Blasted Things

by Lesley Glaister

  Vince looks up sharply.

  ‘But your version, please.’

  ‘Well, Chamberlain left with – Miss Chance, was it? – and that was the back of him as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘But then I goes out a bit later and there’s his car and there he still is and we have words.’

  ‘Words?’

  ‘Well, we have a bit of a brawl, then Doll, Mrs Pepper, comes out and puts a stop to it. I go off then – hopping mad, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘What was the cause of the disagreement?’

  But Vince can’t think straight now.

  Mr Barry sighs. ‘I’m not quite following. But continue, please: where did you go?’

  Vince hesitates, remembering the drive. Clementine clinging like a limpet. No sense implicating her, is there? She’d only go and bring up the money business. She’d be like a fish hook hauling up all sorts of muck.

  ‘Rode around till I’d cooled off,’ he says.

  Mr Barry sighs. ‘Letting that pass for the moment, take me through your version of events when you returned to the Wild Man at around half past ten.’

  ‘I rode back into the car park, quite dark it was by then. Chamberlain standing near his car.’

  ‘Anyone else there?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘And what happened then – as far as you want the jury to know, of course?’

  Vince swallows, clears his throat. ‘All right. As I rode into the car park he stepped forward as if he wanted to stop me, and I swerved but I hit him. That’s it.’

  ‘Ah, let me get this straight. It was getting dark. Impaired visibility, I imagine? And with your restricted sight.’ He indicates Vince’s missing eye. ‘Excellent. And he, Mr Chamberlain – probably inebriated by that time – stepped into the path of your vehicle?’

  Vincent looks at Mr Barry’s serious, hairy face. It’s a farce, that’s what it is. Mr Barry’s making up a story and all he has to do is go along with it. And it could be true. It could have been like that.

  ‘If you say so,’ he says. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Now, about the earlier scuffle, you’ll have to come up with some sound reason for that. I suppose Miss Chance was there?’

  ‘P’raps. Couldn’t swear.’

  ‘If Mr Chamberlain left the premises with her, she must have been. She might well be key.’ He tapped his pencil on his teeth. ‘A list of witnesses is being drawn up – I imagine she’ll be among them.’

  Mr Barry stays a few more minutes compiling a list of character witnesses. Doll the main one, of course, but who knows what’s going on in her head now? Regimental names, they’ll go down well, a few local tradesmen he’s had dealings with. Sir fucking Mostyn. Eventually Mr Barry hauls himself to his feet, smooths his twill trousers over thick thighs.

  ‘Quick hearing on Monday morning. Apart from “Not Guilty”, you won’t have to say a word. But in the meantime think, man, fill in any holes in your story. One could wish you hadn’t volunteered guilt on arrest, but that can probably be explained away. Shock and so on.’ He crushes Vince’s hand. ‘Keep your spirits up. Every chance here, every chance. Sergeant Bright?’ he calls and the man comes, keys jangling, to let him out and the singer starts up again: ‘Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow.” ’

  Vince lies on his back, staring at the greasy ceiling. The thud of the body against the wheel, the weight of it. Killed a man. Meant it too. Killed men at the Front, of course, but that was different, not personal. Though the blue eyes of the young Hun will never leave him. He curls his knees up to his chest and groans.

  37

  GWEN’S MOTORBIKE CRUNCHED to a halt on the gravel. Clem unfolded herself from the sidecar, brushed the dog hairs and drool from her sleeve, eyes darting to the front door, the windows. No one.

  ‘Care to come in?’ Oh, please, please say no. To be alone . . . only to be alone . . .

  Captain leapt from the sidecar and began a series of elaborate stretches, before swaggering across to the steps to lift his leg.

  Gwen, in breeches and leather helmet, remained astride the bike. Raising her goggles, she watched the dog, smiling indulgently. ‘No, thanks. Rather think I might call in on Harri,’ she said. ‘Always good value, isn’t she?’

  Clem stiffened.

  ‘Don’t object, do you?’

  ‘Ten to one she’ll be with Stanley’s family,’ Clem said. ‘She often takes the twins there on Saturdays; the girls adore their grandpa.’ Even to her own ears her voice rang false and too insistent.

  ‘Nothing to stop me trying,’ Gwen said. ‘Is there?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ Clem said quickly. ‘By all means do call. She’d love to see you. Of course she would.’ She flushed under the scrutiny of Gwen’s gaze. How was she able always to see straight through one?

  ‘Well, thanks most awfully for everything.’ Clem stepped closer to kiss Gwen’s cheek. ‘You’re a good chum.’

  Gwen accepted the kiss, cleared her throat and pointed to the sidecar. ‘Rightio. Captain, in.’ She waited for the dog to lollop back inside, where he sat looking haughtily ahead.

  ‘Look,’ Clem said, ‘if you do see Harri, please don’t say anything . . .’ She indicated her abdomen.

  Gwen gave her a withering look, and then her eyes shifted and she looked past Clem, lifting her hand. ‘Hello there,’ she said as Dennis appeared, golf club in hand.

  ‘Miss Carslake.’ He shook Gwen’s hand before putting a proprietorial arm round Clem’s shoulder. ‘This is a surprise, darling. Thought you were out for the day?’

  ‘Feeling seedy so Gwen brought me home,’ Clem said, refusing to meet Gwen’s eyes. ‘Thought you’d be on the course by now.’

  ‘Couldn’t get a bally tee before twelve. Been practising swings in the garden.’ He brandished his club. ‘Heard you arrive.’ He patted the glossy black wheel arch of the motorcycle. ‘I say, rather a beauty, isn’t she?’

  ‘Isn’t she just?’ Gwen’s eyes rested on Clem, who flinched.

  ‘In the sidecar, I hope?’ Dennis said. ‘Wouldn’t like to see you riding pillion in that outfit!’

  ‘Naturally.’ Clem smoothed her grey skirt, the skin of her legs remembering the fast silk of the air last night.

  ‘You do look peaky, darling,’ Dennis remarked. ‘Inside for you, toute de suite. Miss Carslake? I expect Mrs Hale’s got coffee on the go.’

  Gwen shook her head. ‘Decent of you, but no, thanks.’

  ‘Well then, let’s get you inside, old thing.’ Dennis steered Clem towards the steps. ‘Thanks for giving her dinner,’ he said to Gwen.

  ‘But . . .’ Gwen began and then stopped. ‘A pleasure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes at Clem.

  Dennis glanced frowningly between the two of them. ‘Come along, Clementine.’

  Gwen snapped down her goggles, lifted her hand, kicked at the starter of her bike and roared away.

  Dennis followed Clem into the hall. ‘What was all that about?’ Her heart pounded dangerously as she scanned the hall for a note, a message. But there would be none. It was over. Over.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ She turned to him, ran her finger along a pattern on the chest of his Fair Isle pullover: brown, red, fawn, brown, red, fawn. ‘Go and have your coffee, darling, do,’ she said.

  He removed her hat and smoothed her hair, rather tenderly. She closed her eyes to avoid the close scrutiny of his gaze. If Vincent were involved in the accident at the Wild Man he might be in custody, might at this very moment be giving her name. Might she be counted as a witness? Might the police call to question her?

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ He touched her brow.

  ‘I’ve a wretched head coming on,’ she said. ‘I rather think a bath.’ As she mounted the stairs, she was aware of his eyes on her back and kept her step firm, head erect until she was in the bedroom, where she allowed herself to collapse backwards onto the
stiff cretonne bedspread.

  Genuine tendrils of headache began to creep from the back of her neck to meet around her brow and she closed her eyes. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, so many questions were battering, and she was so tired that her brain simply gave up. She lay numb and dazed, drifting into unconsciousness.

  *

  And then she was awake, Dennis looming.

  ‘You look as if you’ve crash-landed, darling!’ he was saying. ‘I’ve had Mrs Hale draw your bath.’ She struggled upright. ‘You silly child, letting yourself get so exhausted.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm. I’ve got to run now but presently’ – he wagged his finger at her – ‘I shall want to know what you got up to last night.’

  She smiled weakly.

  ‘Miss Carslake seemed taken aback when I mentioned dinner,’ he said. ‘I take it you were there?’

  ‘Oh, Dennis, do call her Gwen, for goodness’ sake. Of course I was there! Telephone her if you don’t believe me!’

  His smile was strange, uneasy, perhaps; his bright brown eyes searched hers. The first clock began to chime and she jumped.

  ‘A bag of nerves,’ he said. ‘Anyway, toodle-pip for now. Proper rest after your bath now, Mrs Everett. Doctor’s orders. I’ll have Mrs Hale bring up a tray.’

  He bent to kiss her brow, bristles already emerging since his morning shave, sandpapery against her skin. She reached up and caught his hand. ‘Might I have a few drops of Veronal, darling? Just to help me settle?’

  He shook his head. ‘A good bath and forty winks is all you need.’

  ‘Please?’ She grasped his hand.

  He sighed, left the room and returned with a glass. She sat up and swallowed the contents, feeling relief already although it would take a while to reach the fuzzy place she craved. ‘You’re too kind to me,’ she said.

  He looked so pleased it nearly broke her heart.

  Once she’d heard the engine of the car dwindling down the drive she got up and, squinting against the headache that sparkled around the edges of everything, took the scrap of paper scrawled with a name and a number in Gwen’s spiky hand from her pocket and slid it in a dressing-table drawer amongst her stockings and undergarments.

  From the bathroom she could hear Edgar and Dinah in the nursery. ‘One, two, buckle my shoe,’ Dinah was reciting, and there was the faint rhythmic creak of the rocking horse. She undressed and allowed her body to sink into the warm water, bath salts gritty under her behind. She let her head hang back; the water soothing, gurgling in her ears to drown the nursery sounds. And then she sat up and reached for the soap, stroked suds under her arms, round her neck, over her breasts, all slippery and pinked from the heat. Her belly was flat still; hipbones cusped like the ends of the cradle. Inside curled a tiny it, with no idea who it was, with no idea of anything at all. If it were to be stopped now, it would never be and never know and would that be so terrible?

  She got out of the bath too fast and, dizzied, knelt on the rag rug by the tub until the spell had passed. Now she could hear only the dim murmur of Dinah’s voice. Bed, she really did feel like bed, like sleeping for weeks. But what if the police came? She was too tired now to think of anything, any story, anything to explain . . . It would have to be the truth. The dangerous, preposterous truth, which might spell the end of it all for her: this marriage, this household, this life.

  Beside the bed was a tray with cold chicken and salad, bread and butter, a glass of water, but she couldn’t contemplate a mouthful. She folded back the bedspread and the blankets and slid between the smooth, cool sheets. She closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to take her, but, oh, it was like a bloody war in there: battalions of worries, great battering skirmishes. She tried behind her closed lids to create some order, at least to sort and list the enemies, but every thought sent shocks right through her as if the bed itself was quaking. Until at last the Veronal did its work and sleep, blessed sleep, rose like the brown water of the river, drowning her thoughts as it closed over her face.

  When she opened her eyes the light had changed and she could hear Dennis singing in the bath. His clothes were folded on a chair; the lunch tray had gone. Soon he came padding in, wet-haired, towel round his waist. ‘You’ve had a proper rest,’ he said. ‘That’ll do you a power of good, darling. Why not stay put? Dinner on a tray?’

  She lay gazing at him as if from underwater as he towelled his hair with ludicrous vigour and strode about naked, gathering his clothes. How must it feel to have such hairy skin? Damp curls everywhere – though not all men had so much body hair. And certainly not women. Did Gwen go to Harri’s? Perhaps they’d spent the day together.

  ‘No, I’ll get up,’ she said, swimming herself to the surface. ‘I want to see Edgar before bedtime.’

  ‘Good show, darling. Oh, by the way’ – in shirt and socks he sat down, bouncing the mattress – ‘there was a murder last night at a pub near here! Rather marvellously called the Wild Man.’

  She sank back against the pillows.

  ‘Practically our own doorstep! Some chap ran another down – deliberate, they’re saying – some sort of love rivals. A crime passionnel. Thrilling, what? You expect these things in gay Paree, or even London. But here! Good Lord, whatever next!’ He laughed. ‘Old Bloomingdale was full of it. Certified the death, of course, that being his patch. Think I’ll get Hale to run out for the local rag. Get the latest, eh?’ He pulled on his trousers, arranged his braces. ‘Take your time, darling. Let’s have a sherry, shall we, and then the infant shall come down and entertain us?’

  Clem’s face felt papery, her smile a feeble pencil line. ‘Shan’t be long,’ she said.

  Dennis was pouring sherry as she entered the sitting room. On the low table by his chair lay the evening paper. She snapped her eyes away from it.

  ‘What have you got there?’ She squatted beside Edgar who was trundling a wooden train on the floor.

  ‘Choo-choo.’ He lifted and waved the engine.

  She made a whistling train sound and he grinned, teeth gleaming in his miniature Dennis mouth. There was not a fleck of her in him as far as she could see. Dennis to a tee. He would grow into a handsome man. She ruffled his soft hair.

  ‘Not sure about this “choo-choo” nonsense,’ Dennis said. ‘What’s wrong with “train”?’

  ‘It’s the way Dinah goes on. It does no harm.’

  ‘He’ll have to learn to speak properly one day – why not start now?’ He drank half his sherry and topped it up again.

  ‘Give him a chance, darling! Actually, I’ve been meaning to say, Dinah is such a good girl, I thought I’d like to reward her.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Put up her wages a little?’

  Dennis shrugged, handing her a glass of sherry. ‘You’re the boss in that department.’ He raised his glass. ‘Chin-chin.’

  ‘How was your game?’ she asked, keeping her eyes away from the paper though every muscle strained to look. The sherry tasted wrong – this wretched condition. She sipped, letting it pool on her tongue before swallowing, closed her eyes to feel it snaking hotly down her gullet.

  ‘Best draw a veil over the first five holes,’ he said, ‘but then’ – he rubbed his hands – ‘blow it all, what do I do on the sixth but score a birdie! Wiped the smile off Bloomingdale’s face, I can tell you.’ He proceeded to take her through his game, stroke by stroke, as she watched Edgar drag his train about. Absent-mindedly, Dennis picked him up as he spoke, and the boy tugged at his moustache.

  ‘Ouch, none of that now.’ He put Edgar down and the boy toddled across to the newspaper, gleefully to scrunch and tear.

  Clem knelt to extricate it from him, but it was a page concerning the Suffolk Show that was in her hand: sketch of a Clydesdale and a list of prize-winning fowl. Edgar began to grizzle. ‘There, there,’ Clem said. ‘Let’s play with the choo-choo.’

  As if conjured by the nursery word, Dinah appeared. ‘Should I take him up, ma�
�am? He’s getting fractious, bless him.’

  Clem nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You see?’ Clem said when she’d gone. ‘She’s a treasure. She shall have an extra shilling a month.’

  ‘Won’t we need to up the Hale’s wages too then? We don’t want to start a general strike!’

  They were quiet for a moment, listening to Edgar’s wails receding up the stairs and then appeasement being reached on the landing.

  ‘Well, why not give them all a rise?’

  Dennis shook his head. ‘You’re too sweet, darling,’ he said, and a darkening happened in her heart. She rose to put a record on the gramophone, choosing an operatic aria at random. Dennis lit a cigarette and leaned back his head, wagged his foot.

  The smell of the cigarette was making her feel queasy. There were white roses in a vase on the piano, she’d arranged them the other day – oh, only yesterday! It felt like weeks. She buried her nose in their crumpled petals, swayed to the warbling soprano until the record crackled and stopped.

  ‘Play something?’ Dennis said. ‘You scarcely play at all lately.’

  ‘So out of practice. And still rather a head,’ she said.

  ‘Poor darling. Come and sit down.’

  Clem obeyed, reaching for her needlework box where several stockings waited to be darned. Dennis picked up the newspaper and rattled the pages back into order, muttering, ‘Wretched infant.’ There was silence but for the ticking of the clock and the rustling of paper until Dennis said, ‘By George.’ Abruptly he lowered the paper and stared at her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This so called Wild Man murder business.’

  Goosepimples rose on her hot arms as the stocking slithered to the floor.

  ‘Listen to this.’ He read with incredulity in his voice. ‘Police are searching for a female witness, a “mystery blonde” – a Miss Anna Chance – but she’s proved untraceable. Obviously a false name. Apparently she was seen with the victim earlier in the evening. Description . . .’ He stopped and looked at her over the top of the paper, then shook it, a puzzled expression on his face as he continued to read: ‘A lady of refined appearance, judged to be in her early twenties, slim, fair bobbed hair, grey outfit, yellow cloche hat . . . Police are appealing for help in tracing this young woman who may be an important witness.’