Sunday Best

by Bernice Rubens

  She trembled and opened her mouth with the truth. But Emily stifled her with almost a soprano plea. She shut her mouth obediently. Now was no time to be George Verrey Smith. He was dead, as the Superintendent implied, and probably, in his mind, at the bottom of the sea. He would be there waiting at high tide to identify the washed up body. For him it was only a question of time. But she owed it to Emily to stand by her, to identify herself wholly with what had been hitherto only a name. She had to accept Emily totally. She had to love her. ‘My name is Emily Price,’ she said, and it was a declaration of absolute faith.

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ the Superintendent said, puzzled by this seeming irrelevancy. ‘What I want to know, is the whereabouts of George Verrey Smith.’

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ she said.

  ‘Then I’ll give you time to think of something.’ He turned to the clerk. ‘Take this lady to the cells,’ he said. ‘If you should change your mind, Mrs Price, about talking, you know, please inform me through your guard. I can wait, Mrs Price. I can wait a long time, and I have a feeling I can wait longer than you.’

  She got up without protest and made to pick up her case.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing that,’ the Superintendent said. ‘It’s a valuable piece of evidence, and it belongs, if I may say so, to the police.’

  Emily let herself be led out. She was comforted by her reconciliation with herself. She must never be anybody else any more. Emily was her refuge and her strength. She was her dignity too. Poor George. She would never think of him again. He would have to find his own death without her.

  The Superintendent sat at his desk. This was the best part of a case, when the threads lay there for your assembly. He examined the clothes again. There was nothing in the pockets, and a faint smell of perfume hung about them. He put them back into the case. It was going to be hard on Mrs Verrey Smith, but it was imperative that she identify them. The implications of the uninhabited clothes were terrible. But he would be gentle with her and understanding, as they always were on television. But he had his job to do and, after all, it wasn’t such a bad job. Maybe the film business wasn’t such a good idea for his son. There was a greater sense of service in the Police. Yes, he’d suggest it.

  And immediately, he thought of Washington Jones. There’d been no news from London. The boy’s disappearance was the only factor that marred his full enjoyment of having run Mrs Price to ground. He would get on to headquarters right away. He had to contact Mrs Verrey Smith too, but that would have to wait till the morning. He’d go back to his hotel, and let Mrs Emily Price stew. Serves her right for being so respectable.

  Chapter Ten

  Joy Verrey Smith and Mrs Whitely waited in the ante-room. Mr Clive Wentworth was a very busy man. His clients came from far and wide, and though it was still early morning, he was already running late. His appointment after Mrs Whitely’s had already arrived. She didn’t believe in this sort of thing, she told Mrs Whitely, but you had to do something, didn’t you. The police were no good. They weren’t interested in missing persons unless they’d been kidnapped, or were running away from the Law. Her husband had been gone for three years, and not a word from him. ‘It’s not that I grieve any more,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’d like to know where I stand. He’s got a nice fat life insurance, but they won’t pay up until he’s gone without trace for seven years, and I could do with the money, I can tell you.’

  She held an old vest in her hand, all that stood between her and the insurance. She was crumpling it in her hand, hating it, and all it stood for. ‘You’ve got to bring something with you, you know, an article of clothing. Have you got something? They need it for the vibrations. I know, because I’ve been to so many. They all say something different. But this one’s supposed to be very good. They come from foreign parts to see him. I’d have brought something else, but this was all he left. He took every stitch of clothing with him.’ She was crumpling the vest as she spoke and it probably by now contained more of her vibrations than his, apart from those of the string of diviners through whose hands it had already passed. ‘They tell you not to put it in a paper bag,’ she said. ‘It damps down the pulses.’

  The word was obviously not part of the woman’s normal running vocabulary. It was part of the jargon she’d picked up diviner-traipsing. The woman’s fruitless search had a depressing effect on Joy. ‘I told you there was no point in coming,’ she said to her mother-in-law.

  ‘He’s got a marvellous reputation,’ Mrs Whitely said. ‘Now take his pants out of the paper bag. This lady,’ she smiled at the other client, ‘is more experienced in this kind of thing. We can save time if we save the vibrations.’

  Joy opened the paper bag and pulled out George’s pants. There had been some discussion at home as to what article of clothing they should choose. Joy had thought to herself that one of his Sunday dresses would have been a more reliable barometer to George’s pulse. It was Mrs Whitely who had suggested that intimate article, because she felt, though she did not say as much, that there would be an overflow of vibrations in that receptacle. It was a mother talking about her son, without any logic but with total intuition. Joy had deferred to her choice, sensing that she herself understood so little about her husband in that area, that her mother-in-law could not have understood less. So they had lovingly wrapped George’s pants in brown paper, and according to this woman had probably already robbed them of all pulse. So Joy rubbed them in her hand as the woman was doing, to erase the torpor of the paper wrapping.

  ‘Who have you got missing?’ the woman said.

  ‘My son,’ Mrs Whitely answered, taking full responsibility.

  ‘Has he been gone long?’

  ‘Just over a week.’

  ‘You’re very sensible,’ the woman said. ‘I waited for over a year before I came to one of these. The tracks get covered if you leave it too long. And my husband was a wily one. Cunning? He could have given a fox lessons.’ As far as she was concerned, her lost husband was strictly in the past tense. She didn’t want to find him. All she wanted was her widowhood confirmed. She wanted to know the whereabouts of his body, so that she could drag the insurance agent there to look at it and see for himself. ‘Show us the body,’ they had said, ‘and you can collect.’ And she was going to find it. He couldn’t hide his corpse, cunning though he was.

  ‘Have you given up hope of his being alive?’ Joy said. She didn’t like the woman. Her attitudes invalidated any hope that she had of ever seeing George again.

  ‘I wish him dead,’ the woman said. At least she was being honest. ‘I was like you,’ she went on, ‘hoping and hoping. But in the end, whether he’s dead or alive, he’s got to be dead for you. You can’t go on, hoping and hoping.’

  The consulting-room door opened, and a man came out, clutching a silk petticoat. He’d obviously mislaid his wife and by the sombre look on his face, he had received small clue as to her whereabouts. As he closed the door, a bell rang, obviously the signal for the next client. ‘Wish you luck,’ the woman said as they went inside, and she screwed up the vest in her hand, and idly began to chew it.

  Mr Clive Wentworth was wearing a white coat, for he looked upon his profession as a branch of science. He got up from his desk to greet them, carefully stepping over a large map of Asia spread out on the floor. It had obviously met the needs of the last client whose wife had apparently had inclinations to the Far East. Mr Wentworth asked them to be seated while he rolled up his map. Then he himself sat down behind the desk and looked at them. ‘Who is the spokesman?’ he said.

  Joy Verrey Smith and her mother-in-law looked at each other. It was Joy’s priority, of course, but she would have happily relinquished it to Mrs Whitely. The latter responded by opening her bag and taking out her rosary. If there were any mumbo-jumbo around, it would be as well to lay one’s hands on any old tool to exorcise it.

  ‘I’m his wife,’ Joy said, ‘the wife of the man who has disappeared, and this is his mother.’
She was plainly putting the decision in his hands.

  ‘Then perhaps Mrs – er – ’

  ‘Verrey Smith,’ she gave him.

  ‘Then perhaps, Mrs Verrey Smith, junior, you had better tell me the whole story. But before you start,’ he said, ‘could you give me that garment?’

  She passed it over the desk, and he laid it out flat on the palm of his hand. ‘Now begin,’ he said. Mr Wentworth made notes with his other hand. Occasionally he would ask her to stop, while he closed his eyes, trembled and made a note on his pad with a pen containing invisible ink. These pauses threw Joy somewhat, and then Mrs Whitely would cue her. But Mrs Whitely’s interruptions threw Mr Wentworth, and he was on the point of asking her to leave, but she begged his pardon with the old timidity that Joy remembered.

  Joy was very forthcoming, and Mr Wentworth asked very few questions. She told him everything that was already publicly known, and added the telephone call from Mrs Price in Brighton. She would have told him about Tommy as well, but for the presence of her mother-in-law. The Tommy affair was strictly private, but she would have told Mr Wentworth about it because there was an aura of safe anonymity about him. When she had come to the end of her story, Mr Wentworth asked her if he could hold her hand for a while. Mrs Whitely gasped at the sexual overtones of the request, and frantically counted her beads. Joy held out her hand, and he held it over his head. ‘Now tell me again,’ he said, ‘the name of your husband, his age, his profession and what he was wearing when you saw him last.’

  Joy obliged once again. Mr Wentworth’s eyes were closed, and as she spoke, he placed George’s pants over their locked hands. Joy shivered and he let her hand go. Then he went over to his cupboard and took out a large rolled map. This he unfurled on the floor. It was a map of England in great physical and political detail. Having set it out, he asked them to leave him and to wait in the ante-room. He would call them when he was ready.

  And so once again, they joined the insurance-seeker, chewing on her obstacle as if in prelude to total consumption. They sat down opposite her. She stopped chewing. ‘Any news?’ she asked.

  ‘We have to wait,’ Mrs Whitely said.

  ‘What did he do? Did he hold your hand?’

  Joy nodded. She didn’t particularly want to enter into a conversation. For some reason she had faith in this man, and she didn’t want him spoken about by a tepid believer. She felt that he was divinely and therefore temporarily inspired and that, as soon as she was gone, he would forget the name of George Verrey Smith and all his story. She decided to believe in him, whatever he had to offer. But if, on the other hand, he located George’s corpse – she shuddered at the thought – then of course, the man was an impostor and a fraud.

  ‘I went to a man once,’ the woman was saying. ‘Told me my husband was in the south of France. Well I told the police, but they weren’t very interested, and I couldn’t go down myself to find out. I mean, I didn’t want to spend all the insurance money in advance, and in the end not get it because the bastard’s still alive.’ She took to her chewing again.

  ‘A pleasant man,’ Mrs Whitely offered, more to her daughter-in-law than to the other woman. She felt it inadvisable to speak badly of the man. He might sense it, and give them news to spite them. ‘He seems very serious to me. I, for one, am prepared to go by what he says.’

  This declaration seemed to silence them all. The woman opened her holdall, and took out a packet of sandwiches. She was used to this kind of thing. Waiting in waiting-rooms, if not for people-diviners, then for fortune-tellers and the like. And in fact, she volunteered some information of the latter after her snack, and before the resumption of her chewing. ‘I went to a fortune-teller once,’ she said. ‘Told me I’d be married again within the year. That was two years ago. How can I get married again,’ she asked no one in particular, ‘if I don’t know whether or not I’m a widow?’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll all come out all right,’ Joy said. She was getting very restless, anxious for the man’s verdict, and the woman’s constant chatter got on her nerves. She got up and paced the room, counting her steps, giving herself fifty before knocking at his door, and then, at forty-nine, another fifty, to give the man a chance. On the second round, they heard his bell, but neither made a move towards the door. Suddenly Joy didn’t want to know any more, and Mrs Whitely, too, was loath to hear his verdict. The bell rang once more.

  ‘I know what it feels like,’ the woman said, ‘but you never know, he’s probably a fraud like the rest of them.’

  As she gave her verdict, Mr Wentworth opened the door himself to find out the reason for the delay.

  ‘She said that,’ Mrs Whitely said quickly, pointing to the woman, anxious to exonerate herself and her daughter-in-law from such a blasphemous opinion.

  Mr Wentworth stared at the woman, who, sensing that she had already lost her own private battle, stuffed her husband’s vest back into her holdall, and made for the door.

  ‘What you have said, Madam,’ Mr Wentworth called after her, ‘cannot in any way influence my findings in your case. Please stay. I’m sure I can help you.’

  The woman turned and sulked back into her chair. Then she took out the vest again, and shook it out to bring it back to consciousness. ‘I’m ready for you now,’ Mr Wentworth was saying, and he held the door open for the two ladies.

  The map had been taken away, and George’s pants lay lifeless on the desk. He took a paper bag from his drawer and put the pants inside. He handed them over. It was a terrible omen. He’d come to his own conclusion and he himself was killing the vibrations because, as far as he was concerned, a second opinion was totally unnecessary. ‘A very interesting case,’ he began. ‘I’ve never had one quite like it.’

  Joy fidgeted. She was not interested in the history of his case diagnoses. She just wanted to know about her George. ‘D’you know where he is?’ she said. ‘Is he alive?’ She regretted having asked it. That called for only a Yes or No answer. It was altogether too final. ‘D’you know where he is?’ she said again, hoping that its repetition would erase the question she had regretted.

  ‘I have bad news for you,’ he said, though there was no sympathy in his voice, and the very lack of it, for some reason, confirmed the faith that Joy had in him. She was going to have to believe him, she knew. This man had no axe to grind. He was guided by a simple faith, and he abided by whatever truth that faith revealed.

  ‘George Verrey Smith,’ he said, ‘is dead. Of that, there is no doubt.’

  Mrs Whitely took her daughter-in-law’s hand. ‘Don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It’s all mumbo-jumbo. You’re the work of the devil,’ she shouted at Mr Wentworth. ‘If my son is dead, then where is his body? Why hasn’t that been found?’

  ‘That’s what’s so very interesting about the case,’ Mr Wentworth went on, unperturbed. ‘Although George Verrey Smith is dead, and of that there is no question, he does not seem to have left a corpse behind.’

  ‘Then he must have risen,’ Mrs Whitely scoffed. Then suddenly hearing her blasphemy, she hastily crossed herself, and took to counting her beads again. ‘Let’s go, Joy,’ she said, getting up. ‘I must go to confession. This was all a terrible sin.’

  But Joy did not move. ‘Why are you so sure he’s dead?’ Joy said. ‘And where did he die?’

  ‘I cannot explain certain things to you,’ he said. ‘There exist no words to explain certain phenomena. I know he is dead,’ he said, ‘because the pulse is gone from his clothing. I think that he died here in London, although there is the sea all about him. Yet his body is neither on land nor the water. Neither,’ he added, in case she was going to suggest it, ‘has it been consumed by fire. I have no guidance whatsoever as to where it is. I simply know with absolute certainty, that George Verrey Smith is no more.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, and Joy sensed that he meant it, but for some reason, it was out of character. She was putting the pants in her bag. There was nothing she could say, except that she be
lieved him. Her mother-in-law was already at the door. She followed her out silently. The woman in the waiting-room let up on her chewing, and seeing Joy’s crestfallen face, she said, ‘He’s only right if you believe in him,’ and as she left the room, Joy felt that the people-diviner was not Mr Wentworth, but the woman waiting outside for her widowhood.

  ‘Don’t fret yourself,’ Mrs Whitely kept saying on the way home, but Joy knew that she too was worried. There was still the phone call from the little boy, that fading ray of hope, but Joy knew that that only cleared George of murder. It was no guarantee that he was still alive. She started to cry, already to mourn him. ‘We mustn’t believe that man,’ Mrs Whitely said with very little self-confidence. ‘Come with me to the church,’ she said. ‘We’ll wait for confession. We’ve done a sinful thing by putting our faith in false prophets. Confession will do you good, my dear. It’s an ill wind,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m going home,’ Joy said. ‘George may be ringing. I’ve got to be there for him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Whitely said. ‘Perhaps that’s better for you at the moment. Hold on to your faith. I shall come back later. The Lord will give us guidance. We are punished for our folly.’

  They parted at the corner and Joy went home. As she turned into her street, she could see a police car parked in front of her door, and a number of net curtains were raised. She panicked, knowing that there was news of George. She ran towards her house and, as she reached the gate, a policeman got out of the car. He was of high rank by his uniform, and he took her arm as they walked up the drive. Now she knew from his courtesy that the news was bad.

  ‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Verrey Smith?’ he asked.

  Joy opened the door and they went into the kitchen. Spit and Polish welcomed them with inappropriate twirpings. She sat down because she knew that what the policeman had to say was going to shake her.