The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory)

by Catherine Cookson

She watched him press himself back into the curve of the chair. She watched his face screw up and his eyes peer at her; and his lower lip protruded just the slightest with a scornful tilt as he brought out, ‘Oh, Alison, Alison. Come clean. I know those things came from the Gordon-Platts. Renault himself told me who had put them in. It was the young Mrs Gordon-Platt who, perhaps you may know, was once very interested in Paul. Or didn’t you know that?’

  She was sitting stiffly now. ‘Yes. Yes, I know all about it. But it’s the elder Mrs Gordon-Platt who wants the things.’ Alison thought it unwise to go into any further detail here, for the slightest mistake on her part and he would become suspicious.

  He said now, ‘The elder Mrs Gordon-Platt? But I thought she was harder up than all the church mice put together.’

  ‘You seem to know a great deal about them.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am pretty well informed about most things. It would surprise you the things I know.’ He nodded his head at her in a peculiar way, then added, ‘Come along, drink up and let me refill your glass.’

  ‘No, thanks. I won’t have another…Now, about the lot.’ She tried to speak with a cool, businesslike air. ‘What will you take for it?’ As he began to smile she put in quietly, ‘You had your fun in the saleroom, but now it’s over, so let’s get down to business.’

  He lifted his chin, pushing his head back on to the rim of the chair, but his eyes were still slanted down on to her as he said, ‘What if my price is too high?’

  ‘You haven’t named it…Name it.’

  ‘You.’

  She felt the blood rushing to her face; her whole body became hot; but it was no use, she knew, being evasive and saying, ‘What do you mean?’ She knew what he meant and he knew that she knew. She looked down into the glass and swirled the remainder of her sherry around it as she said, ‘You have a poor estimation of my value. I thought I was worth a little more than fifty-five pounds…plus interest.’

  ‘You are.’ He brought his thick head and shoulders towards her. ‘That will be a mere pinprick to what I’ll give you. You know, Alison, it’s not widely known, but I can say in all modesty I’m not exactly a poor man; my father saw to that. But what I have is yours for the taking.’ His hand came out and his fingers rested gently on the point of her knee. She did not move from his touch as he went on, his voice low and slightly thick now, ‘From the moment I saw you in Paul’s shop…you were only a child then, but I knew as far back as that morning that I would want to marry you. They can say lots of things about me in this town, but never that I’ve chased after women. No. I’ve got my standards, although I know that you don’t give me credit for such things as standards; but I’ve waited long and patiently. Look around this room.’ Which he proceeded to do, forcing her to follow his gaze. ‘Since I took over the business, I’ve collected a lot of beautiful things around me…I like beauty…Even if it holds a little spitfire.’ He laughed and pressed his fingers into her knee.

  Still not moving, she said, ‘And you want to collect me?’

  ‘No, no; I don’t want to collect you. I want to give you what I’ve collected. I want you to marry me.’

  Alison was amazed at her feelings at this moment, because they were not antagonistic towards him. Very few women, she realised, were capable of hating a man who was offering them marriage, and her own feelings were definitely modified now. She felt sorry for him in a way; she felt she even liked him. She had misjudged him about many things, she thought, and had never given him credit for finer feelings, so her voice had a note of regret in it when she said, ‘I’m sorry, Bill, really I am, but it’s no use. You see…well, the vital thing’s missing. I don’t happen to love you.’

  His fingers moved from her knee and he clasped his hands together and surveyed them as he said, ‘That will come.’

  ‘I’m afraid not; in fact, I’m sure it wouldn’t.’ She shook her head and then repeated, ‘It wouldn’t be any use…because, well, I…’ She fumbled to a stop, knowing she couldn’t go on and tell him the truth.

  He was staring at her again. ‘You were going to say something; you were going to tell me why you couldn’t love me.’ He waited and when she didn’t answer he said, ‘You’re in love with somebody else, aren’t you?’ She stared at him unblinking, making no move whatever as he went on very softly, ‘You’re beating your head against a brick wall, you know.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do. You’re in love with Paul, aren’t you? At least, you think you are.’ His voice was still low. ‘My idea is that you’re mixing up gratitude with love and you can’t see the difference between the two emotions. But even if you were really in love with him, he isn’t in love with you…and never could be.’

  She was sitting stiff again, back on the old footing, and she demanded now, ‘How do you know? You know nothing at all about it.’

  ‘I do know something about it. In fact, I know a great deal about it. I know that Paul isn’t in love with you because he’s in love with somebody else.’

  ‘He isn’t.’ She felt like a child hitting back with the first thing, the obvious thing, that came to mind. ‘It’s only because she knew him years ago. How can he still be in love with her, when she ran off and left him? If you know so much about everything, you’ll know that.’

  He threw his head up with a jerk, saying now, ‘Oh, her! You mean Freda? I wasn’t referring to her. But she’s another one; she doesn’t know either that she’s kicking at a brick wall. No, Alison, your dear Paul, I’m sorry to have to inform you, has a woman in Eastbourne. He’s had her for years. I don’t feel any compunction in telling you this, for it’s about time your idol was shattered. I’ve thought so for a long time. This woman has a family and a husband somewhere. He goes off for long periods and that’s all I know about him. But I do know that Paul visits her regularly and that the children adore him. Make what you like out of that.’

  ‘You’re lying! You’re making it up!’ She was on her feet now, standing over him, glaring down at his bent head. ‘Paul keeping a woman! You know, Bill Tapley, you’re a wicked, spiteful devil…You’re a…ooh!’

  ‘OK, I’m a wicked, spiteful devil. Would you repeat that if I give you proof?’

  ‘I’d never believe it, for you couldn’t prove it, I know you couldn’t. It’s just men’s talk…You’re…You’re…’

  ‘Look here, Alison.’ The kindly manner had disappeared now and Bill Tapley’s face was grim; and his voice matched it as he said, ‘It’s sickened me to see you glorifying him as if he were a god, and all the while he was running another house on the side. But I said to myself, well, it’s his business…and now I’m saying to you that it is his business. If he wants to run a woman and have a family on the side, that’s his business. Even when he’s doing it behind another fellow’s back, it’s still his business. It only becomes my business when the girl I want to marry holds him up to me as a paragon…Then it sticks in my gullet.’

  ‘You’ve never liked Paul, have you?’ Alison’s voice was calm now.

  ‘No. He’s too damned uppish for my taste; too much of the square-deal boy. But I could have stomached that if it hadn’t been for this other business.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this other business. Paul would never…’

  ‘Has it ever struck you that he goes to Eastbourne every Wednesday and stays there all day, and sometimes on a Monday, too?’

  ‘What’s wrong in going to Eastbourne as many times a week as he likes?’

  ‘Come off it, Alison, face up to it. I’ve seen the house that he runs. I came across it by accident; it’s a smallholding on the outskirts. I was taking a short cut one day and there he was saying goodbye to a woman at the gate. There were only three children around him then; last year there were four. This has been going on for a long time. Whenever I’m going through, I take that road, just to see. Then, as recently as last Wednesday, I saw him having lunch with her in The Bells; I went across purposely. He brazened it out but
she turned her face away…right away. Look, I’ll take you to the place. This is Tuesday, isn’t it? I bet you what you like he’s there at this minute. There’s a main road cuts right by, and a wood on the other side…Look.’ He had her by the shoulders. ‘You’ll never get over this infatuation until you’re convinced that it’s no use hanging on. He’s been a father to you, and that’s what he’ll remain, nothing more…If I can prove this to you, will you give me a chance? That’s all I ask; I won’t rush it, but just give me a chance. Come on, come on over to Eastbourne now. We may see him or we may not, but come and see.’

  ‘No. No, I won’t come. No.’

  ‘You’re afraid, aren’t you? You know what I’ve said is true, every word of it. You’ve only to put two and two together.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. I tell you, I don’t. There’s some mistake.’

  ‘Look, Alison, I’ll make a deal with you. You come over to Eastbourne with me and I’ll let you have that lot for what I paid for it. What about it? There it is. I’ll ring the saleroom this minute and tell Renault, and you can give him the cheque. What about it?’

  As her head drooped she gripped the back of the chair to steady herself: she knew that even without this offer she would eventually have agreed to go with him to Eastbourne.

  She would have to know the truth. She would have to see for herself.

  Her whisper was almost inaudible, but he heard it and went to the phone. And when he came back he said, ‘It’s all right. Renault’s transferring it; it’s yours. Now, would you like a bite of lunch before we set off?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She felt faint, even ill. As Bill Tapley had prophesied, she was going back in her mind over Paul’s movements during the past years. Regularly he had made a trip to Eastbourne on a Wednesday, and always by himself. Paul had another home, and a woman, and children…Perhaps it had happened before she came on the scene years ago. She literally shook herself as she realised she was already accepting what Bill Tapley had said as gospel truth. He appeared at her side now with his coat on and when he put his arm about her shoulders as they went towards the door she stiffened and shrank inwardly from his touch. And she knew that he was not unaware of this, but he still kept his arm round her shoulders…

  They hardly exchanged a word on the journey to Eastbourne, but when they had passed through the town and turned off the main road into a winding lane he said, ‘Well, we’re almost there. We may have to sit it out and even then see nothing for our pains…at least, I’d better qualify that, hadn’t I?’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘My pains. There’s the house.’

  Alison turned her head swiftly and looked over a stretch of grass, boarded by chestnut fencing, towards a bungalow. It looked as uninteresting as a square box. To the right of it stood a portable garage and a number of outhouses, and to the left a row of greenhouses with some cultivated fields beyond. It was, as he had said, a smallholding. She was puzzled and bewildered beyond her depth.

  A short distance along the road, and before they came to the end of the chestnut palings surrounding the land belonging to the bungalow, Bill Tapley turned the car across a rutted path and into the wood opposite. He had evidently been here before, for with an agility born of practice he swung the car this way and that between the trees and eventually brought it round again to face the road, slanting in the direction of the gate that led to the house. After he had stopped the engine he sat back and lit a cigarette before speaking. ‘It might be a long wait; it’s only ten minutes to three. Would you like to get out and stroll through the wood? You can keep the house in view.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’ll wait here…’

  At half-past three they were still waiting. He had broken the silence now and again but merely to make a remark that did not require an answer. It was quarter to four when he said, ‘I should have brought a flask of tea,’ and then pulling the glove box lid down he added, ‘There should be some chocolate in here somewhere.’ He was leaning back against the seat now with a bar of chocolate in his hand when his arm suddenly shot out and, pushing Alison sharply, he whispered, ‘Duck down.’

  She did not enquire why she had to do this but immediately bent her head. Then turning sideways she whispered, ‘What is it?’

  Bill Tapley twisted round, his face turned from the windscreen, and, pretending to be reaching into the back seat, he said, ‘Paul. He’s in the field over there.’ The statement was like the jab of a needle deep into her body. She closed her eyes against the pain of it, and when she opened them again Bill Tapley was sitting once more in his seat facing the front but with his head down. He whispered, ‘He’s just gone past, but take a look.’

  Slowly and very reluctantly Alison lifted her head, then moved it to one side to get a better view of the figure walking in the field across the road. And although it was some distance away, she had no difficulty in recognising Paul. His height, his breadth, the lift of his head, the way he walked, were as much a part of her as her own personality. That was Paul, Paul in his shirtsleeves, his hair ruffled. Paul wearing wellington boots, Paul carrying a pail in each hand. Paul accompanied by two children, both under school age. The needle went deeper when, through the open window she heard the shrill cries of the children. After Paul had disappeared from view she drooped her head and closed her eyes. And when Bill Tapley’s hand covered hers, she did not pull it away. She had never liked Bill Tapley, considering him inferior in all ways to Paul. There had been rumours that some of his business methods wouldn’t bear too close an inspection and she hadn’t been at all surprised to hear this. But she had condemned him mainly because he fell far short of the man she thought she knew.

  Like everyone else, she read the Sunday papers, read of people leading double lives. But she knew that this kind of thing only happened to other people, to unreal people, not to people with whom you lived…Not Paul. Bill Tapley was saying, ‘We’d better wait a while; they’ll be back in a minute.’ And he was right. In a few minutes the children came across the field, and again she bent her head, but not so far this time; she felt it didn’t matter if he saw her or not. Nothing mattered any more.

  She slowly straightened as Bill Tapley said,

  ‘They’ve gone indoors.’ And turning fully to her he took both her hands in his, saying, ‘I’m sorry, you know; I had to do this. I’ve never liked squeaking on anyone, not even Paul, and I must admit, as I’ve already told you, I’ve never had much love for him. And while I’m on, I’d better tell you something else. Give it to you in one blow, so to speak. You’ve always thought that my main interest in you was because, in a few months’ time, you’ll come into a tidy sum…Now’—he shook her hands—‘don’t deny it, I know it’s true. And on my part I won’t deny that I don’t despise money. Oh, no. Only a fool despises money. A wise man makes it, and uses it. I’m a wise man like my father before me. But if money was my only interest in you then I’d have dropped any thought of you a long time ago, because, Alison’—he paused and waited for her eyes to come to his—‘what I’m going to tell you now is going to be a bit of a shock, but, I repeat, you might as well have it altogether…Well, the truth is, I don’t think you have any money to come into.’

  ‘No? No money to come into? What do you mean? I had eighteen thousand, and it’s been invested.’

  ‘Paul is the sole trustee, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’

  ‘And you’ve never bothered to ask him what’s happening to your money?’

  ‘No; no, of course not.’

  ‘Well. I’ll tell you what’s happened to it. Years ago, Paul got himself into a jam. It was through the man that Freda Carter married, Charles Gordon-Platt. Funny how that name keeps cropping up.’ He nodded his head now. ‘Paul had to carry the can for him. Now, before this happened, Paul’s old man died and my father offered to buy the business, but Paul was a big-head then and showed my father the door in no uncertain terms. Well, comes the blow-up. Charles Gordon-Platt does a bunk and leaves Paul in the soup. They had taken over a pri
nting business and gathered enough debts to choke a big company, let alone a couple of fellows. Paul was in up to his neck to the tune of nineteen thousand pounds…Yes’—he nodded at her—‘all there was for it was to go bankrupt, and he didn’t want to do that, because the only way he could hope to get on his feet again was to keep the business going, and you know you can’t start a business as an undischarged bankrupt. Well, he comes to my father…crawling now, and my father, being a businessman, does a deal with him. He lends him twenty thousand at a certain per cent, with the house standing as part security…a very small part, as property was at a low ebb then. Well, Paul could just about manage the interest, and had to scrape like mad to do it, until you came on the scene…Oh! You were a gift from the Gods, for presto! my father received sixteen thousand down on the nail, and two years later the other four. And you can’t tell me that in the last eight years Paul’s made your eighteen thousand in profit from the business, plus interest on the eighteen thousand, plus again the cost of running two homes. No, whatever Paul’s made it doesn’t run into thousands, unless he’s learned some business tricks that I don’t know about…Now, don’t look so shocked. It’s better that you learn everything in one fell swoop, isn’t it? It’s the only way to cure you, as I can see.’

  She turned away from his eyes and stared out through the windscreen again. She felt numbed; not shocked about this latest piece of news, just numbed. She remembered she had said to Paul just a day or so ago, ‘You want it all ways.’ She hadn’t realised how many ways he did want it…and was actually having it…Yet it was strange, but if using her money was the only thing Paul had to answer for, then there would have been no issue at all. And she knew now why he wanted to keep the necklace. It wasn’t for Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt. Yet this fact brought her no ease, for even the significance of Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt faded before the proof of the bungalow. She turned her head and leaned out of the open window so as to get more air, and Bill Tapley, moving closer to her, put his arm around her saying, ‘There, there; don’t take it so badly.’