In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. A little. He’s got a temper, like his own father. Especially when he’s been drinking.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Say you don’t hate me, Gwen, please! I couldn’t bear it if you hated me. You’re my only real friend.”

  “Of course I don’t hate you. I just don’t understand, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know if I do, either, but don’t you see that’s exactly why I can’t leave, no matter what life is like with Matt? Because of what I did before. Oh, I have plenty of excuses: I was too young; it was a mistake; I wasn’t in love; I thought I was cut out for better things. But that’s just what they are: excuses. When it came right down to it, I was selfish; I was a coward. I’m not going to be a coward again. This is my punishment, Gwen. Don’t you see? Matt is my penance.”

  “I think so,” I said.

  She smiled through her tears. “Good old Gwen. I’ll bet there aren’t many in Hobb’s End would give me that much credit, don’t you think? I’ve heard their tongues wagging already.” She imitated the local accent. “ ‘She’ll be off,’ they say. ‘Off with one them Yanks before he’s been back ten minutes, you just mark my words.’ Well, I won’t, Gwen. Let them talk. But I won’t.”

  “Are you and Brad still . . . ?”

  “Sometimes. Don’t be angry. I tried to stop seeing him when

  Matt first got back, I really did, but when I found out that he couldn’t . . . I mean . . . Brad brings me comfort from time to time and as long as Matt doesn’t know . . . To be honest, though, he’s more trouble than he’s worth right now. I just can’t keep him off the subject of running away together. It’s all getting to be too much of a strain. I told him if he didn’t stop pushing me I’d run off and leave the whole lot of you behind, him included.”

  I can’t say that I approved of Gloria’s seeing Brad after Matthew had returned, but I said nothing. I only felt that way because I was being protective towards Matthew; I wasn’t a moral busybody like Betty Goodall. These were extraordinary times and Gloria was an extraordinary woman.

  She laughed. “You know, I don’t know what I’d do without PX. It’s funny, isn’t it, but in times like this, when things are so grim, it’s the little things that give you a moment’s cheer. A piece of beef, a new shade of lipstick, a little whisky, a packet of cigarettes. New stockings. He’s a gem.”

  “What about Billy Joe? Have you had any more trouble from him?”

  “No, not really. I saw him the other day. I got the impression he was secretly pleased that Matt had come back and spoiled things for me and Brad. He had that look in his eye, too, as if he thought he had a chance of getting me in bed again. I don’t think he gives a damn about what it’s all doing to me.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I can’t say I ever did really trust him. He’s got a nasty, violent streak, you know.”

  “Billy Joe? Oh, I can handle him. He’s nothing but a big child, really.” She leaned back against the tree. “But you’re right, he can be violent. I don’t like that in a man.” She paused, averting her eyes. “Look, Gwen, I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I have to talk to someone. I’ve been having a few problems with Michael.”

  “Michael? Good Lord. You don’t mean he’s—”

  “Don’t be a fool, Gwen. The man’s only interested in boys.

  The younger, the better. No. Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell you now, but you mustn’t say a word to anyone. Promise?”

  “What a day for secrets. All right, I promise.”

  “Last summer and autumn, you might have noticed I spent quite a bit of time at his studio.”

  “Yes.”

  “Guess what?”

  “He was painting you?”

  “Oh. You guessed!”

  “Well, it wasn’t difficult. I mean, he is an artist. But that’s wonderful, Gloria. Can I see it? Is it finished?”

  “Yes. And it’s very good.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “It’s a nude.”

  I swallowed. “You posed in the nude for Michael Stanhope?” She laughed. “Why not? There certainly wasn’t much chance of him trying to put his hands on me, was there? Anyway, the point is, I went over to see him yesterday and begged him not exhibit it, or even to sell it privately, as long as Matthew is alive. I know he just seems to sit there like a zombie between going to the pub and drinking himself to sleep, but I just don’t know how it would affect him. Or if it would. The thing is, I don’t want to take the chance. You know what this village is like. Matthew’s health is hanging by a thread already. Who knows if seeing a nude painting of his wife, done while he was suffering in a Japanese POW camp, won’t send him right over the edge?”

  “That sounds reasonable,” I told her. “What did Michael Stanhope have to say?”

  “Oh, he agreed in the end. But he’s not happy about it. Thinks it’s one of the best things he’s done, blah-blah-blah, opens up a new direction for him. Says his career needs a boost and this could give it one. He also argued that Matthew wouldn’t be any the wiser and that even if he did see it he wouldn’t recognize who it was. He’s probably right. I’m being silly.”

  “But he did agree?”

  “He complained a lot, but, yes, he agreed in the end. He likes to play the miserable cynic, but he’s pretty decent, deep down. He’s got a good heart.”

  And there she finished. We walked back to Hobb’s End enjoying the sound of the breeze through the leaves and the songs of the birds in the high branches. I didn’t see Gloria again until a couple of days later, on the afternoon of 7 May, and by then everyone knew Germany had surrendered. The war was over and everywhere people started putting up flags and closing up shop.

  The last party had begun.

  Sixteen

  “Enjoy the film?” Banks asked, when he met Annie outside the Leicester Square Odeon at nine o’clock. She had been to see the latest mega-million special-effects extravaganza by one of those highly touted directors who used to make television adverts.

  “Not much,” said Annie. “I suppose it had its good points.”

  “What?”

  “The End, for one.”

  Banks laughed. Leicester Square was crowded with tourists, as usual. Street kids, buskers, jugglers, clowns and sword-swallowers were all working hard to prise a quid or two out of the punters’ pockets, while the pickpockets took an easier route. The Hare Krishnas were back in force, too. Banks hadn’t seen them in years.

  “How were things with your son?” Annie asked.

  “We mended a bridge or two.”

  “And the band?”

  “Pretty good, though I suppose I’m biased. We’ll go see them if they ever play up north, and you can make your own mind up.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Banks took Annie to a small bistro-style restaurant he knew just off Shaftesbury Avenue. The place was busy, but they managed to get a table for two after a short wait at the bar.

  “I’m starving,” said Annie as she squeezed herself into the chair between the table and the wall, twisting around and setting her packages down behind her. “But I can see that eating with you is going to become a serious problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This kind of place hardly caters to the vegetarian eater,” she whispered. “Just look at the menu.”

  Banks looked. She was right: lamb, beef, chicken, fish, seafood, but little in the way of interesting vegetarian dishes, other than salads. Still, as far as Banks was concerned, “interesting vegetarian dish” was up there with “corporate ethics” as far as oxymorons went.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to try somewhere else?” She put her hand on his arm. “No, it doesn’t matter.

  Next time, though, it’s my choice.”

  “Visions of tofu and seaweed are already dancing before my eyes.”

  “Idiot. It doesn’t have to be like that. India
n restaurants do great vegetarian dishes. So do Italian ones. You didn’t complain about the meal I made last week, did you?”

  “It was delicate timing. I didn’t want to offend you just before I made a pass.”

  Annie laughed. “Well, there’s something to be said for honesty, I suppose.”

  “I wasn’t being honest. I was being facetious. It was a great meal. Dessert wasn’t bad, either.”

  “There you go again.”

  “Anyway, you’re right. Next time, it’s your choice.

  Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  “How about some wine?”

  They chose a relatively inexpensive claret—relatively being the key word—and Banks went for the roast leg of lamb with rosemary, while Annie, pulling a martyred expression, settled for a large green salad and some bread and cheese. The waiter, who must have been imported from France along with the decor and food style, grunted with disapproval and disappeared.

  Their food arrived quicker than Banks expected, and they paused until the waiter had gone. The lamb was tender and succulent, still pink in the middle; Annie turned her nose up at it and said her salad was okay. There was a tape of romantic dinner music playing in the background, and beyond the bustling waiters, the hum of conversation, clinking of cutlery and glassware, Banks could hear strains of the andante cantabile from Tchaikovsky’s String Quartet No. 1.

  After his talk with Brian, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his mind. There were still problems—Sean, for one—but Brian would just have to learn to live with the way things were. Banks had to admit that this Sean sounded like a real prick. Not for the first time, he speculated about going over there and kicking the shit out of him. Really mature way to deal with the problem, he told himself. A lot of good that would do everyone concerned. The important thing at the moment was that he and his son were talking again. And from what he had heard, the kid had talent; he might make it in the business yet. Banks tried to imagine being father to a famous rock star. When he was old and grey, would Brian buy him a mansion and a Mercedes?

  The candlelight brought out the slight wine-flush on Annie’s cheeks and filled her dark eyes with mysterious shadows and reflections. She was still wearing the same business suit she had worn that morning, but she had loosened her hair so that it tumbled over her shoulders in sexy waves. It would probably just brush against the tattoo over her breast.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, looking up and pushing some stray hair back behind one ear.

  Perhaps this was the moment, Banks thought, emboldened by his buoyant mood to take the plunge anyway. “Annie, can I ask you a personal question?”

  She arched her eyebrows and Banks sensed a part of her scurry back into the shadows. Too late now. “Of course,” she said. “But I can’t promise to answer it.”

  “Fair enough. What are you doing at Harkside?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. It’s a nowhere posting. It’s the kind of place they send naughty boys and girls. You’re bright. You’re keen. You’ve got a future ahead of you if you want it, but you’ll not get the job experience you need at Harkside.”

  “I think that’s rather insulting to Inspector Harmond and the others up there, don’t you?”

  “Oh, come on, Annie. You know as well as I do that’s where they want to be. It’s their choice. And it’s not an insult that they choose the easy life.”

  “Well, maybe it’s what I’ve chosen, too.”

  “Is it?”

  “I didn’t promise to answer your question.” Her mouth took on a sulky cast Banks hadn’t seen before, the corners of her lips downturned; her fingers drummed on the tablecloth.

  “No, you didn’t,” Banks said, leaning towards her. “But let me tell you something. Jimmy Riddle hates my guts. He isn’t in the business of putting me in the way of anything I might find even remotely pleasant. Now, given that he knows who you are, and given that what’s happened between us since could never in a million years fulfil his idea of the circle of hell he thinks he’s cast me into, I find myself wondering why.”

  “Or waiting for the punch-line?”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re saying? You think something’s wrong. You think there’s some sort of a plot to get you. You think I’m part of it.”

  “That’s not what I said,” said Banks, who realized guiltily that the thought had crossed his mind.

  Annie turned her head away. Her profile looked stern. “Annie,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “I’m not saying I haven’t been suspicious. But, believe me, the only reason I’m asking you now is because I’ve come to . . . Because I’m afraid you’re being used, too.”

  She glanced at him, not moving her head, eyes narrowed. “How?”

  “I don’t know. What else can I say? Riddle had to have some reason for putting us together, something he thought would be unpleasant for me. I hope you agree that it hasn’t turned out at all that way. Do you blame me for wondering what’s going on?”

  Her expression softened a little. She tilted her head. “Perhaps this is it?” she suggested. “What he expected.”

  “In what way?”

  “That we’d get together somehow, break the rules and get caught. That way he could be rid of both of us.”

  “No, that’s not enough. It’s too easy. What we’re doing isn’t . . . I mean, it’s only the same kind of thing he thought I was doing before. He has a far more sadistic mind than that. And to be honest, I don’t think he’s as clever as that, either. What is it the spies call it, a ‘honey trap’? Jimmy Riddle feels no need to give me honey, only arsenic.”

  “Jimmy Riddle didn’t give you anything.”

  “Okay. Sorry. You know what I mean.”

  Annie shook her head slowly and the shadows danced through her hair. Dessert came, but she left it untouched for a while, then she seemed to come to some kind of decision. She picked up her spoon, tasted a mouthful, then looked at Banks. “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you, but only if you’ll tell me something, too.”

  Yorkshire weather has a very ironic sense of occasion. On 8 May 1945, it poured down all morning, despite the fact that this was VE day. By early afternoon, the rain was tapering off and we were left with clouds and light showers. I closed the shop at lunch-time and Gloria came down from the farm. That afternoon, leaving Mother and Matthew together, the two of us bicycled into Harkside and went to see Claude Rains in Phantom of the Opera at the Lyric.

  All over Harkside we heard excited talk of parties and dances; people on the streets were hanging streamers and putting out flags. All the church bells were ringing. We bumped into some people we knew on the village green and they suggested we come back that evening to the celebration dance at the Mechanics Institute, to be followed by a street party. The Americans from Rowan Woods would be there, they assured us. We said we would try to come as soon as we had done some celebrating in Hobb’s End first.

  After tea, the sun lanced through the raggedy black clouds, sending shafts of light into Rowan Woods. Soon, all the clouds had gone and it was as beautiful a warm May evening as you could ever ask for, the grass green and moist from the rain.

  Gloria gave me a pair of stockings, seamed ones she had got from PX, and helped me with my make-up. First, we spent an hour or so at the Hobb’s End street party. People had brought little tables and put them together in a row all along High Street. It was a dull affair, though, as there were so few people left in the village, and the whole thing felt more like a wake than a celebration.

  Mother sat at one of the tables with her friend Joyce Maddingley, and she told us to behave ourselves when we slipped away to Harkside with Cynthia Garmen. Matthew refused to come out of the cottage at all; he wouldn’t budge. Mother said not to worry, she would look in on him from time to time and make sure he was comfortable.

  The three of us set off, taking the long way around on the roads so we wouldn�
��t get our ankles and shoes wet in the grass.

  Harkside was much wilder than Hobb’s End. Most of the soldiers and airmen from the nearby bases had come, so there were men in uniform all over the place. From the minute we got to the village green, we were swept into a mad whirl. It didn’t take Gloria long to meet up with Brad. Billy Joe was there with his new girlfriend, and PX was tagging along, too. I felt a sudden pang of missing Charlie, then I tried to enter into the spirit of victory.

  First we went to the dance. There was a big band playing Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman tunes, and people kept throwing coloured streamers across the dance floor.

  Out in the streets, between songs, we could hear fireworks and people whooping with joy. At one point, when I was dancing a waltz with Billy Joe and trying to explain how Matthew took up so much of our time, I noticed Gloria and Brad slip outside. It was over an hour before I saw them again, and Gloria had retouched her make-up. She couldn’t hide the ladder in one of her stockings, though. I resolved to say nothing. Since our talk a few days ago, I had thought a lot about Gloria and what she was sacrificing to care for Matthew, and I decided that she deserved her little pleasures, as long as she remained discreet about them.

  The band was still playing when we piled out into the street. There was a huge bonfire on the village green and people were singing, dancing and setting off fireworks all around it, just like Guy Fawkes Night. The air was full of the acrid smell of smoke and the sky full of exploding colours. Someone had made up an effigy of Hitler and they were heaving it on top of the fire. Everyone was drunk. I don’t know where Cynthia got to. I was with a group of people, and I could see Gloria and Brad through the flames having an argument. At least they looked as if they were shouting at one another, but I couldn’t hear for all the singing and explosions.