by Angela Huth
With the dazed movements of people who have been in an accident or earthquake, Henry dismounted the bicycle. He propped it up against the pavement, just as it had been before. Then he went to the slatted wooden table, with its two matching chairs, left on the pavement in summer in case anyone should feel like sitting outside.
Henry crashed down upon one of the chairs, instantly conscious of pain as the slatted wood cut into his thighs. He felt his mouth fall open, sweat thick as rain running down his face. After a time the noise of his own groans subsided, and he listened to the silence of the afternoon which roared about him in great waves.
At first Evans hadn’t recognised the old man, white hair blown stiffly out over his ears, wobbling about on the bicycle. When he saw it was Henry, he laughed.
‘Good heavens, that’s my old man! Whatever can he be doing?’ In fact Evans did not stop to think what his father was doing. Uncurious by nature, the most unlikely sights held little wonder for him. If he had met his father in a Soho brothel he would have been neither surprised nor interested: their relationship had always thrived on their apparent mutual indifference.
‘He looks pretty unsafe,’ said the woman, and they both waved.
At the station, Evans got out and held open the car door for her. She was very grateful.
‘That was really kind of you, dear. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been in terrible hot water, I can tell you. Well, so long, and perhaps we’ll run into each other again one day in the Star. Nice knowing you.’
She smiled again, her chipped tooth blacker in the bright light and her hair a less delicate gold than it had seemed in the pub, dark at the roots. Back in the car Evans opened the other window: her smell was still thick and sickening in the air. He better get rid of it, he thought with a smile, before picking up Brenda tonight.
The show of mastery by Evans on the night of Brenda’s excursion had induced in her a flutter of new respect. He had not hurt her physically, and the blow had been no surprise. She had often guessed, particularly on wild nights in the barn, violence rumbled within him. One day, provoked far enough, Brenda imagined Evans might lose control: she had speculated with interest on just how wild he would be when the time came. The events of that night had also made her feel unusually grateful to Evans. After his initial burst of jealousy he had chided her no further – indeed, he had made no further mention of the matter. This, Brenda considered privately, generous behaviour. For all her protestations to him about having done nothing wrong, she knew his reactions to her own behaviour were not unreasonable, and his outrage had caused a stimulating ripple in their uneventful days.
Also, the room at Wroughton House had done much to increase Brenda’s inclination towards Evans in the past week. His idea, and its realisation, boosted her respect for his imagination (an element she previously felt he lacked). They had already spent many hours in the room: the barn and its discomforts were a thing of the past. Never lacking in concupiscence, Evans seemed to have been spurred by Brenda’s night out to even further desire. She was temporarily sated. Her flesh felt mousse-like. Too dazed by love-making to think sharply, the feelings of dissatisfaction that so often haunted her daily life had temporarily vanished.
Benevolent inspirations come most easily to contented minds, and in her present sated state Brenda found herself thinking that it would be a good idea to reward Evans for his charity: she would, she decided with pleasure, turn up at the post office a few minutes before he was due to open it for the afternoon. He would be amazed and pleased: she had never made any such gesture before. It was always he who came to her, and was often barely welcomed. But this afternoon, in the warm still air, it would be no trouble to flatter him: to observe how nice and orderly his post office was, and to take an interest in his neat files. She would ask him to buy her an ice-cream on a stick – the sight of her licking an ice-cream always aroused him, and he would kiss her, the ice melting between their mouths, pressed up against the counter.
Full of such happy intentions Brenda locked the chicken shed behind her and walked up the dust path to Wilberforce’s farmhouse. On her way to the post office she had to call in and ask him about a late delivery of grit. She had not spoken to Wilberforce for some time – since the death of Elizabeth – but the urgency of dwindling stocks forced her now to break her silence. She knocked at the back door, went in.
Wilberforce was sitting at the kitchen table. Unshaven, he held a half-eaten pork pie in one hand while he filled in his football coupons with the other. Steam rose from a mug of tea beside him and the table was littered with a mass of papers and unopened letters, unwashed dishes and unemptied ashtrays. The windows were shut. Brenda gasped as two smells, cramming the room, surrounded her: Wilberforce’s sweat, and pigs’ trotters boiling on the stove.
She closed the door behind her but remained standing close to it, hands behind her fingering the cracked paint. Wilberforce looked up at her briefly: his eyes flicked down to her breasts. In the greenish light of the room his skin had the glow of discoloured lard while his hair, smarmed down with grease, gave him the look of a third-rate gangster. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
‘I know what you’ve come about, girlie, don’t I?’ he said. He spoke with his mouth full so that Brenda could see the mush of pork on his tongue. He reminded her of Uncle Jim.
‘We’re down to three more feeds. Four at the most.’
‘Bugger. The order was in weeks ago.’ He sniffed again. ‘Care for a cup of tea, would you?’ Brenda shook her head. ‘I’m in a hurry, right now. But I’ll phone them again this afternoon, put a bomb under them.’
He gave no appearance of a man in a hurry, chewing slowly on his pie, pushing at the litter around him to make more space for the pools coupon.
‘Thanks.’
‘Birds all right, are they?’
‘Fine.’
‘Laying good, I see.’ He stood up, holding his belt with both hands. The position was menacing. From his side of the table he now looked down on Brenda.
‘Boyfriend all right?’
‘Evans is fine.’
‘He’s a lucky man.’ Wilberforce licked a speck of pork jelly from the corner of his mouth. Brenda was unlatching the door.
‘Well, I must be going,’ she said. In the back of her mind she wondered, should she stay another moment or so, what might happen. Wilberforce took the slightest pause for encouragement, as she had learnt in the past.
‘Honoured by the visit, believe me.’ He smiled and came round to the door. Unnecessarily he held it open for her. So close, the stench of his sweat was foul. ‘Sometimes, you know, I get the distinct impression you try to avoid me.’
‘Do you really?’ Brenda intended to sound hostile, but had a feeling she was friendly instead.
Wilberforce ran a hand round his scrubby jowl.
‘Tell me this, anyhow,’ he said, ‘give us a piece of advice for old time’s sake. Just supposing I was off to meet one of the opposite sex, as they say, man to woman. Just supposing that was the case . . .’ Brenda, sun on her shoulders out here, the gate to the road only ten yards away, felt safe. ‘Then would you say I needed a shave?’
He snatched at Brenda’s hand, ran it over his prickling skin. Seeing that this was all he meant to do – safe as she was out here – Brenda did not try to pull it back.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Definitely. You filthy old thing, you.’
Wilberforce pressed two of her fingers to the wet squelch of his mouth, dabbed at them with his tongue.
‘Then that’s what I’ll have to be doing, my lovely girl,’ he said, and let go of her hand. Brenda, not meaning to, smiled. Pathetic, Wilberforce was, really: always trying to make you think he was going off with a lorry-load of chorus girls, bragging he could have every girl in the village if he felt that way inclined. She ran from him, thinking she must be strangely content if even so revolting a man had no power to annoy her.
She walked the short distance down the road to
the post office, enjoying the sun. There was no one about except, in the far distance, an old man on a bicycle. He approached so slowly he seemed hardly to be moving. Brenda wondered if her own progress on a cumbersome bicycle in fifty years’ time would be similar. But she had not much patience with visions of the future – herself as a sexless old woman was quite unimaginable, for a start – and quickened her pace at the thought of an ice-cream with Evans. She’d like him to lock the place, keep the customers waiting a while, let them bang on the door . . . She wondered if she could persuade him.
She turned right, hurried across the disused car park to the prefabricated post office building that had been ‘temporary accommodation’ for nine years now. It was still shut, the plastic blinds drawn. No sign of Evans. Brenda was annoyed. She disliked postponement of her plans: it was now or never, this particular kind of visit. What was Evans up to? He was never late.
She turned back to the road to see the white Mini passing, Evans driving, a woman beside him. In that fraction of a second Brenda was quite sure it was a woman. She ran to the pavement, looked up the road. The car was turning the corner, almost out of sight. But there were quite distinctly two heads. Incredulous, Brenda stood with legs apart. Then she heard a cry, a dreadful groan. She spun round the other way to see, on the opposite side of the road outside the Star, that the old man on the bicycle, trying to get off, had only just managed to stop himself falling. He staggered to the wooden chair, slumped down behind the table and beat his temples with his fists, just as Brenda had seen people acting in films. She was about to cross the road and go to him when she saw it was Henry Evans. She stopped herself. Henry Evans! She hadn’t known he had a bicycle – surprising. But this was no time to wonder about him. Oh, no. It was his son who was going to have to answer the questions this afternoon. It was Evans Evans himself, the man so outraged by her little waltz down to the Air Base, who was going to have to face the music this time. Christ, he was.
She would wait for him. Hours and hours, if necessary – bugger the hens, this was an emergency. (They would understand.) Oh, she’d wait any amount of time, work out in her mind how best to begin. When Evans returned he’d be amazed to find her there. What you doing? he’d ask. She’d smile up at him, all innocence, watching his confusion. Waiting for you, course, she’d say. Where’ve you been, Evans?
Where’ve you been, Evans? she’d ask again.
Who was that blonde bit in your car, Evans?
Ah. He’d have some explaining to do. Brenda, by the post office wall, leant back her head, shutting her eyes. The sun dazzled behind the lids, two blots of shooting light. The concrete wall behind her was warm against her back. She began her wait.
Rosie happened to look out of the window just as Henry, on his way home, was a hundred yards from the door. It occurred to her – though perhaps this was her imagination playing her up – that since his illness his hair was whiter. Definitely whiter. Surely, only a fortnight ago, the back of his head was a deep steely grey, as it once had been all over? Now, there seemed to be nothing dark left. Also, he stooped. His gait was normally so upright and firm: today his manner of walking was that of an old man. Poor dear Henry, thought Rosie: shows that at our age a chill can take its toll. Still, a few weeks’ convalescence, quiet days and early nights, plenty of good food, and he’d be back to his old self.
Rosie felt glad there was a cold rice pudding in the larder. Henry’s favourite, she had cooked it for lunch but he had not come home. His first day back at the Star after a week’s absence, she supposed, had meant a little celebrating. A few more drinks than usual with the boys. He had probably eaten a couple of their greasy sausage rolls (Rosie wouldn’t touch them herself) and forgotten the time. That was unlike him, he was a punctual man – but, well, it was understandable. The way to keep a happy marriage going was to be understanding, even if it meant food was sometimes burnt or wasted and the person left at home was subjected to a deal of worry. She had always done her best to be understanding, Rosie, and she doubted if anyone could accuse her of failure on that score. So, today, she determined to put a cheerful face on the whole incident, to make no mention of the worry she had suffered when he still hadn’t appeared at half-past one, and suggest he might like the rice pudding with a cup of tea.
Henry came through the door, leaving it open behind him so that he stood waist-deep in a ray of sun. The lower part of his body, dazzling, made his head and shoulders seem strangely shadowed and Rosie, looking hard at his face, was shocked. He appeared haggard and ill. Grey, drawn, vacant.
‘Henry, love, it’s gone three. Whatever –?’
‘I’m all right. Sorry I’m late.’ He went to his chair and sat down. The sunbeam, now a pure shaft, slanted through the door, making a yellow pool on the tiles at its base. Henry kicked at it. The toe of his shoe caught in the light and glinted.
‘Let me get you – I was just thinking what you’d like was a cup of tea and a nice bit of rice pudding. It’s all ready – ‘
‘Don’t want any rice pudding.’
‘But Henry, it’s your favourite –’
‘Don’t want any rice pudding at this time of the afternoon. Or any tea. Or anything. Least of all suggestions.’ He gazed at the floor. Rosie, alarmed by his ferocity, kept her silence. At last she said,
‘Well, I can’t think how to help you.’
‘You can’t help me.’
In face of his dejection Rosie instinctively became more cheerful. If she could only make him realise that he had done too much too soon, that the reason for his present fatigue was nothing more than that – why, the simple facts would raise his spirits.
‘You’ve been overdoing it, you know, love. First day out you shouldn’t have stayed so long. In bed all that time, quite low, you should have taken things more easily at first.’
Henry looked up at her: the lifting of his eyes seemed a great effort.
‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘It’s too bloody hot in here. I’m going up the woods for a breath of fresh air.’ He stood and went quickly – movements more like his old self – to the door.
‘But Henry! That’s very silly, overdoing it, love. Please –’
But Henry was gone. Rosie would not shout to him from the door, of course, and have all the neighbours thinking something was amiss. She stepped back into the kitchen, mind spinning, and went to the larder. There, spooning up small helpings of the rice pudding, things became instantly calm and clear. She had not had much warning, but here was her chance. The chance she had been waiting for, planning. Sucking the sweet, creamy grains of rice from her teeth she went upstairs to the bedroom. Quickly she took off her old cotton dress and replaced it with a navy gaberdine skirt, the one she wore summer Sundays, and her new seersucker blouse. That she had never worn. She had sent for it by mail order, having been attracted to its pin-tucked bodice in a newspaper. It wasn’t, in reality, quite the elegant shirt the drawing had conveyed, but it was neat and handsome, suitable to Rosie’s age, and a good clear blue. Then she put on her straw boater – a hat which years ago Henry once said he liked because it made nice shadows on her face. (They had been walking back from evensong at the time: he had said the shadows were full of holes and needed darning. She had laughed and he had said keep your laugh down, woman, we’re still in the graveyard. At the same time he had taken her arm so she knew he wasn’t really criticising her.) The straw had gone a bit droopy, and the striped ribbon was quite faded. Still, there was no time to change that now. Chances were Henry would never notice a ribbon: Rosie rammed the hat on the back of her head. Grey hair spurted out beneath it, making a fuzzy frame to her face. She looked in the mirror. There was not much light in the room through the small window – the elms so thick with leaves across the way – but, their shadows dancing about her cheeks, veiling the ruddy colour of her skin, it occurred to Rosie she didn’t look too bad. She dabbed a puff of yellowish powder on her nose: a sudden small breeze spun a shower of molecules on to the walnut wood of the dressing
-table, and on to her navy skirt. She wiped at the material, impatiently, making a pale smear: but decided there was no time to start messing about with damp cloths. Besides, her hands were trembling. You’re all of a dither, Rosie my girl, she said to herself. Fancy that. Now, where was that rose water? She found it in its place in the drawer, quickly uncorked the pretty bottle. Evans had given it to her a couple of years ago for Christmas. He had said its scent was so subtle it was suitable only for her. In two years the subtlety seemed to have vanished altogether, but then Rosie had never had a sharp nose where commercial things were concerned, though she could tell you any flower by its smell in the dark.
She stabbed the neck of the bottle on to her own neck: the transparent liquid flowed down the gulleys of her throat and made damp patches on the collar of the seersucker blouse. Never mind, they would dry in a minute in the sun. The same thing had happened, once, when Henry had been courting. In the excitement of getting ready, she had spilled lavender water all over the bodice of her dress and hadn’t known how to hide the damp patch from her mother, who considered perfume a vulgar habit of the upper classes, not to be copied by those of the lower orders. But Henry had loved it, nuzzling his nose into the fabric stretched across her chest until she had had to cry out to him to go no further . . . Stop, Henry, love, she had cried out, very feeble, and, because he was one of nature’s gentlemen, Henry had stopped.
Rosie smiled at the thought of the incident, so long ago, and pulled herself back to reality. There was no time to lose. She hurried downstairs, pulled the door behind her. With a quick look at the neighbouring cottages, to see no one was about, she patted her hat more firmly on to her head and set off up the road towards the woods.
