. “Not Clement. He would tell us. Or you, certainly. It is odd.”

  “You can never know what is odd about other people,” said Robin. “Things may appear odd, but that does not mean that they are. Usually there are very good reasons for things.”

  He paused, and as Dolly said nothing, he continued: “I imagine that once Coral arrived in London she decided she was well done with Clement. Their marriage made so little sense. You said so yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “It seemed odd to me. So much seems odd to me, even if what you say about odd things is true.”

  Robin said nothing.

  “Odd and sad,” said Dolly. “It is all very sad to me.”

  “I think it is best to forget about it. For Clement’s sake.”

  “You are always thinking of Clement,” said Dolly. “You are such a good friend to him. A dear friend.”

  Robin ducked his face and covered it with both hands.

  Dolly sat quietly, observing him.

  After a moment he lowered his hands and looked at her. His eyes shone and his cheeks were damp. “You found the letters,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Dolly.

  “Then why did you do that? It isn’t like you: it’s cruel,” Robin said. “Why did you play with me like that?”

  “It is you that have been playing. I think it is all a game with you: your love for Clement, and for me. If you have any love. Is that how you see it? Feel it? Is it a game you are playing?”

  “No,” said Robin. “Of course not.”

  “I can imagine no other explanation,” said Dolly.

  “I am ashamed,” said Robin.

  “Yes,” said Dolly, “at least there is that.” She stood up and left the room, leaving Robin alone at the table. He sat there for a very long time, because there did not seem to be anything for him to do, or anywhere he could go.

  * * *

  When he finally did go upstairs to his bedroom, he saw that Dolly had left the letters on top of his dressing table. He realised that if he gave them to Clement now, it would be the end of their friendship. What a hard, unsatisfying word: “friendship.” It was worth very little, friendship. It did not keep you warm at night. You could not even touch it. Friendship gave you a little bit of something you needed a lot of, slowly starving you, weakening you, breaking you down.

  He took the letters into his bathroom and burnt them in the sink, where they left a charred mess of ashes, which he washed down the drain. And then he scrubbed the sink until there was no shadow left upon the porcelain, and washed his hands, and undressed, and put on his pyjamas, and got into bed, where he lay awake for a long time, not crying or feeling very much of anything—just a feeling of emptiness, a feeling of something—a light or a sound deep within him—going out, stopping, leaving him alone in the dark.

  * * *

  For a moment, when the front door of Hart House opened, Dolly did not recognise Mrs Prence. In the first place, she was dressed to go out, wearing a boldly, almost alarmingly green-and-gold-checked coat and a green felt hat with gold feathers in its brim. And she seemed quite alive, which was not a quality that Dolly had ever before associated with Mrs Prence, and so she was taken aback. Her gloved hand was pulled instinctively to her heart, and she gave a tiny gasp.

  “Mrs Prence!” she exclaimed.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Lofting,” Mrs Prence said, standing aside so that Dolly might enter the house.

  “You are going out?” asked Dolly. It was a well-known fact that Mrs Prence shunned the world, and rarely emerged from the gloom within Hart House.

  “I am going into town to have lunch with a friend,” said Mrs Prence, as if it were something that happened every day. “You are here to see the Major, I assume?”

  “I am,” said Dolly. “Is he at home?”

  “Of course,” said Mrs Prence. “He goes nowhere. In the library all day, every day, staring at the four walls.”

  “Well, don’t let me keep you,” said Dolly. “I can find my own way.”

  “I’m in a hurry to catch the bus,” said Mrs Prence, “as I don’t want to be late for my appointment.”

  “Of course,” said Dolly. “Enjoy your lunch. You are looking so well. For a moment I didn’t recognise you.”

  “I don’t think people change as much as all that,” Mrs Prence enigmatically proclaimed, and hastened out the front door and down the steps.

  Dolly removed her coat and gloves and scarf and laid them across a chair in the front hall. It was very quiet in the house, and the air smelt stale, as if it had all been breathed a few too many times. The door to the library was closed and she knocked upon it.

  She heard Clement call, “Come in,” and opened the door. He was sitting on a small sofa in a nook by the window. He wore a smoking jacket over an open-collared shirt, and she noticed there was ash down the front of it and some on the velvet seat of the sofa. He did not look up when she opened the door but continued staring out the window, which overlooked a few derelict outbuildings, and beyond them the water meadows. A marble ashtray on a little table in front of the sofa was full of cigarette butts, one of which, abandoned alit, continued to burn.

  “Clement,” she said, and then he did look over at her, and stood, and she said his name again, because he seemed unfocussed and in need of reminding who he was, and Dolly wondered what had happened, or was happening, at Hart House to cause its two inhabitants to become so unmoored from their heretofore resolute identities.

  “Dolly!” he said, as if winning points for remembering her name.

  She crossed the room and kissed him. His usual bracing antiseptic odour was replaced with a warm disagreeable funk, and she wondered when he had most recently bathed.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “What a nice surprise. I was just sitting here—” He looked around the room, obviously trying to find in its contents the suggestion of some recent activity, but, with the exception of the smoking cigarettes, there were no signs of life. “I was sitting here,” he said, “waiting for you.”

  “I have just come for a little visit,” said Dolly. “I was passing by and it occurred to me that I never see you alone, I must always share you with Robin, and I thought—I will drop in and have Clement all to myself for a moment or two.”

  Clement seemed not to know what to make of this confession, for he said, “Mrs Prence has just gone out. She is always going out these days. I think she is planning an escape.”

  “An escape? To where?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clement. “She is very secretive. I think she has joined a band of witches. Or Gypsies. Or perhaps she will join the circus.”

  “What as?” asked Dolly.

  “An orang-utan,” said Clement. “Or perhaps a lion tamer. All she needs is a chair and a whip.”

  Dolly stubbed out the smoking cigarette. “You must put these out, Clement darling, or you’ll burn down the house.”

  “That is precisely what I am trying to do,” said Clement. “And now you’ve ruined it.”

  “Shall I go down and make us some tea?” said Dolly.

  “I’d much rather a drink,” said Clement.

  “I think tea would be better. Sit down and don’t do anything dangerous. I will be right back with a pot of tea.”

  When Dolly returned with the tea, Clement was once again seated upon the sofa, contemplating the scene outside the window. She moved the ashtray off of the little table, put the tray upon it, and poured. “Here,” she said, holding one cup out for Clement, “give me that cigarette and drink this.”

  He handed her the cigarette, which she continued to smoke. He drank his tea thirstily and held out the cup for more. Dolly poured, and this time poured herself some as well.

  “I look awful, don’t I?” asked Clement.

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “As soon as I leave, you must go up and bathe and
shave and brush your hair with tonic and splash eau de cologne all over yourself.”

  “I would have done so,” said Clement, “had I known you were coming.”

  “It is awfully rude to just appear like this, I know,” said Dolly, “but I did want to see you. There is something I want to tell you.”

  “Is there?” said Clement. “Have you heard from Coral?”

  “No,” said Dolly. “Or rather, yes.”

  “A letter? Did you bring it?”

  “No,” said Dolly.

  “Why not?” said Clement. “You know I am mad to hear from her.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Dolly. “I know that. And I thought that Robin did as well…”

  “He did,” said Clement. “Of course he did.”

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “Of course he did. Which makes this all so much the stranger.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently Coral wrote to you, as she said she would, as soon as was settled in London last spring. And then again, once or twice after that. I found the letters hidden in Robin’s room. I was aghast, of course. I don’t understand it. Or perhaps I do. Perhaps you do?”

  “Robin?” said Clement.

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “Robin kept the letters from you. I found them quite by accident. I don’t know what to say.”

  “But where are they?”

  “The letters? They are gone. He burnt them.”

  “Did you read them?”

  “Yes, I did. I could not help myself.”

  “Tell me! What did she write?”

  “What she had promised to write: that she had arrived safely in London, and the address of the place she was staying. And then, in a second letter, a new address, of another place. And that she had got a job with the National Health—as a nurse, I suppose. And then in third and final letter she wrote that she was sorry for what she had done and understood why you did not want to see her again and that she would not write to you again. That is all I remember. I only read them once. And then Robin burnt them.”

  “Why? Why did you not save them for me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dolly. “I’m sorry. I left them for Robin, so that he could do right by you. I felt sure that he would. He had kept them from you, so it was for him to give them to you. But I misjudged him.”

  “Are you sure that he burnt them?”

  “He told me that is what he did, and I believe him.”

  “But why? I don’t understand. Why would he not give them to me? Why?”

  “Oh, Clement,” said Dolly. “You know. Of course you know.”

  Clement said nothing, so Dolly said it for him: “He loves you.”

  “But he shouldn’t have done that,” said Clement.

  “Of course he shouldn’t,” said Dolly. “He knows it, too. He was ashamed and it was easier for him to complete his shame than to rectify it. He is weak. You know how weak he is, what a boy he is. And now he is despondent. He says he will emigrate.”

  “Emigrate? To where?”

  “I don’t know. Where does one emigrate these days? The Empire is dwindling as we speak. Canada or Australia, I suppose.”

  “Is he really leaving?”

  “He says he is. And I think that, really, perhaps it is for the best.”

  “And you? Will you join him?”

  “No,” said Dolly. “I am not the emigrating type. I shall stay here. Or perhaps move to London. We shall separate.”

  “Oh, Dolly—”

  “No. I think that is for the best as well.”

  “But you two always seemed to get along so well together.”

  “In a certain way, to a certain extent, we did. But that is not reason enough to stay together. Marriage is a tricky business.”

  “Yes,” said Clement, “I know.”

  “Yours has certainly got off to a rocky start.”

  “But Coral wrote to me? You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “Of course I am sure.”

  “And when were the letters sent?”

  “I told you: last spring. Soon after she left.”

  “And no more since then?”

  “None that I saw. Or that Robin mentioned. I think he would have mentioned, if there were more.”

  “It is so long ago: last spring,” said Clement.

  “Hardly a year,” said Dolly.

  “She could have written to me here, and she has not,” said Clement.

  “You told her to send her letters to us.”

  “Yes, but if she had no response, she could have written to me directly. As a last resort.”

  “Perhaps she shall,” said Dolly.

  “Then I shall wait,” said Clement.

  “Wait?” said Dolly.

  “What else can I do?”

  “Surely something other than merely waiting.”

  “Do you think there is a chance Robin might not have burnt the letters?”

  “I suppose there might, but I think he did. There is something so definite, so final, about his decision to emigrate. It suggests all bridges burnt. Or letters, in this case.”

  “Poor Robin,” said Clement.

  “No: poor Clement. Only you would feel sorry for Robin in these circumstances.”

  “But I do. I feel, somehow, that it is all partly my fault. Or perhaps entirely my fault. I should have let well enough alone. Now I have ruined Robin’s life, and Coral’s as well. And yours.”

  “I do not consider my life ruined, so you can remove my name from your list.”

  “But, Dolly … won’t you miss him?”

  “Of course I shall. But you see, as I have never completely had him, I have always missed him. Parts of him. Perhaps it is better to lose something entirely than to clutch at pieces of it.”

  “I suppose that is how Coral has come to think of me. Why she has let go.”

  “You do not know that she has.”

  “She knows where I am, and I do not know where she is. She could come to me or contact me at any time.”

  “Perhaps she is still afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Inspector Hoke. The girl in the woods.”

  “But all that is finished. They found the boy months ago. The case is closed.”

  “Yes, but does Coral know that? For all she knows, she may still be a suspect.”

  “I’m sure she knows. It was in all the newspapers, even the London ones.”

  Dolly stood up. “You surprise me, Clement. You are as weak as Robin. Such cowards, both of you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you don’t. That is the saddest thing of all.”

  Dolly picked up the butt-heaped ashtray and stepped behind the sofa. She opened the window and emptied the ashtray onto the pachysandra in the garden below, and then, because the ashtray itself was still filthy, she chucked it out of the window. She stepped away and wiped her hands. “Leave the window open,” she said. “The air in here is rather stale.”

  Clement stood, and appeared to be rather stunned by Dolly’s visit, and by her recent words and actions. He said nothing.

  “While I am here, telling you things, there is one more thing I think I should tell you.”

  “About Robin?”

  “No. This is about Coral.”

  Clement said nothing. He shivered and put his hands in his jacket pockets. The air coming in the open window was very cold.

  “Coral was pregnant when she left here. Did you know that?”

  “No,” said Clement. “She told you that?”

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “The morning of your wedding. She wanted to tell you, but I told her not to. I advised her to wait.”

  “Pregnant?” Clement said.

  “Yes,” said Dolly. “She was going to have a baby.”

  “Whose?” asked Clement.

  “Apparently the man at her prior engagement had taken advantage of her. The pregnancy was a result of that misfortune.”

  “Ah, yes, she ment
ioned that—the unpleasantness.”

  “But not the result?”

  “No,” said Clement. “Why did you—do you—tell me now?”

  “She is your wife,” said Dolly. “And you seem reluctant to go to her. I thought that knowing this might rouse you to action.”

  “Did you? Really? It seems to me that it would have the opposite effect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Informing me that my wife is pregnant with another man’s child—hardly an incentive to go to her, is it? In fact, it is all too clear now why she was willing to marry me. I had thought—hoped—that it had something to do with love, but of course it had not, not at all. I was a fool.”

  “Oh, Clement,” said Dolly. “You are really hopeless. You understand nothing.” She leant forwards and brushed some of the ash from his gown. She kissed his cheek. She had done all that she could. “Good-bye,” she said, and left him standing there, in the draft from the open window.

  * * *

  Clement had no idea if Robin would be at The Black Swan for their weekly meeting. If he knew that Dolly has informed me of his betrayal, he will not come, thought Clement. How could he? Had Dolly told him? She had left in such disgruntled haste, it was difficult to know what her feelings or intentions were.

  Clement saw Robin enter the room and look across it towards the table in the inglenook that they always shared, and he knew immediately that Dolly had completed her mission, and that Robin knew that he knew. Robin looked like someone who had just been punched, and was waiting for further punishment.

  He stood beside the table and Clement could not bring himself to look up at Robin’s wounded face.

  “Whiskey tonight, is it?” Robin asked. “Ready for another?”

  “I suppose so,” said Clement.

  “I shall return,” said Robin. He went up to the bar and returned with a whiskey and a pint of beer.

  “No whiskey for you?” said Clement.

  “No,” said Robin. He sat down across from Clement. “I know you’ve had a visit from Dolly, and that she told you of my treacherous behaviour. I’m glad she did, in a way, because I couldn’t tell you myself, and I’ve wanted to. But I was too weak to do that, too weak to do any but the wrong things.”

  “It isn’t about weakness,” said Clement.