Pieces of Justice

by Margaret Yorke

  One thing Mr Finch missed very much, while away, was the Financial Times.

  They wouldn’t join in the dancing, after dinner. They never did that, though when they were young, and courting, Harold had often taken her to dinner dances. He’d stopped, once they were engaged. She sighed. In those days she’d been so romantic. In no time at all, it had seemed, after they were married, the children had arrived. The boys were civil servants like their father, well on up their ladders now that they were middle-aged; the girl had been a teacher and was now a headmaster’s wife. At Christmas, the parent Finches stayed in rotation in one or other’s household, dispensing appropriate presents to their grandchildren whom they saw rarely and scarcely knew as individuals, though Mrs Finch kept a tally of their birthdays and hoarded photographs. Harold didn’t care for children and had wanted to see as little as possible of his own when they were young.

  Their cruising routine evolved – morning tea in the cabin while they studied the ship’s bulletins about the day’s events at sea or ashore; then breakfast, with fruit juice, cereal, bacon and egg for both, followed by toast and marmalade. On the first morning Harold sent away the dark chunky marmalade at their table, demanding Golden Shred, and complained about the tea, which he said was too weak. He made the steward brew more.

  ‘It doesn’t do to let them get away with it,’ he told the rest of the table, the younger couple and the woman with the glasses. ‘You’re paying, after all.’

  The other husband, whose name was Paul, nodded. The woman with glasses demanded the chunky marmalade back again. Mrs Finch had the oddest feeling that in fact she didn’t really mind what sort she ate but was doing it just to be awkward.

  At boat drill, on the first day, Harold demonstrated his expertise at their muster station by helping first-time cruisers don their life-jackets and showing them where their whistles were kept. Mrs Finch looked away while this went on. She knew Harold liked to touch the women, even the plain ones.

  He never touched her now, but she didn’t really mind; in fact it was quite a relief. It had all been rather a disappointment after the expectations she had had in her ardent, eager youth – just a series of shoving grunts and groans followed by instant, heavy sleep while she lay wakeful.

  Thick cream, whipped to a perfect texture, melted around Mrs Finch’s teeth – few of them now, alas, her own – while she thought of the past and then dwelt, in her mind, more hopefully on the next weeks which would be spent afloat. She’d hardly be left alone with Harold at all. And in June they were going to Rhodes.

  Amy Finch’s legs, though short, had once been slender. Her ankles were still neat, and she had small feet. In Naples, her husband bought her a pair of shoes, expensive ones, choosing the style and making her try on countless pairs, testing the salesgirl’s patience as well as her linguistic powers. The Finches, despite their travels, spoke only their native tongue. The shoes Harold had selected pinched Amy’s toes, but she hoped they’d be more comfortable after a while. Harold insisted that she put them on that evening for dinner, and under the table she slid them off, losing the left one when it was time to leave the dining-room after the long meal; theirs was the last table to finish, by the time Harold had sampled almost every course and persuaded Paul, the other husband, to do the same.

  ‘You’re paying for it,’ he declared, and Paul’s pointed nose nodded in agreement.

  The Finches and the younger couple, Paul and Eileen, joined up for coffee each evening, afterwards taking part in or observing, according to what was arranged and Harold’s opinion of it, the entertainment provided. Paul and Eileen had allowed themselves to be taken over by Harold without a struggle, to Mrs Finch’s immense relief. Harold needed an audience besides herself and each holiday began anxiously for her until one was secured, usually some inexperienced couple glad of the protection offered by Harold’s expertise. Now, Paul and Eileen stood little chance of making other friends, for Harold required total subservience from his satellites. On coach excursions the two couples sat in neighbouring seats and walked together round the sites. At sea, they occupied adjacent chairs on deck.

  Paul and Eileen were camera-happy, and at Pompeii they snapped one another in front of crumbling walls. In Athens, Paul posed Eileen, in her green trouser suit, in front of the Parthenon, but by the time they got to Crete, Harold was directing the shots, himself behind the lens aiming at the other three, and sometimes requiring a simple exposure of merely himself beside a plumbago in bloom. He used a lot of film and Paul had to buy more from the ship’s shop. Harold had already asked to be sent prints of the best results. Amy knew he would not pay for them.

  While the Finches and their new friends were taking photographs, the lone young woman, Julia Fane, who sat at their table, would be perched on some boulder, sketching. Wherever they stopped she made swift drawings, and Paul, looking over her shoulder once, saw strong straight lines, some squiggles, and notes about colours written at the side.

  To the other four, Julia was an enigma. When the ship was at sea, she would be tucked in some corner out of the wind absorbedly sketching. If anyone came to sit near her, she would rise and move without a word. She resisted attempts by Paul and Eileen, before the Finches took them over, to include her in their forays ashore and refused invitations to join them for coffee. She didn’t want to seem rude, she said, to the first suggestion, but she preferred to be on her own; to the second she remarked that she never drank coffee after meals.

  She was seldom seen in the evenings. Paul and Eileen were puzzled and wondered where she could be. Harold thought her not worth bothering about. She must be up to no good, travelling alone at her age, he told Amy. Amy couldn’t understand what he meant.

  One evening at dinner the talk turned to baggage and the problems of coping with it at stations and airports.

  ‘You should never have more than you can carry yourself,’ Harold declared, fixing Julia with an icy stare from his pale blue eyes. She’d stand helpless at the carousel, for sure. He knew her type, waiting for some man to help her.

  ‘I can carry my own case,’ Julia replied in even tones.

  ‘Amy certainly can’t,’ Harold said, and seemed to be boasting.

  Paul and Eileen were listening in some bewilderment to this dialogue; there were undercurrents they could not interpret, as if Harold were on the defensive.

  ‘Then how do you manage?’ Julia asked. ‘You must have a lot of luggage, with so many beautiful clothes, Mrs Finch.’ She turned to Harold. ‘Do you always secure a porter?’

  ‘Porters cost money,’ Harold answered. ‘Amy fetches a trolley.’

  Julia merely smiled in response to this. There was something about her smile Amy didn’t quite like.

  In Heraklion, the Finches, with Paul and Eileen, were walking back to the ship for lunch when they met Julia. She was sauntering along, her sketchbook under her arm, in no hurry at all.

  ‘Hullo,’ Eileen said. She was by nature a kindly soul and had said to Paul that she thought Julia, who couldn’t be much more than thirty, must be shy.

  ‘Hullo,’ Julia answered, pausing.

  ‘Been drawing again, have you?’ Amy asked, taking her cue from Eileen but earning a frown from her husband.

  ‘Yes,’ Julia said.

  ‘We’re hurrying back for lunch,’ said Amy. ‘It’s roast beef today. I must say, I’m quite hungry after looking at all those coffins.’ They had been in the museum.

  ‘I’m not going back for lunch,’ said Julia. ‘There’s a taverna along here which does delicious fish dishes.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Why don’t we all go?’

  Amy Finch looked suddenly wistful and touched Harold’s sleeve.

  ‘Could we?’ she asked. It would make a change.

  ‘I’ve paid for my lunch on board,’ Harold stated.

  Julia smiled.

  ‘You’ll miss the flavour of Greece,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t trust that messed-up food,’ Harold said. ‘It upsets the stomach.’ />
  ‘The salads are lovely,’ Julia said, still looking at Amy.

  But Amy knew there was Black Forest gateau for pudding aboard the ship. Besides, Harold had spoken. The four walked on to the quay.

  Amy was dozing, on deck, sated with food, when Julia wandered back. Amy opened heavy eyes and saw the long legs in their pale slacks go past. Julia Fane was still smiling.

  Amy had indigestion that evening, but she took some bismuth before dinner and was able to enjoy soup, followed by turbot in creamy sauce, and pork chops. She’d slip back to the cabin afterwards for another dose before joining the others for the ship’s company’s cabaret, which was the evening’s entertainment.

  Julia ordered the wine that night. Taking his cue from Harold, Paul had paid for the table’s wine in rotation with him and the First Officer, and Julia had accepted a glass or two each night. Paul and Eileen, away from the Finches, had wondered if she would try to take her turn but had agreed, without consulting Harold, that they would try to prevent her if she did. Paul was quite old-fashioned in some ways. When it came to the point, though, and Paul began to protest as Julia gave the order, a frown from Harold and a small motion of his hand silenced the younger man. Amy saw the little incident and felt a hot, acid taste rise in her throat. She sipped water to send it away.

  Harold drank more than usual that night. The wine steward topped up his glass again and again. On the night when he’d bought it, two bottles of the pleasant light hock had been sufficient, and the same when Paul and the First Officer took their turns. Amy saw the wine steward look enquiringly at Julia when the second bottle was empty; Julia nodded and a third bottle arrived. Amy felt quite ashamed when she saw Julia paying at the end of the meal but she soon forgot about it when the cabaret began. There were songs from the Chief Engineer, who had a fine baritone voice and whose repertoire included Old Father Thames and other airs Amy knew well and the Purser did conjuring tricks. There was dancing, too, and the First Officer and Julia took the floor together several times. They seemed to get on well, though Julia did not sit next to him at meals; the two married ladies did that, with Amy, the senior, on his right. Harold frowned as he watched the pair; it confirmed his suspicions about the young woman. He did not dance, and he did not permit Amy to dance with either the First Officer or Paul, both of whom had asked for the pleasure. Amy, however, quite enjoyed the evening.

  The next day was spent at sea. In a corner of the boat deck, protected from the wind, Julia Fane sat painting, working up a sketch made ashore. While she waited for one area to dry, she glanced up and saw Mrs Finch slowly walking up and down the deck ahead. She’d been knocked out of the deck-quoits contest, Julia knew; the fact had been revealed at breakfast.

  ‘Painting?’ Mrs Finch said, drawing near, and Julia nodded. ‘May I see?’

  Julia showed her the half-done work: roofs and white buildings that weren’t white but all shades of cream and grey; tamarisk trees and shadows; subtle.

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Finch said. ‘You are a real painter, then?’

  ‘I work in graphics,’ Julia said.

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Finch said again, smiled vaguely, and wandered on. ‘She’s clever,’ she told Harold later.

  Harold knew that. She was also efficient and seemed to manage her life very well on her own. He’d met such women at work, plenty of them, and kept them away from Amy; a woman should be dependent, unquestioningly obedient to the man who was not just her partner but also her master. He didn’t hold with this liberated women’s self-sufficiency nonsense.

  At lunch he and Amy and Paul went through the menu: fruit juice, soup, fish and the lamb, with steamed syrup pudding and biscuits and cheese. Eileen skipped the soup and the pudding. Julia Fane had tomato juice and beef salad; then, carrying an orange from the fruit dish, she left the table. Two days ago she’d asked the steward to serve her promptly so that she need not sit waiting while the others consumed course after course. She made no apology at all and was, this afternoon, on deck with her sketchbook and pencil, her paints put away, when the others appeared. Harold and Paul sat together while Harold told Paul about deals he had made on the stock market. Paul, a long-distance lorry driver, responded with stories of rackets he had seen operated successfully. Presently, both of them slept. The two women talked. As Amy knew, Eileen worked in the hardware department of a large department store; she hoped they’d have children one day, she said, but first they were seeing the world. Amy talked about her grandchildren, but she was sleepy too. Soon the women’s eyes closed.

  Julia Fane, sketching, saw the quartet at some distance from her, all deeply unconscious.

  A small breeze sprang up later, and after a while Amy Finch and Eileen awoke. Their husbands were still asleep, Harold softly snoring, which embarrassed Amy, but Eileen just laughed.

  ‘Like babies, aren’t they?’ she said, looking fondly at Paul. He’d put on weight, she could see, eyeing the small dome of his stomach. No wonder, the way he’d been eating, and so had she; she patted her own plump form and sighed. Still, it was part of the holiday.

  Julia Fane had gone, but on her chair was her sketchbook, sticking out of a woven Greek bag such as they’d seen in the shops in Heraklion, though this one wasn’t new.

  ‘Wonder what she’s drawing now,’ Eileen said idly. ‘Paul saw one she’d done of that temple at Delphi. Not up to much, he said.’

  ‘She paints,’ Amy said. ‘She makes sketches ashore and then paints them later.’

  ‘She hasn’t been painting this afternoon,’ said Eileen. ‘I’m going to have a look.’ She got up, glanced around, saw no sign of Julia returning and walked over to where her bag lay on the chair.

  ‘Oh, Eileen, you shouldn’t,’ Amy protested.

  But the younger woman, in mischievous mood, had withdrawn the pad from the woven bag and was turning the pages. She giggled, then looked perplexed.

  ‘It’s ever so funny,’ she said. ‘Why, that’s Paul. And there’s you, Amy, and Harold. Yet it’s not.’ She frowned.

  Sketches of her and of Harold? Amy felt really quite flattered.

  ‘Show me,’ she said, too deeply set down in her low deckchair and too stout to rise with any speed.

  Eileen looked worried now.

  ‘No,’ she said, turning the pages. ‘Better not – she might come back.’

  But Amy was curious.

  ‘She won’t mind,’ she said. ‘She let me look at a painting, once.’

  ‘No,’ Eileen said again.

  Amy, however, was levering herself out of her chair. She crossed to where Eileen stood, still turning the pages of the sketchbook, and took it from her. Amy peered at a page through her bi-focal spectacles.

  It depicted a stout woman in an elegant dress, the figure boldly blocked in with heavy pencil lines. The face above the rotund figure was clearly her own, Amy’s, yet somehow the nose had become a snout and the hands, in the air, were trotters. Beneath the smart skirt two further trotters in tight shoes were revealed, porcine flesh bulging out above. On another page were Amy and Harold together; their arms, ending in trotters, were linked, and whilst both had pig-like faces, Harold’s eyes were much smaller and closer together than Amy’s. Above their heads were balloons, and in Harold’s balloon were pound signs and dollars. In the balloon over Amy’s head was a pretty girl with curly hair on the arm of a tall man in Prince Charming rig; the girl looked exactly as Amy had looked in her youth, and the pig version of Amy, below, wore a yearning, nostalgic expression. A further sketch showed them as two pigs eating at table, knives and forks held in trotter-like hands. Above Harold’s head a balloon showed a cheque book and a pile of foodstuffs – chops and cheeses, cakes, and a bottle of wine. Above Amy’s head was a tombstone with RIP inscribed upon it, and beside it a spade whose blade was strangely composed of human teeth. There were sketches of other passengers in the book: a man with a bushy moustache drawn as a walrus; and the First Officer, with his plump, beaky face like a genial penguin. The walrus’s wife was portrayed
as a sprightly young heifer. There was a fox, too, just like another man Mrs Finch had observed on board, small and red-haired, sharp-featured. His wife seemed to be a sheep in tight trousers. Eileen was there, as well, disguised as a spaniel with anxious large eyes, and Paul, with his sloping forehead and earnest expression, was a boxer dog. There were more: horses, cats, giraffes, geese, ducks and chickens, all bearing strong resemblances to passengers or crew. Even the Captain was not spared; he was a turkey-cock.

  Amy snapped the book shut.

  ‘Put it back,’ she said. ‘They mustn’t see,’ and she glanced at Harold and Paul.

  The two women went back to their seats. Amy felt sick and dizzy. She wasn’t quite sure if she’d understood all the points in the sketches.

  ‘She’s laughing at us,’ she said.

  ‘They’re clever,’ said Eileen. ‘And I don’t think she is. Not really.’ Some of the animals had worn friendly expressions.

  Julia had been to fetch a coat. When she returned, all four of her table companions seemed to be still asleep.

  That night, on the menu, whitebait featured, and curry; there were chocolate éclairs and strawberry flan – a difficult choice. Mrs Finch, in the end, had both.

  What else was there for her to do?

  Mountain Fever

  Mrs Harper always went along to the travel agency to arrange their holidays. At first, Mr Harper had gone too, sitting meekly beside her as she insisted on twin beds and a balcony with a sea view, but as his opinions were never consulted, nor his preferences indulged, it was a waste of time. These days, he merely wrote the cheque – though even that Nora could nowadays do, from the profits of her hairdressing salon. In winter, the Harpers went to the West Indies – though once they had been to the Seychelles and Nora was talking of Australia next year – and in summer to Spain or Greece.